At the flick of a match, there was light then smoke. An amber hue merged with the sun’s as its ember was held beneath a cigarette that caught alight and slowly burned. He tossed his matchstick onto the ground that was stamped out with his boot. Inhaling a breath infused with herbs and tobacco, the smoke’s end was reduced to ash. A huff of a gray cloud was dispersed in a second when the wind strengthened, shaving through the encampment on the summit of the hill. All that weighed his mind was exhumed out of his head, pushed out by an addictive scent. Around him, men beneath his rank toiled without rest in a sudden rush to depart. As he oversaw them, though it was not his duty to, two stood beside him wordlessly having heard his side of the story that was his distress only an hour ago.
Taking in another soak, his arms crossed over his belt as he tapped his smoke free of crumbling ash. “Ya sav’d our arses, gen’ral.” Ashamed that he was able to show any gratitude, the lieutenant held his head down and mentioned again. “Truly, thanks.” said he, scratching his sideburns.
“No need for thanks.” Warneńczyk dismissed, waving his hand.
Glad that his troubles had been buried, the lieutenant sighed at ease, taking in another breath of smoke that was sure to clear any lingering thoughts on the matter.
The old general turned his head when he remembered something out of the silence. “Skowroński, was it?” Warneńczyk recalled from his introduction just minutes ago. “Lecher?” He assumed his heritage from his name.
Bringing away his smoke, Adam tried to contain the excessive fumes in his lungs but it only forced a cough out of him through his nose. Unsure why the general would ask and what advantage it would bring him, he nodded, however, without any certain memories of his homeland. For as long as he could remember were the sprawling hills of Anglen.
“Whoever you were with, I’m transferring you into my staff.” Warneńczyk announced without his prior knowledge, warning or officiation.
Adam dropped his cigarette on hearing of his break from misfortune. It was the second instance that had him shocked with vigor in his limbs, as if he had been injected with a drug that awoken him from his march across half a continent. His heart could take no more a third surprise but no less could an aide beside them ignore his general’s unplanned words. Once reading his ledger, he whipped his head upward and stiffened his neck, given pause by what he had heard. With an expression asking for a reason, the colonel turned to the general wanting but he did not say anything against his will. Concerned by the lieutenant’s accent alone and worrying that his status of class would compromise his traditions, he wondered if it was his role and act which were unsatisfactory that caused the transfer. But all his baseless theories were far from reality.
The elder noticed his colonel’s stare and returned with a brief glance. “You and Florian will get along just fine.” Warneńczyk reinforced as a matter of order for his aide to heed.
Sensing that it was no joke, Florian turned away and faked a cough, covered by a hand as he watched troops not of his own further flatten the temporary skyline. A logistic corps joined the fray, tearing down tents and banners, rolling up its tarps before the nails that grounded them were plucked from the ground, before every part that made their moving city were tossed onto wagons. Equipment were chucked onto mobile armories and foods were returned into heaps of sacks. Horses were reined in, hitched onto harnesses, as the wooden wheels of a convoy slowly rolled away.
To distract himself from assuming too much, Florian checked his ledger again and advised, “I think it’s about time we make our final preparations, general.” The colonel searched for the lieutenant who had disappeared from his view and found him pacing about, lighting another cigarette. “The colonel general gave them six hours I heard.” Returning to Warneńczyk, he repeated his junior officer’s words.
Clicking his tongue, the general waved to send them away, pulling a sarcastic face, “That man has always been generous—”
“Grandpa!” A youthful voice called for him out of the shallows of sergeants’ shouts.
Toward a quietly approaching boy whose every step only sounded with the soft crunch of grass, the attention of the general had given up of duty. An archer, his archer, clumsily avoided the movement of crates and the swarming currents of bodies by tripping over his own feet, he somehow managed to stay on course, alternating between bursts of sprints and skips with a spring in his step. The thick tome-like ledger slammed shut and the slums of dust gathered in each pages’ gap was rid of. The colonel snapped his fingers, startling the lieutenant, and gestured for him to follow away to be introduced to his new duties. But moreover, he thought it was right to give way for a proper family reunion. Equipped with the rattle of a quiver and the shine of a bow, the boy leapt over the junk scattered on the field into the open arms of the general he called his grandfather.
Great happiness washed over the elderly man’s face, his rare smile surfacing as he called, “Károly,” Warneńczyk received his hug and greeted after they had been separated by two years of campaigns, “Are you well?”
Károly gave a firm nod and as always, he was better than well. The child did not want to be released but his stubbornness had embarrassed his grandfather. Troops began to idle and notice, catching glimpses of the great general stumped by his soft heart but more so it did no good to his reputation in the eyes of those who had yet to reunite with their own kin.
Warneńczyk patted his grandson’s back and asked, believing that he would shy away from answering, “Have you gone wandering off mid-battle again?”
Looking up in annoyance, the archer withdrew himself. “He wouldn’t let me.” Károly whined.
But out of bitterness, he turned his face away, knowing that even the battle was lost, he could have fought alongside the brave. And he did nothing. Relinquishing any joy on remembering his guilt, his hands tensed and were drawn into fists. Yet, the general was proud enough for his own grandchild that he did not seem to mind how these two years had treated Károly fairly, unlike the men whose half-dead bodies were withering away.
Rubbing Károly’s head, Warneńczyk chuckled, “That’s good to hear.” It brought some light to his inaction but it never sat right in the boy’s eyes.
Ashamed, no words could change his heart, but his naivety could only extend so far. In time, he made peace with himself as his grandfather had taught him to.
His arms slacked and he stepped back. “By the way,” Károly distracted himself with his purpose in being summoned by the general, “I brought them like you asked.”
The boy swiveled around and the general lifted his head to find a lancer, the first of his band, leading a squad out of the maze of the encampment. Appearing out of a corner, he was unsure where the archer had went, but his comrade, a taller soldier, peered past the interweaving troops, demoralized lines of Nikola’s men, and managed to find their archer trying to keep up his smile. Seeing that they had finally caught up, Károly waved at them, raising himself on his toes if they did not catch sight of his small stature. But it was beside him, the old man who gave them respite from the maddened general, that they had been summoned by. However fatigued, the squad did not wish to keep their savior waiting and hurried across the square. Their rucksacks, which did not seem so heavy before, dragged their bodies down despite their attempt to quicken their pace. No matter how unbroken their spirits were, their legs had grown sluggish. Even at a slow jog, their limbs ached, holding tightly onto the hilt of their swords as if it gave them the encouragement to make the short trek. Their faces were still muddied and bloodied, desirous of a hot wash and a warm bed, things that they had not felt in years. Approaching the general, they righted themselves and wiped the weariness from their faces before coming into the presence of the archer. His eyes gleamed with respect for the squad who did what he could not, but their focus were not laid upon him. Together, the six soldiers and lancers stood to attention, clicked their heels, and saluted to the same tempo.22Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡetQl6BnGu1
