Two brilliantly decorated stagecoaches traversed the rugged expanse of Thornridge. Furnished with exotic leather seats and expensive cushions, they were clearly meant for the aristocratic class. Presently, Corvus and the Oathkeepers had 'borrowed' them and were pacing toward Glaswold.
Seated with Ewan Fraser, Corvus was not one to partake in idle conversations—least of all with a stranger. So he kept to himself. The monotonous landscape, filled with rocks and gravel only, made the journey even more banal. Fortunately though, most of the peneplain was already behind them, and the remainder was passing by swiftly.
Corvus idly looked outside the window with a serene expression. Those bastards! They only left two horses, and this stupid thing moves so slowly. His calm exterior reflected none of his emotions.
Ewan, in a loose blue tunic, rested on a cushion. Unlike Corvus, he was among his comrades, yet his eyes stared at empty space—distant and unfocused.
Corvus's curiosity piqued, having borne the same look himself, he recognised it at once. And with boredom winning over aloofness, he did something novel: he struck up an innocent conversation.
"Something on your mind, Cap?"
Jolting out of his thoughts, Ewan replied courteously, "No. Nothing of any concern, Vice-Captain Corvus of the–"
Corvus put his hands forward and gestured to Ewan to stop: "Just Corvus, Cap! Too much formality makes me nauseous."
Ewan sat up and gave a cordial smile: "Sure thing, Corvus; you also don't have to mention my title—not because I'm nauseated or anything. I don't make light of proper decorum, but because we both hold the same ranks in the hierarchy of the Shardmarch."
"Really?"
"Yes. The Oathbounds, you see, is not a homogenous organisation. It has several units, like mine, scattered across the continent. Although we are affiliated with the Oathbounds and even share a portion of our taking with them, we are not strictly working under them. Unless we're explicitly called upon, like for a war. Otherwise, we usually take freelance jobs, like mercenaries."
Ewan gazed outside—his voice detached, eyes distant again—as he continued, "Many often undertake immoral tasks to earn extra coins, though they are quickly disowned. These units use flimsy ranks and titles of little worth beyond their secluded barracks. Hell... Many don't even know their actual rank at the capital, if they have one."
He paused briefly, before adding, "In short, I am the Captain of these Oathkeepers, not a Captain of the Oathbounds, who are exalted figures."
Did I treat these unemployed bastards too harshly, flaunting my job and all? Bad Corvus.
Ewan noticed a pitiful look in Corvus's eyes, prompting him to clarify, "I didn't mean that we have no standing at the capital. It's just that our status and rank has to be updated in line with our achievements regularly before we are compensated. Our Commanding Officers are responsible for making those revisions, each major outpost of the Oathbounds has at least one stationed."
Corvus nodded intelligibly and quipped, "So, these Commanding Officers are your go-between guys."
"What? No. I mean yes, that's one way to look at it, but all of them are accomplished figures in their own right. They also ensure that the norms are not being flaunted and everyone stays in line. Being a Novitiate Mundukar is the bare minimum to become a Commanding Officer of the Oathbounds."
The same as the Captain's. There might be more to these boy scouts than meets the eye.
Corvus inquired, "How many of these Commanding Officers are there?"
"Not enough."
Ewan's curt reply implied the sensitive nature of the subject. Corvus did not push further.
"I don't mean to intrude Corvus, but considering Captain Ironbough's urgent summon and the pile of bodies at the camp. I'd like to know what we've gotten ourselves into," Ewan asked.
Corvus answered in a rehearsed cadence, "Not much, honestly. Those soldiers conducted fighting contests using captives, then dumped their bodies in a nearby stream. One of ours noticed that, and we just seized the opportunity. In the aftermath, we obtained some information about Velmorian troops, and the geezer had to report it to the King, so he left without me."
"Hmm..." Ewan seemingly bought his story, and even if he had not, he did not show it.
Corvus had no qualm about blatantly lying to the good-natured Ewan Fraser. After all, even he had withheld his share of truth. However, Corvus's actions were far from being reactionary, he had fully intended to deceive the Oathkeepers from the start. In fact, his word had been prepared by Isolde to hide the truth from friends and foes alike.
"Say Corvus, do you have any family back at the Shardmarch?"
Corvus was taken aback by the sudden question, he casually shrugged and added, "Not that I know of. Though I imagine, there must be someone—unless I materialised out of thin air. Do you think I did?"
Ignoring Corvus, Ewan remarked in a detached tone, "I can see why you seem so... brazen, I sometimes envy that. Still, no matter how much they may weigh, one can't seem to just shrug them off—like you did. I, for one..."
"...Whatever," Ewan let out a small breath. "Let's continue this some other time."
He fell back on the cushion again, and spoke, "You should rest too, Corvus. It'll be some time before we reach Glaswold." He lingered for some time before entering into a light slumber.
Corvus stared at the sleeping Ewan, Don't bring personal stuff, if you can't handle them, man.
Distracting himself, he gazed outside; to his surprise, he saw something vast far beyond the horizon. Vague outlines of some massive structures loomed, unmistakably they were towering peaks.
These mighty mountains of the frozen realm Glaswold were now within sight. Tightly clasping his hands, Corvus felt the warmth of blood flowing through his veins. For he knew that once he enters the permafrost plains, such heat would become a thing of memory.
Contemplating on his upcoming destination, Corvus reckoned: Aren't I dauntless for marching into that frozen hell. Still, those bastards could've taught me the basics about Glaswold—or the Covenant, for that matter. Whatever, it's not anything I cannot handle; I'll do fine.
Soon Corvus started to feel sore, all the accumulated fatigue from the battle began to weigh on him. Following Ewan's suggestion, he dozed off.
Meanwhile, away from the Thornridge, a band of horsemen galloped across the Cairn of Primaveron—hearth of the Velmoria Imperium. After hours of ceaseless galloping across the lowlands, they finally halted by the riverside to let the horses rest.
An olive man approached a burly figure—leaning against a horse—and asked evenly, "Hey, Captain Elric, the Vice-Cap knows about the political situation of Glaswold, right?"
Elric smirked, and replied, "That goes without saying, Zuberi. Every personnel of the Shardmarch Sovereignty is familiar with such a basic topic. As for that brat, that Psycho King, and yours truly also took a few of his classes. So, it's pretty safe to assume he's proficient as far as Glaswold's socio-politico scenario is concerned."
In their proximity, a man in his prime snickered, and said in a loud voice, "Do you remember Soraya, what Vice-Cap Corvus learned during his inception classes back at Shardmarch?"
Soraya responded neutrally, "Yes, Vice-Cap told us about it briefly during a campaign. He learned two things in total: firstly, the behaviour of the instructors, when they left themselves vulnerable enough for him to strike; and secondly, how to doodle."
Lucien casually added, "Yes, doodles! Every instructor Vice-Cap found boring, he'd doodle them; the man needed something to do, right. If my memory serves right, he only spared Ashar Morvain, though I don't blame him for respecting the man. But apart from him, everyone else fell prey to his caricatures. I think there was a fat man with four twisted arms, a horned man wearing a crown and a brawny old man with a fading hairline."
"The last one was pretty colourful, he showed me that. A shame, I never identified who that instructor was." Soraya added.
A thunderous voice echoed the lowlands as Elric suddenly yelled, "That brat drew what?!"
"Sir, I think you're missing the point," Zuberi tensed up. Then silently added, "In any case, his majesty's ridicule takes precedence."