Soldiers buzzed about him in the barracks. They were caught in the throes of their preparation, readying arms and armor as they prepared for the coming fight. The orders had been given and Harren had readied himself in anticipation near an hour ago. There was little to do but wait until the men were readied. They’d then proceed to assemble in the courtyard at the appointed hour.

Gavin stood near him in a similar state, hand resting on the hilt of his sword. “You look nervous,” the man remarked.

Harren’s face soured. “I’m not nervous, just impatient. I want to get on with it.”

Gavin shrugged. “Most of war is waiting for something interesting to happen. You’d best get used to it.” He shook his head. “Besides, there’s little enough to worry about today.”

Harren grunted in acknowledgement but was less than sure, himself. His eyes were drawn to the door of the barracks as a soldier unfamiliar to him strode through the door. He wore the regalia of one of the Marshal’s personal guard. He came to a halt before Harren and saluted. Harren returned the salute and gestured for him to speak.

“Marshal is collecting the Prefectus’ for a final word prior to the assault. First Barracks,” he said, voice clipped and precise.

Harren cocked his head. “Seems an odd time to convene.”

The soldier shrugged. “Not my place to question, or yours Prefectus.”

Harren glared at the man as he turned on his heel and strode from the Barracks. Gavin snorted. “Don’t take it personally. All his lapdogs are asses. Think they’re better than those of us on the ground.” Gavin met his gaze. “Marshal probably just wants to pump up his ego with a speech before the battle. Play along and all will be well.”

Harren sighed before taking his leave, striding from the building onto the dirt roads between the barracks. They were packed with soldiers. All told, the Sixth Legion was bringing less than a sixth of its fighting strength to bear, near three thousand men. Harren only planned to bring around a hundred into the tunnels. Ostensibly because there was no need to risk more men to a collapse, but in reality, it was because those hundred men were the core of Gavin’s support base in the fifth. Those most loyal and least likely to talk.

Harren shuffled through the crowd, being jostled about as shoulders from passing men caught him. Whether or not it was intentional was hard to tell. In either case, the disrespect still nagged at his trampled pride. He hated this life. He was born to rule, not to be held to the whims of an upstart peasant reaching beyond his station.

He felt his hand tighten around the hilt of his sword as he reached the First Barracks, striding through the door and making his way to the Staff Room. The Marshal was already there, standing at the head of the table with Peltar sitting to his right, an angry look on his face. The Prefectus’ were assembling in the room, Harren being the third to arrive. He took a seat at the table, waiting for the room to fill.

As the final man strode in and took his place at the table, the Marshal let his eyes drift over the assembled officers. The silence lingered a moment, growing uncomfortable, before Longreen spoke. “Too many of our brothers have fallen to the blades of murderers and cowards who hide in the shadows. Today is a day we get to strike back and pay back the blood spilt in kind,” he said, “Tell your men that for every ear they bring me, I’ll pay in silver for their trouble. There will be no mercy, and no quarter.”

Harren could have sworn the Marshal’s eyes settled on him for the last part of that statement. The hairs on the back of his neck rose.

Longreen raised a hand and snapped his fingers. A series of scribes filed into the room, holding scrolls and passing them among the Prefectus. As Harren was handed one with his name written across the length. He unrolled it, eyes skimming across the parchment. It was a redrafting of the battle plans. New targets in new locations, save for the Fifth’s. Their target was unchanged. Everything about that gave Harren a bad feeling, but he tried not to let his unease show.

Murmers of disgruntlement sounded from around the room as the officers saw their carefully laid plans evaporate. Peltar spoke up, “Your Grace, it’s really too late to be changing targets. It’ll be chaos without time to plan the logistics.”

Longreen glared at the man. “Did I ask for your opinion, General?”

Peltar quieted, a sour look on his face.

Glorian, Prefectus of the Second Cohort, spoke up next, voice nervous. “Your Grace, may I-”

Longreen raised his hand. “There will be no questioning of these orders and you will see them done on schedule. Assemble your men and plot a path. Carve through anyone in your way if need be.” Longreen’s eyes found Harren. “Prefectus Barrington, I’ve assigned you an attaché for this assignment. It’s a punishment for him, not for you, but I will hold you personally responsible for his well-being.”

Harren was about to voice a question, before remembering the Marshal’s words of a few seconds ago. He bowed his head, “Of course, your grace.”

Longreen nodded. “Dismissed. See to your men, coordinate your approach, and bury them.”

The final words sent chills down Harren’s spine. He feared he would be the one buried today. The officers stood as one at the dismissal, saluting the Marshal and filing out of the room. Harren’s thoughts were swimming. If the Sons didn’t kill him today, they surely would at his next patrol outing. There was no way they would see this as anything but a betrayal. Harren cursed Gavin beneath his breath.

The Marshal must have known there was something wrong with the Fifth. Why else would this mysterious attaché appear in the final hour? Harren shook his head. There was nothing to be done now but to follow the orders and hope for the best.

He soon found himself returned to the Third Barracks. Harren stopped in his tracks just inside the doorway, his momentum arrested by the sight of Grim Thorne. The man looked ridiculous, wearing a Venaran coat of plates that was clearly intended for a smaller man. He held a rectangular shield with the golden sun painted across its face and an officer’s sword at his hip, slightly longer than the standard issue. Everything about the situation made Harren scowl.

Grim returned an equally pleased expression on sighting Harren. As Harren approached, Grim begrudgingly nodded to him. “Harren,” he greeted.

“That’s Prefectus Barrington to you,” Harren answered, looking up at the too large man.

Grim looked as if he were considering punching Harren. Harren hoped he did. It’d give him an excuse to leave him behind. Harren met Grim’s gaze until another Rillman stepped between them. He had a face that looked like somebody had used it for boxing practice.

The Rillman met Harren’s gaze for a moment before bowing. “Lord Barrington. Forgive my friend. His mother was a very clumsy woman.”

Harren cracked a smirk. “You let your own men talk to you like that, Thorne?”

Grim snorted and thumped a meaty fist on his man’s shoulder. “If they don’t say it to your face, they’ll say it to your back.”

Harren conceded the point with a shrug. “I take it you two are the wards Longreen is putting in my care?”

Grim nodded like a sullen bear. His companion had slightly more grace. “Edgar, at your service, lord.”

Harren took a deep breath. Gavin was going to want to kill them. It wasn’t that he objected to that eventuality, but that the Marshal had made him personally liable for their well-being. Hells, maybe Longreen was trying to bury the both of them. Two birds one stone, and a dusty grave.

This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

As if the mere thought of the man summoned him, Gavin appeared from his rooms in the rear of the barracks. “Ah, Harren. I see you’ve come across our most unexpected guests,” Gavin said, all smiles.

Harren nodded as the man approached, coming to a halt before them. “The Marshal has made me personally responsible for their well-being.”

Gavin was quiet a moment. “Would Longreen take note of their absence if we were to keep the gentlemen safe at the Barracks?”

Grim scowled, crossing his arms. “Undoubtedly.”

Gavin looked to Harren. “Then we must take care of them.”

There was a slight edge to the man’s voice. Harren could tell Grim had taken note, his eyes shifting between them with a hint of unease. Harren changed the subject, “Are the men prepared? We need to begin assembling in the field.” He looked around the barracks at the fully armed men, already knowing the answer.

“Yes, on your command,” Gavin answered.

Harren took a deep breath. He wondered if he was supposed to give some kind of speech at a time like this. All the heroes in the stories did with grand uplifting orations about glory and the sirens song of victory.

But- he was no hero, and there was certainly no glory to be had from this farce. He had done what he needed to do to survive, and it nagged at him with a feeling of wrongness. Nobles were supposed to be better than this, above the foibles of lesser men. Yet he seemed mired in them. What did that make him?

His grip tightened on the hilt of his sword at his side, deciding to say only what was required. “Marshal said he’d pay in silver for any ears we bring back, so bring a knife,” he said, looking across the room at the dozens of armed men. They knew nothing of the deal he and Gavin made and thought they were marching to their graves. Many looked like frightened rabbits, waiting for any excuse to bolt. But, was he any different?

“Cohort, on me,” he said, turning from his men and striding through the door of the barracks into the sunlight beyond. Several thousand soldiers were assembling before the main gate, the synchronous pounding of boots and clanking of armor announcing their intentions from a mile away.

He led his men into the stream of soldiers and pulled the fresh orders from his pocket a final time. His orders were unchanged, but the targets of the other cohorts were concentrated in a specific portion of the Outwalls. He wondered what their orders said. Whatever it was, the Marshal had something very specific in mind.

The individual cohorts coalesced into neat lines behind their respective Prefectus. The hour of their departure was nearly upon them. There was much Harren wanted to tell Gavin, but no opportunity or time to do so. The number of ways this could go wrong or end in his death spun through his mind.

He looked to the gate and watched as the huge wooden doors began to creak open, revealing the city beyond. It all suddenly felt very real, as if the time before that moment were a dream. His pulse quickened and he clenched and unclenched the fists at his side. Tingles of fear and nervousness ran down his spine. He’d killed in duels before, but he’d never been in real combat.

General Peltar appeared from the right side of the field atop a radiant white horse, dressed in full battle regalia. He wouldn’t be joining them of course, but Harren supposed the general ought to look the part while he saw them off.

Peltar’s horse pawed at the dirt road beneath its hooves as he drew it to a halt. The beast whinnied as he pulled the reins, turning to face the assembled men. Peltar raised his voice to an impressive volume as he addressed the assembly, “Every man here has lost a brother to the Sons, whether from an arrow in the dark or a knife in the back,” he said, “This is our reckoning. The Sixth does not forget nor does it forgive.”

He drew his sword. “Strike hard, look to your brothers in arms and we will see a golden day.”

Peltar’s gaze drifted across the assembled men. “I’ll not waste more of your time with words.” He raised the blade. “To the Red dawn,” he roared.

The assembled troops roared their approval, banging fists on shields and plated bronze. Harren looked to the golden sun painted across his own shield. Red dawn, eh? He looked back to Peltar as the cheers died down.

The General sheathed his sword. “First four Cohorts on me. Sixth and seventh will follow to secure our rear around the operational area.” His eyes settled on Harren. “Fifth will leave last as your target location is closest.”

Peltar raised his hand in a signal. From somewhere behind the lines, a deep bellowing horn sounded. In the same moment, the First Cohort fell into motion, their boots marching to a quick cadence. So much for any perceived element of surprise, but Harren supposed there was no point in attempting stealth at this point. The Sons probably had runners sent off the moment the gate cracked open.

He watched the procession of thousands of men as they flowed through the gate in a tide of bronze. It was a sight to behold. Peltar followed close behind them, surrounded by a mounted bodyguard to rival the Marshal’s own household guard.

Harren never much paid attention to military matters in the past, thinking them beneath him but there was something to the unity in purpose that stirred something in him other than raw fear. He compartmentalized it and decided he’d worry about that later as the last line of the Seventh Cohort flowed through the gate.

Part of him wondered how much trouble he’d get in if he ordered the gate closed and dismissed his men. He’d probably hang before the day was out. Harren sighed and raised an arm to signal the men standing behind him. “Forward!” he roared, in what he hoped was a commanding voice. He made his way to the gate, soldiers marching in step behind him. Gavin was close on his heels while Grim and the other Rillman awkwardly walked to his right, having no proper place in the Cohort.

Harren continued to ponder the definition of personally responsible as he led the Fifth through the gate and down the main boulevard into town. He knew the way to his target by heart, having spent many an hour staring at the small mark on the map that may soon be his grave.

He shook his head, pushing the thought down as he led the procession through the streets, soon breaking away from the main force as they traveled toward the southern gate. Passersby scrambled out of their way. Most watched him with wide, fearful eyes while others stared hatefully. The division was stark and the eyes upon him made his skin crawl. He felt his hand tighten around the straps of his shield.

Their destination soon came into sight. It was a middling sized manse built in between sections of row houses. A wrought iron fence separated the grounds from the adjacent buildings. Inside the fence was a neatly tailored evergreen garden leading to a large two-story building with a sharply steepled roof designed to let snowmelt runoff. The curtains in all the windows were drawn.

Harren looked to Gavin. “Take first company around the back to make sure there’s no surprises waiting for us there. I’ll take the front in twenty counts.”

Gavin nodded and saluted, an eye on Grim as he gathered the men and followed Harren’s order.

Harren fought the urge to fidget as he muttered the count to himself under his breath. The soldiers remaining with him seemed equally nervous, checking the straps of their armor and loosening blades in their scabbards. To Harren’s chagrin, only Grim and his companion seemed remotely at ease. The Rillmen were even muttering under their breath to one another and chuckling. Harren tore his eyes from them and looked back to the manse. These people were mad.

He hit his twenty count and raised his arm to signal his men. “On me,” he called, advancing to the iron gate. The sloshing sound of boots marching through slush sounded behind him as he laid his hand on the gate and pushed. It was unlocked and creaked open with a groan.

Harren forced himself to take deep breaths as he walked through the garden, half expecting a shower of arrows to come raining from the building at any moment. His heart was pounding as he reached the wooden door, and he clutched his shield close to his chest. He looked over his shoulder to his men. They looked up at him with terrified eyes. Heroes in stories always knew what to say in the final hour to bring courage to their soldiers. Nothing came to Harren. All he could give them was a solid nod that he hoped looked assured.

He turned his attention back to the door and took a deep breath, readying himself. Any moment now.

“Need me to do the honors?” Grim asked.

Harren scowled, not even looking at the man. The sudden anger fueled his courage and he shoved the door open, hoping for the best but fearing the worst.

An empty hall greeted him, surrounded by empty rooms. At the far end of the hall, a lone Rillman sat at the feet of the stairwell on the far side of the building, a bottle of whiskey clutched in one hand. The man took a dep swig from the bottle as Harren made his way down the hall with his men in tow.

He glanced into the adjoining rooms as he passed them. The house had clearly been furnished recently. Discoloration on the walls showed where paintings had hung and scuff marks on the wood floor betrayed the furniture that had once been there. His soldiers searched the rooms behind him as he advanced toward the lone Son.

Gavin soon appeared with his men in tow on the far side of the hall by the Son. The quartermaster shrugged to Harren. Nothing.

As Harren neared the stairwell, the Son rose on unsteady feet, flinging his arms into the air and some of the contents of his bottle. “My esteemed lords,” he slurred, “Welcome to my humble abode!” He spun in a circle, arms outstretched.

Harren scrunched his nose in distaste. “Search the entire house,” he ordered. Soldiers streamed past him, making their way up and down the stairwell. All eyed the drunken rebel with curiosity.

The man smiled at Harren, many teeth missing from his mouth. “I assure you a search would be in vain. All that’s left is little old me.” With each word he seemed to deflate, and his hand shook as he raised the bottle to his lips and took another drink. “Apologies. Need to calm my nerves.” He sighed. “I’m to be your guide this evening.”

“Guide?” Grim asked.

Harren scowled. He’d gotten so caught up in the moment he’d almost forgotten the big ox was on his heels. The Son looked past Harren, squinting his eyes at Grim as if trying to place him. “Didn’t tell your men that you’re a big fat old traitor then, eh?”

Harren lifted his sword and placed the tip under the old man’s throat. “If you’re the guide, then guide. Don’t speak.”

After a moment of quiet, he pulled the blade away. The Son scowled at him with malice in his eyes then nodded in the direction of the stairs downward.

The thumping of boots from the second level announced the return of the men sent to search there. “Clear,” the leading soldier stated.

Harren held out his hand to the stairwell down. “After you.”