Young Writers Society

How had it come to this?

He had been shown the respect of being allowed to remain in his tent, rather than a cell, but little else The fact that most of the prison wagons were packed with prisoners of war had seemingly escaped the attention of the lieutenant who had shown him to his quarters. More likely, Larrel thought darkly, the lieutenant expected some kind of generosity for his fabrication.

Through the cloth of the tent, Larrel could hear the muffled conversation of two of Captain Serith’s halberdiers. To be guarded in such a manner was insulting to Larrel on several levels. To be branded a traitor for grasping victory from the jaws of defeat pierced him to the core. And yet for all of his anger, he could not help but wonder; had he made the right decision? On the field of battle, his actions were satisfactory, even laudable; but Kano had been right, the Darrodin warriors held incalculable value off the field. A generation of aristocrats, scholars and battlefield commanders had been wiped out to ensure victory in what was little more than a single skirmish in a simmering conflict.

Larrel tried to reconcile these two notions, these two values with which the Nethrezim were associated, but could not. His own warriors were inferior to the Darrodin only in that they were human. They were less trained, but only in terms of the length of their training, as they drilled far harder than the aristocrats ever had. Why should he have sacrificed his own company on the slight chance that a handful of the Darrodin might have been saved?

The thoughts tore him apart long into the night. He sat before the fire burning in the centre of his tent, leafing through copies of battlefield reports General Caspar had seen fit to have copied for him. A Diviner on Caspar’s own staff had attempted to scry Larrel’s adversary after the battle with catastrophic results. Larrel hunched over the worn parchment, written in the chief physician’s hand.

Patient exhibits total loss of sensory perception. Attempts to communicate on any level have failed. A Crimson substance appears to be excreted from the eyelids, which have sealed shut. Patient wakes periodically, screaming arcane phrases. Dosed with antimagic cocktail of Lyiana root and essence of iron to ensure no accidental magic ensues. Will postpone further treatment until archmagi consultation.

Such a severe ward daunted Larrel. He had little more than a theoretical grasp of magic, as he had abandoned the academy as soon as he had been pronounced fit to lead his troops, but the report dragged him from his self-cleaving stupor. Wards generally hazed divinations, made them indistinct and ambiguous. Stronger mages could block weaker divinations entirely, leaving the diviner blind magically. Larrel had once seen a mage react visibly with shock at the strength of another’s wards, but something as severe as had been described by the physician was...terrifying. And yet despite his horror, Larrel felt his curiosity piqued.

On the field he had noted that the adversary had seemed out of place amongst the horseman. His command to his own troops to lure Larrel’s company into a trap had been completely unprecedented in an army that had possessed no previous strategy. His arcane might too was peerless in the enemy forces, whose shaman were a pathetic satire of a true mage. To Larrel, this enigma became analogous with his current imprisonment. If he could unravel one mystery, perhaps he could find the answers he sought for the other.

One of Serith’s men called a hail into the darkness. The response was muffled to Larrel’s ears by distance. He cleared away the reports from his desk and stood, stretching tired muscles as he did so. Rather than walk to greet his visitor, whoever it might be, Larrel walked to the fire in the centre of his tent and warmed his hands.

Balian shouldered through the tent flap, followed after a moment by Matthias, who was swearing at one of the guards as he entered.

“...he isn’t too ill to see us you silly git.”

Larrel looked up, feigning surprise at Balian’s entry. “I am sick? I am shocked that no-one deigned tell me of this.”

Balian stared blankly at Larrel, and frowned as he replied, “it is as I feared. It is a rumour amongst the lesser officers that you took an injury in battle, that leaves you bedridden and unavailable for the celebrations.”

“Surely such celebrations are long since over Balian? And besides, I am more than content to mull over these reports and find where I am supposed to have made such a grievous error.”He turned from them and gestured to the desk as he spoke.

Matthias cut through Larrel’s charade. “You fool! They know they cannot touch you here, in the heart of an army that holds you as a champion. They take you prisoner, paint you a patient and plan your assassination on the road back to the citadel.”

Balian looked scandalised, and hushed Larrel’s bear-like lieutenant. When Matthias had quieted himself, Balian turned back to Larrel, seemingly to continue the same point. “He is right Larrel. If you are seen to die of illness on the rout home, they can paint you an incompetent once we return. The men’s memories of your prowess will dwindle without an icon to rally to.”

“Rally to my prowess? Are you mad Balian? I was all but bested in single combat before leading an ill-fated charge that had the nobility of a generation slaughtered!”

Matthias grunted at the self-deprecation he heard in his Captain’s voice. Balian shrugged and sighed, taking his eyes from Larrel and glancing around the room as he spoke. “The nobles at home will see Kano’s charges carried to the finish, many have lost first-born’s today, and Kano will make them see it as your fault, regardless of the reality.”

“Then I will return home and face the charges, and if necessary, the punishment.”

“They will execute you Larrel!” shouted Matthias. “I was not raised on my mumma’s knee to see my commanding officer killed for saving my neck and the necks of my men!”

“Be silent lieutenant,” ordered Balian, eyeing the suspiciously queiet entrance to the tent, where Serith’s guards were on duty. “Larrel, your family name does not carry the weight to weather this storm. The best you can hope for is exile. At worst, you will not survive the trip home.”

“What do you suggest?” If he was to be assassinated, Larrel had no intention of going down without a fight.

“For a start I’ll have Serith’s men removed from your door, and a few of mine put in their place. Matthias,” Balian indicated the voiceless lieutenant, “will try to strangle the rumour that you are injured, and set your men about the same task.”

“And I?”

“You will sit tight and sleep with a blade beneath your pillow.” Mock-ordered Matthias. Balian and LArrel both ignored his insubordination.

“You will remain in safety, until I can assure your safety. I think we might be able to win over Domer, and perhaps with his aid, sway Caspar. We might be able to do some damage control.”

Balian turned to leave. Reluctantly Matthias turned to go. At the door to the tent he turned and looked back to his liege. “Jordis is dead.”

“Had he a letter?”

“Aye, and it’s been set to the family. He told me once that he had a younger not enrolled in our barracks. Might be worth looking up if this is all blows over”.

“I’ll see that it’s done,” promised Larrel. “And Balian?”

The Darrodin lord poked his head back through the tent flap, “yes Larrel?”

“Organise for the chief physician to visit me tomorrow. I would question him on one of his reports.”

Balian gave a swift nod and left. Matthias followed him.

Larrel slumped back into the chair at his desk, mulling over the scrolls.