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Ch. VI

There are many hundreds of fiefdoms across Baldaran. Within; many clans and family lineages vying for power with games and politics. Bickering and fighting are to be expected. But in Baldaran, it is the norm. The norm to bring armies to a field and meet another lord in battle.

The dead king loved such distractions from his endless buffet of gluttony and comfort. He routinely visited battlefields to watch his lords fight out grievances. Treated them as a holiday and even awarded a good showing. As a younger man, he would pick a side at random and help, because it was good to stir the pot every once in a while. The winner is a target after all, which doesn’t make him much of a winner in Geon’s book. Anonymity is winning according to Geon. Being hidden behind the scene.

This column is split and walks the sides of the road. A single officer rides a horse on the verge of tying up. Muscles fluttering violently, legs wobbly, but it keeps going because that’s its job.

“This is Lord Trelanwey’s lot,” Geon utters, "Red Chets if I'm reading their colors right."

“I have seen those colors before at court, I don’t see the Lord,” Laurel replies to Geon.

“Never seen a more sorry lot. They don’t even fly the flag of their land, Stephen whispers.

There are four of them standing together at the edge of Geon’s hidey hole. Geon, Stephen, Smanth, Laurel. They each have a perfect view of the movement through thick vines the Mancer grew out of the ground. Leaves that twist just right so they could see out and none could easily see in.

The mass of soldiers, because army is too generous, move lethargic. Depressed. Battle Weary doesn’t even describe it well. These soldiers are the damned walking to hell. The nearly walking dead, not close but literally. Stephen was right. They could have bedded down about a glass-turn north. There was a nice large field there that once grew wheat or corn. Geon can’t remember which. It was before the blight came when farms could exist around these parts unmolested by evil shite leaking from the swamp. Doesn’t matter, just that a more perfect bivouac could not have been picked, except for the Geon’s.

He has a genius for picking the ideal bivouac. Most importantly, it shouldn’t look like a camp from a distance. He doesn’t cut into the fauna but uses it to set up under as natural covering. He likes to camp above the treeline but needs the camp to be easy to access. He needs it to have multiple exits. Protection from any weather. And running water close by. Water is important because edible plants and animals like to drink water from rivers and Geon likes to eat edible plants and animals.

Camp can last anywhere from one night to many months. He isn’t in any hurry to do as instructed because speeding through tasks erases almost all effort. The camp they use now was perfect for eternity if they chose to stay that long. Had all the elements he sought.

Same as the one Stephen assumed the struggling mass would stop at. But they did not do that, they pushed on until they stood on the very cusp of the swamp itself. Close enough that the trees bend with the dark looming presence beyond and the wind carries the unnatural sounds that wait ahead.

Geon has been studying the Blight for a week now. He is certain he won’t bring home 6 soldiers and a pigman once he is done. Absolutely certain. He doubts even he can bring home the pigman. This impossible demon task in this impossible demon location, but he is patient that soon Moroden will throw down a plan for him to come up with.

Then the pigman squeals like he is want to. A hideous wounded sound that stretches for miles around. The wind even tastes like rotting teeth and a belly that’ll digest anything and everything. The tree sway with the sound as the monster likely is chasing some fauna that caught its fancy.

And mass stops, turning to one another for assurance that this is all okay. The grunt chills even Geon to the bone. The horse rears at the squeal and the ancient rider almost rolls off the back. Once settled he climbs down and calls out, “Let's take a break for a bit,” as if this is where he intended to set up camp the whole time.

The soldiers throw down their gear and plop down after it onto the dirt road.

They set no guard and do no patrol. Some light fires, but little food is cooked. Drink was done in secret. Fights start over anyone thought holding out. Others collapse when their feet stopped moving not caring about anything. Moaning. Some of those never moved again. Some stifled sobs were heard among the soft talking as if they already mourned their own lives.

Geon is a terrible scout. He takes the word of whoever has the task on patrol, Stephen and the middle smithee brother do the deed nightly for a few hours extra of sleep in the morning. They miss all the drills and physical stuff he makes the other four do, so they aren’t too sad to spend the night out in the words.

“Who is the highest ranking?” Geon whispers near Stephen’s ear.

“I honestly can’t tell if there be a leader down thither,” Stephen sits back on his heels looking as comfortable as a man smoking a pipe in a lounge chair scrunched up to a fire on a blustery day. “There’s the fella on the horse, but nothing other than his age indicates seniority and I can’t tell who is the sorrier sort, him or his horse.”

Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

Geon’s eyes follow the old soldier. He wears the same chain armor over straw-stuffed gambeson, his boots are ancient leather formed to the ugly toes beneath. He unlatches the saddle and pushes it off the exhausted horse, instead of lifting it. His hands shake with palsy as he rubs down the mare. Both he and the horse are near death. That much Geon is certain. But after he unties his bedroll from the saddle and stretches it out under a giant willow tree, just off the side of the road, Geon couldn’t be more than jealous. His knees and lower back require a salve every night to stop punishing him for his brutally ill-lived life.

He kneels, so stiff now he vaguely wonders if the apothecary sold him bunk.

“Have any conversation come to you?” In the quiet moments, Geon can hear the murmurs. Constant like terror kept their minds and their mouths moving. But only in a whisper and to the guy next as they stare wide-eyed themselves.

“They think they are much further North. None know how lost they are. Some even talk about the blight like they’ve heard of it, but we’d know it if we saw it. Funny that, aye? The old fella is called Sergeant Sam by some and Pappy by others.”

Geon doesn’t answer, he watches the old man already snoring under the swaying branches. His horse munching on leaves. An idea already forming.

He allows the mass to rest, Stephen run back to camp and rally the rest of the patrol, I want you in to squads, do a circle around this camp. Got it?"

"Aye, Ser," and Stephen is off.

“Smanth might you know of any aromatics that could influence a restful sleep?” Geon asks the Mancer.

She touches a finger to her chin, “Hmm, I believe I know just thing,” and snaps her fingers to cause a lane of poppies to grow quickly out of the ground. A steady wind erases the colorful pollen on top of each flower. Soon even the most awake were snoring.

“How long does that give us?”

“I can keep this going for twelve turns, but it’s better to stop before too long or they are going to have regrets like they drank too much.”

“What is your plan, Paladin?”

The sunknight doesn’t trust him, yet, but she’ll come around because if he works this right he may have just found a way to do everything they all want, capture the pigman, keep the soldiers in his patrol alive and rescue the princess that he knows has been dead for months. Geon also knows if he wants to risk losing his sunknight and snailmancer again he’ll mention how he thinks she is long gone. He is certain the Sunknight is a capable fighter and Mancer’s skills are likely unmatched anywhere in the kingdom, but he doubts they will last long in the blight alone. He doubts he could, or anyone for that matter.

“Laurel, come help me,” he moves toward the older soldier sleeping under the willow tree and grabs him under the shoulders, and lifts. The Sunknight takes the man’s ankles. Together they carry him back beyond the poppies. Both are yawning heavily as they lay him down. It takes about fifteen minutes for their heads to clear and the old soldier to start waking up.

Geon is still working out how he is going to sell the oldman on his idea, when he is distracted by a little hero worship.

“Are you Ser Geon?” Sergeant Sam is awestruck, like a child at a Hibernal Festival and seeing the Toymaster.

Ser Geon nods.

“I’ve been collecting your adventure scrolls since I was a child.” He pauses a beat face scrunching as if the taste of something bad just hit him, “Am I dead?”

“Not yet. Why were you marching your men into the swamp?” Geon uses a little of Moroden’s influence to appear foreboding. An angry parent catching a disobedient child eating sweets before bed type foreboding.

“Twasn’t. We were heading to the West Coast and home. We’ve been months on the road.”

Geon understands. “A lost army.”

The old soldier nods. “We were forced from the Argyle Battle.”

“The king’s…”

“Yes, and our lord was killed also. We were in formation moving toward the line when the whole defense was crushed. Nearly the entirety of the Blue Checks are gone, wiped out. We would have marched with them if we found them, but we came across none. We aren’t all from the same Red Chet unit either, we assembled on the road. Never have we seen a lord field such an army. It was like the Evil One possessed those soldiers. All we have are our weapons and armor now. Our camps were completely ransacked. Some don’t even have a weapon. We’ve managed to piece together kits along the way, bits and pieces here and there. From old battles. Surprising how many old battlefields we crossed. So many dead just melting back into the earth. A lot of those battles I remember firsthand.”

Geon doesn't pay attention to battle. And he didn’t spend any time in the infantry. None in fact. His father put him immediately to work for the Patrol. Geon has spent nearly every moment not in garrison out hunting any wrong that crops up. The Patrol enforced Moroden’s teachings because of him. Rock is the best defense and all that. Because Moroden always moves him to act and his every action is for Moroden even the oath he took to a spoiled king.

To the throne, he reminds himself. Not the king. But the king sits the throne. He can go round and round in his head with no specific answer coming to him; he is bound to waste lives for a goddam baker because a little boy had a tantrum. And that's that.

The truly odd thing is that battles like the one the old soldier described don’t happen. Usually, deaths are few. It’s mostly dull swords banging on wooden shields by out-of-shape soldiers who never do any drills and drink while in garrison. Or at least that's how Geon always thought of them. He avoided the royal court as much as possible and therefore can avoid their games as well. Pretend battles he always thought, or the Patrol would have been asked to set up security. He was never asked.

“Who were you battling?”

“It was supposed to be the Green Checks, and we moved in to stop their advance through the Brendolyn Gap. We had a nice little ambush planned. Four companies of Red Chet infantry to crush them with, followed by cavalry and supported by archers and mages. No way we could lose. Some were already celebrating with a little fireale. But we did. It was bloody. Body parts were flying even as far back as the reserve. The Blue Lord went down first, idiot was marshaling the army and was flattened by a ball of burning grease.”

“Burning grease?” Geon asks instantly transported back to the tale of his birth and rescue.