Beneath the red glow of a new day’s dawn, a procession of twenty thousand troops streamed from the North gate of Southaster. They trampled the ash of their enemy’s camp as they passed.
Prospero rode alongside Izra at the head of the Canthari Contingent, newly armed and armored with the looted spoils of the usurper’s army. Each wore padded gambesons beneath their new armor, dyed Gaynes’ blue. Their unit marched along the right flank of the army’s Rearguard.
Izra sighed contentedly. “A hundred chests of loot,” he said happily. “Just when I thought Canthari’s coffers could not fill any quicker. Now our troops will stand a fighting chance. If we can slay more elite troops and take their equipment, the Canthari Contingent shall be the richest, strongest force in the realm! Maybe this war business isn’t such a raw deal after all.”
Prospero groaned and huffed an incredulous laugh at Izra. “Please don’t start thinking that way, my Lord. That wealth was peeled from the bodies of innocent dead. To boot, last night was a stroke of luck. Now that the enemy knows to expect cunning from us, they will be alert to such obvious tactics. Don’t expect it to be that easy every time.”
“Yes, I suppose that’s true. But what do you mean innocent? Those troops had trapped our civilians inside a city, where people were getting sick and starving. Hardly defensible behavior.”
“Hardly,” Prospero agreed. “And we were in the right to attack them with an intention to break their siege.”
Izra smiled confidently and raised his head slightly, but was surprised when Prospero continued.
“But if you think those soldiers decided to take up arms, travel far from their homes right before the harvest season, and do those wicked things of their own accord, you would be mistaken. They were indeed innocent, or at least manipulated. It is those in power who bear the blame for the cruelty of war. Think of this: we too have taken up arms and are traveling far from home to encircle the royal capital. We do so for the good of the King and the common people. If we should suffer defeat at the hands of the Usurper, do you think someone should gleefully profit from looting the corpse of, say, Sergeant Marlon? Or myself? Or yourself? Do you think they should curse us as evil, or suggest that we are deserving of our grim fates?”
“I see your point,” Izra grumbled. “Prospero, I must admit, even your good counsel can at times border on the insufferable. We are committed to this fight. Must we take no pleasure in our victories? Should we not take advantages for ourselves and our people where we can?”
“Never as an end in itself, only as a means to hasten our victory and restore the peace,” Prospero replied. “If war becomes a matter of business and wealth generation, everyone will suffer, regardless of whose side they find themselves on.”
“You speak as if you know that to be the case,” Izra said, sounding troubled.
“I do,” Prospero muttered.
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Whenever the army stopped to make camp, Prospero took it upon himself to get to know each of the conscripts in their contingent. Marlon, the courageous young hunter who had shot the secret message over the walls during the siege of Southaster, had quickly become one of his favorites.
The boy—well, a man by rights, only a very young man—greeted Prospero with genuine delight every time the mage turned up at his campfire. Marlon led his band of ten troops from the moment they woke to the moment they slept. Now, the young man was seated on a log, sitting in front of a cauldron, helping to prepare their evening meal.
“Prospero!” he said, raising his hand to wave at him. “Come to join us for supper?”
“That I have, my friend. What’s on the menu?”
“Pft,” scoffed Lydia, a childhood friend of Marlon’s and his unofficial ‘second in command’. “More of Marlon’s rancid bean hash. I wouldn’t think any less of you if you went and ate with the officers, Master Prospero.”
“No Master here,” Prospero said with a good-natured laugh as he sat down next to Marlon. “How’s everyone faring? These marching days have been harsh.”
One of the soldiers, who Prospero barely recognized as a man named Horace, raised a hand. He was seated on a tree stump with his right leg stretched out in front of him. His hands were busy massaging his knee. “Harsh, he says,” Horace said snidely with a quick laugh. “Think my whole leg’s busted! I’ve never walked so much in my life!”
Prospero grimaced at him. “Sorry you’re in pain, Horace. I know how you feel. I once visited an city where every road went up or down a steep hill, and the exact same thing happened to me. Are you lifting your knees with your thigh muscles with each step, or do you generate most of your strength from the knee down?”
Prospero demonstrated both gaits in front of Horace. The other soldiers watched with curiosity.
“Latter, I suppose. Feels smoother, gentler to me. I don’t like bobbing up and down with that damn helmet bouncing around on my head.”
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“That way technically is smoother and lower impact, but it’s not something your body can accommodate long term for things like walks, marches, and hikes. When you do that you put excess strain on just half of your leg, and let the other half rest. Then your muscles grow sort of lopsidedly, and they start to constantly pull on your knees. That’s, good sir, is why your leg is fucked.” The mage slipped his hands into the wide sleeves of his uniform robe and grinned at Horace, shrugging at him. “Apply warm bandages above and below your knee tonight to soothe the strained muscles, and then keep the bandages on tomorrow to brace your knee. Make sure you activate your thigh and butt muscles as well as your calves, and it should hopefully hurt less tomorrow.”
“How the hell do you know all this stuff, Prospero?” Lydia said with an amused chuckle.
Prospero grinned and shrugged. “Let’s keep it simple and say ‘magic’. Also I looked into it after I hurt myself that time before. I figured something like this might happen since we’re fresh troops on the march.”
“Mages,” Horace grumbled, to which Lydia smirked and nodded her agreement.
“Hey, I’ve never heard of a mage who’s willing to lead a night raid on his own before, and send his troops back to safety before himself,” Marlon said. “Far as I’m concerned, Prospero’s a breed of his own.”
“Truth there,” Lydia agreed. “You made me anxious the first time you came to sit with us, Prospero. I thought you were spying on us or something, looking for an infraction to report us for.”
“Those are very reasonable expectations for you to have, I don’t hold them against you one bit. Fortunately, you have nothing to fear from me. I’ll be dead in the ground before I waste any of my breath tattling like a child to our superiors.”
“Olin was right about you,” Horace groaned, still kneading the skin around his kneecap. “First time I heard him singing your praises I thought you used some kind of witchcraft to win him over.”
“Witchcraft is complicated,” Prospero said with a smirk. “Winning people over is as easy as breathing by comparison. Usually all you have to do is be present, be competent, and be generous. The rest takes care of itself.”
“Alright, mage. Stop talking and eat already,” Marlon said wryly. The other soldiers froze and watched warily to see what that insubordination would cause, but Prospero just chuckled and gave Marlon a shove before reaching over to serve himself from the cauldron. In seconds, they relaxed, and the group engaged in friendly talk as they shared their meal.
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Later that evening, Prospero returned to his minuscule pup tent. He was quartered near the perimeter of the officer’s section of camp, but still far enough removed that he need not be seen by the noble officers. Technically, Prospero was only Izra’s mage-adjutant, and Izra was only a contingent staff officer.
It was a very lonely spot to be, isolated both physically in the camp and psychologically by his spot on the chain of command. He felt like an outsider to both communities, officers and conscripts. Of course, he really was an outsider. Every now and then, Prospero had to forcibly remind himself that these were actual beings, and he was here to save some and kill others.
Such a duty was hard to reconcile with his desire to save them all. He sat in front of his tent, staring into his little campfire, occasionally feeding it fuel as it burned down to hot coals, as he lost himself in thought.
It’s hard to feel heroic, knowing how many of these beings are going to die in the service of my goal, Prospero thought, a wan, rueful smile forming on his face. Still, I have to be conscious of the fact that as many or more are fated to die anyway, and for crueler goals than mine. To mitigate suffering and bring about the optimal end, such things do in fact justify the means. I have to believe that, or else the world will only descend into tyranny and chaos, and these beings will never know a world free from war or oppression.
Someone appeared near him and began setting up a small tent opposite his in front of the fire. Prospero’s vision sharpened as he reeled himself back in from his distant thoughts. A woman dressed in black garb was setting up camp in his little isolated space.
“Good evening,” Prospero said quietly. “My fire’s a bit low. If you mean to join me, let me go and collect more firewood.”
“You don’t need to do that, I made sure to bring some,” the woman said, her back still turned to him. He could hardly see her where she lingered in the dark, but he saw that she raised her arm and a finger to point at a small handcart she’d brought with her. A small stack of firewood sat near the very edge of it.
“Ah, I see you came prepared. Would you mind if I tossed some of those logs on now?”
“Please, help yourself, Master Mage,” she said. Her way of speaking was succinct, and her tone was calm with just a touch of carefully applied allure. She spoke as if she were painting each sentence to serve its purpose. Prospero had met many politically minded individuals since coming to Vallon, but that was different. This was more thoughtful, belied an even higher level of interpersonal intelligence.
Prospero got up and went to her hand cart. Looking inside, he saw the rest of her normal camp supplies, some colorful fabric, and a bevy of small weapons, mostly knives. That raised a brow.
“Have you eaten yet?” he asked.
“I have.”
“Ah, good.”
Prospero went back to where he’d been sitting. He tossed the firewood onto the coals, then weaved his fingers together and twiddled his thumbs as he tried to make sense of who this person was and why she had abruptly joined him. And why the knives? Was this an assassin sent to dispatch him in the night? Well, Prospero thought, if that were the case, no need for her to set up a tent and talk to me. She could have plunged a knife into my neck while I was thinking and I never would have known what happened.
“Might I ask your name, Miss?”
“Nora,” she answered curtly. She came to sit by the fire. Her skin was a dark tan color, though she was mostly covered up by jet black cloth and leather armor. Her hair was black, worn short for a woman. Her eyes were an uncommon shade of gold, like a cat’s eyes. They reflected the growing flames as the embers ignited the log.
“Your’s is a distinctive and imposing appearance, Nora. You must be quite capable.”
The woman looked over at him, her stony features shifting to adopt the approximation of a smile. “I will take that as a compliment,” she said.
Prospero could tell at once that the energy of the smile was all theatrics, no geniality or mirth. That prompted him to raise his eyebrows and laugh.
“What?” she asked.
“No, nothing, sorry,” Prospero said with a chuckle. “Anyway, welcome to my humble little corner of the camp. What brought you here?”
“I made the other soldiers uncomfortable. After a time, an officer recommended that I move camp to this spot. He thought you would feel more comfortable in my presence.”
Izra, Prospero suspected. What are you up to, you old meddler?