Fissal was running.
Again.
The captain of the Quartermasters Corp had sent him to check on the progress of the breaking down of the larger structures in the camp, and then either yell at those moving too slowly, or commend and reassign those moving with alacrity.
The thousands of small tents that held two soldiers each were all packed away by those soldiers. The slightly larger tents for the platoon officers were also packed by the rank and file of each command.
But the bigger tents, the mess tent, the captains tents, the Officers’ Meeting tent, the Medical Corps tents, the supply and manufactury tents, all had to be overseen and packed away in very specific ways. It mostly involved inventory lists being marked and double checked as it was all sorted and stowed.
Lieutenant Fissal A’Hahn had been running the length and breadth of the entire camp since a bell before sunrise. And now it was just approaching midday, and he was still running. Every time he had reported back to Captain Aminad, the tyrant had given him a new list of tasks to see to. This most recent one had sent him to the breaking down of the bath tents.
Fissal found it a little ironic that all he had wanted to do for the last two bells was to bathe, and now he was standing, sweating and out of breath at the edge of the ring of bathing tents as they were broken down to all be moved East.
A newly fortified camp was being set up just a day’s march to the East, and two thirds of the army was there now.
…and probably hungry, and wanting freshly laundered underclothes…
Waiting. The advanced force had cleared the region over the last three months of back and forth slaughter, and now a new advanced camp had been established.
It was time to move the REST of the Army of Hamuria to join them.
…well, not nearly a tenth of the Army… he thought. …but, our camp is moving forward toward the border with Velspe. And two other advanced positions had been established to the north and to the south of our new camp. So, it looks like most of our engaged forces are moving toward Velspe… If the Velspeans weren’t such a group of weird zealots with creepy ideas about everything in their culture from shoes to magic to women, I could see myself feeling slightly sorry for them… maybe…
Jogging again, his pace brought him around the edge of the former bathhouse tents, and Fissal started to slow his pace, while forcing his skin to flush and sweat with a minor effort of his Talent that was more of an exertion than any of the running about he had spent the day doing thus far. He increased his breathing, as well. He had to look like he was working hard, and near dropping. Otherwise, he knew, everything he had been working for could be lost.
The Lie, he knew, would keep them all alive. His siblings had fled, and he had chosen to stay. Hiding amongst the foxes, Fissal hoped to be able to break the plan Five had found, to keep the wizards of Hamuria from destroying… everything.
As the Army had gained ground on the Velspean forces, three more full Circles of Mages from the Golden Tower had arrived in camp, and the presence of all of these new Masters and Maestras made Fissal nervous. He had originally thought to try to keep the magical arm of the Hamurian kingdom from being able to find his siblings.
But a week chasing dead ends into his campaign made Fissal realize exactly how little he would be able to influence those actions on the part of the Greater Circes. If the Golden Tower chose to send out agents to find him and his siblings, how would he stop them? How would he even know they had done so? Maybe Five would have had a simple solution. Maybe even Four or … well, not Three. Three and he were equally mentally matched. Fissal felt he may have been selling his brother short, but he doubted it.
Six had wanted to turn the Golden Tower into a crater. And he could do it.
One… She was a mess. If Five hadn’t convinced her of the dangers to her personally, she would have never agreed; she almost hadn’t. Fissal, Two, had been standing behind her during that long conversation, making her think he was on her side. But, he had been behind her, ready to snap her neck if she tried to raise an alarm, or otherwise endanger the rest of them.
But now, a year and more later, here he was still trying to figure out how to help.
His ability to shift his face and body had ensured he looked nothing like the notably weird Apprentice Two of the Southern Phoenix Wing Pride of Apprentices, but he knew that any real slip would give too many people the opportunity to throw “Lieutenant Fissal A’Hahn, hero of the Battle of Jorsk Fields” directly on top of the nearest corpse pyre.
Captain Aminad had let Fissal know that someone above Aminad was not happy with Fissal, and that Aminad was going to be making his life in camp very uncomfortable for the next week. He had been so kind about it, made the statements with such a sense of empathy, that Fissal had wondered who the mystery asshat was, and what Fissal had done to them to engender such a demand for punishment.
When he had asked, “Sir, what have I done? I would like to not do it again in the future.”
The answer had been accompanied by a sigh, and a pained look from the short, blocky man. “Lieutenant, I was not told what the offense was, but I was told that how you learn from your mistake going forward may greatly impact your career. Whatever it was, please don’t make it worse. You have been one of my most productive officers since you arrived in camp, even after your promotion…” He had said “promotion” as though the word offended him personally. Fissal knew that his rank, and how he had accidentally achieved it, well, rankled many officers in other Corps. “And I cannot lose you. It would be very bad for the overall morale of the Quartermasters Corp.”
Aminad’s First Sergeant and right hand, a broad faced sturdy woman named Adeja Kaon, had stood close behind their captain as he had delivered the message to Fissal. She then held out the first list of written duties for him to perform that morning. The look on her face had been one of sympathy. The Ocre woman had the clearest, lightest blue eyes he had ever seen on one of those darker skinned people, and her eyes truly sold the idea of sympathy to him in those brief moments before the running had started that day.
Once each item on the list had been completed, a new list had been held out by one of several other Sergeants in the Quartermasters Corps. And on Fissal had scurried.
Seemingly out of breath and sweating heavily, Lieutenant Fissal A’Hahn approached the Sergeant who had been tasked with the breakdown and moving of the bathing tents. As he approached, he saw it was his best friend here in camp, Sergeant Liet Hargris.
“Holy shit, old man!” Liet laughed as Fissal walked toward the taller, thinner man. “You look like you lost the last battle! What is happening here?”
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Where Fissal had tailored his outward appearance to be average to tall, with a slim, fit physique, his friend Liet was a man constantly in search of something to eat, and never getting enough, no matter how much he found. A raggedy scarecrow of a man, his well tended and turned out uniform (while on duty) was the only thing that kept him from looking like a poor, starving collection of broomsticks. If he had to guess, Liet was a few years younger than Fissal, maybe a full decade. The Piincar man watched him approach, laughter in his expression, and a bundle of inventory papers in his hand.
Liet held out the offending paperwork to Fissal when he finally trudged up to the tall skinny sergeant. Taking the inventory work from his friend he asked, “Any word on what put a bur in the captain’s saddle?”
“Absolutely none.”
“Nothing?”
Liet thought a moment, and then said, “There is a rumor…” He paused again, and turned his eyes up to the sky. “Okay, there are a few rumors. Of the credible ones, the first is that the new mages want their own, special set of soldiers, and the General’s staff is vetting several officers for fitness.”
“HA!” The bark of laughter came from the pit of his stomach, shocking Fissal with the severity of his disdain. “I’m not a real soldier…”
“Hero of Jorsk.” Hargris cut him off. “Is in the special officers’ weapons training class every morning.” And then he raised an eyebrow. “Or have you forgotten all of the bruises you used to get in that training but now are doling out to the other officers?”
Fissal winced at the reminder. He had gotten tired of “losing” all of the matches he fought in those mandatory morning training sessions, and had begun to improve his performance of the weeks and months, until he was ranked solidly in the middle tier of the class. Winning too much would make him too many enemies in the Officers’ Corps, and that would also lead to questions he couldn’t afford to answer.
His “middle of the pack” approach had actually made him several friends in the training group. He was unthreatening and “trainable” to those at the top of the class, and a helpful reminder to those at the bottom of what invested effort could do.
Holding up a pair of fingers, Sergeant Liet went on, “Second rumor, you have hurt too many privileged sons and daughters of the Wealthy and Influential in the Officers’ Corps, either in that brutal morning training class, or just by being the Hero of Jorsk, and they must make you pay, peasant boy! PAY!” Liet held his grasping hands aloft as he said this last bit, like an overzealous actor in a dramatic scene from some mad play. He punctuated this with an overly loud “MUWAHAHAHAHAH!!” causing several of the workers breaking down a large tub nearby to stop and look at the two men.
“Oh, now! I’m too gentle of a man to do such injuries to people of such refined stock!” Taking off his uniform hat to fan himself, and wipe the sweat from his smoothly bald head, Fissal made a wide eyed face of the put upon innocent.
“Okay, okay…” Liet stretched, and adjusted his shoulders. “The third rumor I have heard. And the last of those I will give any credit to, is that you have become so arrogant that the General has decided you need to either be taught a lesson, or to become an object lesson for others.”
“Lies and calumny, sir! People love me. I’m a nice guy!”
“Hrrrm… that’s just what an arrogant mule WOULD say. CAUGHT YOU! HA, VILLAIN!” Liet Hargris then broke out in a light, natural laugh that most others in the army enjoyed. Liet was generally liked, if not respected, for his easygoing and forthright attitude. He then threw a waterskin at Fissal. “You really do look done in ‘Sir.’ You should drink before you pass out.”
He drained the skin in a single draught, tossing it back to his tall, rangy friend.
“Well, keep an ear out for me.” He said around a hearty belch. “I need to know what this is all about.” Gesturing to and holding up the inventory reports as he skipped backward, turned, and began to jog off toward the eastern edge of the quickly disappearing camp.
Another ten minutes, jogging now at a determined pace rather than the outright sprints he had used earlier in the day. Fissal knew he needed to drop his pace as the day progressed, otherwise the Lie faltered and failed.
As he reached the ground on which the Command tents had once stood, he forced more sweat, and came to a stumbling halt, and stood at attention before the small table where sat Captain Aminad sat. The older, solidly blocky man read reports and inventories while he sipped tea. Beside him sat Sergeant Maldon, an older man who was cataloging the reports and inventories once Aminad had finished each one, creating an inventory of inventories. The sour-faced older sergeant was rarely what anyone would call a happy man, but during camp moves, the chaos and increased chances of loss and disorder made the man as snippy and short tempered as a lisk in mating season.
…he looks a little like a lisk, too… it's the wrinkly skin… and the venom sacks… he tried not to laugh at his errant thoughts, and schooled his face to stoicism.
“Lieutenant…” Captain Aminad addressed Fissal without looking up from his latest report. “Why are you here?”
“Sir, I was ordered to retrieve the finished inventories from the Officers’ Mess, the Enlisted Mess, Camp Laundry, and the Bathing Tents.” Naming the most recent list of inventories he had been meant to retrieve had no effect upon the captain's posture.
“I see.” He turned over another leaf of scribbled upon parchment, which Maldon swept up and rapidly read before shuffling it into an specific order system with many other reports, which only he knew.
“Sir.” Fissal confirmed.
“And how many more do you have to collect before your latest list of orders is completed, lieutenant?” He asked, his voice never changing in timbre, tempo, nor tone.
“None, Sir. With this delivery, I am awaiting new orders.”
At that, the captain raised his eyes to the waiting officer.
“You have retrieved all thirty..?” he let the question hang in the air.
“Thirty-six, Sir. Nice round number. Hmmm… yes. Very easily divisible. Very neat.” Maldon said from his dry pile of parchment.
“Thirty-six inventories. You have completed all of those? Already?” The captain’s eyes were widening slightly with each word.
“All completed, and delivered, Sir.” Lieutenant A’Hahn said.
“These were supposed to take you all day, and well into the evening.”
“I Have a very reliable team to work with, Sir.” He was pushing his luck by being so tight-lipped, but Fissal wanted those under him to get any praise this might generate, and he himself just wanted a wash, a meal, and some clean clothes.
A rich, feminine voice cut through the afternoon air, bringing all three men to attention. “Are you telling me, Captain, that you can now spare me the use of one of your most renowned officers?”
From behind where he now stood, the heavy trod of shod animal hooves and the turning of wheels over hardpan ground resonated. With a slight twist of his neck, Fissal saw a large cart, drawn by two hrutar, with Maestra Hadissa sitting in the front seat of the wagon, next to a corporal who drove the wagon, and whose hands held the reins that led to the hackamores around each of the giant ram-like animals’ muzzles.
Any bridle with a bit fitted into the mouth of one of the hruturi would be chewed to scrap within an hour at most. The large ovines were stronger than horses, and harder to control than lisks.
As the wagon came to a smooth stop, the petite maestra hopped off the front seat and walked up to the captain where he was now standing at attention. “I have need of an inventory specialist, and as we pulled up, I couldn’t help but notice you seem to have an extra one on hand! My timing today is wonderful, no?” The dark skinned beauty smiled at the stocky captain, and then at his elderly sergeant. Both men bowed to the woman, her rank as a leader of a Full Circle putting her well above and outside of the command chain of a mere captain.
“As you just heard, my lieutenant has finished all of the work I had assigned him for the day by just before the midday bell, Maestra. If you have need of his services, you are of course welcome to him.” He bowed again. “But, as he has apparently spent the day thus far running from place to place, he may be spent, filthy, and in need of a rest. Maestra, I could have another member of my command assigned to you for the day…”
“Not at all, Captain!” Her smile was tight. Her posture rigid. “I will even feed and water the poor beast for you. Not to worry. I need his professional insight, not his ability to stand at attention, or pack cutlery for the move to the new camp.”
The captain, politely chastised, bowed again.
Wordlessly, Fissal bowed to the Maestra, and then back to the captain, before he stepped to the side of the heavy wagon, and held out his hand to help the powerful mage back up into her seat.