Cempa lay hidden in the grass staring southwards at Færtún. The houses were dots, the trees a smudge of spring green, and the opposing armies were glinting black blocks.

He felt a tap on his shoulder.

“Morning Cempa.”

“Bloody hell, Weard. How many times have I asked you not to sneak up on me?” Cempa took a deep breath then yawned, “I’m glad you made it back, assuming you went anywhere.”

Weard crouched next to him and made a crooked salute, “Mission complete. That’s the last time I’ll open my big mouth. You?”

“Me? I haven’t done anything. It’s Elewýs who’s working. Want to take a look?”

“Sure, may as well. Where’re the Rídwigan?”

Cempa stood and stretched, “There are no Mánfeld troops nearby, so they galloped off for gold and glory.”

Weard shrugged, “How’s Leth?”

“He’s trying to hide it, but he’s definitely sulking,” said Cempa. He turned around and headed for the bridge. Cempa removed a cloth from a belt pouch and began wiping the dew from the front of his cuirass.

Weard followed. He cupped his hands and blew on them, “I’m not surprised. The only thing he thinks he’s good at is magic and right now he can’t use it well.”

“True; he also exploded his dad’s house and was saddled with us.”

“I don’t think that’s how Sir Wulfslæd views it,” said Weard.

Cempa tucked the cloth away, “No, but do you think a seventeen year old lad is aware enough to know that?”

“But you know everything when you’re seventeen.”

Cempa chuckled, “Don’t you just.”

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

After half a mile, Weard made a low whistle, “That’s a big ditch.”

“It’s several streams diverted into one channel, there's a big pond every mile or so too,” said Cempa. “I think it allows the farms around here to manage the water level in their fields all year round and reduces the number of wells and wind driven water pumps. Someone’s been slack though, this one’s choked with reed.”

“I thought those windmills were for grinding wheat.”

Cempa shrugged, “Wait until you see the bridge.”

After a further three hundred yards, the remains of a twenty-five foot clapper bridge materialized. Elewýs was lifting the huge slabs of slate off their supports and throwing them into the ditch, disrupting the sluggish flow of silt laden water.

“That's impressive. How many men do you think it would take to put each one back?” said Weard.

“Between six and eight I guess. I don't understand why the King sent us to take it down. The water reaches Elewýs’s shoulders, so Mánfeld’s troops could still cross if they don’t mind a swim.”

“The bank is far too steep for that, especially with horses and armour.”

“I suppose, but there has to be more to dumping us here than that.”

Elewýs dragged one of the slabs to the bank and pushed it up the slope. She waved. Weard and Cempa waved back.

“It’s because the crazy King is kind,” said Weard. “There's no danger here and little chance of us encountering it. I expect there are orders to kill Elewýs on sight, yet we're here doing something that is, to all appearances, useful. Don't you feel appreciated Cempa? Is your loyalty to the King greater than before?”

“Maybe a little. There's a lot to be said for job satisfaction.”

“So we end up staying here, keeping an eye on this spot because we've been asked, away from the clamorous peril of men and women trying to eviscerate each other. Whether they are doing it from fear, loyalty or for a few coins, doesn't really matter.

“The point is, all we’ll do is listen and maybe catch a glimpse or two. We’ll remain safe, while feeling part of something that will, ultimately, affect the lives of hundreds of thousands of people.”

“I'm not sure philosophy suits you, Weard.”

“I saw my life flash before my eyes so many times last night that I'm feeling a little contemplative. It wasn't easy sneaking in.”

“I bet you were laughing the whole time.”

Weard’s cheeks tensed as he suppressed a grin, “Perhaps a little. It was very exciting.”

“I guess all we do is wait then.”

Weard dropped to the ground and sat cross-legged. He gazed southwards, “I don't like it.”

Cempa picked up a chunk of washed up wood, spread his cloak and sat. He drew his sæx and began to carve.

“Me neither.”