Chapter Twenty point 1 of The Lost Legend - The Seventh Blade

20.1

As the twilight I'll never see

Let fire burn inside of me

For in cold uncertainty

Was not where I wanted to be

What more is there left to me

A warrior in dark livery

A sword in the armory

A fire consuming a dying tree

   Jaden smiled tiredly, looking down at the tiny, half-burnt slip of paper he had moments ago picked up off of the muddy campground. He couldn't remember the last time he'd read a poem. It had been years, for sure. Not since he'd last had a few hours in the Royal Library back in Itun.

     Home, he sighed to himself, the soft drizzle of cold, persistent rain stinging his skin. Would he ever see his palace again. His family. Would this war drag out for another century, burning the land low once more? You could have stayed.

    He shook his head, no, he couldn't have stayed. He owed Arlon, even if he was only now a memory, more than that. The Tera Tenaru had fought so hard to earn what they had. So many had died over the centuries since they'd first found themselves, untrained youths, standing on this very soil.

    Of all of them, Arlon had fought the hardest. Arlon has lost the most. And in the end, Arlon had faced the bitterest demise of them all. I'm sorry old friend, Jaden whispered, slipping the piece of paper with the poem on it into a flap of his uniform.

   He straightened up and gazed tiredly about the plain where he and his men, their numbers augmented by what was left of Averone's troops, had set up camp.

    The once beautiful mat of golden grass which had covered the area had now been ground into the mud by marching boots, cut down and used for fires, or taken away as padding for the soldiers rest. He picked up a blade that still lay there, unharmed in the dark shadow of a tent.

    “Sir!”

    Slowly he glanced behind, his armor creaking weakly. One of his officers was marching up to him from the direction of the command tent that Jaden had just left. He wore a flowing red and gold cloak, red and gold painted armor and a long, wide strap of cloth across his chest which marked him as a Captain of the Information Core.

    “Reports are in sir!” the man saluted stiffly, his scarred face dripping with the cold rain. He continued without being prompted to do so.” Position: Thirty-seven miles due south of Eukron Forest. Health: 87 dead, 1,213 wounded, 38,271 still in fighting shape. Scouts report no enemy activity in the area.”

    Jaden nodded solemnly, Jacob's fort had been small, outnumbered, and outmatched. They'd fallen easily, and he was not surprised at the low casualties.” What of the other armies?” he asked softly, referring to the other twelve armies he had positioned in the area, all less than a thousand miles away: all under specific orders to keep him posted on everything.

    “Lord Tur: Some 2,000 Halavarde Regular's camped nearby,” the officer replied briskly,” nothing of note from Lord's Ianer, Cobalt, or Kevo.”

   Jaden nodded, nothing could be expected from the other, farther way generals for a few hours yet.” Go. Get yourself a drink. You've done well,” he ordered.

    The man bowed stiffly and trotted away, heading for the nearby pavilion where all of the army's officers were indulging themselves in honor of their leader's most recent victory.

    A victory that only made Jaden feel empty.

   After his initial fury at Jacob had passed, he had only felt a cold, calculated desire for revenge. A revenge that he had satisfied; killing, practically by himself, every inhabitant of the fort.

    He shook the screaming memories from his mind. He'd killed before. He'd done things he regretted. He'd alienated friends. He'd butchered innocents . . . There was no need to feel regret now. Jacob had gotten what he'd asked for, and he'd known it.

    He mentally kicked himself for his regret, and looked around at the dusty gray tents that disappeared into the rain on either side, spreading away. Thousands upon thousands of them, all aligned in perfect rows.

   Most people would have found it odd for a King to wander about in the rain, late in an overcast day, with no guards, no lavish clothing and armor, no slathering courtiers, no obedient servants, and none of the other things that every other king required.

    But Jaden hadn't become and stayed King of Arreland for as long as he had for no reason. He believed that a King should serve the people, he should be able to look them in the eye and tell them that he'd felt their pain before. As of such, he made it a habit to make sure he felt the discomforts, pains, and worries of his soldiers. They loved him for it. They cared about him for it, and there was no campfire burning that night at which he would not be welcomed.

    But he didn't want to be with anyone right at the moment.

    His goal had been simple: Defeat the Halavardes, save Netheron, and then retire in peace back to Itun – and his family. But inside he only felt bitterness at how everything was going. Yes: His men were holding the Halavardes honorably. But after six weeks of battle and mayhem, they had gotten nowhere. If anything they'd been beaten back a bit.

   His most recent victory – no, butchery – had, no doubt, decisively turned his oldest friend against him for good. Jhanzil. He sighed at the thought of his brother, one of the few remaining members of the Tera Tenaru who still lived that he trusted.

    He had not seen the mysterious King of the Azquels in years. Last time they had met they had not parted on good terms. A month ago, the day Dracon had kicked him from his own home, he had sent a messenger to his brother, asking for assistance in his quest for Netheron. There had been no reply. Not yet.