Young Writers Society

Skrogit was having a bad day.

Not that the past few days had been any better, but today in particular was bad.

After the scene in the dungeons of the Master’s fortress, Skrogit’s squadron had been hastily summoned, gathered, and sent out with orders to find someone who knew the Green Forest or, if no one could be found, to hunt down the escaped prisoner who would undoubtedly be headed for the Green Forest. Either way, they were headed for the Forest; but as frightening as that was, it wasn’t the reason for Skrogit’s black mood. He’d been in campaigns against the Green Forest twice now, and he had survived. He held it with respect and maybe a touch of fear but nothing more.

Nor did the fact that the last day had been spent on a grueling march have anything to do with it. He was a soldier, a captain, and he was a Scrio. Grueling marches were a part of everyday life, and Scrios, though bigger and clumsier than men, were naturally stronger and more resistant to things like the weather. They also had greater stamina. They could maintain a steady jog for hours on end without having to stop for food, water or a quick rest. Even a Scrio child could do this, and some better than most adults. It was a good thing, too, because it was hard during daylight hours, wearing heavy armor.

It also didn’t matter that they hadn’t found a guide. There had been rumors of an individual who lived there, but nothing had come of it. Skrogit had expected as much, though. Even the Dainites, more used to the Green Forest than anyone else, feared it.

No, Skrogit’s problem was with Murk.

Skrogit could live with the Green Forest. He could live with grueling marches and he could even live with failure; but the one thing Skrogit could not live with was Murk.

Murk was the captain of the second squadron sent out to hunt down the escaped prisoner. Skrogit did not view Murk very highly, although doing so might get him a higher rank. To him, Murk was a fat, cowardly, stupid Scrio who only made it as far as he had in the hierarchy of the army because of his father, General Phlem’ka. Technically, Skrogit and Murk were on the same level, both being captains; but because Murk’s father was Skrogit’s commanding officer, Skrogit could do nothing for fear of losing his position. Worse, Murk knew that, and he took every opportunity to make sure that Skrogit did as well.

Like now.

They had reached the edge of the Green Forest a few hours before mid-day, and because his men had been marching since sun-fall the day before, he had allowed Murk to call a halt for a little while before they began the search. He had enjoyed the stop, tired from marching as well, but now, several hours after the call, they were still here and Skrogit was just getting annoyed. He was not an expert tracker, but even he knew that the longer they waited, the more likely they would lose the signs of the prisoner’s escape and in turn lose the prisoner. They could not afford to wait any longer, but every time Skrogit tried to broach the subject with Murk, the lazy Scrio ignored him or changed the subject.

The land before the Green Forest was grassland dotted with a few bushes and trees. The Scrios lounged around in the shade. Those who couldn’t find any sat as close as they could to it, making sure that they kept their heads bowed and away from the sun. Skrogit sat not too far from Murk in the shade of a large tree with his lieutenants Kilg and Orak. They were a little more relaxed in their situation than he was, but both of them could feel the rising apprehension in their captain. They were having a quiet conversation behind him, or at least what they thought was quiet. Skrogit couldn’t help but hear every word.

“When are we going to be moving on, Kilg? I’m getting sick and tired of just sitting here.” That booming voice was Orak’s. His natural volume was amplified by the helmet on his head. It was terrifying to hear, especially when he was yelling his battle-cry. But if the Dainites knew him like Skrogit did, they wouldn’t have much to be terrified of. Sure, he was a strong warrior, and one of the best that Skrogit knew; but he was also dumber than a cow. He was easily confused about most things.

“Don’t ask stupid questions,” Kilg snapped.

Skrogit nearly laughed. Stupid questions for Kilg were questions he didn’t have the answer to.

Kilg’s nasally voice was hard to miss. He was probably the smallest Scrio Skrogit had ever known. In a kingdom where brute strength reigned supreme most of the time, Kilg was viewed as a pitiful figure, but he made up for his stature with a nastiness that Skrogit had never seen in anyone else. He could imagine where it came from. Child life could be difficult without the added bonus of being puny. Kilg, like Orak, wasn’t very smart, but he did have a quick tongue and couldn’t seem to hold anything back. The biting comments and surly attitude made him sometimes unbearable to be around.

When Skrogit first promoted them to lieutenants, there was question on whether or not they would perform well enough. Soon, however, they had proven to be a highly effective team. Skrogit ran his squadron like a sea captain ran a ship. He made sure that everyone had jobs that would effectively utilize their skills and personalities. There were several reasons why Skrogit promoted them to his seconds and gave them their own halves. Despite their shortcomings, they did have potential to become good leaders. They were ugly, they were mean, and, most importantly, they were completely willing to follow orders. It didn’t matter if Skrogit was marching them to their deaths, Kilg and Orak would believe that there was a good reason and still do what they were told. That was rare and he had two.

“Mayhap the captain knows,” Orak said.

“I never said I didn’t know,” Kilg snarled.

“Never said you did neither,” Orak pointed out.

“What you want to ask him for anyway? Don’t bother ‘im, dimwit. He probably don’t know anyway. Captain Murk ain’t gonna leave until he’s good and ready.”

“And Captain Murk is the sole voice of command, eh, Kilg?”

Kilg gulped as he realized that Skrogit was listening in, but he didn’t back down.

“He sure seems like it right now,” Kilg said. “Beggin’ yer pardon Captain, but yer not actin’ like yer a captain.”

Skrogit winced. “Be quiet, Kilg.”

Kilg shut his mouth, but he didn’t look too put out. Skrogit was hard, but he was fair. He wouldn’t reprimand Kilg for telling the truth.

Skrogit sighed. The truth it was. He was letting Murk run the show. And why? Because he was afraid of losing his position. Skrogit didn’t want to, but he also didn’t want to look a coward in front of his men. Now it was only a matter of which was more important. His captaincy or his honor? He sighed.

“Kilg,” he said. Surprised, the Scrio snapped to attention.

“Yes, cap’n?” he asked.

“Grab five of your half and start scouting ahead,” Skrogit commanded.

“Aye, sir,” Kilg saluted. “Uh, what for, sir?”

Skrogit turned and glared at him. Kilg’s eyes widened and he saluted again.

“On my way, sir,” he said, marching off.

Skrogit grunted and then turned to Orak.

“Gather your half and begin preparations to move out,” Skrogit said.

Orak was not one to question orders, but he allowed himself one cursory glance at Murk before he marched off to do as he was bid. When he stood in the middle of the camp, however, Skrogit cursed himself for not telling him to be discreet.

“Scrios!” his big voice boomed out. “Get your gear together!”

Those under his command immediately jumped to attention, but even those who weren’t stumbled quickly to their feet. When they realized who was speaking, they relaxed somewhat, but were a little confused.

“What’s going on here!” came a growl from behind Orak.

He turned to look at Murk who stood and waddled over, his bulk allowing nothing more, until he was toe to toe with the towering Scrio. His position made him bold.

“By whose authority do you summon your half?” Murk asked, the eloquent words sounding broken with his rough speech. Before Orak could answer, though, Murk said, “You can stand them down. No one is leaving yet.”

Orak didn’t move or talk.

“Did you not hear me?” Murk asked him with a snarl.

“I can’t, sir,” Orak said.

“Can’t? I am your commanding officer and I say you can!” Murk yelled.

Skrogit had to give Orak props for facing down an officer. He made a mental note to do something for the Scrio the next opportunity he got. He approached them and laid a hand on his lieutenant’s arm.

“It’s alright, Orak. Go and do as you were told,” he said quietly.

Orak nodded and allowed Skrogit to take up his position in front of Murk before leaving to rally his men.

“What are you doing, Skrogs?” Murk laughed, using the hated short name.

“Every minute we spend here, the prisoner is surer and surer to get away,” Skrogit said.

“Says who?” the Scrio sneered. “She can’t have made it that far, and a few hours rest helps, not hinders.”

“No, a few minutes rest does not hinder. We were slowed down in the towns, looking for a guide where none was to be found. We were sent out a half a day after the prisoner escaped because of your lagging in readying your men, and now we have lost another few hours because of your fancy for comfort!” Skrogit’s voice had grown steadily louder as the words tumbled out and now he was shouting, spittle flying in the face of the Scrio in front of him.

Murk did not seem perturbed, however. He wiped a trail of clear liquid from his brow and glowered at Skrogit.

“What are you doing?” he asked again, but to Skrogit’s surprise, it carried a note of worry. “Trust me, Skrogs, you don’t want to go any further with this.”

“No, you trust me,” Skrogit hissed under his breath. “I will not stand aside and see failure happen when I could have stopped it. You may be called captain, but you are not fit for the position!” Again, there was a flash of worry, this time in his eyes. Skrogit, pressed on. “I would challenge you, Murk, to combat if it would not make us lose time, but if that is what you wish…”

He put a hand on the hilt of his sword and fiddled with it. Murk held his gaze for a long minute, but all the bluster and boldness was gone. He stared back with a mixture of shock and fear in his eyes. Finally, he looked away.

Skrogit smiled grimly. He fought to keep more humiliating words down, instead simply saying, “Ready your men.”

Something flashed in the Scrio captain’s eyes before he turned and began yelling orders. The look startled Skrogit yet again, but this time, the look had been pure hatred. Murk would not forget that easily what Skrogit had done to him, in front of his men no less. As much as Skrogit felt good for standing up to the Scrio, he knew that sooner or later, Murk would seek his revenge.