Roads are the footprints of humanity.
Those faint traces led to the springtime plains.
Pure white clouds hung over the horizon, beautifully melancholic, and against that peaceful backdrop appeared armed humans.
Squeak, clunk.
Rumble rumble.
A long line of wagons stretched out, flanked by ranks of soldiers marching in formation.
The spring plains were no easy march.
People often called the North a land of bitter cold or a sea of ice, but even here summers came, however briefly, interspersed with what they called spring and fall.
And there were those short, intense seasonal traits as well.
Clop clop.
Brad swayed back and forth with his horse's gait.
"The sun's starting to bite already."
"About an hour left to Northwood, sir."
"Today's goal? Faster than I thought."
"The snow's melted. Dirt roads beat snow any day, right?"
"Looks like we'll have plenty of time for rest."
The sun was still high, but good campsites were few and far between—greed had no place here. Northwood had woods and a spring, perfect for pitching camp.
"A good rest sounds perfect. Guess I'm getting old. Even starting to miss rolling around in that underground cell all day."
Hal Frederick, his adjutant, let out a short sigh at Brad's grumbling.
"That doesn't sound like a joke anymore."
"Pfft."
"Heh heh heh."
Laughter rippled here and there. It eased the command staff's tension.
The march continued without incident.
Even in spring, the newly sprouting earth was mostly gravel, rolling with hills big and small. The sun bit hard, but unmelted snow lingered in the shade of rocks.
Where the procession passed became a road—barren for now, but full of potential. That's what the North was.
Mounted officers shuttled front to back, herding the soldiers.
"Pick up the pace. Northwood's just ahead."
"Don't skimp on water. Give the horses plenty too."
Of course, minor mishaps happened.
Clunk.
"What happened?"
"Wagon seven. Right wheel gave out."
"Swap it quick. Have the rear wagons detour. You, fifth squad? Stay back and guard."
Brad slowed the column after the report.
"Plenty of time till evening. Hal, you stay."
"Yes, sir. I'll bring 'em back without a scratch."
"Ray."
"Yes, sir?"
"Head ahead and secure the area so we can build camp the moment the main force arrives."
"On it."
He split the forces, but they were still in Westguard's zone of control. Thirty years of orc-slaying had earned that reach.
Thankfully, cleanup didn't drag on.
Clop clop.
"Back."
Hal Frederick's horse pulled up beside Brad's.
"Faster than expected."
"Just swapping a wheel."
"Good work, everyone."
"Handy chance to check emergency maneuvers."
As the command staff tightened their loosened reins, someone shouted.
"Forest ahead!"
"Northwood."
The silhouette of conifers on the horizon melted away the tension. Even the hard-won resolve eased.
'It's fine. Still safe territory.'
Brad Cahill, the old knight, held his tongue.
They reached camp on the first day out.
Crackle crackle.
Pulling a few burning logs dimmed the fire quickly.
Bubble bubble.
Savory smells from pots everywhere whetted appetites.
The stew, packed with dried meat and veggies, was beyond field standards. That was Brad's philosophy for soldiers who might never eat again.
"Dig in, all."
"Thank you, sir."
Slurp, smack.
It was a feast without booze.
As night deepened, soldiers chewed their stew—half broth, half chunks—like it was their last meal.
Officers trailed the finished eaters, nagging.
"Long night doesn't mean hard liquor."
"Remember, that one bottle's the only thing healing your wounds."
"..."
"Who just cursed?"
Brad tossed in as he passed.
"Veterans, aren't you? Enough."
"You serious?"
One officer pushed back. Ray Schumacher, heavy infantry captain, looked surprisingly lean without his thick leather armor.
"Veteran means pros at slacking too, not just fighting. You trust 'em?"
"...You're right."
They faced death together, but the soldiers were convicts and barbarians at heart. No use complaining—their lot as human shields locked in the North didn't change.
Behind those masks brewed resentment.
'Chattering like that... guess the end's near?'
Brad rubbed his aching shoulder, worse lately. Soon, officers herded soldiers to tents, set watches and reserves, then gathered at the fire one by one.
"Smooth day."
"Kiter Valley tomorrow, but weather's warming—no issues."
"Good work. Tea, then rest."
"Yes, sir. You too."
The officers unwound over hot tea, griping and gossiping. When it spread to the Third Young Lord's Royal Guard Knights, someone glanced at Brad and reined it in.
"Skill's real, at least. Grateful knights and near-nobles fight with us."
"Yeah. No more trash talk about the highborn."
"Knights highborn?"
As eyes turned, Brad added wood and continued.
"Too kind for the living."
"Why? Knights got culture, right?"
"Give 'em grunts to handle the details, and even tightasses get leisure. That's culture."
"Full bellies talking?"
Brad didn't answer.
But the officers nodded, getting it. Or maybe just trusting him.
"True. Way they look at us."
"Yeah? Not arrogant."
"Right. Not like the boss, but near-nobles. Wrong, though. Vessel size?"
"Nah, I liked 'em. Weird for knights to mix with us."
"Fair."
Brad stayed out, quietly feeding the fire.
Crackle crackle.
Not all nobles are alike, nor all knights. Ironically, Benjamin's pure eyes—the Third Young Lord's adjutant—flashed in his mind.
'Wall between me and them I can't cross.'
Those from good homes with fine schooling don't fear mistakes. Family halo cushions failure till they overcome.
But for lowborn, one slip is the end.
'All I could do was follow doctrine.'
Principles saved him.
Shortcuts bred complaints, but time won. Grumbles turned cheers.
—That crap won't work on Sir Brad.
—Rules make it easy? Once adapted, smooth sailing.
Trade-offs too.
—What a blockhead.
—That's him. Famous nutcase.
—Rules? No crime. Don't make enemies.
Controlled underlings obeyed; superiors varied by self-interest. It aided promotions but hobbled him.
Interests differed, yet same.
'All playing masks. Same goal: glory and riches.'
He rubbed his eyelids, a habit.
Since release, he reflected more. Tiring.
"I'll head in."
"Me too."
Brad set down the poker and rose; officers followed to tents.
Last watch doused embers, ending the night.
Day two out began with scout reports.
"Orc village. Eleven huts."
"What'd Bolt Unit survivors say?"
"Didn't see it on retreat."
"Breeding ground in just a month..."
"Eleven huts: about a hundred. Orders?"
Brad's deliberation was brief.
"Can't retreat, so push. Fire 'em out, phalanx finish. Cavalry joins scouts, encircle far off, catch runners."
"On it."
Officers dispersed to units.
Battle went smoothly.
Veterans lit liquor bottles expertly, hurling them; dry weather ignited flames instantly.
"Here they come."
Hiss, sizzle.
"Gruk, humans. Kill."
Orcs fled fire, charging wildly. Pure instinct, but fierce.
"Hold. Hold."
50m, 30m. Soldiers stayed calm as distance closed.
Veins bulged on spear-hands.
"Throw!"
"Loose spears!"
A hundred spears arced skyward.
Thunk, thunk thunk.
Squeal, screeeee.
Front ranks crumpled, but survivors surged.
"All behind wagons."
"Shields!"
"Shields up!"
Shields plugged wagon gaps, forming phalanx.
"Axes!"
"Javelins next. Loose!"
Squeal, screeeee.
Hand axes flew; more orcs toppled. Survivors slammed phalanx.
Boom!
Screech, squeal.
Some crumpled on shields, others impaled, shrieking.
Instinct-driven orcs climbed fallen kin, only to skewer; next ranks followed.
Orcs finite, wagon-phalanx solid.
Screeeee.
A head-taller orc skewered ended it.
Clop clop.
Nil Carpenter dismounted to report.
"No escapees."
"Good work. Clean up."
"Yes."
"Check bodies. Make sure."
Soldiers slit wounded orcs' throats. Others skinned for trophies.
"Karl, check wounded."
"Yes."
Vice commander and healer Karl Bailyner examined.
Soon, his deadpan report:
"No majors. Minors disinfected with liquor."
"Good enough. Build camp."
Post-battle rest paramount. He prodded officers for camp, then meals.
All but watch scouts slept over twelve hours.
Day three dawned relentlessly.
Soldiers packed expertly, formed up geared.
"Move out."
"Yes, sir."
Some say a soldier's job is marching; battle just part. Spur or halt: choices. Battle and life alike?
"Almost there. Stay sharp."
"Report issues now."
Officers harried front and rear; soldiers marched on.
Tragedy site at last. Battle scars clear, but no bodies.
"Definitely here."
"Camp traces."
"Dried blood, see?"
Bolt Unit guides panicked. Command too.
"Orcs ate the corpses?"
"No bones either."
'Traces erased? Deliberate?'
Brad pondered, chin on hand. Karl pointed.
"There."
Nil, leading scouts, approached quietly.
"Something to see."
"What?"
"Better judge yourself."
Nil's eyes shook. He added:
"No threats within 1km."
Clearing led to shock.
"W-what?!"
"What is that?!"
Age of romance ended. Maybe never existed.
But the sight stirred hearts beyond.
Brad approached the stone pile.
"At world's end, we honor those who gave their all to duty. While cowards wavered, they escorted their lord to safety and fell. What is chivalry if not this? Here, belated remorse enshrines 49 heroes. Year 67, March 17. Y.K."
Reading the inscription, he looked down.
Withered petals crumbled underfoot.