Harren sinched his sword belt tight around his waist, adjusting the bronze pates of his armor into a more comfortable position. He was sore as all hells from riding in full battle armament for more than a day of travel, but Cassandra had demanded he and his soldiers “look the part”. He sighed, looking around the sparse tent. It was tall enough for him to stand in but just wide enough to hold a foldable cot and a trunk for him to toss his armaments into at the end of every day. It made his accommodations in the barracks look positively lavish.
He brushed at his hair with his hands, trying to get it into some semblance of order before giving up and striding from the tent. Gavin was waiting for him outside, standing at attention. Harren looked past him across the neat rows of tents occupying the valley between the vast hills rising on either side of their encampment. Towards the peaks, he could see men ascending the steep incline to relive the night’s watch as the dawn’s rays peeked over the horizon.
Within the camp, there was a long line of men carting buckets of water into the camp and an equally long line hauling firewood to keep the meagre fires burning in the chill morning air. The closest source of water and wood was nearly a mile distant through rough terrain.
Even Harren could tell this was a piss poor place to set up camp. A handful of bowmen could kill them all from atop one of those hills and his soldiers had to work though the night to ensure there was enough wood to keep the fires burning and for the baths of any nobles complaining of the dirt from the road. He’d gotten a hiding from Cassandra on their first day of travel for not anticipating that need. The mere thought made him grit his teeth.
The worst of it was that there was a defensible location within sight down the road that was close to both wood and water, but this place had pleased Cassandra’s “sense of aesthetics”.
Harren shook his head, rubbing sleep from his eyes. “At ease. You don’t have to wait outside my tent, Gavin.”
Gavin’s posture slackened. “Good morning, Sir,” he said, ignoring Harren’s comment, “The camp is in order, and I believe the men have gathered enough water for the nobility’s needs.”
Harren looked to the east where the nobles had set up an entirely separate camp away from the commoners. Harren had tried to dissuade Cassandra, but she refused to conscience her tent being within smelling distance of his men. Instead, a perimeter was set around their separate and entirely unnecessary camp, further stretching his limited manpower. They were barely starting their third day of the treck, and part of him already wished he were back in the Outwalls.
“Any news to report?” he asked.
Gavin shook his head. “Men are grumbling, but They’ll survive the next two weeks without mutinying.”
Harren pursed his lips. “Make a note to disappear some of Cassandra’s wine reserves and see that a reasonable portion ends up in the hands of our sentries tonight.”
Gavin smirked. “Done.”
Harren’s gaze returned to the separate camp. “I’d best attend to the day’s duties,” he said, a grimace crossing his lips. “See to it that the camp is ready to move at the lady’s whim.”
“Naturally,” Gavin said, “It’s the pace at which our world turns.”
Harren snorted, dismissing Gavin with a wave. He walked through the camp, waving down any men who paused to salute in his direction. It was a needlessly long walk from his camp to the Nobles’ encampment down the road. He passed the sentries from the night-shift of the perimeter on his way across the field and they exchanged looks of commiseration, though Harren was certain he had the easier end of the equation.
The tents ahead dwarfed his own. Some could be considered small homes in their own right. The smell of fine cooking wafted through the air as Cassandra’s chef set to the day’s work with a fully functional kitchen behind her. The fresh sentries on the perimeter let him pass without comment and Harren strode among the towering green tents. Few nobles were up and about yet, but Harren was certain the smell of food would begin drawing many from their tents before long.
An army of footmen and handmaids walked among the tents, boiling water for baths and scrubbing the grit from travel-stained clothes. They paid him little heed as he passed, and he returned the favor. Cassandra’s tent was, by necessity, the largest in the compound. She and Carys shared its cavernous confines. After the first day of travel, it had been made abundantly clear that he was expected to attend them throughout the day as if he were some sort of glorified butler.
It rankled his pride, but he’d managed to swallow the objections. He could survive two weeks of this.
Probably.
A pair of the Marshal’s personal guard stood at rigid attention by Cassandra’s tent. They barely spared Harren a glance as he approached.
“Hoy Harren,” a voice called.
Harren looked to the left of the tent to see Rafe lounging across the length of a bench set alongside the tent. He raised his eyebrows. “Surprised to see you awake at this hour,” Harren commented.
Rafe grinned, revealing wine-stained teeth as he rose to a sitting position. “Who said I went to sleep?”
Harren snorted. “And who was the lucky lady?”
Rafe formed his fingers into a makeshift mouth and engaged it in a passionate kiss.
Harren met the gaze of the nearby guards. “Sirs, I think lord Talstad has had more than his fill of wine. I would suggest escorting him to his tent before Lady Cassandra awakens.”
The guard closest to Rafe required no further prodding, grabbing Rafe by the arm and bodily dragging him away from the tent.
Rafe shot Harren a betrayed look. “And this is what I get for popping in to see a friend, eh?” he called, “Manhandled on my own vacation!”
Rafe continued spouting nonsense as he was removed from the premises. Harren sighed, meeting the gaze of the remaining guard. “Is she awake?” he asked.
The guard shook his head without elaboration. Harren nodded and took a seat on the bench Rafe had left open. Yesterday had been a long wait.
He watched as the camp around him slowly awakened, nobles emerging from their tents, looking as meticulously groomed as one would expect for a day at court. The sole difference being that the style of dress had changed from ball gowns and fine suits to leather traveling clothes and riding dresses- not that any of the ladies would be caught outside their carriages. He’d been on this trip three times before and had never before truly registered the sheer waste of it all.
Five hundred fighting men pulled from the legion to fetch water for baths and stare at cold, dead hills. All so two score nobles could drink in a fresh, new locale. Time passed as more and more nobles followed the smells of breakfast, taking seats at the large tables that had been laid out for the daily meals. There was an entire cart in their baggage train dedicated to those tables.
Haren was shook from his thoughts as a cough came from within the tent. Harren rose to his feet as the guard pulled the flap of the tent open wide. Cassandra Longreen strode from the interior, looking every inch an empress preparing to greet her court. Carys followed on her heels, looking much the same. Harren bowed deeply as Cassandra took notice of him. She held out her ring and he kissed the large sapphire, taking great care in his every movement.
“Prefectus Barrington,” she greeted.
She had yet to use his noble title since the day of his arrival in Bleakridge. He was reasonably sure it was intended as a snub, but he found it hard to care. “Lady Cassandra. Ever a pleasure. I trust the evening festivities were to your liking?”
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She waved a dismissive hand. “The venison was dry, but that is no fault of yours.” She looked past him toward the dining area from which tantalizing aromas drifted on the wind. “Come,” she said.
Harren’s forced smile fell as she passed him. Carys leaned toward him as she followed her mother. “Almost as dry as the company here,” she whispered.
Harren coughed into his hand to hide the bark of laughter that escaped him. Nobody seemed to take note aside from Carys, and he fell into step behind her as they walked toward the dining area which more resembled a formal banquet with each passing moment. Every noble seated at the table rose to their feet as Cassandra approached, returning to their seats and conversation only after she had taken her place at the head of the table.
Within moments, servants appeared bearing trays of food for the Lady Marshal and her daughter. Platters of fancifully crafted egg dishes and freshly cooked bacon soon lay before them. Harren took a seat at the table, waiting in silence as they picked at their food. A few moments later a serving girl placed a dish before him. He nodded in thanks, drawing his utensils from his napkin before beginning his meal.
Cassandra broke the quiet. “So, Prefectus, I trust there were no incidents or threats last night that we should be aware of?”
Harren chewed his mouthful of bacon before answering. The scouts had been reporting pillaged homesteads and had been removing abandoned carts from the road from the very day they departed Bleakridge. But, there hadn’t been any signs of real danger. Whatever happened had passed, and he doubted it posed any threat to a party as large as theirs.
“No, my lady,” he answered, “The men haven’t spotted anything that could pose a danger to our expedition.”
Cassandra rolled her eyes. “Proof to the point I made to my husband that your detail here is useless. My house guard would have been more than sufficient without the need for-” She gestured vaguely in the direction of some of Harren’s men patrolling the surrounding hills. “That.”
Carys wiped at her lips with her napkin. “Try to think of it as an honor guard, mother.”
“You don’t fill an honor guard with commoners, Carys,” Cassandra snapped.
Harren sipped from a glass of water placed before him. “I assure you they will be out of sight and out of mind once we reach Calumn.” The words tasted bitter in his mouth as he said them.
Cassandra sniffed. “How much longer until we reach the city?”
Harren drummed his fingers against the table, thinking. “Perhaps two more days at current pace. We’ll at least be able to see the city by dusk tomorrow.”
“Perhaps with a smaller party we’d have made better time,” Cassandra commented.
Harren bowed his head. “Doubtless, my lady.”
Harren caught Carys rolling her eyes but, whether at him or Cassandra, it was hard to tell. She picked at the eggs on her plate with her fork with little gusto.
“Too runny,” Cassandra commented as if agreeing with Carys’ unspoken comment.
Carys arched an eyebrow but didn’t’ say anything.
Cassandra turned to face Harren. “Prefectus. I’d given our cook a warning yesterday evening and yet her performance this morning is no better. As head of our security, I’d like you to see to correcting her behavior.”
Harren blinked. “Correcting?”
Cassandra chewed through another mouthful of her meal before answering with a wave. “Whatever you deem an appropriate response.”
Her eyes met his and he had the distinct impression she was playing with him. He forced a thin smile to his lips. “Of course, my lady.”
Carys tried to interject, “Mother it’s-”
“Unacceptable,” Cassandra finished.
Harren took a final drink of his water before he rose to his feet, knowing there was no use arguing the point. He bowed in the ladies’ direction, turned on his heel, and made his way towards the smell of cooking, wondering what the hell he was supposed to do.
He turned the corner of a tent and came in sight of the makeshift kitchen. The setup was actually quite expansive, complete with several camp stoves and a full kitchen’s worth of utensils neatly arrayed along folding tables. A score of cooks scurried about, seeing to the myriad of dishes cooking simultaneously and preparing ingredients on their limited counterspace.
A haggard looking, plump, Rillish woman seemed to be directing the chaos. Harren waited on the edge of the kitchen, and she soon took notice of him, making eye contact with a frown. She plodded toward him, leaving her staff with a few final orders.
She curtsied as she neared. She was young. Much younger than the head cook at the Marshal’s estate and Harren supposed that explained the supposed gap in quality.
“Morning your lordship. How may I please you?” she asked as she rose from her bow. There was a twang of nervousness and fear in her voice. She had an inkling for why he was here.
Behind her, the staff shot furtive glances in their direction whenever opportunity presented itself. Harren frowned, still not certain what he was going to do to the poor woman. “When the Lady Marshal expressed her displeasure last night, what did she say your punishment would be?” he asked, hoping that might solve the dilemma.
The woman paled, eyes widening a fraction. “M’lord- I can-”
Harren cut her off with a raised hand. “I wasn’t sent here to negotiate.”
Her shoulders slumped and she averted her eyes. “She didn’t say. Just that it would be unpleasant.”
Harren scowled. In his experience, when Cassandra referred to a punishment as unpleasant, somebody was getting lashed or ruined. The cook seemed to have the same interpretation, almost looking like she might run. What was he going to do? Lash her until she couldn’t walk and leave her here, strip her of her position and abandon her in the middle of nowhere? Fall on his own sword for her?
The last thought was beyond ridiculous, but an idea struck him. “You’re stripped of your position here,” he said, “You will report to the legion camp and find our quartermaster, Gavin. Tell him Prefectus Barrington pressed you into the 5th cohort for the duration of this campaign as a cook.”
She blinked in confusion then looked over her shoulder at her fellow staff. “I can’t just leave them-”
“That was not a request,” Harren said.
Somehow, she became a shade paler, almost looking as though she may faint. “Sir,” she whispered, bowing her head in acknowledgement.
Harren turned from her without another word, striding back the way he’d come. Cassandra and Carys soon came back into sight. They’d finished their respective meals and, in Harren’s absence, nobles had congregated around them, engaging in some manner of fluffing Cassandra’s ego no doubt.
The Lady Marshal caught sight of him on his return and held up her hand. The conversation around her silenced and she called out to him. “Prefectus, that was fast. I trust the matter has been handled appropriately?”
Harren didn’t respond for a moment, as he forced eye contact with Lord Valen Carlyle who had taken his seat.
The younger man soon took the hint and looked ready to object before taking in the look on Haren’s face. He mumbled some excuse to leave and Harren took the seat as it was vacated. He cleared his throat. “Indeed, my lady. I stripped her position and pressed her into the legion as a cook. If she serves slop, then she’s only fit to serve commoners, wouldn’t you agree?”
Harren fought the urge to swallow as Cassandra met his gaze. He’d effectively taken the cook beyond her reach unless she directly countermanded him. By her own words, being forced among commoners was an unbearable punishment. Her snubbing of him and his men might very well be that girl’s salvation.
“Very well,” Cassandra said, not sounding particularly pleased. “Prefectus, set your men to loading the carts. I’d like us to be on the move within the hour.”
Harren shot a rueful glance to his half-eaten meal before rising to his feet. He bowed to her. “As you will.”
As he rose from his bow, a horn sounded in the distance. Harren’s hand instinctively fell to the blade at his side. One horn meant a handful of travelers, two meant enough to be a threat, three was an immediate call to arms.
He let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding as the next bellow of the horn never came. Cassandra’s personal guard now surrounded them, their eyes fixed on the direction the horn had come from, though little could be seen between the tents.
“I’ll investigate, and set men to breaking camp,” Harren said before setting off at a brisk pace.
He could feel the eyes of the nobles on him as he strode away, more curious than worried. However, Harren had been on edge since the day they’d left the city. If the Marshal’s family got so much as a paper cut under his watch, it’d be his head. The tents fell away, revealing the wide valley. In the distance, he could see a lone horseman approaching their camp at a gallop. The rider had veered off the road and was bearing straight toward the camp.
Harren fingered the blade at his side, walking toward where his men along the perimeter were congregating on an intercept course with the rider. As the man drew nearer, it became apparent that he was Venaran which meant he was likely one of the contestants they were meant to be following.
The man’s horse slowed as he reached the handful of soldiers, the rider slumping in his saddle before swaying and nearly falling to the ground before a soldier caught him and gently lowered him from the horse.
Harren cursed beneath his breath and set off at a run toward the scene. The soldiers stood around as if unsure what to do as Harren arrived. The rider was Lord Raleth and he had an oozing red cut running along his stomach. His hands clutched at the sucking wound, blood leaking between his fingers.
Harren shoved the nearest soldier. “Get a healer,” he roared.
The soldier’s eyes went wide, and he set off toward the camp at a sprint.
Harren fell to his knees next to Raleth. He barely knew the boy beyond his name, but he held his hands over the boys’, adding some pressure to the wound. Raleth cried out in pain, his eyes blurry and unfocused. Blood trickled from his mouth.
Harren grimaced, looking off in the direction of the soldier running for help. The boys travel clothes were soaked in blood and there’d be no healing it without a god-touched healer on hand, which they sorely lacked.
He met the boy’s gaze. “Who did this?” he asked.
The boy’s mouth worked a moment before any sound came out. “Rillmen,” he gasped, “In the hills.”
“Where? How Many? And wha-” Harren cut himself off, realizing he needed to slow down. “How many?” he asked.
Raleth opened his mouth and coughed. Blood speckled Harren’s face and he winced. The only sound that came from Raleth after that was a choked wheezing. Harren’s jaw clenched, and he knelt next to the boy with his hand over the wound until Raleth’s chest stopped rising.