Woodwinds tootled with light, breathy tunes, thinly coating the soldiers’ spirits who reposed. Marching down a single road through a soft valley, between vast, flat ridges on either flank, there was a river half dry. On both banks, its bed of pebbles and loose sand had been revealed, where columns pushed on, hauling a floating convoy of supplies tied to rafts downstream. They were piloted by men whose legs were born for the sea, stumbling from the battling currents but never falling overboard. Their comrades kept to pace by the soft currents that dragged their needed weight, though the sound of trickling water just paces away, brushing at the shore and sparkling from the sun’s glare, made it seem rather drinkable, luring whoever whose minds were caught by thirst. Their commanders had to keep them in check despite that they themselves desired for the river’s embracing touch too. The thought that water had become a luxury, yet it was streaming beside them, bred madness. Kneading their nails into their palms, they fought a battle a thousand fold worse than one against their enemy. It did not help that the heat did not abate. For as long as they had marched, in constant retreat, in flight from a foe becoming their predator, sweat dripped from their lashes and their clothes were taped to skin. When some began to cave, surrendering to the weather that they had never experienced before, a shadow breezed overhead. The gallant wind broke through the frontlines of the heatwave with a charge that saved the troops from exhaustion. Hairs on their arms stood and their backs straightened up, revitalized by the gracious heavens they thanked.
To himself, however, superstitious, Warneńczyk read the skies as an omen. Swaying side to side on horseback, a white mount with a silver mane, on a flatter path lining the levee, both rider and the riden looked behind to where the wind came. The clouds had arrived and the sky was overcast a hundred leagues away. Like foam from waves, it submerged the land of fire with showers and doused the sun that began to disappear. In silence, for him to think in peace, Florian noticed his general in thought. Warneńczyk turned ahead and gave a gentle kick on his horse, advancing ahead. Perhaps he sought to scout out the land for his own knowing, or simply desired to escape the safety of his guards to be solitude. But the chief of his elites would not allow it. Unconcerned by the suddenness, he trotted behind him and his hussars filed out. With wings on their backs, reaching high as it cut through the air, half a squadron rode to accompany their general.
An opportunity had arisen for the lieutenant to speak freely and he did not waste his time in expelling his doubts that he had harbored ever since his first battle, “We’ve been marchin’ for eight days now.” Having not riden ever before the march, Adam adjusted himself on his saddle. “Surely that bastard’s given up.” Optimistically, he suspected.
“You underestimate Vasilevsky.” Florian tightened the reins around his hand and said. “He wouldn’t have given chase unless he knew we were easy prey.” Belittling his own army, though it was with a deeper reason, he sounded to be mocking his enemy for their shallow capacity.
Recoiling, Adam pulled a face, frowning in confusion as he turned to his side. The baggages were many and priceless books heavy, harnessed around the saddle, his commander’s mount was greatly larger than his. He noticed the unchanged expression of the colonel, his wine red eyes narrowed from the dust in the air. Combed back, his hair was dark, but for someone who did not see the battlefield nor toil in the sun often, his skin was olive-toned like the lieutenant’s. Having the build of an administration officer, lean but sensible given his height, taller than Adam by an inch at least, the blood and nature of the man of twenty-eight years, Florian, was by birth, aristocratic. Yet, the attributes that created him had faded, eroded away by years spent beside commoners under and above him. In informal uniform, easy and belonging to the field, his past condescending self would have laughed at him then, at a soul that had become understanding. Except for one, he still held his reservations for.
“Us? Easy?” Adam yelled aloud, untroubled about disturbing the order.
The colonel sighed and affirmed, “In some aspects, yes.” Before the lieutenant would misinterpret him, Florian turned his head slightly. “But we rely on this fact for our victories.” Speaking with the general’s voice, his eyes were pinned to the ground.
For a while, Adam tried to decipher its meaning, but for however long he wondered, he could not grasp his words. Unconvinced, the lieutenant rubbed his head for his mind to work, certain that he could break the code if he had the time, when he felt an unexpected pat on his shoulder.
Retracting his arm, the colonel humbled him, confident that he will come to understand it eventually. “Trust in the general, all will be well.” Florian convinced the lieutenant to judge for himself.
The march advanced as for days they have been. Banners ahead were halted without visible nor audio command. But the loyal hussars stayed unquestioning, maintaining their discipline in their columns, as other troops broke formation. Curious about the hold up, the lieutenant and colonel clicked their tongues and ordered their mounts to walk on, like the few among officers, breaking out of their posts to rally themselves around the vanguard of the army. Ahead, a hand was raised in the air, lowered as his subordinates neared and when he heard a gallop. From behind, rushing past was a horseman, carrying the seal of a messenger which he held high. With the banner of the Lecher kingdom worn on his back, he was granted permission to near the general, but his haste had little want for formalities. As he approached his target at a daring speed, he reeled in his reins abruptly, abusing his mount to be forced to come to a halt. His horse skidded, breaking into the gravel that nearly dislodged its shoes. But before steadying himself and his creature unsettled, news had to be delivered.
“The king has fled, Warsau has fallen,” Unnerved, the messenger delivered, his chin wet with sweat. “They give chase ninety leagues east from here, over three hundred thousand we estimate.” Without a break in his voice, he informed.
Officers muttered, some being quickly dispatched to rejoin their cohorts. The messenger was promptly dismissed, nodding and saluting, before lashing his reins as quickly as he pulled on it, and gave a desperate kick to his mount. Speeding off, down the road and into the distance, to repeat the news no doubt, the hussars watched his figure rapidly shrink and disappear from their view. The news that spread from eavesdroppers to their comrades may have set the thousands who soon knew about the tragedy into panic. But out of them, their commander was least concerned. Warneńczyk had known, years mayhaps decades ago, that the fall of his homeland was nigh. Ever since the king was elected. Ever since the Second Calamity was ended. They were doomed by fate. His mind was already elsewhere, set someplace else.
The rafts of his army’s supplies were piled ashore with his men taking the opportunity to wash themselves in the river. Currents flowed and merged at a confluence which a village, an abode of mere dozens of countryfolk, commanded. Another waterway joined the river that they had followed, flowing down from the northern hills, toward where he gazed at the plains rising softly and sloping into a forest. To his left, a slight ridge overlooking the settlement and his army was raised. Everywhere he looked and everywhere he saw, the land was empty-appearing. But the winds of the valley spoke to him, a sign convincing him that the earth beneath him and the woodlands and fields around him were sufficient for his plan.
“This is as good a place as any.” He told, nodding, with a lieutenant and a colonel flanking him.
His men trusted him and his senses which they found to be astute. Although it seemed to be a sudden order, comrades of old could tell it was otherwise but chose not to. Signaling to make camp, the general’s brigadiers hurried to command, breaking their troops out of formation to begin the tedious work of construction. The villagers of the settlement opened the blinds of their windows and emerged from their homes. Seeing the reds and whites of Lechen, and importantly, the colors of Warneńczyk, they scuttled in search for their elder. Children stood in awe at the size of the army as their grandparents’ eyes were lit with a burning spirit that had seen no fire in decades. Just the face of the man and his banners moved them to tears that the young had no explanation for. The chief had not been summoned yet, but the son of the village elder took his post to greet their guest. Sprinting past a rustic gate, lacking the breath to do so, he drew the attention of the winged hussars who sought to halt him. But Warneńczyk held up a hand and they withdrew their lances. Standing, the young man pledged his and his people’s loyalty first with a hand over his heart. It was unneeded, but on behalf of his father, he knew what he should do. He knelt and received the general as if the man was their lord. Issuing for him to rise immediately, Warneńczyk chuckled and joked, pretending that he knew not why a good citizen would kneel before him, yet the gesture was done. The lieutenant learnt all that he needed to know that commanded his respect for this general, Warneńczyk.6Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡilPJ4prPJa
