A silver white badge of an eagle pinned to his red beret, slouched to one side, shone above a brow, often perched above his gray, whitening hair, with few strands showing out of its rim. In his late sixties, the elder’s wrinkles were still few and though he would mention that he had no care for the upkeep of his appearance, his mustache was combed and styled into the shape of a brush along the length of his upper lip. His demeanor was always straight and neutral, with a minute deviation between a light grin and a slight frown, never telling of total animosity or kindness. In his walk, the man was proud, with his spine upright unlike many of his age, needing no other support except his own two legs. It was clear that he could have been taller in his youth, but despite the years having worn him down, he was as tall as the Apollo. Proper in modern uniform, formal with a plain white shirt and a tie beneath a jacket with sleeves rolled up, he was telling that he worried not deploying himself on the field. The colors around the knees of his trousers had faded, and ironed, its length covered half of his brown shined boots. Cracked, the leather of his belt was like the skin around his eyes, drying with time. He drew down the blinds of his eyelid from the blasting sun which he could take no more heat from for the embers of his iris had long since faded.
Greeted by sweat on his arrival, the old man brought out a handkerchief and wiped his brows and the bridge of his nose. On the corner of his eyes, he caught Nikola lowering his head in utter embarrassment. But Warneńczyk ignored him, instead focusing on the squad who had been apprehended, locked under the tight grip of guards. However, his presence seemed to worry even the elites and they loosened their hold. Finding a breakthrough, one by one, the soldiers of youth broke out of captivity, yanking their arms out of the hands of their captors. They flexed their shoulders and wrists, which having been bent for so long, had lost their senses. Kept at a kneel, Julien looked up relieved, not fighting the guard behind who had both detained and freed him in time with patience. But his pain was soon forgotten by a peculiar sight. The old man loomed over him, clearly judging. It was odd at first but the boy soon realized what it was that had captured his attention. He lowered his head and saw his penchant there, dangling out of his collar with its sapphire glow undying. Warneńczyk was captivated by its otherworldly beauty or it was his curiosity for the object that gave him the knowing needed to be known.
Pivoting, he turned away and faced his Bohemer counterpart. “A word, Adrien?” Speaking to him like a teacher to his student, Warneńczyk led the way.
Nikola followed on closely behind, hurrying himself to match the elder’s pace, away from his makeshift court. The crowd was quickly disbanded by both generals’ aides, and the squad stood up, finally at peace. They were spoken to by a colonel, replying with shakes and nods of heads, answers with a few words at most. Their voices were overlapped however by the chatter of soldiers returning to their duties, for the second and last time they had hoped without additional disturbances anymore. That was except the archer who stayed and listened to the squad’s whole account of their reason and consequences.
“I did not expect you here.” said Nikola.
“Neither did I.” Warneńczyk asserted when he halted suddenly and spun around. “But the commander of the entente has something for you.” With a hand in his jacket, he searched for something in his pocket.
Revealed from his chest, a letter was signed and sealed with wax by an intricate stamp that was near impossible to replicate. But one glance of the sigil was enough to know for Nikola to take it from Warneńczyk’s hands without another question. The seal was snapped in one swift motion and the writing within was unfolded and read, its lines carefully written on each crease that was easier for their aging eyes. Stood on an empty path, one watched the other’s contemplation. The earth, hardly used, was still intact beneath them, piled with wagons and felled tents. A skyline was formed not of helmets and rifles but the pillars of smoke from fires closeby. The scent of burning corpses was pungent, but they both had long become familiar and unconcerned by the smell for decades they had smelt the same. Although, in his decades of service, not once did Nikola ever receive such a letter.
Somewhat in disbelief, he had to repeat aloud, “Line Two-Five-Nine?” The general looked up with his brows pushed against his bridge. “Surely, there is no need.” Nikola asked for Warneńczyk’s input, but there was something telling that he had known about the letter before its seal was broke.
Bringing his hands up to his belt, the old man shrugged, pretending to be oblivious to the order. “She’s the greatest fortress on the continent, perhaps the world.” Warneńczyk stated before Nikola unconvinced, “It may be true that she has no need for a master.”
He lent out a hand and Nikola returned the letter, wanting to forget he had ever seen it. Warneńczyk held it up before himself and wore a pair of reading glasses, scrolling his eyes down the page, he read in detail of what had been ordered of his ally to the exact word.
The elder pinched the temple of his glasses and continued, removing his reading aids, “However, be that as it may,” Folding up the letter, he withdrew it into his jacket once more. “Commands should not be disregarded as you are very well aware of.” Warneńczyk reminded.
From confusion to understanding, the wrinkles on Nikola’s face submerged and he settled his heart to that of a resting pace. Accepting the reality that his own fate had already been set.
Beyond the presence of his own men, he spoke blatantly, “Do they wish to rid of me?”
A nod from his ally seemed sympathetic. “Unfortunately for you, yes.” Warneńczyk replied straightforwardly.
Over Nikola’s shoulders, the older general peered, staring in thought as he wondered why it was that he chose to save the squad who received the expressions of hate and praise by those passing by, dismissed. The sun glazed the terrain with an arid warmth and the haze of heat could not seem to make him decide any faster. Taking off his beret, the stink of steamed sweat accumulated beneath it was blown away by a gust. When he felt a chill rest atop his head, an idea came to him.
Hesitating no more, Warneńczyk chose to take the gamble and made up his mind. “As such, I will be commandeering the lot you think ought to die.” The general said as if he had not taken a long pause.
But it was to the puzzlement of Nikola who looked over his shoulder at the free then turned again to Warneńczyk who did not sound nor appear to be telling a joke. “What good is a band of scoundrels?” Nikola chuckled anxiously, voicing his wonder.
Warneńczyk returned a glare, seeming not entertained by his counterpart’s easiness. The grin was wiped from the general’s face yet the elder did not reply. Neither did he wish to reply. Instead, silence was relied upon. Rallied away from waiting for a response, the Bohemer noticed a foreign noise apart from nature’s ambience. Nikola searched for the familiar blend of sounds which were not of his own, neither could it be from the Confederates for they were too far to produce such commotion. The clamor of troops felt close and a wave of air washed by with each chant. The heavens felt every jab thrusted by spears, pikes, pitchforks, and swords, enhanced by a great war horn’s bellow. The drums of an army beat, disturbing the essence of a ceasefire and the pulses of nature. Warneńczyk heard it too when it grew louder and before long, the atmosphere was an army’s land.
The old general’s eyes bore up and asked, “Do you hear, Adrien?” Warneńczyk pointed towards the sky and noted, “That is the sound of an army.” His head tipped down, facing his ally, when a smirk was due but he did not show it.
Both turned, looking past the tarps of the camp and the skeletons of tents rattling, toward the cries of spirited men.
“Tenfold greater than whatever’s been shat here.” Warneńczyk derided with words to remember their meet by. “Not some noble brat who can’t discern the difference between victory and defeat.” However calmly spoken, he paved a way over his manners for truth to be unleashed.
Warneńczyk marched, passing Nikola without a salute or a bid of farewell. Sure that it was the last he would see of him, the elder spotted an archer coming by their way. Rejuvenating an inner peace in the general, so heated by the exchange, he spoke some words that Nikola did not hear. He patted the boy’s head as he hurried himself toward some place else where he would not breathe the same air of the despicable. The archer saw, before he turned away himself, the Bohemer general stilled with his back against him, not knowing that he was being judged by a mere boy too. But after suffering from a gashing wound salted with truth that he had ignored and let it fester with infection, his mind had turned to stone. Stayed like a statue, his feet was bound to the earth where unto he was doomed to return.
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