Collection Three, Dreams of Concord

Night

Stephen cursed loudly, “Verogne be damned! How in the One’s name do I lose four rounds in a row!?”

Jame laughed as he raked in the pot, he was up seven silvers. Almost the whole of the ten silvers the three had between them.

Stephen threw his hands up, “That’s it! I’m out!” 

He rose in a haste and turned to gaze off into the Night. Hunt and Jame both shared a glance. Hunt received the Dice and pocketed them, he walked to Stephan’s side and sighed.

“Stephan, Stephan, you’re too bold you know that? Taking unnecessary risks, rolling when you have one dice to my three, how might you even win such a bet?”

Stephan waved a hand and didn’t reply.

Jame rose and tightened his belt. Feeling the handle of his club that hung from it in one hand and the buckle in the other. He strolled to the other side of the wall. Looking down into the Walled City of Baefivar below. Curfew was hours ago and the few figures he saw skulking about below kept to side-streets and alleyways. In the light of the few hearths that aided the pair of half-moons above, the figures looked more like drifting phantoms than men. Causing a sense of unease to creep up into Jame despite his safety here on the walls.

“Jame.” Hunt said in a serious tone.

“Hm?” Jame turned and walked to the wall that faced outwards towards the suburbs.

“Look there, do you see that?” Hunt pointed.

Jame scanned the general region Hunt was pointing, his eyes eventually finding it. In the far distance, hidden beneath a wooded hill, the glow of collected bunch of campfires rose into the sky. Their smoke lightly illuminated fading above the spring of light and into the heavens.

“You think it’s the Roselions?” Jame asked.

“Could be.” Stephan replied. “Sailing under darkness then preparing for an assault come morning.”

“Could be.” Jame replied.

“I’ll go let Venk know.”

“Go face the Bear?” Hunt asked with a chuckle.

“For this? Of course.”

Stephan left and Jame and Hunt stood watching the small oasis of light peeking out from the darkness.

Rout

Something like fourteen miles now from Duranet. Three days of skirmishes with confused men of his own army and Duranet’s garrison alike. Sjors sat atop his horse upon a hill that overlooked the surrounding lands. They were somewhere in the Sheepwalks that lay between Duranet and Baefivar. By Sjors assessment some day away from Baefivar and another two from Duranet.

A pair of riders appeared over the horizon and rode towards Sjors. Envoys sent to Baefivar to receive a report from Pike and let Sjors’ second know the status of Sjors own force. A sorry state they would have had to report on. His assessment was now he had something like half his original force. 

When the riders reached the crest of the hill, one spoke.

“Can’t get to Baefivar.”

“You can’t? Why?”

“There’s a Siege. Forty banners or so I’d say camped in a vale maybe a mile or so outside the Suburbs.”

It felt as if Sjor’s heart stopped for a brief moment. “A Siege?”

“A Siege, aye I saw it. Walls were still strong when we left.

Forty Banners? Opposed by a gaggle of men who couldn’t even muster the discipline to march in step. Who had for an entire month done naught but lynch their neighbors and turn their arms even on the holy Bishop whom called for peace and council? Sjors’ mind was surmounted by a wave of despair that even the break upon Duranet’s walls hadn’t invoked.

When Sjors turned his gaze back to the camp he and his aides had been able to rally together his despair only surged further.

“One be with you.”  The envoy bid him.

The envoy and his partner made their way down the hill to the camp. Sjors watched them leave and wheeled his horse about to look once more over the surrounding landscape. He sat there for a while watching the empty plains 

When the bright moons had begun to set and behind Sjors the dim moons rose. The man was broken from his spell. At some point he’d gotten off his horse and it’d wandered off a distance to the base of the hill where it rested. Not a soul had bothered him while he was up here. Not even his stallion which was unusually calm.

He came to the foot of the hill and retrieved Hare. Leading him into the camp of the defeated. As he came in and made his way for his own tent, Bishop Ramme cast his eyes downward as Sjors approached. When Sjors had come to the Bishop’s side he stopped.

“Bishop.”

The Bishop cast a glance up at Sjors. It seemed as if his entire body was quivering with fear. Sjors concealed a hate for the man that swelled up inside of him. A hate borne of those who postured faith in the One yet in times of struggle turned into the Elvi-borne rats which plague those corners where complacency dwells.

“I want the camp disassembled by the time the night-moons are at their height. Then we are on the march.”

“I- Yes, your will be done First Guard.” The Bishop replied.

Sjors watched him lead as he made his way to his own tent. Dismantling it was almost meditative in a way he sorely needed. Rage and Despair slowly fading into the deeper recesses of his mind where subpsyche hid.

When his things were packed and slung over his mule’s back Sjors felt new resolve. Something stirred within him, a distant flame that had died in those cursed trenches across the Spindles.