Althea extends her hand to catch a snowflake, the first this year. It comes earlier than expected, as it isn't yet winter. It melts along the steam rising from her exposed skin. A roar comes at her from the left along the thundering steps of her armored sparring partner.
He rolls his great sword over his shoulder and swings in a wide arc. Althea steps back, avoiding the blade that then strikes the ground. Another man thrusts his spear at her back, and she spins to deflect with her wooden sword. His dulled spear crashes into the first man's ribs, pushing him to the ground.
Following her counter, Althea swings down at the man's head. She restrains her strength, but the blow still knocks him out.
"Stop!" one of the sparring squads' sergeant commands. He vaults over the fence marking the sparring ground and heaves a fallen soldier to his feet. "How do you expect surviving on the battlefield when you lose your minds in a sparring match?! Your opponent shattered your formations, and you come back at her one by one?!"
The spear-struck soldier groans in pain as he rises from the ground. Althea presses her hand against his side and casts a Heal spell, restoring his broken rib. He taps on it and looks back at her. "Thank you, sir," he says.
"You maggots are no better than bandits! Get your asses of the ground and reform!" the sergeant continues. He's fuming; he expected his men to follow their teachings to the letter. But when faced with an overpowering opponent, they lost it.
'Not like you wouldn't do the same,' Althea thinks to herself. Images of the slaughter flash in her mind. The few nights since didn't heal this scar yet.
As the sergeant munches up the soldiers one by one, Althea exits the training grounds. The two remaining sergeants stand there, muttering to each other. "That's merely an extreme, unlikely case. I can't believe he asked her for a spar. That will undermine their morale for days."
"They are terrible," Althea comments. The extreme, unlikely case is precisely where they are heading. "Nine out of ten couldn't draw in Ether as they fought. And the few who could are so unattuned to their abilities they barely gained one point of strength. It is not only their tactics and discipline, but their base understanding of combat that is lacking."
The two sergeants look away, unable to hold her gaze. They both bear family emblems on their collars – minor ones. For Althea, it is their class, or their academic success, that made them sergeants. They are unlikely to have seen real combat. The sergeant in the sparring ground is older and scarred; he made his proof through battle. One of them says, "It's quite unfair. Our squads are amongst our company's best."
"This type of thinking will get you and your men killed," Althea retorts. "There is no better than your peers; there is only better than your past self."
"Lady Drevoss, would you mind another round?" the first sergeant asks from the sparring ground.
Althea looks at the squire holding her coat. He stares at her with obvious nervousness. She paused her duties for this spar, and he fears reprimand for it. She motions for the squire to approach. "I fear I cannot delay myself any further."
"Thank you for your time," the sergeant says. He turns around and motions for the squads to split into sparring groups.
Althea slips on the coat her squire holds for her and sees a dirt stain on her white shirt. She removes her shirt and tosses it at the squire. "Get me another one."
A sparring soldier peeks in her direction. He's disappointed to only see the bandages bidding her chest in place. He suffers a blunted spear to the groin, making Althea smirk; she thinks it a fitting punishment. She hesitates to ask for her shirt back but refrains; she was taught that once you've made a decision, you stick to it.
Her squire runs off to her tent. Tightening her coat, she leaves the area and walks up the main avenue towards the commanding tent. Duke Felspar's army spreads as far as Althea can see, save the distant Mount Cinder. The emblems of marquis and counts flutter in the wind, raised above their territories.
Armand appears from between tents, a stack of parchments under his elbow. Despite the duke's insistence for officers to wear armor, he sports his black uniform. He isn't the only one to disobey; all those who do say it's to not panic their troops. There is no use for rumors of assassins prowling in the camp.
"Did you misplace your armor, baroness Drevoss?" he jests. He places himself next to her and adapts his pace. "I see we are both late to our meeting."
"You can drop the baroness; as long as I can serve Seraphel, I cannot own land," Althea remarks. "My armor is being worked on; I asked for more plating and better joint coverage."
"It already seemed impregnable," Armand comments. "Is it not going to be too heavy?"
"It was when I first obtained it, but it doesn't weigh much anymore," Althea says. With a strength of thirty, nothing seems heavy to her. She looks to the side, where a squad of heavily armored soldiers is sparing. They reached a separation in the camp, to the grounds of another battalion. They fly the emblem of Marquis Vandris, a man known for his ruthless and powerful troops. Even his spearmen are clad in thick plate armor. Yet they move with ease, better even than the average enlisted. "They will have a better chance."
Armand follows her gaze to the squad. "I couldn't convince Felspar that his basic troops will only be slaughtered; I'm sorry."
She glances at him and sees that he looks genuinely concerned. She misjudged him; not only did he risk his life to retrieve wounded soldiers, but he also cares for them.
Another thing she didn't expect of him is the fact that he never killed a man. Since her second oath, she sees marks above everyone's head – how many humans they killed. At first, she hoped that it would include monsters when she saw Leofric's count, but it doesn't. It also warns her when somebody is thinking of killing, even when it's an intrusive thought.
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'I hope he doesn't get someone, or himself, killed because he hesitates when he faces an enemy,' Althea thinks. 'Someone who commands soldiers should not be a stranger to fighting. That might have been his first combat ever.'
Armand catches her staring at him but glances away, blushing. "I doubt this is appropriate for a strategic meeting."
She tightens up her loosening coat and looks away, feeling her face reddening. "I stained my shirt while sparring; a squire is fetching me a replacement."
They arrive at the commandment tent, where five towering men eye them. Their armor wouldn't shy in comparison to Leofric's, and neither would their shields. The one closest to the entrance nods towards them, authorizing their approach.
A griffin lands near them, carrying numerous crates in nets. Squires unload the beast, its rider holding the reins to stop it from picking someone's head off. He hands them to one of the guards in black and runs towards the tent, a letter in his hands.
"The little knight is here," one of the guards whispers to another. Althea knew that crossing a characteristic's natural threshold makes one leagues above a lesser man. But she didn't expect that in raising her perception to see their spells, she would start hearing whispers from ten meters away.
She ignores them and crosses the flaps with Armand right behind her. She looks back through them but doesn't see her squire. He should already be back. They are in an airlock; she could wait a few more minutes.
She hears Armand unbuttoning his coat and turns around. He lifts off his black linen shirt and hands it to her. Althea accepts Armand's shirt. The exchange is brief, but her gaze lingers on him for what seems a little too long. Scars cross his muscular torso in deep, harsh lines – wounds left by sharp claws and fangs. They range from thin, faded lines to broader, ragged marks.
"What did that?" she asks, pulling the shirt over her head. It smells of cologne and is, thankfully, not too oversized.
"Depends on which one. There is a long list of monsters that tried to kill me." Armand closes his coat, the piece covering his entire torso. He crosses the next flaps into the tent's heart.
Duke Felspar stands at the end of a large table, surrounded by two giants in black plate armor. He's reading a letter sealed by the king. Sir Faewin, Ashmere, Vorath, and Lady Lyris nod towards Althea as she enters. Several marquises turn their heads towards Armand, questioning looks on their faces. It strikes Althea that it is odd for him to be invited. Officers stand beside them, their coats or armor painting them as generals.
"May I inquire as to why a lieutenant is among us, Duke Felspar," Marquis Vandris asks.
"Lieutenant Viremont is here to observe," Felspar explains. He insists on the last word, as if it were more an order than a statement. "With his achievements, he may very well be a general before reaching half your age."
"Getting your platoon slaughtered in a routine expedition does not speak well of one's ability to command," Vandris says. He glares at Armand, but the latter doesn't shy away from his stare.
"There were three knights with him," Lady Lyris comments. She toys with a short sword, spinning its tip on her finger. It is undeniable that Garrick was a skilled knight; his death is a blow to their entire order. "There wasn't anything routine about that event. Otherwise, we wouldn't be here."
Vandris holds her gaze without excusing himself. The room grows silent, the knights squaring up from their laid-back postures. Althea exhales in exasperation. This sight isn't an uncommon one; she witnesses it at every encounter of her orders. "What did I miss?" she asks, breaking the tension.
Duke Felspar mouths a silent thank you and leans on the table. A map of the region covers it, with wooden pawns indicating their troops. He points at an isolated block on the side of a large rift. He explains, "We narrowed their position to the ruins of Fort Emberwatch. It hasn't seen use for decades and is in bad shape; its walls were open by trolls."
"Any sightings of the enemy?" Althea asks.
"Scouts are scanning the entire region. Not even one who reconned the area surrounding the fort came back," Vandris says. "It is reminiscent of your first encounter, and not far from it."
"I agree," Althea comments. The count above Felspar's head, a staggering two hundred, increments by one. She stares at it, trying to understand what this means. Did he poison someone in the camp? That sounds unbelievable.
"The fort is built on the rift's west, atop a large hill," Felspar explains. "Our main force will attack at dusk; the sun will be in our back, making aiming harder for their spellcasters. They must not be expecting such a hastened response; it will be another advantage."
Armand steps forward; but Althea stealthily motions for him not to intervene. "I must advise that we keep to your most armored forces. Their spells shred through the standard soldier, piercing mail, muscles, and bones. It would be nothing more than avoidable losses."
"That sounds like fear," Vandris sneers. His gauntleted hand brushes over the map, knocking aside one of the wooden pawns. "Avoidable losses? Would you see my trained, geared, and experienced soldiers at the advent of our formation? Soaking arrows; too tired to fight once we take to the fort? War is losses, little knight."
The room's atmosphere chills. None of the marquises speak, but she knows they think the same. They all have veteran troops, and none would see them sent in as a front line.
Duke Felspar coughs to get their attention. "Earlier, I made a request to the king, and in his grace, he agreed to the detachment of war ogres. They will be here before tonight and will be our front line. I despise useless deaths, and it seems we will avoid many."
"A great decision," a marquis says.
Armand glances at Althea; he doesn't seem relieved. Perhaps he is unaware of the beasts. She leans towards him and whispers, "They are monsters clad in armor so heavy I cannot cut through it. It's rare to see them used as they cost a lot of gold and time."
Felspar continues, "And I trust I can count on your mages to shield our advance, Marquis Vandris."
"With pleasure," Vandris says. The mention of his mages makes him smile. He must expect to be able to learn their enemy's spells. Their spread is as unavoidable as it is terrifying.
"We will discuss formation later," Felspar says. "Lady Lyris, I believe you are more indicated than me for this next part."
She lifts herself and steps to the table. She stabs her blade at the edge of Mount Cinder, south of the rift. The marquises lean back at the display, their eyes darting to her. She begins, "The rift is connected to the mountain's network of caverns. I, with the soldiers I selected, will use them to infiltrate the rift. We'll climb it when you begin your assault and throw their troops into disarray by killing their leaders and mages."
Althea stares at Lady Lyris as she explains the plan. Hidden beneath her apparent calm, a storm churns within her. The oath etched into her soul echoes, pressing its demand: strike down the assassins – the spawns of darkness that live amongst men. Her heart burns as she restrains herself – it demands her comrade's blood.
Althea's hands tremble, and she forces them to grip her coat. She exits the tent, gazes following her as she vanishes through the flaps. She walks away and finds a crate to sit on. Pain claws through her chest, as though she's swallowing shards of glass. She clamps her jaw shut, stifling a scream that would draw attention.
Armand descends to one knee beside her, lowering his head to her level. "What's wrong?" he asks.
"It's my oath," she manages to say. "It wants me to… kill her."
"I warned yo…; I'm sorry," Armand says. He looks to the side, perplexed. "Perhaps you could see the lesser evil here. Her methods are dishonorable, but she will save hundreds of men. The cultists we hunt attacked our men unprovoked. And Seraphel knows what they are doing to the prisoners. You will have the time to discuss her methods later, but for now we need her."
Althea shuts her eyes tightly, struggling with her inner turmoil. She unclenches her fists, the shaking subsiding as she convinces herself of his words. "Radiant Lord of Light, forgive me," she mutters.