Billowing waves rippled through the gray clouds that filled the sky. While winter was quickly coming to an end it still exerted its control over the weather for some time yet. There was no snow on the ground currently which was a blessing, though the rains that just passed had been bitterly cold like falling ice. Here in this valley on the Pheoa and Celeduun boarder it was particularly windy as a mountain range stood on either side. To the west were the Henjuk Mountains and to the east the Slemen Mountains. Large forests encircled the mountains with the open valley between.

Here just north of the boarder on the side of Pheoa were arranged a small contingent of fabric tents. They were soaked in rain and covered in thin layers of ice, their wooden poles flying no flags save for wind markers. Despite the apparent lack of allegiance there were indeed a large array of armed men gathered around the cookfires. Most of them were wearing simple leather armor with basic weapons of war, though some were dressed in identifying armor. All of them however looked miserable.

Perhaps it was the foul weather that assaulted them in these times of winter, or perhaps it was because of the reason they were camping here. After two weeks of marching through the oppressive seasonal conditions their assigned objective was close at hand. This mission being the first step in a war with their southern neighbor that none of them truly wanted. War was the realm of the rich and the noble born that the poor must suffer the horrors of. None here were ignorant to that fact. Some however had less disdain than others.

Among the ranks of these some two-hundred men were mercenaries who made up at least half of their number. They like others of their deposition served only the sight and sound of clinking coin. This was no strange sight in Pheoa as with so many robber barons about the need for private military forces was in no short supply. Thus did the kingdom and its alluring wealth bring from all over the continent those who would stab their brother for a bag of jingles. No surprise then that a large number of them would be sent on this foray.

Sir Delliur was not among these money devotees, for he was a proud petty knight of the crown. His orange-brown hair covered his cheeks and his gray eyes were dull. Through his dedication and martial prowess he had become an officer, though perhaps it was more due to his blind obedience. He did have one major flaw that kept him from advancement however. He had a strong sense of self-preservation that one might even call cowardice.

Garbed in his metal armor that set him apart from the common soldier he marched through the encampment towards the largest tent. The feeling in the pit of his stomach was one that was quite unsettling and he had a mind to speak to their captain about this assignment of theirs. It just didn't sit right with him, mainly due to the fact the court of mages had its hand in it. Those smarmy bastards were devils and anything they involved themselves in was a dire curse.

As he walked through the tents and between the tents he kept his right hand on the hilt of his sword. There were so many mercenaries around that it added another layer of unease. They looked back at him with varying degrees of glares that were either filled with disgust or mocking intent. Being around them made him uncomfortable and that was besides the fact they could slit his throat for a handful of coins if ordered. Their orders came from the merchants and heaven only knew what their true mission was.

Thankfully for his mental well being he came to the main tent in only a few minutes. It stood there without any banners flying upon its pole as their mission was one of stealth, their presence supposed to be concealed to both friend and foe. They were meant to be one of the first strikes against their neighbor, that he knew, though beyond that he didn't know much. That was why he was here to talk to their knight captain.

The captain over this military strike was the knight Lancet Eastmern. He was a tall and strong man with fierce green eyes, pale skin, and indigo hair that came down to ear length. Even though he was forty years old he balked not on the battlefield and his military wisdom had allowed him to gain the favor of the crown. This boon had either been awarded for or instilled in him a great loyalty to the royal family and he took great pride in his station. Certainly not a man to disregard but also one you could speak plainly to.

At the opening to the tent two of the king's men stood guard, their armor bearing the crest of the crown, their judgmental eyes looking out over the camp. They like any sane man were suspicious of the mercenaries among them. When Sir Delliur approached however they allowed him to pass without complaint. The knight gave them a nod and walked past and inside.

There was nothing overly fancy within the captain's tent as this was only a minor force. Only a few braziers lit up the fifty square foot area with an arrangement of wooden furniture to decorate the place. In addition there were several large racks for the storage of weapons and armor and a small bookshelf besides for documents. Above all in the center of the tent was the large wooden table where upon the maps and battle plans could be laid out and discussed. It was here that the captain stood.

Lancet stood there leaning over the table and staring at the map of the boarder. Standing across from him was a finely dressed woman and it appeared they had just finished a conversation. The look on her face was quite smug while the captain's face was anxious to say the very least. This woman was clearly a mage of some kind, of that there was no doubt.

Upon the officer's entrance the woman dismissed herself, slinking off into the shadows of the tent and disappearing through one of the side flaps to parts unknown. She said nary a word and barely gave Delliur even a passing glace. This sent shivers down the man's spine and he stood at attention as more of an instinctual reaction more than anything.

This book is hosted on another platform. Read the official version and support the author's work.

Lacent let out a long sigh and addressed his officer without looking up from the map.

“What is it Sir Delliur?” He demanded more than asked.

Delliur saluted and cleared his throat.

“Well captain...” He started with a hint of nervousness. “I had come to discuss the mission with you. If I could have permission to speak freely.”

Lancet stood up straight and put his hands behind his back becoming the very image of strength and confidence. His graying hair and beard did nothing to deduct from his air of dominance. When he spoke there was a degree on annoyance to the tone.

“Then speak freely! You know damn well I hate puttering around.” He then looked out of the tent into the camp beyond. “At least you men will speak to me. Not like those shifty bastards who's only loyalty is to coin. I hate mercenaries.”

Delliur swallowed and relaxed his posture somewhat, though he was still a might tense. What he was going to bring up might be seen as transgressive.

“Well Sir Eastmern. Firstly might I ask who that woman was? She seemed like a mage.”

The mention of the woman made Lancet frown and he growled under his breath.

“She was. Don't worry about her officer. She won't be visiting us again. All she wanted to do was ensure we would follow through with this attack.”

“That's the main subject I wished to discuss with you actually captain.” Delliur said with slight hesitation in his voice. His gut feeling was screaming at him however so he pressed on with his words. “Are we actually going to attack a kingdom that has a goddess overseeing it? It sounds unbelievable to even ask but if its true...”

Lancet sighed and walked around the table to the right side and put his hands down on it. He looked down at the map in thought.

“There is a goddess in Celeduun soldier, as impossible as it sounds. However beyond rumors we don't know what kind of goddess she is. That is the objective of our assignment, to attack one of Celeduun's settlements and gauge the reaction.”

Delliur's voice shuddered alongside his body as his fear began to rise to the surface.

“But captain!” He said anxiously. “If an actual goddess appears we stand no chance! There are only two-hundred of us we're expendable!”

Lancet slammed his right fist down on the table in a bout of anger. His voice was filled with fury as he shouted his reply.

“Damn it don't you think I see that?”

He then took several moments to calm himself before standing up straight again with his hands behind his back.

“But we shall follow our orders. We don't even know if this goddess will respond, or what that response would be. That is why we were sent Sir Delliur.” He then gazed out of the tent again before looking back at his officer. “Perhaps that is why so many of our ranks are mercenaries. Men without loyalty are most expendable of all. Why we were roped in with the likes of them I shall never know.” His face then grew grim. “And should I find out there would be hell to pay.”

Delliur had been quite surprised by the outburst of rage and was only now recovering fully from his own nerves. He gathered his wits and spoke with a more even tone.

“But sir what about that secret weapon? Why would we attack before it's completed at all?”

Lancet turned to his right and walked over to the desk that was setup in the back of the tent, running his hand over its surface before turning around to look at the officer again. His expression was difficult to read as it was both angry and strangely sad.

“Supposedly our attack is meant to buy time for this secret weapon. We are not the only token force carrying out attacks you're aware.”

Delliur nodded. “Yes sir.”

“Then you understand that this weapon is the combined efforts of both the crown and the mages.” Lancet continued. “Whatever it is, if it truly can bring down a goddess it comes at the most suspicious of times.” His face turned into a deep frown. “Those mages are a curse that almost completely outweigh their benefit.”

The full understanding of their situation was once again settling upon the heart of Delliur and he stood there almost limply. He was filled with a strange sort of despair, the kind that almost seemed gentle in the acceptance of the inevitable doom that was to come. Sensing this Lancet turned around and spoke to his much younger compatriot.

“All we can do is pray that the stars are in our favor.” Lancet said. “That this goddess is as heartless as the stories of old claim and will not make an appearance.” He then sighed as if his words of hope were ineffective on his own heart. “I've lived through battles where mages were involved you know. So long as you keep your head down in such situations you're more likely to live.”

Delliur was still lost in his own despair and simply nodded, his voice quiet.

“Yes sir.”

Lancet shook his head and walked over to the young officer, putting his right hand on his shoulder.

“Go take a walk around the camp son.” He instructed. “Clear your head with the fresh air. You can ill afford a clouded mind when battle approaches.”

This reminder of duty brought at least some purpose back to the heavy heart of the young knight and Delliur stood up straight and saluted halfheartedly.

“Thank you for your time captain. I'll see myself out.”

Lancet nodded and took a step back.

“Of course son. Dismissed.”

With the official permission Delliur turned and walked out of the tent. The light of the day, while gray from the skies, was still somehow blindingly bright compared to the fire lit interior of the tent. His steps were heavy as he walked past the two guards without saying a word or even looking at them. What was the point he thought, to even address dead men walking. They were all going to die when they attacked that town, at least that was his gut feeling.

Why he believed this so fervently he had little idea, his gut feelings were not some form of magic as far as he was aware. They were however rarely wrong and had led him through his life until this day. This most recent credence of doom had been only confirmed by the words of their captain. All of them were a pitiful lot destined for death. The sheer insanity of attacking the subjects of a goddess beyond the pale.

If only he had died long before this day, or perhaps been shipped off overseas to some faraway land. To think that he would live to see the return of the goddesses, those monstrous beings of myth that took on the appearance of women. What hope did men have against such forces of nature? Even if this weapon did indeed work, which he doubted, it would surely be turned on the people as well as a further means of control.

Thus did Sir Delliur wander aimlessly through the camp, lost in his own despair and dark thoughts, ever imagining worse fates that he should suffer. Perhaps if merciful fate would allow his death to be swift. Or perhaps this was all a bad joke by the crown and their attack will be called off at the last moment. That was his last spark of hope.