Water boiled without signs of fire but the soft glow of eifer with another hand pouring a generous sum of ground coffee into a press. The general’s words incurred expressionless reactions from the squad but their breaths were heavy. Preparing their hearts and minds to face their nemesis again, they knew that it was an inevitability. The enemy’s capabilities were well known to those who had met him by misfortune and fate.
But reading their faces, whose underlying fear hid beneath their skin, the man realized that they were knowledgeable of their true purpose there, under the unassuming tent of the headquarters. “Although, I reckon, we could skip the fillers.” Warneńczyk glanced at each, trying to steel their resolve. “Speak freely.” To release their thoughts that he thought was best to hear out, he granted them permission.
Unsure of who would take up the mantle that time, the squad adhered to their former instincts and found their chosen speaker among themselves, the only one they believed was suited for the role and who they trusted most as their de facto leader.
“If we were needed on the frontlines or the reserves, we would have known by now.” Arminius deduced what his comrades understood similarly. “What are our orders?’ Not a step ahead of his comrades, he remained beside them as he asked on their behalf.
Chuckling, Warneńczyk smirked in surprise. “You lot a quick to catch on.” Lifting his head, he complimented them out of his own underestimation of the squad.
The figure in his hand, which he would occasionally stare at, was a piece of intricate woodwork like those guarding his map. It held the resemblance of a simple foot soldier, weathered as one living would be, by nicks and cuts. Still, its coat was spritely new from polish. Reaching out, he placed the figure on the map where he intended for it to stand with adversaries glaring at the troop who had joined. Cavalry, cannons, generals, and sappers, even both kings stayed their eyes on this particular piece. As it slowly moved forward, its wielder stretching his arm to its limit, water poured and steam dispensed behind him. The scent of coffee was fragrant, perfuming the tent where air rushed inward to trap the warmth and the aroma.
Halting his piece across a river, deep in enemy territory, the general adjusted his troops, facing each of their opponents like toys in a wargame. “Opportunity is a ripening fruit.” Warneńczyk conveyed in a manner that they all understood and were taught, “We must choose when to harvest it.”
Cautious footsteps approached from behind, and the mug, held by its eared handle, was set on the map, carefully. The general tipped his head in thanks and Florian retreated, once again, at ease beside him. Hot, the coffee swished as Warneńczyk raised it to his nose. Enjoying the calming qualities of its scent firstly, he then took a sip. The bitterness and sweetness was well-balanced, reinvigorating him for his duties to come from dusk till dawn.
Covering a marked spot on the map, Warneńczyk set his mug and continued, “Too early, it is bitter. Tasteless.” He held out his two hands, like weighing scales, and set one higher than the other when he added, “Too late, it rots. The fruit is lost.” As if wanting his lancers to decide on either choice, he observed the squad noting his words.
But either answer would have been wrong, neither was there ever a right answer. Leaning forward, he tucked in his chair and rested his hands on the edge of the table. The rain seemed to have ended and all that lingered was an evening drizzle. A light mist flowed in, though none paid it any heed as they had been engrossed by the general’s lecture.
His index finger pointed at the covered skies and the elder warned, “The lion has cunning.” His eyes portrayed seriousness whenever he spoke no lie. “We shouldn’t deny the possibility that he might attack before dawn.” Shaking his head, he told the squad to mind in preparation.
The cloak of shyness broke away from a lancer who stepped forward, considerate for his comrade who should not have burdened himself speaking to the general alone. “Then shouldn’t we reinforce the river?” Julien suggested, surprising even Arminius for his openness.
“A good strategy,” Warneńczyk commended but he gave no time for Julien to enjoy his praise. “If we had the numbers.” Quick to dismiss, he could not deny that it was a thoughtful maneuver otherwise.
The general sought to pick up his mug, which he lifted, but hesitated to. The lancers were eager to know of his plans, and his grandson held his breath hoping that he would tell. The grandfather pondered whether or not he should say. Staring into the swirls of blackness, it spoke to him with advice. He closed his eyes and paused his thoughts before realizing that his method of teaching was outdated like a revelation whispered into his ears.
Lowering his coffee, the elder brought his hands away from the map. “But I shan’t speak of it.” Warneńczyk denied their knowing, perhaps for the best. “Let your eyes be the judge.” said he, restoring his sight.
The chair creaked as he laid back and lifted his head to face the nine. They were clear with disappointment but had matured with understanding too. They did not expect a general of his status to spew everything he knew even if some had detected a touch of favoritism from him for them.
“If you find your worth in this battle, I promise you,” Warneńczyk vowed that he would not back down from. “Your positions in this army will be guaranteed.” For they would not leave empty-handed, he told them at least.
With his hands flat on the table, he pushed his chair back and stood. His soldiers braced up to attention, ready to salute, but they, oddly, were not the one who initiated the gesture. Slowly drawing his arm along his chest, the general performed the Aelon’s salute, as a show of unity, hope, and respect, for who reminded him of his youth. Just for a moment, the color of his iris returned, stunning the nine who had never known ever before if he possessed an eifer or not.
Shown by accident was the fire in his heart, the general lowered his head to shade it as if it was something to be ashamed for. “Your lieutenant will brief you on the morrow.” Warneńczyk issued their order at long last.
He released his salute and dismissed the squad who pivoted on their heels and filed out as they entered. The entrance of two tarps was flicked awide and they exited into the evening when the rain had completely stopped. The wind had grown soft and the light of the sunset burst through the clouds. A shine blasted onto their faces but the air was already cool, having forgotten that a summer day had lasted for near-eternity. Night chased Apollo into rest and Károly, the last who was to retreat, looked over his shoulder. But the general did not notice him. The archer turned and joined his squad, leaving his grandfather in needed contemplation. An orange light flickered and wavered through the flapping doorway. Lines of shadows were sharp and dense, cutting over the ink of the map. Eventually, the entryway settled, and only a single streak of the sun’s ray broke into the tent. Pinching the bridge of his nose, Warneńczyk mused, but his colonel was more perplexed.
Quieter, uncertain whether the squad could hear him, Florian voiced his concern, “General, I do not understand.” Drawing closer, his eyes were peeled on the entrance from where the noise of children filtered through. “Why place such trust?” For the few times in his career, he questioned his commander.
A laugh moved him away from the general combing his hair with his hand. He sat down as if it was no matter to him and that the colonel was simply unaware of the obvious.
“You jest, Jacek.” Calling him by his forename, it was a signal of pure and perfect truth. “It is not trust I place in them.” Warneńczyk denied his assumptions.
Sipping on his coffee which had since cooled to a mildly warm state, he set his mug down and tapped his finger on the table. Already at work, reflecting on his plans, the general scanned his map for more opportunities and ends. But Florian was clueless, still trapped in the unbreaking thought of why his general would entrust a task exceeding their ranks. To him, perhaps, it was because of his commander’s seemingly random preference for eight rogue soldiers, excluding his grandson, but this was not so.
Warneńczyk sensed that his colonel would not rest until he knew his reasons, and angled himself, turned half-way toward Florian and hinted, “Do the names Reichner or Carlstadt not strike?”
It was something so obvious that the colonel had ignored, yet surely, he thought, that was more likely a coincidence than a fact. Florian leaned back, half-satisfied by his answer, but the weight of knowing if what the general had said was true came another trouble. However, then, Warneńczyk was more than content. He had explained his actions and answered his subordinate’s questions. Unbothered, the figures on his map shifted again. As if his every movement had been calculated since eight days past.14Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡLrjlcNMEmq
