Chapter 43

The aftermath of the raid cast a pall over the campsite, its once bustling grounds now silent save for the mournful whispers of the wind. Survivors, their faces etched with weariness and unspoken frustration, they moved among the fallen with solemn determination. Spears held aloft as they navigated the grisly scene, their eyes scanning the blood-soaked earth for any sign of life.

Before them lay hundreds of bodies strewn across the ground, a grim tapestry of death and destruction. With careful hands, the soldiers of the empire turned over each fallen figure, their hearts devoid of emotion. This was a recurrent scene for men like them and they have long become accustomed to such scenes.

But even as they searched, their gaze remained wary, ever watchful for the lurking threat of further danger. Each fallen Byzantine soldier no matter if they were dead or not, were met with a swift and merciless stab, their bodies impaled by spears wielded with unyielding anger. There was no room for mercy for these men who had aligned themselves with the opposing empire.

Stab after stab, the soldiers continued sifting through the remnants of the battlefield.

Among these weary soldiers was a lone figure who moved with purpose, his spear held at the ready as he searched for signs of life amidst the carnage, his gaze cold and indifferent as he searched.

He turned over the lifeless bodies, his spear about to impale flesh when a faint movement caught his eye. Cautiously, he approached the source of the disturbance, his grip tight on the haft of his spear as he surveyed the bloodied ground.

There, hidden beneath the heap of bodies, lay a small, barely conscious figure. Despite the pallor of death that clung to him, the boy's eyes flickered open, their gaze fixed upon the soldier with an intensity that sent a shiver down his spine.

"A survivor!" the soldier exclaimed, his voice carrying a note of urgency as he called out to his comrades. "A recruit!"

But even as he spoke, a sense of unease settled over him. There was something in the boy's stare, something that stirred a primal fear deep within his soul. However, he dismissed such a thought as he carried on over to another fallen enemy soldier before ruthlessly stabbing at it.

From the morass of bodies, the youth emerged, his movements feeble and labored as he cast a cursory glance across the blood-soaked battlefield. There was a peculiar detachment in his gaze, a veneer of sorrow that rang hollow, as if he were merely going through the motions of grief.

As he surveyed the scene, a figure approached, weathered and weary, clutching an ancient ledger close to his chest like a talisman. With each faltering step, the old man drew nearer, his voice a raspy whisper on the wind.

"What's your name, recruit?" he croaked, his words heavy with the weight of years.

The youth regarded him with a gaze of ill-fitting sadness, his lips parting to utter a name that felt as foreign to him as the blood-soaked earth beneath his feet. "John Smith," he murmured, the words falling from his lips like ashes.

The old man's bony fingers traced the faded pages of his ledger, the sound of parchment rustling like the whispers of ghosts. "Ah, here you are," he muttered, his eyes scanning the words with a sense of resignation.

"Just joined yesterday," he remarked, his voice a lament for the fallen.

And as he cast a solemn gaze upon the carnage that surrounded them, his words hung heavy in the air like a shroud. "A pity," he murmured, his gaze lingering on the lifeless forms that littered the ground, their silent voices lost to the winds of war.

The old man's gaze lingered on John, his weathered features softened by a hint of sympathy. "Well, at least you managed to live," he remarked, his words tinged with a solemnity born of years spent on the battlefield.

But their brief exchange was soon interrupted by the distant shout of another soldier, the sound slicing through the air like a blade. "Another survivor here!" the voice rang out, drawing the old man's attention away from John.

With a resigned sigh, the old man turned back to John, his expression tinged with a sense of weary understanding. "Looks like you're not the only one," he said, his voice tinged with a mixture of relief and apprehension.

"Follow me."

John did as he was told as he tailed the old man through the crimson mud of the battlefield, their footsteps sinking deep within the contaminated earth.

They soon arrived at another heap of fallen soldiers, the stench of death hanging heavy in the air. There, amidst the carnage, lay a trembling youth, his hands pressed tightly against his eyes in a desperate attempt to shield himself from the horrors around him.

With a gentle call, the old man tried to coax the boy from his shell, but the youth remained unresponsive, lost in his own private torment.

“Recruit?” he said patiently, “Are you alright?” he waved his hands in front of the boy, but the latter remained unresponsive, rocking back and forth in a cradled position.

Sensing the futility of his efforts, the old man let out a weary sigh, his gaze heavy with understanding.

But as the old man's attention wavered, John's voice cut through the silence, drawing the old man's gaze back to him. "I know him," John said, his tone matter-of-fact as he spoke the name. "Alex, I think his name was."

The moment he voiced out his acknowledgement, the trembling youth stopped shaking.

The old man furrowed his brows in thought, his fingers tracing the worn pages of the ledger as he searched for the name.

"Alex Grant?" he questioned, his voice laced with uncertainty.

At the sound of his name, the youth on the ground shifted, his eyes flickering with a glimmer of recognition as he stared at John with eyes steeped in confusion.

"Sounds about right," the old man remarked, his tone heavy with resignation as he glanced between John and the trembling figure on the ground.

"Lets see here," the old man continued, his voice a low murmur as he scanned the weathered pages of the ledger. "Joined yesterday, from the town of Ingla," he read aloud, his gaze flitting over the faded ink.

But as he reached the next line, his eyes darkened, a shadow passing over his weathered features. "No parents listed, huh," he muttered, his voice heavy with untold implications.

"I see…"

With a heavy sigh, the old man closed the ledger, his fingers tracing the worn edges with a sense of finality. "Alright, well, we better get you two sorted out," he said, his voice tinged with a note of sympathy.

"Come on then, up you get lad," he addressed Alex, his tone gentle but firm. "No use in staying there," he added, offering the boy a reassuring smile.

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For a moment, Alex hesitated, his gaze flickering uncertainly between John and the old man. His gaze predominantly on John as if searching for answers. But then, with a weary sigh, he pushed himself to his feet, his movements slow and unsteady.

"Good!" the old man exclaimed, his tone brightening as he clapped Alex on the shoulder. "Come, follow me, you two," he said, gesturing towards the badly damaged campsite looming in the distance.

With a sense of curiosity, John fell into step behind the old man, his thoughts drifting back to his hidden plans. Behind him was Alex, trudging along with confused eyes as he stared at the figure in front of him with suspicion.

But just before they reached the fortified campsite, the trio stumbled upon a commotion.

"Hey! Stand down!" a soldier's voice thundered. Before them stood a bloodied figure, wielding a sword with a menacing air. "Put down your sword," the soldiers ordered, their spears trained on the man in a show of force.

This individual was a hulking figure, shirtless and covered in gore. In one hand, he clenched a crude sword tightly, while in the other, he held a decapitated head by its hair. His wild eyes darted around with a manic intensity, filled with madness and devoid of clarity.

But then, as if by some twist of fate, his gaze landed on John and Alex. For a fleeting moment, a glimmer of recognition seemed to cross his face before he suddenly dropped his weapons and collapsed to the ground, spent.

The soldiers moved to strike him down, but the old man's voice cut through the chaos like a beacon. "Wait!" he shouted, his tone commanding attention. "I think he's one of us," he continued, his voice tinged with uncertainty.

His words gave pause to the soldiers, who hesitated before relenting. They allowed the old man to approach the fallen figure, who lay battered and unrecognizable, his form obscured by a cloak of blood.

As the trio drew closer, John felt a flicker of recognition stir within him, he knew this individual.

It was the same man who had ordered him and Alex to move out of the cramped tent the night before, his gruff voice ringing in their ears. Now, upon seeing him in this pitiful state, John couldn't help but feel a twinge of amusement as he observed the old man carefully inspecting the latter.

"There's no doubt about it," the old man commented, his voice laden with certainty as he examined the unconscious figure. "He wears the recruit's garment," he continued, his fingers tracing the torn remnants of fabric. "Well, what's left of it..." he added with a grimace, his gaze lingering on the blood-soaked cloth.

Inspecting the crude sword on the ground, he nodded solemnly. "Indeed, this is our sword, alright," he confirmed, his tone laced with determination.

With a weary sigh, the old man rose to his feet, his movements slow and deliberate. "Someone, help me bring this chap to the campsite," he called out to the nearby soldiers, his voice carrying the weight of authority.

"We need every able man at this point," he urged, his eyes scanning the horizon for signs of further danger.

Then turning towards John and Alex, he gestured for them to follow as he continued to make his way towards the inner camp.

…

"Go on, take it," the old man said to John, his voice gentle as he offered the piece of bread. "Eat," he urged, his weathered hand gesturing towards the simple sustenance.

John briefly glanced at him before he accepted the bread, his small fingers curling around it as he surveyed his surroundings. The tent was significantly larger than the makeshift shelter he had occupied the night before, its interior illuminated by the warm glow of the central fire pit. Simple beds lined the perimeter, each one a haven of relative comfort amidst the chaos of war.

His gaze then drifted to the unconscious figure occupying one of the beds, it was the bulky man whose wounds had now been tended to. John observed him silently with a sense of curiosity.

Taking a bite of the bread, John savored its unfamiliar texture and flavor, finding it surprisingly palatable, different from the mounds of nutrition given to him by the order which lacked taste. Beside him, Alex also accepted a piece as well, consuming it with quiet efficiency.

Satisfied, the old man began stoking the flames of the fire pit whilst humming a tune under his breath. Meanwhile, John finished his portion of bread and glanced down at his new attire.

He wore a different kind of armour, the same ones that the official soldiers wore, though ill-fitting on his small frame; it was a marked improvement over the blood-soaked recruit uniform that he had worn previously.

"I hope you don't mind the armour," the old man remarked, his tone apologetic as he continued tending to the fire. "It's the smallest one I could find," he added with a weary sigh.

John nodded in understanding, though the armour hung loosely on him and Alex alike. It was a small comfort in the midst of tragedy.

"The previous owners would be glad to know that it's still in the hands of a citizen of the empire," the old man commented, attempting to inject a touch of levity into the somber atmosphere.

"I'm sure that's the case," John responded stoically.

"Indeed," the old man chuckled softly, though there was an uncertain weight to his words.

Before any further conversation could unfold, a voice called out from outside the tent.

"Father, Principe Oswin wishes to speak to you," the voice announced.

The old man paused in his actions, his shoulders stiffening imperceptibly as he made a deep sigh. "Enter if you wish," he replied, his tone tinged with a hint of displeasure.

In walked two figures: a middle-aged officer clad in extravagant armour adorned with symbols of his rank, his cape pristine and unblemished, as if untouched by the ravages of battle. Beside him was a younger individual, presumably the source of the earlier voice, dressed in simple armour akin to John and Alex's.

John recognized him immediately as the same youth who had emerged from the wagon the day before.

The middle-aged officer addressed the old man, his tone casual yet bearing an underlying intensity.

"Baron Uril, I suspect your endeavor was successful?" he inquired, his gaze sweeping over the unconscious man on the bed and then settling on John and Alex, his brow furrowing slightly at the sight of the two children.

The man's words carried a hint of jest, though there was a mocking edge to his tone. On the other hand, the old man continued tending to the fire, his movements deliberate as he patiently listened to the officer's words.

"See? I told you there would indeed be survivors; it wasn't all for naught after all," the officer continued, though his amusement seemed laced with condescension.

Still focused on his task, the old man's grip on the metal rod seemed to tighten suddenly as he addressed the officer. "Speak. What do you want?" his tone was measured, however, John could still make out the suppressed emotions hiding beneath the old man’s words.

Oswin scoffed at the question, his demeanor exuding arrogance. "Our rescue beacon has been acknowledged. A Centuria from the Faelius hounds has been dispatched to our aid," he announced brusquely.

"I suspect they should arrive tomorrow morning at the earliest. I thought you should know, Baron", the officer trailed with unspoken mockery.

The old man's expression remained impassive as he absorbed the information. "Thank you for the update," he replied evenly, though there was a flicker of tension in his voice.

Oswin scoffed once more as he cast one last disdainful glance around the tent before turning on his heel to leave, his footsteps echoing with a sense of disdain.

Henry lingered for a moment, as if contemplating saying something, but ultimately thought better of it and followed Oswin out of the tent.

As they departed, the atmosphere in the tent seemed to shift, the tension lingering in the air like a palpable presence. The old man continued tending to the fire, his movements methodical as if seeking solace in the mundane task.

“Baron Uril”, 621 thought with interest, “the lord of Ingla” he murmured internally, wondering why such a man was tending to them of all people. He also pondered the blatant animosity between him, and the man known as ‘Oswin’, the tension between them was clear as he continued to stare at the old man.

"Are you surprised, little one?" Uril's voice broke the silence, his expression softening into a meek smile as he directed his question towards John. Then, he turned his gaze towards Alex, his inquiry carrying the same gentle curiosity.

John's response was simple yet sincere. "Yes," he answered, his voice carrying a hint of wonderment.

In contrast, Alex trembled with suppressed anxiety no longer the silent form as he began to prostate himself before Uril, his movements stiff with fear. "Forgive my insolence, Lord," he stammered, his voice quivering. "I did not know, please forgive me."

Uril's tired sigh filled the space between them as he raised a hand in a gesture of reassurance. "Stop," he said gently, his tone carrying a note of exhaustion. "There's no need…"

But despite Uril's attempt to ease the mounting tension, Alex remained prostrate before him, his fear evident. John observed Alex's unusual behavior with a mixture of curiosity and confusion, unable to comprehend the source of his companion's distress.

"Stand up," Uril said softly to Alex, but the young boy remained frozen in his posture, his head bowed low in a gesture of submission. A flicker of frustration then crossed Uril's features as he repeated himself, this time with a commanding tone.

"Stand up!" his voice boomed, cutting through the air like a whip.

Startled by the sudden shift in Uril's demeanor, Alex straightened up hastily, his movements still stiff with fear. Despite his compliance, his eyes remained fixed on the ground, refusing to meet Uril's gaze.

An unknown emotion seemed to cross Uril's face as he observed the boy's trembling form before a mixture of compassion and sadness etched its way into his weary features.

With a deep sigh, he murmured, "It's alright, child. Be at ease."