2nd trial, Saun 719
Six trials North of Rhakros
22nd break
Six trials North of Rhakros
22nd break
Eat, drink, rest, gamble, laugh, and sleep. For tomorrow you might well be dead.
Such was the collective mind of every army that had every heard the call from officers and squad leaders throughout history, that they were stopping for the night. With their feet sore and and their legs cramped, their bellies growling and throats raw, the endless snake of humans and animals seemed to sigh as one. The High Marshal had apparently found a good enough spot for thousands of men to bed down, carve out some sort of camp from the jungle, make is defensible and fit for their baggage train. And then, after all that was sorted, worry about pitching tents and letting the army sleep.
It didn't take long. There were still enough enlisted men to speed the work. The word "veteran" wasn't much used anymore. Everyone was a veteran now. Every man and woman had known war that arc, up close and brutally. They'd all lost people. Every single one had a friend or lover or kin or whole swathes of all the above wiped out. Those that marched south that Saun, they were the survivors of the wrath of an Immortal that practiced genocide as sport.
There were no greenhorns, no rare recruits, no new fish or fresh meat. And the officers could tell the difference come nightfall, too.
"I've never led men so furious," muttered Braxton Hughes under his breath, bushy mustache twitching for a second as he smiled under it. "When they weren't angry at me, anyway."
"I'm sure you have," murmured back his oldest friend, Flightmaster Brumnott, newly-promoted and in less than ideal circumstances. "Knowing you're mob, they were just better at hiding it."
The two officers chortled as they made their rounds, sharing good humor and a little bottle of liquor as they weaved between tents in their quadrant of the camp. One-hundred and sixty men and women, from career soldiers to city militia to Blackjacks to people who were civilians a season ago who'd never even touched a sword or spear. Now they all squatted around their fires and went about the business of living on the march. Clothes were being changed. Bodies were being scrubbed. Food prepared. Whenever they passed a tent, a clutch of soldiers would acknowledge them in some way. The older hands saluted, stiff and sharp. The newer mob would nod or bow, still unsure as to the etiquette.
If the times had been different, Brumnott would have bristled as such laxity. But he was willing to be... permissive. A season ago, he'd been a Mastermark. Then his Wingmaster had been bloated up to the size of a boulder by fever and he'd been promoted. He'd led his Wingblock into battle and watched it annihilated by hordes of insects and monsters they spewed from. But he'd survived. Scarred and sickened and missing two fingers, but alive. And up for promotion again to Braxton.
"Evenin' to yeh, sirs!" A rangy man with a rough, decidedly non-regulation beard called out. He was working above a vast pot of stew that smelled somewhere between foul and delicious. It truly was that far of a variance. "Hungry, I hope?"
"After ten breaks in that blasted heat, you bet your arse I am."
Officers and ranker laughed, and Hughes silently envied his friend yet again... but also pitied him. He'd been there, outside the city, when the final assault had come. Both of them green Braxtons, no clue what to do, desperate to just survive and do their duty, whichever came first! Their officers died. Their men died. Screaming and begging them for help, but they couldn't. Nothing could. Until that tide of glowing, raging fury exploded from the walls and the dead of Etzos came for their vengeance. Even now, ghostly figures glided around everyone, some talking, so animated you'd think they didn't even know.
Maybe they don't, he thought, as the cook poured them a bowl each. What's even worse? We're not even noticing them anymore. They're just... part of how things are now.
"Here's to your new command, Hughie!"
"Yes yes, if you must..."
The Braxton felt another twinge, and smothered it. Brummie was the best man for the job, and he knew it. But the older man didn't want command, not yet. He wanted to take his career slowly, learn all he could before advancing, make sure every step was solid, every level of the foundation firm. Then the war had come and he'd shot up the ranks by virtue of just surviving. He didn't like it. Neither of them did. But they hid the discomfit, the fear of failure, because damnit, they were officers now, and that simply would not do.
"Fer the dregs, cook?"
"Yeah, yeah, hold yer water..."
The sharp change in tone caught Hughes' attention. A skinny man in cheap clothes was holding a tray and waiting as the cook loaded it with plates of stew. He watched as the tray was filled and the little man with tattoos across his face turned on his heel and walked away without even looking at them. Hughes frowned, feeling a flesh spread over his face. The damned cheek! He knew the man had seen them! But before he could stand and bark out an order, the cook came back over, sighing dramatically.
"Bloody irregulars," he said, in that vaguely smug tone of men the world over who think they're sharing their prejudice with like minds. "They never eat with us. Never sit around the same fires. Always sit out by the shadows, actin' like they're better."
Both officers studied the queer clutch of wraiths, indeed camped out a little beyond the rest of the Flight. Armor was gleaming on most, but not much. Clearly economy of movement and the ability to hide without anything shiny giving you away was more important to them. Some men were polishing swords, daggers, axes, maces, a plethora of weapons. Others took care of bows, checked arrows and crossbow quarrels. Both men watching were experienced enough to know the look of the men, though. The inherent, restless energy. The quick, shifty eyes. The cold eyes and the broken knuckles. The way they didn't even bother keeping to the regulations about tattoos or facial hair or even proper uniforms. But every day, they marched with them. Grim as granite and keeping to themselves.
"Don't look too friendly, what?"
"Oh'Pee militia. South Side." The cook almost spat the words, and Hughes wondered what history that spoke to. "Most of 'em are gangers. Sellswords. Street daemons, they used t'call 'em. Back when... well... back when there was any gangs..."
There was a glow in from just behind the group. A white-blue ball of light, flecked with black and green. A mage's cast, they knew instinctively. Coming from a figure they hadn't seen before, sitting cross-legged in the darkness, now silhouetted by his magic. The dozen or so "irregulars" paused in their work to watch the free light show. The officers and the regulars did much the same, and Brumnott couldn't help himself.
"Who's that?"
"The Raggedy Man, sir." Both officers looked at him, and the cook just shrugged. "You asked..."