This is a work of original fiction that I wrote back in the 1990s. It is presented here in its original form. All rights reserved. If you are a legitimate publisher interested in publishing this novel, please contact me.

 

PROLOGUE

 

The boy was nine, with the self-assurance that most nine-year-olds seem to have that they knew all about the world and how it worked.

 

As he ran and played with his friends, he rarely, if ever, stopped to take notice of his grandfather, who never could have been nine or nineteen or twenty-nine, sitting alone on the front step of their home.

 

But the grandfather took note of the boy, and when he did he smiled. It seemed like only a moment ago that he was that nine-year-old and at the same time it felt like any memories he had of that age were something he had read in a paperback novel, pure fiction. If the boy could not believe that the grandfather had ever been nine, it was equally as hard for the grandfather to believe.

 

Today was no different than most days. The boy gathered with the other boys of his age, running up and down the street, trying to see how fast and how loud one could be. By the time noon came, and the games broke up for lunch, each of the dozen or so boys would be covered in dirt and sweat and, given enough of a chance, a little blood from scrapes and cuts.

 

The grandfather pretended to be more intent on reading the local newspaper, but out of the corner of his eye, he watched the boy. He had promised his mother that he would do just that and, the old soldier that he was, he knew better than to disobey orders. If his commanding officer didn’t have enough pull with him, her commanding officer –the boy’s grandmother and his wife – would certainly be able to pull rank.

 

After a moment, the news of the day held no more interest in him than the way one of the street vendors polished his apples. A plot more compelling than one of his paperbacks was unfolding in the street and his grandson was in the middle of the fray.

 

The grandson and several of his chums were confronting another boy. This other boy was younger, perhaps, or at least seemed that way. At the very least he was an inch or two smaller. But then even a tall boy would seem to shrink back under the glares and taunts of several others.

 

The grandfather watched, his mouth tight in disapproval, as his grandson pushed this smaller boy, causing him to take a step or two back. Something was said that made the other boys laugh and this smaller boy’s head bow in disgrace.

 

The grandfather wished he could read lips, but he still realized what was about to happen. This smaller boy was being expelled, as it were, from this group. It took the boy a little more time than the old man to realize this. Saying nothing, or at least not seeming to, the boy pushed his way through the crowd and ran off down the street.

 

As the smaller boy got farther and farther away, some of his former friends yelled taunts after him. Those who could not think of anything equally as hurtful to say laughed at those who did.

 

With their source of momentary amusement having fled, the group of boys began to walk in the opposite direction, towards the step where the grandfather sat. The grandfather shook his head, out of equal parts shame and disgust. He had witnessed scenes like this one acted out since he was a boy of the same age as his grandson. He was ashamed to admit that perhaps he had even been a part of one or two. He recognized a little of himself in this pack of boys. But he was more ashamed to realize that his grandson had been the ringleader for this purge of one of their former chums.

 

As the grandson and the rest of the boys drew near, the grandfather called to him.

 

“Cirius,” the grandfather called, remembering and mimicking his former Sergeant’s call, “Come over here. I need to speak with you.”

 

The young boy, Cirius, was no longer the ringleader of the group, intent on humiliating one of their friends for reasons yet unknown. Instead, he was a nine-year-old boy being called before his grandfather to answer for a yet-equally-unknown crime. The boisterousness and courage of a moment ago were gone, replaced by fear and uncertainty.

 

The other boys were of no help. Already the whispering had begun. What did the scary old man want of Cirius? Was there to be a whipping or some other form of punishment involved? If Cirius got his, was one of them next?

 

Cirius quickly looked around at his friends. The confidence was gone, replaced by a look of inquiry. Would one of his friends accompany him to where his grandfather sat, provide what surely would be much-needed moral support? A quick glance was met with averted eyes. Sorry Cirius, they all seemed to say, you are on your own.

 

“Come on, now. Haven’t got all day,” the old man barked.

 

Cirius knew that the old man had a temper on him and would tolerate no back talk, no disobedience, and no delays. He had fought in the war, had survived hellish battles, and had killed his fellow man in defense of his kingdom.

 

Cirius walked over to where the old man sat, his imagination running wilder and creating more horrible scenarios with each step.

 

Shaking in fear by the time he reached his grandfather, the young Cirius looked back at his friends. None of them wanted to be any closer to the scene than necessary and yet fleeing wasn’t an option. If they left, they wouldn’t know how this turned out. Turning to face the old man, Cirius asked “What is it, grandfather?”

 

The old man nodded back towards where Cirius and his friends had taunted their friend. “What was that all about?” he asked.

 

Cirius turned to look to the spot where his grandfather had indicated. He sighed, the fear leaving him. So that was what this was all about. His grandfather wanted him to be ashamed for what had happened, but Cirius refused to feel bad about that.

 

“Oh, that was just that weakling, Paulo. We never liked him anyways. He’s an ‘Outer’ but we were…”

 

“You disgraced him for being an ‘Outer’,” the grandfather asked. “That can’t be so. I have raised you better than that. Your grandmother, your mother, raised you better than that.”

 

“Besides,” the grandfather continued, “I note that several of your other chums have the look of ‘Outers’.”

 

Cirius was shaking his head. “No, Grandfather. That is not the reason,” he explained. “Paulo is a coward. He’s a chicken.”

 

By now the friends that Cirius had gathered around him began to realize that their friend was not being severely punished. It gave them a renewed sense of confidence. With the mention of Paulo and the accusation of his cowardice, several decided to chime in with their opinions.

 

“Yeah, he’s a chicken.”

 

“He’s a scaredy cat.”

 

“Brock-Brock-Brock.”

“Enough,” the grandfather shouted, pointing his finger at the group of boys, “I will not hear from you. This is between my grandson and I.”

 

Before the grandfather had uttered the first syllable of his rebuke, the boys had gone quiet as if struck mute. Having silenced the boys, the grandfather turned his attention back to Cirius.

 

“Tell me, young Cirius. What makes this Paulo such a coward?” the grandfather instructed.

 

For the first time since the beginning of this conversation, Cirius looked unsure of himself. His gaze shifted from his grandfather to his own feet, which kicked the ground below them.

 

“Answer me, Cirius,” the grandfather ordered, again in the same tone and volume he remembered from his Sergeant, “And look at me when you do.”

 

The young boy’s eyes snapped back to lock with his grandfather’s. In amazement, Cirius saw his grandfather’s face soften, and a hint of a smile form.

 

“Cirius, I may be an old man, and you may think me a fool, but I do believe I know a few things…and I would be willing to bet that this story will not make you nor your friends there look too scrupulous.”

 

Cirius shook his head. “No, Grandfather.”

 

The grandfather’s voice hardened once again. “Even so,” he said, “You must tell me the truth.”

 

Cirius‘s gaze dropped again, but this time the grandfather said nothing.

 

“We told Paulo that if he wanted to be our friend, he had to steal something from one of the vendor’s carts.” Cirius explained, “Didn’t matter what, as long as he stole something. He said that he didn’t want to. He said that he didn’t want to steal because it was wrong. We told him that if he didn’t steal, then he was a chicken and we weren’t going to be his friends anymore.”

 

It wasn’t a long story, but it had told the grandfather enough. Nothing more was said for a moment. The grandfather sat there watching Cirius stand before him. After a moment, the Grandfather laughed, a short bitter laugh that died out almost the instant it began.

 

His next words were not directed at Cirius but at the group of boys behind him. Motioning for them to come closer, he said, “Come. Sit. You too, Cirius. I have a story to tell.”

 

Apprehensive at first, Cirius and the rest of the boys approached the front stoop where the old man sat. They, in turn, found places to sit. Still scared of Cirius’s grandfather and what he might do or say, they also seemed to realize that what he was going to tell them was important.

 

The grandfather waited until all of them were seated, and then made them wait for several moments after.

 

“Cirius, my grandson, has been telling me about this…grievance you might call it, that you have with your friend, Paulo,” the grandfather explained. He knew that all of them had heard the conversation between the two of them, but he wanted to make them stew a moment more.

 

“I must say, boys, that I am deeply ashamed at what I have heard,” he said, shaking his head sadly.

 

He let his gaze wander over the group, coming to rest on each individual face for a moment before moving on. “I know most of you, know your parents, your mothers and fathers, your grandparents. I served with your grandfathers, several of you, in the War of the Land.”

 

“Perhaps, it should be up to your own parents, grandparents to tell you this story, but since they didn’t, I will have to fill in for them,” he said.

 

“You damned Paulo for sticking up for his beliefs,” the grandfather announced, “For doing the right thing when it would have been just as easy to do the wrong thing. Paulo could have gone along with the crowd, done what everyone else wanted him to do and you would all be friends. Paulo could have been a hero simply by not making waves. Instead, he’s denounced as a coward for having the courage to do what is right.”

 

Most of the boys, in fact, all of the boys, realized that the grandfather was making sense.

 

“Let me tell you a story about another young man, although a lot older than any of you or the boy, Paulo, who was, for a time, was called a coward…and eventually he had to make a choice of whether to continue to do what was wrong and be called a hero, or do what was wrong and face the consequences.”

 

The grandfather let his gaze wander over the faces of the group of boys who sat before him. As he did so, he smiled or smirked, rather.

 

“Get comfortable, lads,” he said, his mind already heading back to a time further away than most of the boys had been alive to see, “For I have a story to tell you…”

CHAPTER ONE

 

It was a time of war.

 

For Vance Highland, Commander of the Northern Front, however, there had been no other time. Ever since he was young enough to become aware of the world around him, he had known nothing but war.

 

Vance knew he was not alone, however, for the War of the Land had raged on for generations, and had claimed the lives of millions, not the least of which, in Vance’s eyes, those of his forefathers. His grandfather has been killed instantly, perhaps mercifully so, at the Second Battle of Green River.

 

His father was not so fortunate, the wounds he received defending an unimportant piece of land had left him in such agony that he took his own life after years of waiting for the Central Armies to advance far enough to overtake his land and his home and kill him themselves.

 

Vance had known little of his father, the former Corporal Jung Highland. His only memories, when Vance allowed himself to think back to those days, of his father, was that of a dark, brooding man, who he heard cry out in the night, and who finally moved the family out into the wastelands to the east of Castletown to a small cabin that had been in his family for generations. For hours, perhaps days, Jung Highland sat on the front porch of that cabin, his hand gripping his old rifle, watching and waiting for something that Vance could never see. Sometimes Vance’s father looked as if he was simply looking back on something, seeing the faces of old friends and comrades, long gone, but now back to say “hello” and reminisce. Other times, Jung Highland would search the horizon fanatically, as if he just looked hard enough he might see the massed lines of Central Army troops who, he was certain, were out there, coming to get him.

 

Vance often wondered, in later years, if his father ever left that spot in the short time he had known him. To Vance’s memories, it just seemed as if he was always there, always looking far, far away into the distance…and then, one day, he wasn’t there. He was gone, as if he had vanished, or perhaps had never been there at all.

 

And ever since that day, when Vance’s mother had to tell her son about the true meaning of war, Vance somehow knew that his life would lead here, to the dirty, dusty broken road where he found himself on this hot, humid day, with the stench of unwashed bodies and defeat intermixed and gloom hanging over them like the dark, foreboding storm clouds that crept up on Vance and the rest of the men and women that marched, downtrodden behind him. Somehow, without ever consciously acknowledging it, Vance had somehow always known that he would find himself at the head of this battered, starving army. Even back at the Academy at Castletown, there had always been a sense that this was his future. No matter how intensely he had studied, no matter how much effort he had put into his essays and thesis on military history and strategy, if he had looked as hard down the road to his future as his father had towards the horizon that assuredly held the Central Army, he might have seen his future self on the stead that was as tired as he. Perhaps he was placed here, in this situation, at this moment in history, to learn how to suffer as his father had. Vance wondered if he would, after a time, accept the same fate his father succumbed to.

 

For now, Vance could only continue to move forward with the shattered remnants of this army. An army of walking, hallow ruins of troopers that numbered perhaps as many as 30, 000. An army that had numbered nearly double that figure just three days before, before what historians would someday call the Battle of the Crossroads.

 

That a historian would one day chronicle the disastrous set of circumstances that this army found itself trying to recover from made the perhaps foolish assumption that this war would one day finally cease and men and women could choose to become historians…or for that matter, shop clerks, barbers, mechanics or even artists and writers, instead of being handed a weapon at the age of maturity and sent out into the field to fight and die for their kingdom.

 

As Vance lumbered eastward at the head of his army, he sneered at the idea that anyone would want to remember the battle that had, up until a few hours ago, raged in a place so desolate that it probably wouldn’t show up on most maps.

 

That sneer of a bitter laugh crossed Vance’s features for a moment and then was gone. He was already suffering the same fate as his father: his life forever altered by the events that took place on some desolate piece of property that no one had cared enough to name before history found its way there. Much like the place where his father had been wounded, there had been no proper name for the land where two roads that weren’t big enough or laid out well enough to earn that designation crossed paths, and there two grand armies had done just the same.

 

Vance had sneered just the same as he watched one of the scribes ride off, far ahead of the retreating army, to go and spread the word of the battle that had been the result of his brave troops and those of the Central Army clashing for three bloody days.

 

The site of the retreating scribe reminded Vance that not everyone of a certain age were immediately conscripted into the army and sent off to fight and die in places like the Crossroads and a hundred thousand other places, known and unknown, along the frontier between their Kingdom and the Central Army’s territory. If one was a relative, a pampered son or sheltered daughter, of one of the politicians with the right amount of pull back in Castletown, there were jobs that one could be put to work at which would not require quite as much actual exposure to enemy fire than a foot soldier.

 

Vance knew that there were probably quite a few file clerks back in Castletown that would write reports on the Battle of the Crossroads, making the casualties as nice and clean as numbers on a sheet of paper, all of whom were the offspring of the politicians who put their children into these safe roles miles from the sound of the guns. Perhaps the fleeing scribe was a distant cousin who either couldn’t get that lucky, or who just wanted some “adventure”. No doubt he would paint himself off as a courageous, death-defying writer who was would boast of being down in the trenches at the Front, all the better to impress the ladies who might wish to bed such a dashing adventurer.

 

Coming back from a minor skirmish might be enough to earn the respect of the locals back in Castletown, but coming back from a major battle, even a defeat, like the battle of the Crossroads would certainly be enough to put a scribe like the coward who was now quickly outpacing the rest of the Army on a pedestal so high that no one could reach him. If Vance knew his scribes, and he certainly did, the writer would use his composition skills to make the Battle of the Crossroads into the greatest battle of the war.

 

“Rubbish,” Vance thought, dismissing the idea with a word. If there were any justice in this world, this so-called Battle of the Crossroads would have been forgotten as soon as the last shot was fired. The scribe, who, if Vance recalled correctly, had spent the entire battle hiding as far behind the lines as humanly possible while still technically being part of the battlefield, would soon be halfway back to Castletown, eager to earn his pay by reporting on how other men and women had given their lives on the field he now ran from.

 

Meanwhile, it was Vance and his troops who saw the carnage that had been inflicted by what intelligence had dubbed Central Army Group Blue. His staff would later estimated that nearly 10 000 Northern Front soldiers, his soldiers, had died before the guns of the Central Army defenders in the final, failed attack that had decided the battle. Adding a number equal to that who had been killed in the two and a half days fighting to that point, and the 10 000 wound, captured or missing during that same period of time and Vance’s army had been sliced not quite nearly in two.

 

As Vance rode at the head of his army, he felt as though every man and woman who had taken up arms and taken part in the “Battle of the Crossroads”, both the dead and the survivors, were watching him. He could feel their eyes on the back of his head, could feel their hatred, their disappointment, their sense of betrayal. He could not blame them. He had no one to shift the blame to, no superior officer to whom he could have turned to and asked for advice. He was in command of the field and therefore it was his decision to make. He had gambled and lost. He had made a mistake in judgment, ordered his army into an attack that, seen through the jaded eyes of hindsight, was foolhardy. He and he alone had made that decision, and it had been the wrong decision. It had cost his army dearly.

 

The only thing he could do was thank the Maker that the Central Army that opposed them in this great and disastrous battle had suffered just as much during the charge and from the battle previous as well, and merely lacked the strength to order the counterattack that would have assuredly destroyed the Northern Front, opening the floodgates to an invasion of the rest of the Kingdom.

 

Instead, they had been satisfied to simply solidify their positions, strengthen their battle lines where they could, and watch as Vance’s army limped away to lick its wounds and contemplate their next move. Sporadically, Vance had received word from his rear guard, reports that, mercifully, brought word that the enemy had not, at least as of this particular moment in time, left their positions and begun a pursuit of Vance’s broken and dispirited legions.

 

As Vance rode along, silently, his eyes staring straight ahead at the desolate countryside ahead, the way his father had, he realized with a horrified start, there were times when the road ahead vanished and a mirage filled his vision. It was one that had visited his sights, haunting his memory ever since the last shot of the battle had been fired and the last trooper had retreated back to the Northern Front’s lines. There before him was the sight of wave after wave of his troops charging into battle and being cut down en mass. There were moments, he told himself, during the battle, when it seemed as if one Central Army bullet was laying claim to ten, twenty, even thirty of the Kingdom’s troops at a time. He knew that wasn’t the case, and yet he could not shake that image.

 

He wondered if this is what his father had seen, as he sat on the porch of his home, rifle in his hand. Had he seen the defeats, the disasters, the death and destruction as fantastic as what Vance saw? Had his father’s vision turned away from reality and shown him things that a part of his mind knew not to be true, but became what another part of his mind accepted as truth? Had that been why his father had finally taken the rifle and ended his own suffering, because he could not stand to see the apparitions that he saw before him?

 

If he could not shake the visions of what had happened on that bloody, doomed battlefield, nor could hear clear his head of the voices. The voices that told him that anyone, even the lowliest private just arrived from Castletown, could have seen the error of the attack. The voices that said that only a fool would have ordered the charge.

 

There were other voices, too.  Voices that said that the moment the scribe made his way back to Castletown, the moment that the King and his officers heard about the disaster at the Crossroads, that they would ensure that Vance was relieved of command…

 

…or worse.

 

Vance wondered if these voices were just in his head, or if he was, in fact, overhearing the whispers and mutters of the men and women who marched behind him. He knew that if he turned around now to confront them, it was a losing causing. 30 000 against 1 was hardly the best odds. The officers might order their troopers to stand down, to maintain respect for their commander and stay in formation.

 

But how many of them would side with the troopers under their command? How many would decide to take vengeance on the man who had ordered so many of their comrades to their deaths? How many of them were the source of the voices he heard?

 

Vance knew that if the troops of the Northern Front were to make it back to their base camp and reform, he would have to lead them home. If the Front were to disintegrate into chaos, there would be no resistance to an advance by the Central Army, once it recovered from its own beating at the Battle of the Crossroads. And Vance, as dispirited and plagued by the visions and voices as he was, was not going to confront his troopers over things that may not exist at all outside of the tortured pit that was his own mind.

 

And as he had so many times before over this long, arduous march, Vance violently he shook his head to clear the vision and the voices. He succeeded in the former, but could never quite rid himself of the later.

 

At that, Cochrane, his aide, galloped up from his position a few yards behind Vance, in order to ensure all was fine, as fine as could be under the circumstances, with his commander.

 

“Are you all right, sir?” Cochrane asked. “Heat getting to you?”

 

“I’m fine. Damn it, I’m fine,” Vance replied, a bit more sharply than he would have liked. The lanky Cochrane was a worthy aide, Vance knew, but sometimes he didn’t realize that his commander needed to be left alone with his thoughts.

 

“Sorry sir,” came the meek, sheepish reply.

 

At first, Vance thought that Cochrane had fallen back to his original pace. However, a quick listen to the sound of nearby hoof-beats and a quick glance to his left told Vance that his aide was still there. He had taken his campaign hat off and was using it as a fan. For a brief moment, Vance was grateful for Cochrane’s presence. His maniacal waving of the hat created a cool breeze strong enough to reach him and a slight relief from the hot sun.

 

“If you don’t mind me saying, sir, but Maker above, it is a hot one today,” Cochrane exclaimed. “This puts me in mind of my first campaign with the Southern Front. I had never seen such heat. Notice the clouds off in the distance, gaining on us fast. If it’s just a brief shower, it’ll help…”

 

Vance sighed, as silently as he could so that Cochrane wouldn’t hear him. Had the situation been different, he might even have smiled. Cochrane had been his aide for the past five years, ever since Vance had graduated from the Academy and been posted to the North. In that time, Cochrane had proven himself to be nearly indispensable when it came to knowing the terrain, enemy information, the Northern Front’s own troop movements and even some of the local lore. However, he had also proven to be such a motor mouth that many a Northern Front trooper, Vance among them, wondered if sending him over to the enemy and letting him annoy the Central Army to death wouldn’t have been a sure-fire way to end the war for good.

 

Vance tried to block out Cochrane’s latest rambling, not an easy thing to do with a man who seemingly loved to hear the sound of his own voice and was used to doing just that. However, Vance knew that after a few moments, even Cochrane would eventually get the hint that his commander wanted silence and, seeing a lack of response, his sermon about the heat here in the North compared to that on the Southern Front and the impromptu weather report would eventually die out.

 

Vance breathed no small sigh of relief as it did so. For several miles, all he could hear, all he wanted to hear, was the sound of the army on the move, the rhythmic thump of thirty thousand of his soldiers moving in step, the clank of the mess kits and tin cups that the troops carried with them, the occasional whinny of an officer’s horse. The creak of wagon wheels as they carried the wounded. The marching orders normally bawled out by sergeants, now barely more than whispered mutters, as if the entire force that marched along this road this day wanted nothing to disturb the silence that passed amongst their number. Perhaps all those who marched along that road were lost in their own thoughts of what they had seen in the hours and days prior.

 

Cochrane had been right about the weather; Vance had to give the man that. It was seemingly unbearably hot. Perhaps, though, Vance thought, the situation that he and his army had found themselves in, covered in melancholy, made every little inconvenience seem ten times worse. He knew that there was probably many a trooper with a stone in his boot that might have seemed trivial on another day, but today would be a near unbearable nuisance. It was just the way things were. Had they been flush with victory, such things would hardly register but today, with the smell of defeat hanging as thick as the humidity in the air, the little things seemed that much more unbearable.

 

A distant rumbling lifted Vance’s eyes from the piece of road in front of him. For a horrid moment he thought it might be the sound of enemy guns. Had the Central Army recovered and made a pursuit of it? But the shells never came pouring down on his retreating troops. Instead, Vance looked up and noticed the dark clouds that Cochrane had been talking about. Vance had noticed them as much as part of his peripheral vision as anything worth studying. Now, he took a good long look at them. Angry-looking as his mother might have described them. Vance pondered who Mother Nature might be angry with and wondered if the Maker had ordered his mistress to send those clouds as a symbol of his fury towards Commander Vance Highland on the occasion of his recent failure in battle.

 

Vance would pay the possibility that he might have angered the Maker little mind, at least at present. He was too preoccupied with the anger of those who marched behind him.

 

Vance thought, as Cochrane had said, at least the humidity will soon be gone. And if the rain stays away a few more hours, they would be back in camp, secure in the knowledge that any eventual pursuit by the Central Army would be slowed until what passed for roads in this sector, sure to turn to mud with the rain and made unusable, dried out.

 

Vance gave word to Cochrane to have the army pick up their pace. He scanned the skyline and noticed that the clouds were moving in quickly. He knew that it wouldn’t do to have his troops stuck out on these roads themselves once the rain began and the mud started to form. There was still no word that Central Army Group Blue had left their entrenchments and started their pursuit, but better to get back to their main encampment and get settled in, rather than fight another battle out in the open, and in the middle of the muddy swamps that a downpour could very easily create out of these roads. Cochrane gave a quick salute and headed back to make arrangements.

 

The day seemed to stretch on forever, as the army moved slowly along mile after mile of desolate countryside. On his darker days, and the Maker knew this would certainly count as one of those dark days, Vance wondered why the powers that be in Castletown, King Heth chiefly among them, would have wanted to defend this territory in the first place. Many a Northern Front soldier had been overheard to wonder if things wouldn’t be simpler to just give this part of their territory to the Central Armies and let them have it, just for spite. Vance knew however that most of the frontier that separated the two kingdoms locked in this seemingly endless war was like this, thanks to the very conflict that had sent so many to die or be horribly wounded on this destroyed ground.

 

Nothing to see for miles but the ragged landscape of shell craters, and the odd bits of burning brush, a span of hundreds of miles so sparse that one wondered if trees refused to grow here. What few that ever had would have been cut down long ago by artillery fire, exchanged by the two warring sides in preparation for some charge or another, the same artillery that had punched horrid holes in the earth. The tens of thousands of troopers who had trekked along the countryside had long destroyed the topsoil, ensuring nothing would have a chance to ever grow here for generations to come.

 

By the time Vance, or any other of the soldiers currently posted to the Northern Front for that matter, had arrived here, years and in fact centuries of war had destroyed whatever beauty, richness and prosperity had ever existed in this now-desolate battleground. Vance remembered reading in his history books that the Northern Front had been sparsely populated once, but only by the hardiest of farmers who would attempt to harvest a crop from this rugged and unforgiving countryside. However, not even those farmers could withstand the years of constant battle. Those that hadn’t died in foolhardy attempts to remain on their land had all been driven off by the coming of war so many years earlier.

 

As Vance rode today, he knew that there would be no trace that anyone had ever lived here, save the soldiers. Here and there would be destroyed trenches, some headquarters, long burned out of existence, and the hastily constructed markers of the dead. Where trees would have made a forest stood clusters of markers, some with names scrawled for identification, others with nothing more than a stake and helmet.

 

It could hardly have looked worse than when Vance had first viewed the landscape, upon arriving at the outskirts of the Northern Front. Despite everything that he had been told, or warned about, for lack of a better term about by his Mother, his instructors and the half-dozen or so wounded veterans of the war that he had talked to, the sight of this forbidden dead land that he was expected to defend and perhaps die over had managed to send a chill through his body and make him wonder just what he had gotten himself into.

 

His mind wandered back to that day. They had all marched in ranks along the roads that seemed only slightly less twisted and ruined than the one he found himself on today. No matter what amount of pride for their Kingdom may have existed as they left the gates of Castletown so many miles before, the grizzly sight of the ruined countryside had shaken, if not shattered, their courage to take part in the coming conflict. More than one new recruit tried to break from ranks and run for the safety of home. Burly officers who wielded clubs with expert precision soon battered those who tried into bloody submissiveness. Even for those who hadn’t run, it was a brutal reminder that they still had a duty to fulfill to their Kingdom.

 

Vance took no pride in being among those who hadn’t run…for he had certainly wanted to. It became almost as much a mental chore as it was a physical one to keep marching towards the sounds of the battle. He had to will himself to keep putting one foot in front of the other, each step taking him further and further away from the secure confines of Castletown and the safe, clean, comfortable, sanitized environment of the Academy.

 

Vance and every other man and woman there that day, they were reminded, was duty-bound to defend this territory, if for no other reason than to keep the Central Army that much further away from Castletown and the Eastern territories, where the majority of the population lay. It was the same argument that stopped Vance from confronting his troops over what may have simply been the voices in his head.

 

As Vance rode now, probably with many of the same men and women who had left Castletown with him that day so many years ago, and with countless more who had arrived in the weeks, months and years later, some cowardly part of him wished he had bolted from ranks and fled the horror that had awaited him from that day to the present. Vance, and he suspected, just about every man and woman marching in the ranks behind him, would have given anything to be back in the safety and comfort of Castletown.

 

But even a victory at the Crossroads wouldn’t have guaranteed a quick and easy end to the fighting. Anyone who had gone into battle against the Central Army had to realize that those troopers considered to be the enemy, the same ones that the scribes wished to describe as barbaric simpletons, were the equal in combat to the Kingdom’s best.

 

No, the war would continue. This recent defeat didn’t mean the end of the war, either. It was, even Vance had to admit, simply another chapter, another turn, this time for the worse, in the history of this long conflict. If they could just cover the last few miles before the rain set in, they would form new lines and wait out the storm. If the rain would turn the roads into mud, the Central Army would be held away for a few more days, perhaps even a week or two. Enough time for both sides to rest and refit and plan out a new strategy.

 

Finally, off in the distance, the army saw the hazy outline of their main encampment. They were almost home, or at the very least, what passed for home in the Northern Front. On any other day, such a scene would have raised a cheer among the troops. Another hour perhaps and they would be able to rest, to throw down their weapons and packs and enjoy a hot meal from the mess.

 

But there was no cheer today, just the grim knowledge that they would soon have to stop marching and begin to think about the defeat they had just suffered. Marching, the simple act of putting one boot in front of the other, had been enough for many a trooper to take their mind off things. Soon they would not even have that.

 

No doubt the soldiers, officers, mess hall staff and assorted personnel and hangers-on at the encampment would have heard little of the battle from the scribes, for whom the encampment was just something they would have to pass through en route to Castletown and the newspapers and editors. At most, one might have told them the outcome, little more than the sketchiest of details, while packing up their gear and tent. Vance knew that these men and women, waiting for word of the battle, would have to be told what had really happened. For many of the troops who would do the telling, they would have to relive things they wanted to forget about. For hours, perhaps days afterwards, there would be things said, about him, about the Front, about the Kingdom and its leaders in general, that would further undermine the morale of the Northern Front.

 

As Vance expected, there was a large contingent of encampment staff there to greet the returning army. Vance cringed as he saw their expectant faces fall as they saw the condition of the troops they were there to greet. Nothing was said, but everyone knew immediately the real outcome of the battle. Instead of being able to celebrate a glorious victory, the staff at the encampment would now have to scan the ranks to see who had returned, what condition they were in, and who hadn’t. They must now worry about the wounded, to dispatch medical staff to care for those who could be patched up, and to make the suffering easier for those who couldn’t, and to bury those who had not survived the journey. The cooks would have to prepare meals for the survivors, and the officers (those that had survived leading their men into combat) must prepare letters to the families of those troops who had not returned.

 

As Vance rode through the encampment, he watched as members of the staff looked to him, first for some kind of encouragement, that things couldn’t possibly be as bad as all that, and then he saw other looks, the same looks he had seen from his troops in the aftermath of the battle. Some would look for someone to blame, and Vance knew that as the commanding officer, it was his responsibility to be that person. The soldiers, he knew, had given everything they had to carry the day, but the charge had been foolhardy, a last ditch effort to destroy a solidly entrenched enemy, who had shown they could not be defeated by the other tactics he had attempted.

 

For the men and women who had remained behind, it was no longer a question of the outcome, but what had happened and why. Over the next few hours, many would corner a comrade who had been there and eventually, perhaps over some ale, they would learn the truth. And no matter what they might think of their commanding officer, they would come to distrust, perhaps even hate, the man who had so gloriously led the troops out into the field only a few days before.

 

For several moments, Vance fought the urge to rear back on his horse and ride out of the encampment, the same way he had wanted to flee from the march to the front five years ago. And while his motivation five years ago was the fear of the unknown, now he feared what he knew was coming. He wanted to ride away from all the glares, the suspicion, that would eventually turn to whispered, perhaps even shouted oaths and eventually the hatred. Vance had been in the army long enough to know how things worked in a camp like this. Rumours would fly, opinions would form and while the army might be a type of dictatorship, with one man giving the orders that the rest must follow, when it came to opinions and judgment, majority ruled. Many a trooper in the ranks might be willing to give Vance the benefit of the doubt, but none would speak out in favour of the commander once the rest of the camp turned against him.

 

And Vance knew that even as he rode, his troops, the very men and women he had lead into battle with the promise of victory and those who had been stationed behind the lines, were turning against him. Vance found himself almost overwhelmed with fear. He knew what was coming, what the atmosphere would be like in this camp in a few days, perhaps even by morning, and it was all he could do not to gallop off to safety, if he would even be allowed to do that.

 

However, in the end, duty won over fear and he remembered that he was the commander of the Northern Front, and therefore still had duties to fulfill. He must ensure that the same support staff whose ashen faces were now scanning the depleted ranks of the defeated Army that arrived before them, was doing their jobs: feeding and mending his army. He would also have to prepare letters to the grieving families. He would also have to go about reorganizing the army, starting almost literally from the ground up, promoting officers to replace those who had fallen and sending word to the rear that reinforcements and new troops were needed, all in an attempt to try to fill the many, many gaping holes in the organization of the Northern Front. Whole companies had disappeared before the guns of the Central Army; regiments were now at perhaps less than 50% strength. If the weather held or the storm passed them by and the Central Army did, in fact, recover soon enough to launch another offensive, it would be up to him to prepare the Front to repulse such an attack. If he hoped to maintain any semblance of command within the Frontier, he had to complete each of these tasks, and do them well. Now, more than at any time in his career, he needed to put the lessons learned at the Academy into practice.

 

Even as he grappled with such problems, Vance saw Zavier, the encampment’s head doctor, standing as speechless as anyone else who watched the battered, defeated army arrive in their midst. Zavier had seen the bloody, gory results of battle before, had seen the long lines of ambulances heading toward the rear in the horrid aftermath of battle before, whether it was victory or defeat that marked the outcome. However, as the Battle of the Crossroads faded into history, and the casualties streamed back with the rest of the army, even Zavier looked as though he was witnessing a new horror, new even to him.

 

As Vance rode over to where the thin, white-haired doctor stood, he expected Zavier to bolt into action, barking orders, directing his staff on how best to attend to this new crisis. Twice Vance’s age with three times the energy, or so it sometimes seemed, Zavier always seemed to be moving.

 

But not this time. Vance watched Zavier, his stomach churning with the realization that even this hardened doctor was appalled at the destruction that this battle had inflicted on his beloved army.

 

Finally, Vance could stand watching the shock force Zavier into a spellbound, silent state. Vance knew that, as Commander, if he didn’t do something soon, the horror would creep from Zavier to the rest of the medical staff and from there to the rest of the support teams in the camp, like some spell from the stories told around the campfire that Vance had heard as a child.

 

“Dr. Zavier,” Vance cried, more formal than normal with the medical officer. “There are nearly 100 ambulances coming up just after the main body. Get your officers and staff and make the wounded as comfortable as possible. We could only take those we could move. Try to save as many as you can.”

 

It was an order that Vance knew was unnecessary. Zavier had been with the Northern Front just about as long as anyone and years longer than Vance himself. If anyone knew the practices that the army went through with regards to its casualties following a battle, victory or defeat, it was Zavier. However, Vance realized that if he failed to reinforce himself as the commander of this army and the encampment of which it had just entered, he ran the risk of having his command totally eroded by the disillusionment that was running rampant throughout his command.

 

At the sound of Vance’s voice, Zavier’s head shot from staring at the arriving army to looking to his commanding officer. As Vance and Zavier’s eyes met, Vance could see the accusation. “You did this!” came the unspoken cry. Vance steeled himself for it, and was determined not to allow Zavier or any man to see weakness.

 

Zavier paused a moment, then simply turned and headed towards the rear of the column. He didn’t salute, nor give much more than a cursory indication that he had heard Vance at all, or intended to carry out his commander’s orders.

 

In any other situation, Vance would have rebuked Zavier for insubordination. However, he knew that creating such a situation right now would have done more harm than good. It would have delayed the doctor from getting to work in helping the wounded, and would have simply given his men another reason to hate him.

 

Vance watched Zavier retreat from his presence for only a moment. There was still more work to be done. He had to ensure that the mess was cooking enough meals to feed his troops, probably the first real meal, save for the meager rations they had carried with them, they’d had since this latest campaign to drive the Central Army from their lands had begun a few days before. The Maker knew that Vance himself had barely eaten more than what had been in his mess kit, and his stomach had rumbled from time to time because of it.

 

As Vance rode through the encampment, watching the men and women of his army begin the slow process of recovery from the horror they had seen in battle. Here and there he talked to one of his officers, instructing them to look to their troops and report to him anything they needed. He had left two brigades behind to guard the encampment, these soldiers he now sent out to form a scouting shield against a possible attack from the Central Army troops they had been embattled against. With the coming rain that even now began to sprinkle down on the encampment, he didn’t think they would attack anytime soon, but Vance realized that such an attack could all but wipe out his exhausted, dispirited troopers.

 

Vance knew that with morale at the lowest he had ever seen it, and the troops all but asleep on their feet from the three days of battle, and the long march from the battlefield, it would do no good for anyone if he enforced hard tasks on his troops. He sent a clear message with the limited interaction he had with his officers and non-coms: do as much as is needed to keep the army in formation and their weapons battle-ready, but then rest and ensure everyone is properly fed and nourished. He knew that the rains would most likely keep the enemy at bay. It would be best to use this time to do everything necessary to get his army back into fighting shape, although Vance himself had no idea how long that would take or what that would involve.

 

He spent hours wandering, at times almost aimlessly, throughout the encampment. As he did so, he saw the looks his men gave him, heard the whispered bits of conversation that spoke of his “grievous mistake” and how he had “gambled” with their lives. His men knew that until Vance had ordered them to charge into the center of the Central Army Group Blue’s lines, the Northern Front had battled the invaders to a standstill. Attacks on both flanks had been fruitless, but still, simply waiting until nightfall would have seen the Central Army retreat under the cover of darkness, or at least that was the general consensus.

 

“The field would have been ours,” a private exclaimed. “The invasion would have been pushed back.”

 

Vance knew the private was speaking the truth, not just some bitter theory from someone who didn’t see “the big picture”. Before his final attack, the Northern Front troops had solid defensive lines and the Central Army would have seen that continuing to pursue an invasion of the Kingdom would have been a fruitless pursuit. If only Vance had simply waited it out, victory, if only a tactical victory and not a decisive one, would have been theirs.

 

Still, Vance saw a chance to rout the invaders. One grand push and they could have split the Central Army Group Blue in two and maybe taken a large step towards winning the war.

 

It had seemed so easy.

 

Eventually, Vance found his way back to his own tent. He dismounted, tied up his horse and went inside. Once there, he collapsed onto his cot, lying there, feeling the world spin around underneath him. Even there, he could hear the men and women of his command, walking by in twos and threes, believing he couldn’t hear them or perhaps knowing he could.

 

“Our left flank had them off balance…He should have just reinforced us there.”

 

“Foolhardy plan. ‘Course when you’re sitting in some tent in the rear, I guess anything looks good on paper.”

 

“My entire brigade just ceased to exist. Every officer’s dead. Me and Chappy and three, maybe four others, are all that’s left.”

 

“When King Heth gets word of what really happened, Highland is going to be relieved. If there’s any justice, they’ll put him in front of a firing squad.”

 

“That tells you what you get when you put one of those Academy prima-donnas in real combat.”

 

The Academy…Vance’s mind reeled back to those days, never quite forgotten. “Was I ever that young?” he thought, picturing himself in the dark blue uniform of an Academy cadet, with the white hat, gloves and the shined boots. If there was one thing that Cadet Master Sully taught him, that was to make sure a cadets boots were shined at all times. Shined boots meant discipline and discipline was the most important thing in a soldier’s life.

 

Vance shook his head at the memory. Sully had survived, no one was sure how, twenty-some odd years on the very same Northern Front that Vance now commanded (at least for now, he thought bitterly), and claimed that the secret to his survival was a keen eye and shined boots.

 

Vance’s thoughts turned briefly to his own boots and those of his troops. They were all so worn and dusty that it would have been impossible to shine them. Over the next day or so they would become caked in mud. For some of the troopers, keeping them together with whatever binding could be had was sometimes the most difficult thing on earth.

 

Still, Sully had tried to impart that piece of wisdom into his young cadets, Vance among them.

 

There had been four of them, in that class so long ago. Four cadets out of 500. Dmitri, Lorraine, Cutter and himself. All four of them had graduated top of their class, and all four had graduated into the service of their Kingdom, four out of how many millions who had served in this War of the Land over the course of the generations that it had already lasted. The real horror was not knowing how many millions more would be forced into that same service in the unknown number of generations to come.

 

As Vance lay there on his cot in the darkness of his tent, the faces and the names of the three Academy friends flashed before him, each pausing before him only briefly. He wondered if these three faces were the only ones he’d see for days to come that wouldn’t be condemning him for his actions at the Crossroads. He wondered if, in time, these faces from his past wouldn’t somehow return to condemn him as well.

 

As the darkness grew outside the tent, the voices began to fade.  No matter whether the battles ended in victory or defeat, the troops knew what had to be done. As Vance watched the faces from his past brush past him in the darkness, he became aware of orders being given to post sentries. He was happy for that, glad to see that, at least in one aspect, things were beginning to once again function as close to normal as possible. He was also happy, in a way that also shamed him, that his presence in that real world was not needed. He was allowed, he realized, to slip away from the consciousness of the world around him, at least briefly.

 

CHAPTER TWO

 

As he drifted into the darkness of sleep, Vance found himself back at the Academy, and saw once again, the three friends he had made there: Cutter, Dmitri and Lorraine.

 

All four were rushing somewhere, laughing and joking with each other as they did. It seemed they had always been rushing. Rushing because they were late for class. Rushing to get to mess to get first dibs on chow. Rushing to sneak back to barracks after some late-night adventure.

 

In fact, they were rushing to grow up, Vance had realized later. If only he had known what lay ahead of them, he thought, he would have slowed down, forced the rest of them to do the same. But they were young, foolish enough to envision a glorious future for themselves, and couldn’t wait to live their foolish dreams.

 

As this dream began, Vance wasn’t exactly sure where they were rushing, or why. He didn’t care. It was great to see his old friends again, just the way he wanted to remember them. Lorraine, beautiful and perhaps the smartest of all of them. Dmitri, the defacto leader of the group. Cutter, the son of a general, who aced nearly every exam he had but still worried that it wasn’t enough.

 

And finally, there he was, the younger Vance Highland. In his own present-day eyes, the Vance of the Academy seemed much younger, decades younger even, than the man who had rode away from the Crossroads at the head of a defeated army. Had the years of war at the Front aged him so? Or was he ever really that young to begin with?

 

Vance wondered how Lorraine must have aged, serving as she did in the front lines of the Southern Front. He wondered if she was still alive. He hadn’t heard from her in months, and almost as long since he’d had any time to try and contact her. Not that the lines of communication between the two Fronts were exactly running like clockwork.

 

If Lorraine was still alive, she was probably wondering about his fate as well.

 

And there was Dmitri, leading the way, pointing toward some destination Vance couldn’t quite see. He was gone now, missing in action along the Western Front. That much Vance did know. As any man or woman who served on the front lines knew, “missing in action” was just a more painful way to tell loved ones that a soldier had died. Either Dmitri had been killed in an area that had been overrun by the Central Army and then never recaptured by the Western Front troops, or he had been captured by the enemy. If the latter were the case, odds were that he had died of malnutrition or torture in some Central Army prison camp.

 

Very few of those listed as “missing in action” ever turned up, so it was more torturous for those back home to be told their loved ones were “missing”. If they didn’t know what that designation meant, they might hold out the vain hope that their son or daughter, brother or sister, wife or husband, might still be alive. In Vance’s eyes, it was better to be told that they’ve been killed in action, know their loved one’s fate immediately and be saved months, even years of desperate uncertainty.

 

Cutter had been spared a similar fate, or worse, as he was now back in Castletown, even as Vance saw him in this dream. Cutter had served with Dmitri, only to be wounded just after arriving in the West, and was now back, serving as a platoon leader of a Royal Home Guard Unit.

 

Vance watched the four friends rush off into the distance, across the parade ground at the Academy, he realized. Vance smiled in the midst of his dream, remembering the small pub that lay a few miles outside the large white pillars that bookmarked the entrance to the Academy.

 

The Dirty Glass was the place where the four friends had gathered after classes had ended for the weekend on dozens, perhaps hundreds of occasions over the course of their tenure at the Academy. The beer was weak, watered down and then watered down again, and the building looked as if it was one strong wind shy of collapsing upon itself, but Vance and his friends, not to mention nearly every other cadet, didn’t care. It was off-campus and thus out of the range of Cadet Master Sully and the rest of the faculty. That fact alone was enough to rate it high on their list of favourite places in Castletown.

 

As Vance found the memories of his friends, all four were sitting in a booth, toasting something (perhaps simply the arrival of the weekend break) with what passed in the Dirty Glass as liquid refreshment.

 

“I got totally destroyed by that question on the Second Battle of Neandertown,” he heard Cutter say. “I bet that one question totally ruins my grade on the whole test.”

The other three friends groaned, but it was Dmitri would put into words what the others were thinking.

 

“You know, Cutter, you say the exact same thing after every examination,” Dmitri kidded. “You read the text backwards and forwards. You were drilling us last night before lights out. You got the question right, you aced the exam. End of story.”

 

Vance saw himself, nodding and suppressing a chuckle along with Lorraine. Dmitri was right, of course. Cutter always did well on the examinations, but always worried about them, and never seemed quite happy with whatever marks he got.

 

Cutter’s father, General Ambrose Andromeda, was a fixture on the Kingdom’s General Staff and, it was expected that, after serving a few years on the front lines and distinguishing himself in battle, Cutter would eventually return to Castletown to serve first as a low-ranking member of the Staff before working his way up to join his father. Of course, Cutter would first have to prove his worth at the Academy and in the field.

 

That was his father’s plan. General Andromeda had been the mastermind behind the fabled Battle of Seven Rivers, where the Western Front troops had completely enveloped nearly all of Central Army Group Yellow, and reclaimed some seven hundred acres of territory. Vance was never sure which objective: the destruction of Central Army Group Yellow or a magnificent military career for his son, that General Andromeda had devoted more intense scrutiny and planning towards.

 

No matter what Cutter did at the Academy, he always set his goals a little higher, and usually unrealistically high, because he knew he had high (perhaps unrealistically high) standards to live up to.

 

Leave it to Dmitri, however, to be the reassuring voice of reason, not just to Cutter but to all his friends. Dmitri had no ambitions to sit on the General Staff at the end of his military career. He simply wanted to be a combat soldier, albeit a very good combat soldier, as long as it involved front-line service.

 

While Cutter might be able to name all five members of the present-day General Staff, Dmitri could field strip a rifle in under a minute. He could then reassemble the weapon in the same amount of time and pick off a target at three hundred yards. If Cutter was to be a general, Dmitri would be happy to end up as a respected Sergeant-Major.

 

Vance hadn’t found out until nearly the end of classes at the Academy that Dmitri had reason to opt for permanent front-line duty, rather than simply gain field experience for an administrative position back in Castletown. Of the three brothers in his family, Dmitri was the only one still alive. The other two had been drafted into service and sent to the front lines. Both had been killed within a few weeks of each other. Dmitri’s parents, now with one surviving son, decided that a military education for that son might mean a non-combat position. Dmitri saw the Academy as a necessary evil before being sent into battle. While Vance, Cutter and Lorraine saw serving in the military as serving the Kingdom, Dmitri had seen it as a chance for revenge.

 

A lesser man might have allowed his anger and desire for revenge to overcome him, so that he was anti-social. Instead, Vance believed that Dmitri’s friendship with the others had brought out something better in him. Ever the future NCO, Dmitri had looked out for the others, comforted them, inspired them, and even disciplined them when the need arose. If the subjects that the cadets were taught were battles to be fought, Dmitri had led the other three into those battles, and ensured that no one was left behind.

 

“Hey, no scholarly-oriented talk at this table,” Lorraine scolded, playfully. “This is our R-n-R.”

 

Dmitri would only concede defeat to one opponent, that being Lorraine. All three of them – Cutter, Dmitri and Vance himself – had suffered crushes on the striking young woman who they were proud to call our friend and comrade, but somehow only Dmitri had caught her eye in return. Without either Cutter or Vance knowing exactly when it first occurred, Lorraine and Dmitri had moved from being friends to becoming lovers. And yet somehow they all knew about the change in the relationship without any official announcement. Although Vance had always been silently and secretly disappointed that it had been Dmitri and not he who shared Lorraine’s bed on occasion, he was at least happy that their relationship had not changed the friendship that the four cadets shared.

 

Lorraine hated to be described as being “as smart as she is pretty”, dismissing it as a cliché but Vance would be hard-pressed to disagree with such a description, as would anyone who knew Lorraine even briefly. Women at the Academy were no rarer than women serving in the ranks of the Kingdom’s armies, and yet Lorraine still felt as though she had to prove herself. Unlike Cutter, she had no high-ranking relations, nor was revenge a factor to her as it was Dmitri.

 

And so, it was a mystery why she shunned the offers of nearly every instructor, including Cadet Master Sully, to write her a glowing recommendation to serve as an aide on the General Staff. Such a recommendation, and the appointment that would certainly follow, would mean that Lorraine would be spared any front-line duty.

 

But whenever the topic came up, which was rare when the four of us were together but occurred regularly when Dmitri and Lorraine were alone or figured that Vance and Cutter were out of earshot, Lorraine vehemently refused to consider it.

 

“Damn it, Lorraine, you’ve got to reconsider,” Dmitri had growled one night as Lorraine went to leave his barracks. Vance had stopped by to ask Dmitri’s opinion about a class lecture and had managed to find a hiding place as Lorraine and Dmitri began to argue.

 

“My mind is made up,” Lorraine replied. “Why can’t you just accept that and be supportive?”

 

“Because you’re being foolish,” Dmitri stated.

 

“Foolish? Foolish?” Lorraine exclaimed. “Foolish because I want to do my duty to my Kingdom, the same as every other man and woman.”

 

“Yes, foolish! You have the opportunity to spare yourself the horror of this damned war.”

 

“Spare myself?” Lorraine replied, incredulously. “By using some praise from a professor so that I can hide back here behind a desk? I’d rather die my first moment in combat than live to be a hundred by shirking my duty. I won’t turn a blind eye to what you and Cutter and Vance will be going through simply because some teacher wants to bed me in return for a commendation.”

 

Dmitri threw something, perhaps a cup, Vance wasn’t sure what, against the wall, where it shattered. Vance shuddered, not because of the coldness of the night, but because he had never seen his friend lose his temper to this degree.

 

“Can’t you just accept that you would serve a better purpose to your precious Kingdom alive than dead on some meaningless piece of ground?” Dmitri continued.

 

“As what,” Lorraine countered, “as some paper-pusher, doing the same job as a hundred other cowards who managed to know someone who could get them out of combat duty? Is that really all I was meant to do, to type up reports on casualties as if they were just numbers on the page?

 

“Better to type up casualty reports than be part of one! Damn you, woman. Must you always play the martyr?”

 

“Must you?” came the reply.

 

Nothing was said for several moments. When Dmitri spoke again, it was different than before. Softer, full of emotion, barely more than a whisper.

 

“Can you not see what your being at the front would do to me? Call me callous and self-centered if you must, but can you not see why I would want to have you safe in some office in Castletown, so that I wasn’t constantly wondering when I was going to get the message that you’d been killed in some little piece of nowhere I couldn’t even find on a map so as to retrieve your body for a proper burial?”

 

“This is about your brothers. Don’t deny it,” Lorraine said, her voice as soft as his. “You’re afraid that everyone you love will be eaten up by the war.”

 

Vance watched, not without a small bit of envy sneaking in, as Lorraine embraced Dmitri. The two of them wept over their love and sense of worry over the other’s possible fate once graduation came.

 

Dmitri and Lorraine, Vance was sure, probably had more discussions about Lorraine’s desire to enter a combat arm of the Kingdom’s service and Dmitri’s attempts to talk her out of it. In the dream, Vance knew that whatever arguments he might have put forth had been in vain, for Lorraine had gone into a combat unit and been posted to the Southern Front.

 

After Lorraine’s ruling that scholarly topics were forbidden at the table that night, the four friends fell into a light, easy conversation about other things, mostly whatever plans they had for the rest of the weekend, or whatever music was playing in the pub. From time to time another cadet passed by to talk about something or another before heading on to a party of his own.

 

However, as the hours passed and the bar began to empty out, the mood became more somber and reflective. Maybe it was just the ale that seemed to run just a little too freely but eventually the light air of youthful exuberance that seemed to float among the four friends darkened.

 

“They brought back Han Buford this morning,” Cutter said, taking a sip of ale as if to wash down the bad news.

 

Hans Buford had been voted “Top Cadet” at the Academy at the year before and had been sent to the Western Front the day after graduation, where he had been given the assignment of commanding a company of infantry that served in defense of a base along the very front lines. He had lasted just three months before being mortally wounded in an artillery barrage of the base. He eventually succumbed to those wounds, and had joined the countless thousands of casualties in the War of the Lands.

 

“Poor bastard,” Cutter mused, “Not even like he didn’t know what hit him. Scuttlebutt had it that he lived for two weeks before he finally gave up the ghost. Two weeks of semi-consciousness and no legs.”

 

Vance glanced around the table, thinking exactly what the other three were thinking. That in a few months time, they would all be out there, and Hans Buford’s fate could be theirs.

 

“Hell of a way to go,” was all he said. It was all anyone said for the next several minutes. Vance realized now, as he watched this dream of reminiscence unfold before him, that the four of them each had their own fears of death, although each of them would only admit to fearing that they would not find glory in combat.

 

Vance watched now, as Dmitri retreated into himself, perhaps envisioning his own fate without realizing it. Dmitri’s disappearance in battle had saddened Vance, the same way that soldiers had grieved over the loss of close friends for generations, but he knew that Lorraine, Dmitri’s lover, must have had to deal with grief of unspeakable intensity. Lorraine had been at the front long enough to know as well as Vance knew what the term “missing” meant. Still, the knowledge probably wasn’t enough to save her from dealing with the never-ending questions of “what if?” and the perhaps must have been nearly unbearable. Vance had, he was ashamed to admit it, expected Lorraine to follow Dmitri into death within a short time, either through a mistake in the heat of battle, or simply waking into a bullet, so as to be put out of her own misery. It would certainly not have been an unusual occurrence. Vance had seen more than a few soldiers simply decide that a quick death was better than many more months and years of agony on the battlefield.

 

Instead, Lorraine, at least from what little news Vance could scrap together from the sporadic letters that made their way across the war-torn countryside, through the beurocratic red-tape and delays back at Castletown, was still alive, if one could ever truly be alive on the front-lines of this battle and serving on a fire-base on the Southern Front.

 

As the four friends’ thoughts of their time in battle to come became darker and darker, the evening came to a close and slowly, somberly they made their way back to their barracks…and Vance, in his dream state, departed and with various noises from the real world invading his head, began to regain consciousness as he awoke.

CHAPTER THREE

 

“Sir…Commander Vance,” came the unwelcome voice at the opening to the tent. Vance had been drifting in and out of sleep for most of the night, dreaming mostly about his days at the Academy.

 

Vance realized, not really for the first time, that he was envious of his former self, back there in a more simple and innocent time. He had enjoyed slipping away from the living nightmare that was the aftermath of the Battle of the Crossroads and the guilt that went with it and found himself unsure as to just how much he wanted to fully wake up and face reality again.

 

As he opened his eyes, he realized that it was still dark out, although not quite the pitch black of midnight. Over the shoulder of the silhouette that appeared in the opening to his tent, he could see the first streaks of light on the horizon. As he became more aware of his surroundings, he could hear the normal, almost reassuring sounds that accompanied an army waking from its nightly slumber.

 

The voice at the opening belonged to Sgt. Weston who, along with Cochrane, formed what passed for Vance’s staff. Vance supposed that, in comparison to some of the grand staffs that other commanders had, his was a little lacking. But between Cochrane’s knowledge of the land, and Weston’s experience in the field, there was little the two of them couldn’t tell Vance.

 

Vance had seen other staffs, all with a dozen men or so, each trying to outdo the other in the hopes of gaining favour with their superior officers and, of course, a promotion. Too many battles had been lost because of the politics and in-fighting that accompanied men’s ambitions.

 

Of course, Vance supposed, battles could be lost without officers having large staffs. He wondered if future generations of the same Academy scholars that he had once been a part of wouldn’t use his failings as an example of having a small staff led to just as horrendous a defeat as a large one. He rose slightly, just enough to look like he was somewhat awake and alert. He waved Weston to come inside.

 

Weston had been in the army and fighting against the Central Armies since before Vance was born, as he was fond of saying. In the three decades that he had served whoever ruled from Castletown, he had been wounded a half-dozen times. Three weeks ago, in a meaningless skirmish as part of a scouting party, one that had been sent out to gauge the advance of the Central Army, he had been wounded again, a rifle bullet in the upper-left thigh, a wound that Dr. Zavier had pronounced severe enough to keep him hospital bound in the rear for the duration of the campaign.

 

The fiery Weston, no stranger to losing his temper and the odd brawl in camp, had been livid, having to be restrained by several large troopers to keep from tearing Zavier’s head off. In the end, Vance had personally had to order Weston to remain in the rear. Only a direct order from a superior officer, that being Vance himself, had been enough to keep Weston out of the fight, and even then, he hadn’t been happy about it.

 

Vance remembered riding off that morning, watching Weston, on crutches after refusing to be bound to a hospital cot for a moment longer than necessary. Weston, in full battle dress, had stood silently, defeated and dejected as he watched his troops, his “children” he sometimes called them, march past him, off to a great battle that he wouldn’t be part of.

 

For Vance, it was almost as if he were free for the first time since taking command of the Northern Front. No longer would he have to feel as if his victories weren’t really his and that Weston was the real power behind the commander, as camp scuttlebutt sometimes went. Full of pride and determination to succeed, Vance had seen the campaign as a chance to prove that he could command this army without any help from anyone. The victory that he was assured was a matter of simply marching a few miles, attacking the invading Central Army Group Blue and then returning home to enjoy the spoils of the victory. HIS victory.

 

And now, as Vance watched Weston hobble towards his cot, the crutches gone but the limp remaining, he had to wonder what the outcome would have been had Weston been there to advise him.  Most assuredly, the aging Sergeant would have advised him against the foolhardy attack. He had been around long enough to know that simply battling the invaders to a draw, convincing them that trying to advance further would be a bloody exercise in futility, would be enough. Eventually, the Central Army would have had to fall back and regroup. The field would have been left to the Northern Front.

 

As Vance watched Weston approach, he knew what the Sergeant would never say, even though he must have no choice but to think: that Vance had proven, with the deaths of thousands of his troops, that he was not now, nor might he ever be ready to fully lead troops into battle without someone there to keep an eye out for him, to reign him in when he became too sure of himself.

 

Vance sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the cot. After a moment, Weston joined him, groaning in agony of the wounds, old and new, and the simple fact that he was nearing his 56^th birthday after spending a lifetime in battle and in the service of the Kingdom.

 

For a moment, neither man spoke. Some part of Vance wished it would stay like that forever, dreading what Weston might ask, might say, and dreading even more the sound of his own voice in reply.

 

Finally, Weston spoke, his voice low as if he didn’t want to break the silence any more than he had to.

 

“Sir…I came here because…well, I’ve heard things…you know, the way things are around an encampment. I’ve been a soldier for a long time, too long, maybe, but long enough to know how things work in a camp after a battle such as the one you and the lads just fought. You hear things that couldn’t possibly be true and things that couldn’t possibly be false. Rumours, innuendo, one man’s opinion, that kind of thing. Things that someone overheard and repeated with their own spin on it and that gets overhead by someone else, and that someone else puts their own spin on it. By the time it gets to you, it’s so twisted, you’re not sure what to believe. When the Front got back to the encampment last night, well, it didn’t take a genius to realize something was wrong and it didn’t take long for the stories to spread. Damn it, Commander, I went to take a piss and I musta heard a hundred different versions or bits of a hundred different versions just in the span of a few seconds. Stuff I didn’t believe, stuff I didn’t want to believe. Some of the things that were said, well…”

 

At that, Weston stopped, unsure as to whether to go into detail of what he had heard or overheard. Vance knew what some of the things he had heard must have been, and felt ashamed that his actions had caused such things to make their way back to the Sergeant. In the end, Weston decided to simply drop the subject and move on.

 

“Figured you must be exhausted, from that long a ride under those conditions. Most of the army’s asleep still, Commander. I hope you don’t mind, I told the bugler to delay trumpeting “rise and shine” for another half-hour, give ‘em a bit more time to sleep. And besides, I knew you probably needed some time to yourself last night. Think things over, get your head straight. But I also know that for me to be a proper aide to you, I would have to know what happened out there. So, I guess, long story short, that’s what brings me here.”

 

As Vance turned to face Weston, he saw the Sergeant looking at him, waiting, almost begging for an answer, and perhaps not just any answer, but an answer that would somehow clear up all the things he’d heard, to make all the bad things that were circulating in the wind of rumour go away. Weston wanted Vance to tell him that the situation wasn’t as bleak as it seemed, that he hadn’t failed so completely in command of the Northern Front. That they had lost the battle, taken casualties but somehow had managed to leave the field with their heads held high, having fought the good fight and all that.

 

But there would be none of that and Vance didn’t really know what he was going to say to his aide. He had known, almost from the time he mounted his horse to begin the great march from the Crossroads, that he would eventually have to have this conversation. It wasn’t something he had looked forward to and despite having a great time to think, he had never been able to figure out exactly what to say.

 

“I think you owe me that much…sir,” Weston said.

 

Vance knew that Weston was right; he was owed an explanation for what had happened at the Crossroads. But all at once, Vance felt less like a Commander having to brief a subordinate. His father had been dying for a long time before Vance was even born and had put an end to his suffering while his son was still barely an infant and so fate had spared young Vance from having to come before his father to confess to any sin or wrong-doing and then try and talk his way out of a punishment. And yet, Vance knew, at that moment, as he sat trying to come up with the words to say to Sergeant Weston, just exactly how it would have felt to have been placed in that situation. Weston, without having ever knowingly accepted the role and position, had become much more a father figure to Vance than his own father had been able to become. And now, Vance struggled, much like young men had in the face of their father’s disappointment, to find the right words to say.

 

In the end, Vance could come up with none, and so, embarrassed and humiliated more so than at any other time since the end of the battle, he simply stayed silent and turned away, even as he felt Weston grow more and more impatient in waiting for an answer.

 

Finally, Weston began to struggle to his feet, frustrated with the thought that he wasn’t going to get an answer.

 

Vance watched him, equally frustrated that he could not find the words to explain what had happened to a man he had trusted, and had, so many times before looked to for advice. In the short period of time that Vance had been commander of the Northern Front, Weston had become invaluable to the both the troops and leader of the Front and now, Vance was watching that very man walk away from him, a large portion of the trust the two had shared shattered as yet another casualty of the foolhardy attack that he, as Commander, had ordered.

 

Vance knew he had to say something…anything, to buy himself some more time to explain himself to Weston.

 

“Wait!” he cried, turning towards the departing Sergeant, but there was no burly silhouette in the tent opening. Weston was already gone, and the cry, pitiful, had come too little and too late, and was addressed to the wind that blew the flap of his tent back inside towards him.

 

And then, finally, it dawned on him, Commander Vance, in an encampment of perhaps 35 000 men and women, was truly alone.

 

 

CHAPTER FOUR

 

As the history of the War of the Lands would later chronicle, any fears that Vance, Weston, or any of the other soldiers and officers who survived the Battle of The Crossroads had about an immediate attack by the Central Army were unfounded. As he had in the immediate aftermath of the defeat, Vance continued to order regular patrols of the roads leading from the battlefield and reconnaissance of the Central Army’s positions. The troops sent on these missions all reported the same thing, that the Central Army was maintaining its positions just west of the Crossroads. They sent out patrols and reconnaissance of their own, leading to small, inconsequential firefights between the two sides, but nothing more substantial than that.

 

From what Vance could tell from the reports, the Central Army was bringing up reinforcements, much like the Northern Front was, which could mean that they expected an attack, or could be massing to move forward against the Northern Front’s encampment, in the hopes of pushing further towards Castletown.

 

Hoping to distance himself from the melancholy that threatened to engulf his very soul, Vance buried himself in his attempts to strengthen the Northern Front’s positions, in case such an attack should come.

 

Vance ensured that a defensive line, just a few miles west of the main encampment, was maintained, just in case there was an attack. He had moved several fresh artillery batteries and fresh troops into that position. It probably wouldn’t be enough to hold off a major attack by the Central Army indefinitely, but it would stall them long enough for the rest of the Northern Front troops to get up and into position.

 

In the weeks that passed since the Front’s arrival back in their encampment, life among the troops began to fall ever so slowly back into the normal routine. Those soldiers who had died from their wounds after the main body of the army had returned to camp were buried, while other wounded troopers, who had recovered under the care of Dr. Zavier and the rest of the medical staff, returned to active duty. For many who had ridden in the ambulances along the long dirt road from the Crossroads, however, they were given their honorable discharged and sent home, carrying the scars of the attack on their bodies for a lifetime.

 

Part of the Front’s tradition after a battle, as was the tradition in every Front in the Kingdom’s Army, was to formally discharge the wounded and see them off in a manner befitting their heroism and dedication to the Front and to the defense of the Kingdom. Their comrades formed an honor guard and, amid the drums and pipes of the Front’s band, said farewell to the wounded as they left the encampment.

 

The aftermath of the battle of the Crossroads was no different simply because the battle had not been the glorious victory over the Central Army that the men and women of the Northern Front had been used to in battles previous. Vance had given the order, almost distractedly, once Zavier had informed him that the majority of the wounded were able to be moved.

 

The ceremony had occurred at first light on the first day of the second week after the battle. Vance had stood atop the reviewing stand, staring out with the same hollow eyes with which he had viewed the world since the battle and the horrible moment that Weston had left his tent.

 

Weston had not spoken to Vance, except in matters of duty, since that night. Many times over the course of the previous weeks, Vance had looked up from his desk on many occasions, as movement caught his eye, expecting to see Weston returning to perhaps give his commander and friend another chance to redeem himself. But it had only been the passing of sentries and, with a renewed sense of disappointment, sorrow and frustration, Vance had gone back to his paperwork.

 

Weston had seen Vance’s silence as paramount to betrayal, as if his commander had not seen him fit to be told about what had happened on the field that terrible day. Part of him knew that Vance was dealing with the loss very personally and very badly, but he had seen defeat before. No one who fought against the Central Armies for as long as he had did not meet with defeat, but Weston believed that the measure of a good officer was in how they handled defeat, not victory.

 

As the ceremony began, Weston and Cochrane stood behind Vance on the reviewing stand. Cochrane was silent for perhaps the first time in his life, as shocked at the appearance of his commander as Weston was. Vance had not bothered to shave and now sported the rough beginnings of a full beard. His uniform, unkempt and rumpled, made him look less like the commander of an entire Front and more like an aged private, recovering from the ravages of a night out at a local tavern.

 

The rumblings that Vance should be relieved of command, which had started in something less than an earnest manner in the hours after the Northern Front had returned from the battle of the Crossroads picked up in intensity every time that Vance made an appearance in the camp, his ragged appearance winning him no supporters and further alienated him from those who had stood by him.

 

The ceremony had begun much like it had for centuries, with the assembly of the wounded with as much form and dignity as could be mustered. Many of the soldiers were confined to ambulances, or stood on crutches. In the past many a wounded trooper would snap to attention, in spite of an empty trouser leg or shirt sleeve, a life-long souvenir of battle.

 

Not today, however, the men and women who gathered today felt no inclination towards showing pride in their commander or their unit. They felt betrayed by Vance and perhaps by the entire Northern Front and the Kingdom as a whole. Many soldiers, wounded or otherwise, had grown sullen or even outraged towards their commander, the man who had ordered the foolish attack that had led them to disaster.

 

The Front’s band members, however, played as smartly as ever. The song they played, “Thanks We Can Not Express” had been written for the very beginnings of the ceremony and told of the army and the Kingdom’s desire to make these men and women whose sacrifices more than outweighed whatever thanks could be bestowed upon them aware of just how much those sacrifices meant to their comrades and Kingdom.

 

Vance barely heard the song. All he could see was the hatred in the faces of the troops that looked upon him. He was unsure how much he should fear for his life. He had ordered an honor guard for the wounded, and then ordered one for himself, although he questioned just how much protection these men, who undoubtedly had lost comrades at the battle, would give him in the case of trouble.

 

As the final notes of “Thanks We Cannot Express” began to come to an end, Vance began to fill with dread, the same dread he had felt when trying to come up with a way to explain the events of the battle to Weston days before. This was the part of the ceremony that, once, had filled him with pride. It was the commanding officer’s duty to recite a passage that had been originally read at the first Ceremony, so many years before and had been read at every ceremony after every battle since. He had done it on several occasions before, but only now was he grateful that all he had to do was recite, not come up with something on his own. He could do it almost from memory without thinking.

 

With silence falling over the encampment, Vance began to recite:

 

“A commander is nothing without his troops. To lead men and women into battle is a horrible thing, for it means to ask your brethren to lay down their lives for you, in the hopes of victory. After every battle, we may celebrate victory but we must also mourn those who can not be there with us. We must also look to those who made other sacrifices, and would still fight on. Instead, we say thank you to those men and women who gave their bodies in the fight for freedom for us and for our children. We say thank you to you all…”

”And we say to hell with you right back, you murdering monster!”

 

The curse stopped Vance in his tracks. He had heard muttering and whispered comments throughout his speech, but the final cry had been so loud as to not be ignored.

 

It came from a man, a patch covering one eye, who stood in the midst of the crowd. However, rather than hoping his location might hide him from discovery, he hoped to use it to get those around him riled up as well. His hunch worked as soon others began to shout as well.

 

However, none of them were able to drown out the man.

 

“He cost me my eye, but all it really did was make sure I could only see him half as often, so I guess I got the real present,” the man cried, to the bitter amusement of those around him. “But my friends weren’t so lucky. Many of them died before the Central Army’s guns and now lie rotting back at the Crossroads. Many more will carry reminders of his incompetence for years to come.”

 

The crowd around the man had similar tales to tell. More and more Northern Front troops, wounded or not, chimed in with similar tales. Finally, Vance knew that he had to have some kind of order restored.

 

“Honor Guards,” he bawled. “Disperse this crowd.”

None of the Guards looked as if they wanted to lift so much as a finger to protect their commander. Almost begrudgingly, they moved in to keep the crowd away from the reviewing stand. Some even ordered the drivers of the ambulances to move out. The ceremony, a tradition carried on for centuries by the army, had come to an abrupt end.

 

Those wounded who were able to walk, stormed out of the encampment, most at the urging of the Guard and even concerned comrades who did not want any more tragedy to come of this.

 

The man with the eye patch, the one who had ignited the incident, was restrained by two burly Guardsmen, but while they muscled him out of the encampment, they could not keep him from crying out his anger.

 

“The people at home will not be fooled for long. There were witnesses, and we shall make sure that the citizens of this land know the full story of the Crossroads.”

 

Vance knew that to be true, knew that eventually these wounded would make their way home, as would the letters to next of kin. A kingdom of grieving families would call for action.

 

As the ceremony came to a decidedly inglorious ending, Vance no longer felt the need to stand before his troops. He rushed from the reviewing stand, glancing into the disappointed face of Sgt. Weston. For a moment, Vance paused. He stood before his old friend and comrade, struggling once again for the words that might mend the vast gap that existed between the two men, and once again Vance could find nothing, no way to repair the damage. An instant later, he moved on, the rumble of the disturbance barely fading away at all the further he got from its source.

 

As he had for so many hours in the last few weeks, he retired to his tent. He had heard the men and women under his command mock him for “hiding”, but he no longer cared. They had made their opinion of him known and he knew that there was little he could do to change that opinion. He was simply waiting to be relieved or arrested or whatever the King decided was the appropriate punishment for his failure. He only hoped that the official punishment came before the troops gathered here in this camp decided to take matter into their own hands.

 

As dusk neared that night, Vance became aware of a commotion outside of his tent, virtually his entire world in the days since the return from the Crossroads.

 

For a moment he wondered if perhaps this was the lynch mob coming to get him. Pushing that thought out of his mind after he realized it wasn’t that much of a commotion, he paid no mind after the simple act of recognizing it. He was much more content to simply sit on the edge of his cot, falling in and out of consciousness as he prepared to sleep for the night.

 

A moment later, the flap of his tent opened and there stood Sergeant Weston. His wound had subsided to the point where he could walk with no more of a limp that he had always walked with. For a brief moment, Vance wondered if this was finally the opportunity he had been waiting and, he realized, praying for. Had Weston come to give him one more chance to make amends, to explain his actions at the Crossroads and in the days since then?

 

Vance all but leaped to his feet, mentally preparing the things he should have said days before. He looked expectantly at Weston, waiting for the Sergeant to speak, to give him the opening he needed to apologize finally and explain all.

 

“Couple of guests have arrived,” was all Vance got instead.

 

“Send ‘em in,” he replied with a nod. Crestfallen, he watched Weston leave, another opportunity missed, pausing only to hold the tent open for these new arrivals.

 

The first of these “guests” strode into Vance’s tent, and Vance knew right off what this man, an officer a couple of years older than Vance, was and what he represented. He was the replacement that Vance had been expecting.

 

Ordering his aides, an even dozen by Vance’s quick estimation, to take their leave, the officer snapped to attention, a show of respect despite being the same rank as Vance.

 

“Commander Gideon Riley, here with your orders from Castletown,” Riley exclaimed. Vance gave him the once over and nearly laughed in the man’s face. He had obviously been commanding a desk or perhaps even the vaunted Academy itself. His uniform, although somewhat wilted by a hard ride of a week or so, resembled that which might be found in an Academy brochure. Cadet Master Sully would have been proud. Riley’s boots might have been spit-shined that very hour.

 

Only after the once-over did Vance realize that Riley had an envelope, and a rather official one at that in his hand.  Of course, Vance reminded himself, my orders. Vance half-heartedly took the envelope and began to tear it open.

 

“I can spare you the suspense, Commander,” Riley said. “You are to leave for Castletown at once. King Heth wishes to discuss your actions at the battle of the Crossroads.”

 

“Oh, he does, does he?” Vance replied, trying to keep the venom out of his voice. No sense digger any larger a grave than he already had. It must have worked, Vance thought. Riley stood at rigid attention, the same stupid smile that he had walked in with still plastered all over his face.

 

“Yes sir, Commander,” Riley replied. “I am to take command of the Front effective immediately. The letter says that, but in far more elaborate detail, written up, I’m sure, by one of the King’s aides, and makes it official.”

 

Vance stared down at the envelope, torn but not opened, in his hand. Now that Riley had told him what the letter was all about, he felt no real need to read it. He gave it a light toss onto his…or was it now Riley’s…desk.

 

“Well then, that’s that,” Vance said. “Sgt. Weston and Lieutenant Cochrane will be fine additions to your staff. I’d appreciate it if you’d take them on as part of your contingent. Weston has been with this outfit for well…forever, to hear him speak, and Cochrane has managed to find out just about everything as far as the geography of the Front goes. I daresay he knows every nook and cranny of this area like the back of his hand.”

 

Riley nodded. “Understood and noted. I will be needing men like that. It will make the transition that much easier.”

 

Riley paused, unsure of what else that needed to be said.

 

“If you’d like to spend a last night in your quarters, you could say your goodbyes in the morning, perhaps…”

 

“No,” Vance interjected, so strongly that for the first time, Riley’s smile faltered just a tad. Vance almost considered that a victory against the man who was replacing him. “It’s best if I leave now. In the morning, you can start fresh and you’ll come in as your own man, rather than having any ties to me.”

 

Not only was Riley’s smile faltering now, it was gone completely, replaced by a puzzled frown. “I’m not sure I understand, sir.”

 

For a moment, Vance was just as puzzled as Riley seemed to be. Shrugging it off, Vance gathered his sword and uniform jacket under one arm. Managing to snatch a mess kit under the same arm, he figured that would be all he would need or want from his belongings. He used his free arm to pat Riley, reassuringly, on the shoulder.

 

“Oh, you will, Commander, you will.”

 

With that, Vance left the tent. His horse was reined up just a few dozen steps outside. Donning his jacket and sword, then stowing his mess kit in one of the saddlebags, he mounted the horse and began his journey.

 

He rode briskly through the encampment. He was sure that he would probably not beat the news of his departure but his exit was quick enough that none of his former command made any show of how happy they were to see him leave.

 

It was only when he was a mile or two out of camp that he reigned in his horse and looked back for one last glance of the encampment. By now, he knew, the scuttlebutt among the troops would have spread the news of his departure to just about every soldier in the Northern Front, with the balance of those troopers being informed at first light.

 

Earlier in his military career, he had hoped that his departure from an encampment he commanded would be one of ceremony, with his troops coming out en mass say a tearful goodbye, and wish him well. Instead, here he was fleeing their wrath like a thief in the night.

 

Continuing on his journey, Vance damned the fates and the fix he found himself in.

 

CHAPTER FIVE

 

Vance’s long, lonely trek along the desolate dirt roads that ran from the Northern Front’s encampment to Castletown took him just over a week, eight full days in fact, to traverse. As Vance’s horse struggled with its footing along these well-worn trails, he realized with no small amount of bitter amusement that no more than a couple of weeks prior, he, as the Commander of the Front, might have been outraged at the condition of these roads, the prime route of reinforcements to the Front. The better the roads, he would have argued, the easier the troops could travel, a minor point that would become of utmost importance in case of an emergency.

 

Now, he shook his head… He hated to appear, even to himself, this vain, as though his personal failings and the upcoming, still unknown consequences of those failings should outweigh the circumstances that were occurring daily in the seemingly never-ending war between the forces of his Kingdom and those of the Central Army.

 

Still, Vance knew that he would never again be in a position to tell anyone about the condition of these roads, nor would his voice carry any weight when it came to important decisions about troop movements and reinforcements.

 

Eight days since he had left the encampment. A long time for a man to spend alone with his thoughts, and that’s exactly what Vance had done as his horse moved toward that far-off destination of Castletown. In a hurry, he could have made this dreaded journey in half that time, but Vance had seen no reason to hurry towards whatever was waiting for him at his meeting with King Heth. He wanted to put off the inevitable for as long as he could.

 

The most he could hope for was an unceremonious drumming out of the Army and a life of living as an outcast, albeit a rather infamous outcast, in some obscure village on the edge of the world.

 

As he crossed through that imaginary line on the map that separated the Northern Front and the Eastern Front, or the Home Front as it was so widely referred to as that it was labeled as such on some maps, Vance looked towards the Abscal Mountains and wondered if he could find a small cabin or hovel in the uppermost peaks of one of these mountains and never be heard from again. Maybe that’s what he’d end up doing anyways.

 

Growing up, he had heard stories, rumours that could be disregarded as just old wife’s tales really, of people, sometimes families and on rare occasions, even entire clans, outcasts all of them for one reason or another, who had disappeared into those hills and mountains and had never been heard from again, save for the occasional sighting.

 

As Vance rode along, his memories took him back to when he was but a mere child of five or six and had overheard some idle boasting by an uncle of his who claimed that on a scouting mission he had caught sight of a small band of them. Mountain People, he had called them and had talked of this scruffy group of primitive Neanderthal-like people who had been out feasting on the decomposing flesh of a dead horse before scurrying away, almost on all fours, and back into the forest when he had fired a shot over their heads.

 

It was a sort of bittersweet memory when he remembered his mother rebuking the uncle for telling such stories in front of a young and impressionable Vance. Vance had always assumed that this was just his uncle’s way of scaring his nephew and those other children gathered around, listening in awe and fear. Vance, of course, had tried to act the brave soul, doing his own bit of boasting that he’d not fear the Mountain People if they ever were unfortunate to cross paths with him. Secretly, however, the young Vance would have been just as happy never having to prove his courage before these primitive monsters.

 

And now, as he found himself faced with not only meeting up with these Mountain People, but perhaps living like one, Vance wondered if the tale was true, if any of his uncle’s story had but a bit of fact to it. Still, it was common knowledge that there were people living in those hills, all hiding from something or another, it was assumed. Vance wondered just how much of the outside world they knew about. Many of them were probably deserters or disgraced former army officers, like he was about to become, so they must know at least something about the War of the Lands, but certainly, all he would have to do is ditch his officer’s overcoat and strip his uniform of any distinguishing marks or badges and he could probably fade away from the rest of the world forever.

 

Hours went by where he toyed with the idea of turning his horse off the long road towards Castletown and ride into those mountains and disappear. While humiliation and ridicule were certainly the best future he could hope for, they were not the only ones. He envisioned himself languishing away in some prison for the rest of his days, or perhaps Heth had already signed his death warrant and was simply waiting to turn his return to Castletown into a public execution, as some sort of warning to his other commanders not to gamble so foolishly with the lives of the men and women they led into battle for the Kingdom.

 

Heth could probably kill two birds with one stone. Make an example out of Vance so as to serve as a warning to others and with the help of his public relations people, he could turn the execution into a public spectacle, where Castletown’s residents could come out and watch, as a way to boost morale and, by charging admission, raise revenue to continue the war effort.

 

Vance knew that his mind was slipping, more and more for every inch of dirt track that he trekked. As he rode along in the desolate countryside, his stomach slowly tying itself into knots, his mind continued to dream up unbelievable scenarios that even he knew could not possibly come to pass, and yet there they were, playing themselves out in his mind’s eye, each one more horrible and unbelievable than the last.

 

And all the while, Vance wondered just what foolishness was keeping him on that road. In the end, he decided that whatever destiny awaited him in Castletown, he would at least be remembered for riding bravely to his fate, rather than running like a coward to hide for his remaining days.

 

And yet, whatever ideas of gallantry he had for facing his demise seemed to vanish at the mere sight of the capital. The majestic pillars that marked King Heth’s castle loomed closer and, it seemed, more intimidating and ominous with each stride his horse made.

 

Presently, Vance found himself entering the outskirts of Castletown. The “Outers” lived here, peasants too poor to afford even the shabbiest of abodes within the castle walls. Many of them were descendents of those settlers who had, years and even generations before, been uprooted when the battle lines of the war shifted east and drove them from their homes. Depending on how prosperous they had been, some of those who fled to Castletown were able to find housing inside the walls of the capital, the rest…well, the rest become “Outers”.

 

Over the years, the Outers had constructed a veritable miniature city just beyond the formidable brick and mortar walls that surrounded the castle. Anything that was deemed useable to keep out the rain and sleet and other elements were used to build the shanties that housed the Outers. Growing up in an affluent family, Vance had been groomed to look down upon and fear these Outers. Long had he been warned to stay within the kingdom walls and away from anyone who even remotely resembling an Outer.

 

How many times had the term “Outer” been used on the streets inside the Kingdom as a derogatory remark passed between feuding citizens? Even Vance himself had called an unpopular classmate an Outer during a ball game or two when that chum had made a critical error.

 

Even when he left to join the Northern Front, he had dreaded passing through Outer territory as he began his long journey to his new command. He could still see the variety of looks on the faces of the Outers as he rode down the worn dirt tracks that passed for roads. A few of them had a look of awe to them, as if they were impressed by his fine new uniform, hardly creased at all. A few of the older Outers, who had undoubtedly served in the King’s Army during their younger days, tried, with varying degrees of success, to snap to and salute the passing officer. Several more outers, sneered at him, as if envisioning what they hoped would happen to the departing officer, that a Central Army bullet might end his life at the first opportunity.

 

“Perhaps it might have been better if they’d gotten their wish,” Vance thought bitterly.

 

Outers were not barred from enlisting in the service of the King and, in fact, many did in the hopes of finding a better life than that of an “Outer”. The military offered, at least, the promise of three square meals a day, something that wasn’t always a guarantee back in the shanty town outside the walls of Castletown.

 

During his time at the Front, Vance had come to know quite a few Outers who had enlisted and had served in the front lines. He was shamed to admit that he was shocked to find that, far from being the illiterate ogres that urban legends had made them out to be, these Outers had made fine soldiers, a few had even become heroes and officers.

 

Many had been killed at the Crossroads, of that there was no doubt, and for that, Vance had even more reason to fear his trek through their territory as he returned to Castletown. If the news had spread back to Castletown about the disaster, no doubt that many an Outer family had received word of the death of a loved one. Vance wondered if he’d be allowed to make it within the walls of Castletown alive or even in one piece. Perhaps these Outers would perform an invaluable service to King Heth and save him the trouble of figuring out the appropriate punishment.

 

And with each step his horse took, he was one step closer to finding out the answer to that question. And with each step, Vance thought again of reigning in his horse and fleeing.

 

Vance’s remaining reserves of courage continued to hold as he began to enter Outers territory. He tried to stare straight ahead, believing that keeping a low profile might be the best thing for him. He spurred his horse to pick up the pace, yet not too much as to attract attention.

 

He kept waiting for a cry of some crazed Outer announcing his attack run on Vance and his horse. After a few moments of playing that scenario over in his head, much as he had done with the fears of what would happen when he finally faced King Heth, Vance decided that he should take a look around, “scout the territory” so to speak, so that if someone did decide to attack, he might have a better chance of fending off the attack.

 

As he did so, he got his first real glimpse at the Outers, something he had barely even done as a child and used to take split-second looks at the hovels and shanties they lived in. Mostly, he had only done so only when his playmates had dared him to peak through one of the small holes that dotted the walls that surrounded and protected Castletown. As a child, however, he hadn’t been brave enough to look at the Outers too long for, it was widely known on the playgrounds of the city, that Outers could turn children into toads with a mere glance. That didn’t stop from Vance from proving his bravery to his school chums by taking quick peeks through those small holes, or from daring others to do the same.

 

The Outer Territory was sparsely populated, really. With most of the adult males and females off serving in the King’s Army (really the only successful way for these people to earn any kind of living and, perhaps a way out of their meager existence), the residents were mostly mothers caring for young children, a few men who had undoubtedly served and been wounded in battle and had been sent home, and a couple of elderly men who had done the same a generation or two before.

 

A woman stood over a cauldron, mixing some kind of stew that would serve as the noon meal. After a moment, she turned to loudly reprimand her two young children who were running noisily in circles around the pot. She might have been pretty once, but years of living in Outer Territory had worn away her youth and beauty. Vance wondered where her husband was, and wondered if he was now lying in the fields surrounding the Crossroads.

 

Turning his head, he watched two old men, one missing an arm, sit on stools outside one’s shanty, talking in mumbled voices about a subject that Vance couldn’t discern.

 

Vance continued to ride towards the gates of Castletown. All was quiet in Outer’s territory but that didn’t mean that one glance, one thought, couldn’t disrupt the serenity.

 

Just as he warned himself that something still might happen, it did. Recognition.

 

“Commander Vance?” came the cry. Vance spun around in his saddle, trying to find the source. It was a young boy, one of the children that belonged to woman working over the cauldron. Vance supposed that, like many boys his age, he was fascinated by all things military. Vance remembered reading with great interest the tales that the newspapers told of battles won and lost. All it would take was one photo of him in uniform to burn an image into this child’s young mind.

 

“Commander Vance!” the boy repeated, louder, more sure of himself this time. In turning round in the saddle, Vance had given the boy a clear look at him, enough to remove all doubt.

 

Vance wanted to shush the boy, but at the youngster’s cry, the inhabitants of Outer Territory turned to see what was happening. The woman and her other child, the old men talking, as well as perhaps a dozen or so men and women who had been busy with other chores and activities now stopped what they were doing to see what the boy had been yelling about. Vance supposed that anything out of the ordinary might be cause for some excitement in an otherwise dull existence.

 

The boy was now just a few steps away from Vance’s horse. He was soon followed by the rest of the inhabitants within earshot. Vance suddenly realized that he was now surrounded by this mob which was on the verge of doing who knows what to him.

 

Was this their way of gaining vengeance against this man who undoubtedly been responsible for the deaths of so many loved ones? In his mind, Vance could see himself being pulled from his horse and torn to bits.

 

His mind racing, Vance weighed his options and realized he had few. There were now too many of them, and they were closing in on him. There was no way he could spur his horse and charge his way through them. The path between himself and the relative safety of Castletown was now congested by the onslaught of Outers. Still, Vance wondered if he should still try to make a break for it and at least go down fighting.

 

And then, just as he was about to spur his horse and see how far he could get before being overwhelmed, he saw the expression on the people’s faces. They were smiling, some were even cheering. The outstretched hands that reached for him were patting him on the leg and his horse’s flanks.

 

“We heard about the Crossroads!” exclaimed one man. “Good show.”

 

“Good show?” Vance wondered what that meant. A total disaster where thousands had died in a fruitless attack was hardly what he would have described as a “good show”.

 

“Way to hit those Central Army buzzocks!” came another cry, this from an older woman who was instantly embarrassed by the outburst. A few people around her laughed, obviously agreeing with her, if not quite willing to word their feelings so.

 

To Vance, this was most confusing. If news of the battle had reached Castletown and even into Outer’s territory, certainly this response was the furthest thing from what he expected. As the accolades and congratulations continued, Vance knew he must make some kind of response.

 

Taking off his campaign hat and raising it above his head, Vance could only reply “Thank you. Thank you” as vigorously for he knew not what else to say. As he did so, his mind reeled at what explanation there might be for all of this.

 

After a few moments, Vance did spur his horse gently and began to move on slowly, and eventually, almost reluctantly, the Outers before him began to disperse before him, clearing his way towards the gates of Castletown. The crowd that had gathered remained with him for several hundred yards, a few right up until the gates of Castletown.

 

The gates were manned by two heavily armed, colorfully decorated Palace Guards. “Two of the top cadets from the Academy, no doubt.” Vance remarked to himself, remembering his own tenure as a Guard during the latter days at the Academy. It was considered quite a privilege, for those two Guards were the first to receive any visitors to Castletown.

 

Both Guards immediately snapped to and saluted Vance as he approached. As he drew closer, one marched smartly over to Vance while the other signaled for the gates to be opened.

 

“Commander Vance, you are ordered to report to King Heth’s castle at once, where you will be received by the King,” the Guard reported. Vance nodded, expecting such a message upon his arrival.

 

He watched at the tall gates crept open. As he sat there, astride his horse, he wondered whether the reception in Outers’ Territory was simply a fluke. Perhaps news of the disaster had not spread beyond the walls yet. That seemed highly unlikely. Certainly any news that was widespread among the citizens of Castletown would have spread to the Outers in short order. That thought simply made the Outers’ reaction all that much more curious.

 

With the gates now open, Vance could see inside the confines of Castletown, even as his horse moved through the gates into the city. There seemed to be no great malaise hanging over the city the way there had been in the aftermath of other great defeats, those that Vance remembered hearing about during his days as a Cadet and as a youth.

 

The townspeople were going about their daily business, much like they had on the day he had left for the front and, Vance supposed, the way they had for generations. The merchants that sold their goods along the streets bellowed out their daily specials while their customers haggled over the price of meat and vegetables. The more religious members of Castletown society somberly sauntered towards one of the cities many churches through the same crowded streets where young boys played the same ball games that Vance had played when he was a lad of their age, and dreamed of going off to war and glory.

 

Vance sneered at those dreams now. He had seen enough to know that war was not so much about glory and honor as it was simply about survival. But he knew that the boys he saw would continue to dream about mythical battles and warriors until it was their turn to march off to war.

 

Vance saw those men who had gone off to war and realized that those boyhood dreams were as foolish and naïve as the lads who had dreamt them. He saw the scarred, battered elders who sat together in the cafes, playing checkers or battle chess. He had seen them growing up, these men with their missing limbs or patched eyes. He had heard them mumble about battles lost and friends lost. But until now, he had just considered them insane old men who time had passed by. Now he realized that he had more in common with them than the lads he watched. He, like the old men, knew what those young boys didn’t.

 

He rode along the cobbled streets of Castletown, past the stone houses where friends, long since dead in battle, had lived, where he might have once had lunch after a long morning’s play. He wondered how many houses grief had visited in the past few days, grief caused by the terrible losses suffered at the Crossroads.

 

He had been keeping a low profile since he entered Castletown. He wasn’t sure why he had received little less than a hero’s welcome from the people of the Outskirts, but he wasn’t about to play with fire. With his campaign hat pulled down over his eyes and his collar pulled up, he was trying to show as little of his face as possible, for fear of recognition. He noticed that there were many soldiers passing through the streets on horseback, and he hoped that anyone taking notice of him would just assume he was simply just another soldier, home on leave or called to Castletown on some sort of official business.

 

He thought he might have fooled everyone until he felt a tug at his sleeve. He looked down to see a  fat, bearded runt of a man who looked like he belonged to one of those crazy religions that was always starting up this month or next, making its followers undertake some absurd style of dress. Vance was about to tell this gentleman to be off with himself when the man spoke.

 

“Commander Highland?”

 

Suddenly, this funny-looking fellow became of deadly consequences to Vance. His cover could be on the verge of being blown, here in the middle of a crowd of several hundred people. All with the wrong word or look to this man.

 

Vance leaned over in his saddle to whisper to this man. “What is it you want?”

The man’s eyebrows, bushier than most normal men’s should be, shot up in surprise.

 

“It is you.” the man exclaimed in a terse whisper. “I barely recognized you, what with the hat pulled down.”

 

“What is it that you…,”Vance began to ask, only to be interrupted.

 

“There is no time to explain.” The man replied. “We must get you out of here.”

 

With that, the man grabbed Vance’s horse’s reigns and, with all his might, began to lead Vance towards a deserted alley some yards away. Vance had no idea what was about to happen.

 

Was this man some crazed nut who was leading Vance to his own murder? Was he a Samaritan who realized what the discovery of Vance’s existence on a busy street could lead to a riot among the grieving loved ones of the soldiers he had led to their deaths?

 

Vance wasn’t sure but he knew that making a scene would only ensure that those who wished to do him harm would get their chance in broad daylight. He was certain he could overpower this little man if need be. He just had to hope that the man didn’t have too many friends waiting in the alley.

 

As it happened, Vance’s fears of meeting up with a gang were unfounded. The alley that the man had led him into was deserted, save for some crates and junk. The man led Vance’s horse for several dozen paces in silence before halting his journey.

 

“Perhaps it would be better, Commander, if you dismounted,” the man said. “On horseback, you attract too much attention. Even disguised as you were, people will stop and stare at least for a few seconds. Eventually, someone will need only that to recognize you. Once that happens…”

 

Vance nodded, for he understood all too well just what would happen if he was recognized. In an instant he had dismounted from his horse. Almost from the moment his boots hit the pavement of the alley, the man who might be his benefactor or the cause of his eventual demise was tugging at his sleeve, wanting him to move forward towards some yet-unknown destination. Despite his persistence, however, he was no match for Vance’s strength. Deciding that he wanted some answers and was prepared to move not one inch in the man’s intended direction, Vance abruptly tore his sleeve from the man’s grasp.

 

Vance declared, in a voice he hoped would not carry out into the street, “I go not one step more until you tell me what the meaning of all this is.”

 

To his credit, this funny-looking man barely blinked at Vance’s demand. In fact, if anything, he looked almost apologetic.

 

”Of course, Commander, you are entitled to an explanation,” The man said.

 

Bowing slightly, the man continued. “First of all, please allow me to introduce myself. I am Gerome, first aide to both King Heth and General Sully, the new military consultant to the King.”

 

Vance was taken aback by this. He had not heard of former Cadet Master Sully’s ascension to the rank of General, much less his assignment to military consultant to the King. Of course, word of events at home, especially something as a military appointment, traveled slowly to the front lines of the Northern Front. Vance wished the same for news in the reverse direction, for then he might not have found himself in the situation he found himself presently in, a situation that was becoming ever more puzzling.

 

To Vance, Sully would always be the tough-as-nails cadet master from the Academy. In his mind, Sully would remain at the Academy through time and memoriam, bawling out marching orders to the new recruits, dressing down plebes for offensives real and imagined. To think he was now advising the King almost made Vance want to laugh at the image of Sully screaming orders to King Heth.

 

On the other hand, Vance wasn’t sure whether to be proud that his former mentor had risen so high or to be ashamed that one of the man’s first acts would have to be to deal with Vance’s failings.

 

Oblivious that Vance’s mind was wandering, Gerome continued to speak, “General Sully sent me here to ensure that you were delivered unharmed for a royal audience with the King. King Heth, of course, wishes to meet with you so that both of you may discuss your actions at the battle of the Crossroads.”

 

With that, Vance’s stomach dropped into the deepest recesses of his gut. The King wished to call him on the carpet for his failure. His dismissal from His Majesty’s Service was going to be inglorious and humiliating indeed.

 

He had expected to simply be raked over the coals by some official, on orders from the King, perhaps in some private dungeon deep in the bowels of Castletown where none of the public would have to bear witness, before being stripped of his rank and privilege and banished from Castletown forever. Even as his mind had dreamed up all sorts of horrible alterations on that theme on the journey from the encampment he had devised a plan where he would change his name and perhaps reenlist as a private in some backwater part of the front. It appeared to Vance as if the King and his advisers had thought of that eventuality as well, and were ready to ensure that he would never be able to live down or escape the disgrace that he had brought upon himself, his command and his country through his failure at the Crossroads.

 

Gerome still seemed oblivious to all of this. He waited patiently for Vance to follow him. Vance could do little more than take one deep breath and to fall in behind the strange little man as he headed towards the King’s Castle.

 

CHAPTER SIX

 

Even as Captain Lorraine McRae raised her rifle, she knew she wasn’t going to get much of an accurate shot. The pain that screamed through her left shoulder would play havoc with her accuracy for the next few weeks, if she survived that long, of course.

 

Still, she could see dark shapes moving in the tree line that lay a few hundred yards from her position. Taking a shot in the general direction of those shapes might knock one of them off, and that would mean one less Central Army soldier that would be in the attack that was sure to be coming at any time.

 

 

She’d never know, of course, whether she hit anything. She took the shot and, her shoulder on fire, dived back behind the cover provided by some sandbags. She didn’t hear any shots whizzing over her head, so she assumed they had better things to do than return fire.

 

“Like planning their next attack,” she thought bitterly.

 

It was no big secret that an attack was being prepared. The Central Army had been attacking her camp several times a day for nearly three months, ever since they had over-run three similar encampments to the north and south and all but encircled Lorraine and her fellow troopers. She wondered just how long she and the rest of her company could hold out. Nearly every man and woman in the company had been wounded; some, like herself, several times.

 

She thanked the Maker that it was she only had one wound that really hurt her today. Maybe, just maybe, she could count on perhaps getting a few hours of sleep tonight if the Central Army cooperated and kept their attacks to daylight hours. A couple of weeks ago, after being wounded in the thigh by a stray piece of shrapnel, the pain had been so great that she could not even sleep save for passing out for an hour or two.

 

The wound in her shoulder had come at the height of a Central Army attack. One of the advancing enemy had taken pretty good aim, she had to give them that, and drilled a bullet into her. She had to laugh now, a bitter laugh though it was, at what a sight she must have been. As the bullet slammed into her shoulder, the force was enough to spin her around and drop her to the ground. She must have resembled a drunken ballerina attempting to do one two many spineroonies before toppling over into a heap, which is where Lorraine had ended up.

 

She prided herself on what her first thoughts had been after she had been hit. The pain in her shoulder, although seering like someone had stuck a hot needle in her, had been secondary. Her first instinct was to get back to her feet, grab her rifle, which thankfully had not been damaged, and plug the hole in her portion of the line. Within a moment or two of being hit, she was back firing into the oncoming Central Army attack, albeit without as much accuracy as before.

 

Thankfully, there was now simply a dull ache in her thigh, and her shoulder only hurt when she lifted her rifle. Of course, that was approximately a couple of times every hour or so during lulls in the fighting, but constantly when the attacks came.

 

She poked her head up over her position. The troopers behind the tree line were still moving, a little too freely for Lorraine’s liking. As she fired once more into the trees, she saw a few dark forms scatter for cover, but heard no cries of pain. She damned her bad aim, as she had hoped to get rid of at least one of the opposing army’s number. Still, from what she could tell, the shot had ended up in the general vicinity of where she had wanted it to go. A morale victory, perhaps?

 

At the recoil from her shot died out, she dropped back behind her hastily and rather poorly constructed cover. Still it would do. She exhaled, trying to catch her breath. The pain in her shoulder made everything seem more laborious that it might have otherwise have been. With no return fire to duck and cover from and no attack coming as yet, she figured she could relax for a moment.

 

She fished inside her tunic and retrieved a weathered old photo. Even before she looked at it, she knew exactly what she would see. It was a photo taken a long time ago, another lifetime as far as Lorraine was concerned. She looked down and saw herself and her former lover, Dmitri, in an embrace. The photo was taken at the Graduates’ Dance at the Academy, in one of the last night’s they spent together before they, and Cutter and Vance, had all marched off to war.

 

She steeled herself for the flood of emotion that would undoubtedly rush over her. She wasn’t sure why she chose to look at the old, worn, faded photograph every now and again when there was a lull in the fighting. Perhaps it was simply to remind herself that she had known a life before the fighting and maybe there would be a day when she would not constantly be in danger of catching a Central Army bullet.

 

“Dmitri, you might just have been the luckiest of us all,” she said, in a whisper, “but damn you for leaving me behind.”

 

The memories were never the same. Each time she looked at the old photo, it seemed as if she remembered a different time. Sometimes it was the first time they met, so many years ago when they were both just young cadets, sometimes it was the first time they had made love, other times it was the nights they had stayed up talking about what would happen to them in the future.

 

This time however, she remembered the last time she had seen him. Dmitri had arranged a furlough and the romantic bastard had trekked all the way to the Southern Front to see her.

 

She could still remember being on a patrol that night when she had noticed a dark figure lurking in the shadows of the perimeter.

“Halt!” she had cried, “Identify yourself.”

 

The figure in the dark had come forward, ever so slowly, to the point where Lorraine, suspicious of every noise in the night, had leveled her weapon in the general direction of this possible enemy intruder.

 

“Stay where you are and identify yourself,” she had ordered once more. With that the figure had indeed stood his ground. Finally, he/she/it spoke to her.

 

“Captain Dmitri Jordan, officer of the Western Front and Castletown Academy graduate.”

 

It had taken a moment for Lorraine to fully comprehend what the other had said, to wrap her mind around the full implications of the words just spoken. As she stood there, mouth agape, Dmitri had finally stepped out of the shadows.

 

It all seemed surreal, as if perhaps she had fallen asleep on her feet and was dreaming all of this. Throwing those doubts to the wind, she dropped her rifle to the ground and rushed to him. He pulled her to him, sweeping her off her feet. Their mouths met in a frantic kiss, and suddenly their months apart vanished in an instance.

 

She was crying as they parted, she realized. She had been dreaming of that moment for weeks, thought it might never come, that the war might separate them forever. And yet, here he was, before her. Before she could say anything, before he could say anything, she hugged him tightly, as much to reassure herself this wasn’t imaginary as to hold him.

 

“Damn it, I could have shot you,” she said to finally break the silence. An instant later, almost as soon as the words had flown away and silence returned, she felt foolish. Months apart, and that was how she greeted him. It was true, however, she had come close to firing a round in at least the general direction of the dark shadowy figure that had been approaching her position. If her aim had been off or if she had been startled or if he had suddenly moved…well, she didn’t want to think about that.

 

If he was worried over thoughts of the same fateful possibilities that she had just entertained, he didn’t show it. Instead, he laughed at her fears, the way he had sometimes back in the Academy, but only at the silliest of those fears. She knew that Dmitri would never ridicule her if her fears were justified.

 

 

“But you didn’t,” Dmitri assured her, “that’s the important thing.”

 

“What are you doing here?” she demanded, deciding not to let him off that easy after just showing up here, hundreds of miles from where she had expected him to be. In truth, she was just so overwhelmed that joy didn’t begin to describe what she felt.

 

“I had a furlough coming, decided I could either go back to Castletown and pine over you, worry about you the way I always do whenever I have time to think about anything but self-preservation,” Dmitri explained, the cheerfulness draining from his face and momentarily being replaced by misery, “Or I could make my way South in the hopes of finding you and making sure that at least for one night, you were safe.”

 

She could see him fighting for control of his emotions as he spoke. In a flash, he had pulled her to him once more, embracing her as much to assure himself that she was really there and in one piece, just as she had a moment before.

 

Retrieving her rifle, she had led Dmitri to a nearby tree, where they sat and kissed and talked and eventually argued over her being in the front lines.

 

“We’ve had this conversation before, Dmitri,” Lorraine had told him, “and I feel stronger now than I did when we were at the Academy. I serve a purpose here.”

“But back home,” Dmitri had begun before Lorraine cut him off.

 

“Back home, I would simply be another clerk in some office. Here…here, at least I feel like I’m helping our Kingdom, not just waiting to see if the Central Army shows up on our doorstep one morning.”

 

Dmitri was frustrated, as he always had been whenever he knew he was losing this particular battle. He got to his feet abruptly and began to pace before her, struggling with what to say, trying to find the right words, the right argument that might finally persuade Lorraine to leave the Southern Front and return to the safety of Castletown.

 

“Lorraine, when you’ve seen the things that I have seen in the West. The carnage, the horror, the inhumanity that we both inflict and have inflicted upon us…”

 

Again, Lorraine interrupted, jumping to her feet, a flash of anger threatening to overcome her. “Now look here, this Southern Front has been the site of just as much fighting at the West has. I have seen more than my share of that carnage and inhumanity that you speak of…”

 

And now it was Dmitri who interrupted, his voice breaking, “But you don’t know what it’s like, every time I come across a fallen comrade, I wonder ‘is this what fate awaits Lorraine?’!”

 

“But I do, I do know what it’s like,” Lorraine admitted, as much to herself for the first time as to her lover, “I imagine that you might come to the same horrific end as the dead I see on the field.”

 

With a flurry, she turned her back to him. Stood off to one side, anger and sorrow mixing in equal parts in the tears that streamed down her cheek. A moment passed between them. Neither one knew what more to say. Finally Dmitri found the words. He came to her, turned her to him and held her.

 

“My love,” he said, softly, in a tender whisper, “We have so little time together. I should not make you spend it defending yourself to me. I shall worry about you every day we are in this war, as I know you shall for me.”

 

And with that, his quarrel with her remaining on the front lines of this conflict they both served in vanished if not forever, at least for the time being.

 

When she had awoken the next morning, he was already awake, lying next to her and staring up at the sky above them. She could sense that a dark cloud had passed over him.

 

“What is it?” she asked, that same dark cloud affecting her now as well, “What troubles you?”

 

Without a word, he had risen from the bed they had shared and gone to his tunic pocket. From it he had withdrawn the same gold ring she had always seen him wear, ever since she had known him.

 

He looked at it a moment then returned to her. Taking her hand in his, he said “I realize this isn’t the same as a wedding band and there is no ceremony to unite us further, but I wish for you to have this.”

 

As he spoke, he slipped the gold band onto her finger. “If we survive this war together,” he continued, “We can complete our union in a Church of the Maker. If for some reason, I don’t make it there, you’ll have this to remember me by.”

 

“I need no ring to remember you all the days of my life, Dmitri,” she replied in protest.

 

He simply nodded. “I understand, but I’ll feel better knowing you have this now, rather than waiting for a day neither of us might ever see.”

 

With that, he kissed her forehead and began to get dressed. A moment later, he was gone. There were a letter a few days later, telling her he had returned safely to his unit…and then nothing.

 

The sound of approaching footsteps broke her from her concentration and whisked her back to the present. She knew who it was even as she looked up and quickly put the picture back in her tunic pocket.

 

Colonel Gunther Bradshaw looked little better than Lorraine knew she must, although mirrors were not exactly in great quantity at this part of the Southern Front. A few weeks ago, Bradshaw had all but lost the use of his left hand in a patch of bitter fighting that had seen the Central Army come as close as they ever had in overrunning the camp. After the battle, Bradshaw had been unable to do much with the hand, and had given up shaving, saying it wasn’t a necessity. He now had a beard that completely covered his face and was so covered in dirt and dust that it appeared nearly grey. Bradshaw was in his late-20s, but looked to be nearing retirement age now. Lorraine paid that no mind, considering that she probably looked as if she had aged some forty years in the five she had been at the Front. War had a way of aging a person prematurely…if they survived long enough to age at all, that was. Bradshaw and herself were the lucky ones…well, maybe “lucky” was not the correct term to use, to have survived long enough to watch themselves age by years in just a few months and decades in just a few years. Lorraine wondered bitterly just how much longer her “luck” would hold out.

 

Neither soldier was anywhere close to regulation in terms of uniform, but since there didn’t look to be a dress parade anytime soon, neither much cared. They were alive and that was all they could hope for. And of course, for there to have been a superior officer around to give them what-for, it would have meant that the siege had been broken and new troops would have been able to flood into the encampment. Lorraine figured that having an officer give her demerits would be worth it if he or she brought new troops and fresh food and ammunition with them.

 

“Hit anything?” Bradshaw asked, nodding towards the tree line.

 

Lorraine shook her head.

 

“At least it didn’t bring whoever’s out there to bear on you,” Bradshaw remarked. “Must mean they’re as tired and worn out as we are.”

 

“No one can possibly be that bad off.” Lorraine replied, a hint of a grin creeping onto her face. She turned to see that Bradshaw had the same hint.

 

A moment later, Lorraine’s expression reverted back to a more serious one. She could see that Bradshaw was looking her the way he had a year or so back, when he was first posted to the camp, and before the relentless attacks by the Central Army had left Lorraine and her fellow troopers nearly surrounded.

 

Seeing him staring at her only brought back bad memories of trying to fight off his advances on a regular basis. She could still hear the innuendos, the hints and remarks, the offers and even threats he had made towards her in an effort to get her to sleep with him. She was almost happy when the Central Army began its summer campaign against them. Everyone within the camp, Lorraine and Bradshaw included, was so concerned with staying alive and stopping the enemy’s onslaught that no one had time to think about anything else.

 

And now, several months later, she had seen him slip back into that lecherous mode on a few rare occasions, usually when there was a cease in the fighting. It was almost as if he was as determined to overrun her body as the Central Army was to overrun the position.

 

She gave him a hard stare, then turned back to look out over No Man’s Land towards the tree line. The professional side of her said that it was to ensure that the Central Army’s next attack hadn’t started yet. The personal side of her knew that she no longer wanted to watch as her Colonel’s eyes roamed her body.

 

Eventually, after a moment or two, she heard him move off and eventually heard his voice several hundred meters down the line, talking with one of the other soldiers. She sighed in relief and then suddenly felt a shiver run over her skin.

 

Lorraine felt proud of herself for never even once giving in to his lecherous desires. Many another women might have, with all the pain and death and misery surrounding them, decided that this was just one bit of agony that they couldn’t deal with and could easily remedy and visited the Colonel’s tent one night to present herself to him. But Lorraine didn’t. If she gave in to this, she decided, what other horrors might she succumb to. Still, she wondered how much longer she could take all this: the fear of being killed, the hunger, the pain of her wounds and the disgust she felt whenever Colonel Bradshaw and his desire for her entered her thoughts. Had she not overheard several of the other soldiers talking (her private hell, she thought, was public knowledge) about how Bradshaw would probably rape her dead body, Lorraine might well have stood up in the middle of a battle and let a Central Army bullet put her out of its misery.

 

Just then, just such a bullet struck a tree a couple of feet to her right, jolting her from her thoughts. It was followed by several dozen more spread out along the length of their lines. Of in the distance to her right, Lorraine could hear a sharp cry.

 

“They got one of ours,” she thought. For a horrifying moment, she found herself hoping that it was Bradshaw, so as to eliminate one worry from her life. She shook the thought from her mind. No matter what lecherous advances he may have made towards her, he respected the man as a leader. She just hoped that whoever had gotten hit wasn’t killed or wounded too badly. She knew that the number of men and women who Bradshaw could muster to repel the Central Army attacks were few enough. A few more weeks, perhaps even just a few more days, of shelling, sniping and assaults and there wouldn’t be enough Southern Front troops to hold the Central Army off.

 

The firing from the tree line was intensifying, but was now being answered by Southern Front soldiers. With great effort, Lorraine raised her own rifle and fired sporadically into the trees. She knew that whatever return fire the Southern Front troops could muster would be carefully aimed. Every shot had to count. The reserve ammunition was almost gone and no supply trains had managed to make it through the encirclement in weeks.

 

Lorraine sighed again. Even if the Central Army didn’t massacre the surviving defenders of the encampment or whittle their numbers off one by one, her comrades might simply be unable to defend themselves much longer.

 

With grim satisfaction, she saw a few of the shadowy forms in the distance fall, but she also knew that a few more of the men and women she counted as comrades had been hit.

 

All at once she heard a shrill cry and looked up to see a large mass of troops, perhaps a battalion in strength, emerge from the trees and begin the feared assault on the camp.

 

“Oh Maker!” Lorraine cried, as she fired into the oncoming troops. The cry was both for the pain in her shoulder, but also for what she feared might be the result of the attack. She was afraid to think that her comrades, no matter how brave, could not possibly repulse an attack of this size, but knew that this might be the time that her camp was overrun.

 

However, she was willing to do her part in what might be a vain attempt to keep the camp from being overrun. As the Central Army troops loomed ever closer, Lorraine kept up her fire. During the first few shots, the pain in her shoulder was incredible to the point she wondered briefly how she could keep fighting back. However, as she continued to fire off round after round, she soon began to pay it no mind. She was focused on how close the troops were to her position, how many there were, and how many defenders might still remain beside her. Each time she fired, she felt a small, perverse thrill of joy as one of the attackers fell.

 

She was barely aware of anything but herself, her rifle and the troops who strode forward, wanting to kill her or drive her from her position. She ceased to hear the whiz of the bullets as they flew past her. She ceased to hear her comrades’ wounded cries. She reloaded almost automatically, barely aware she was doing such. She watched as the men approaching her fell before the smoking muzzle of her rifle. Even as she aimed, she saw other men fall as her fellow defenders fired into the approaching line.

 

She had no idea how much time was passing during the attack, whether it was an hour or a matter of a few minutes. Aim…Fire…Aim…Fire. It was a relentless repetition. Somewhere in her mind she knew that moments from now she would most likely be dead. Her body most likely ravaged and butchered, part of her taken back to the Central Army’s villages as a trophy. She paid those thoughts little mind, as she aimed and fired, aimed and fired.

 

Eventually she became aware that the assault was slowing down as more and more Central Army soldiers fell in heaps on the field of No Man’s Land. Some of the enemy officers, those that remained, ordered their companies and platoons to halt and form firing lines, believing it better to fire into the defensive lines and create holes for the rest of the advancing army to pour through. However, those troops that advanced soon fell or halted where they were.

 

Even as Lorraine aimed and fired, aimed and fired, she realized that the assault was dying out. She wondered if it would die out in time. She watched as perhaps a dozen Central Army troops halted only a few steps from the center of their defensive line and fired point blank into the midst of the defenders, only to have those same defenders fire point blank in response. The sound was deafening, both in terms of the gunfire and the screams of the soldiers as they were grievously wounded and killed. The small force of attackers and defenders disintegrated in a cloud of smoke and rifle fire.

 

When the smoke cleared, those men and women, the Central Army troops that had exchanged fire with the defenders lay in bloody heaps, their bodies overlapping one another. A few of the defenders that had stood and fired into the approaching line were no longer standing. Lorraine knew not how much damage the losses sustained in the attack might hurt the Central Army, but she knew that for every trooper killed during the attack, there was one less that would be able to repel a future one.

 

With that, and the spattering of fire that the rest of the Southern Front defenders put on the remaining attackers, the Central Army began to fall back in retreat. The rifle fire from the Southern Front troops continued, and felled several more of the attackers.

 

Even as she fired one last shot, Lorraine watched the Central Army’s retreat. She gave them a bit of grudging respect in the way they left the battlefield and made their way back to the safety of the trees. There were few officers left. It was left up to the Sergeants and the senior enlisted men to ensure that the troops left the field in good order and didn’t immediately rush for safety. Lorraine had seen that happen on too many occasions. While the officers might believe that fleeing troops will stop once they are back within their own lines, many a green trooper will continue running until he is miles to the rear of his lines. Enough troops do that, and a massive hole, perfect for exploitation by the enemy, will be left in the lines.

 

As the last few troopers disappeared into the woods, one or two turning to fire one last shot, Lorraine turned to see how much damage the attack had done to the Southern Front’s lines.

 

She was shocked at what she saw. Two out of every three soldiers that had defended the camp lie dead or wounded. The troops that had survived the attack intact, and those whose wounds were slight, attempted to tend to those who were not so fortunate. Since she herself was among those unhurt, she quickly went to see what she could do. Being an officer, she knew that many of the men and women in the camp would look to her for leadership.

 

Over the next few hours, seemingly endless hours, Lorraine hurried up and down what remained of the front defensive lines of the camp, seeing that the wounded were made comfortable.

 

She thought about ordering several of the more severe cases to the rear, to see about getting transportation out of the encampment. Most argued, as she knew they would, that with the ever-tightening encirclement of the encampment, the wounded would probably be safer in a makeshift field hospital. Lorraine agreed with them, but still ordered the more seriously wounded off the front line, so they could at least get some rest.

 

As she made her trek, she passed the camp’s medical officers, those that hadn’t become casualties themselves-the Central Army’s fire didn’t seem to discriminate- who looked to be running themselves just as ragged as she was trying to care for the wounded and dying.

 

As much as she hated to do it, she flagged down the senior medical officer, Dr. Romanson.

 

“Doctor, you want to give me an update, just a quick one?”

 

Romanson sighed, no matter when he was asked for such an update or by whom, it was never good news. It was all a matter of how bad did things get. Lorraine knew that this would be bad…real bad.

 

“Even just talking about the medical staff, things have gone from worse to even worse. Two nurses were killed in that last attack, one by a stray bullet, the other defending the line. We were overworked beforehand, now we’re swamped. I’m counting at least two dozen wounded, five of them critical to the point where if they haven’t died while we’re talking, I’ll take it as a minor miracle.”

 

Lorraine nodded, as she had done often when talking to Dr. Romanson over the past few weeks of the siege. He told her the straight truth, she had to give him that, but she never knew quite what to say. How does one respond to bad news that one knew was just the tip of the iceberg?

 

“What about loading the worst cases up and trying to send them to the rear?” she asked, more thinking out loud that believing it to be a legitimate choice that they had.

 

Instead of nodding, as she had, Romanson shook his head.

 

”Not a chance, Captain.” Romanson replied, “With the way that the Central Army’s got us encircled, they’d be captured within a few minutes of leaving the encampment, and if even a tenth of the rumours of how they treat prisoners is true, the wounded are better off here. At least they can die with some dignity.”

 

Romanson knew the truth of the situation, the full gravity of it all, and spoke it. Lorraine had known it, too, but neither Romanson’s words nor Lorraine’s grasp of the situation made it any easier to take. Lorraine just wished there was something that someone, anyone could do to relieve some of the suffering that the wounded were enduring.

 

As for the dead…

 

Lorraine knew, just as every man and woman in the camp must know, that the dead of both sides must be given the proper burial, with the respect reserved for those who had given their lives for their causes. But, in the first hours after the horrific battle, there was no time. The dead would still be dead whether they were attended to five minutes or five days after they fell.

 

Meanwhile, whatever was left of the the Southern Front’s medics had to do everything within their power to ensure that no more of the survivors joined the dead’s ranks than were necessary. Lorraine did everything she could to aid the medics, but also had to gather whatever troops were left, not to mention in fighting condition, and begin to reform their lines. Just because the Central Army troops had been defeated in their latest attack, didn’t mean they weren’t simply refitting and planning another attack within a few hours. The Southern Front had learned that fact of life the hard way on more than one occasion.

 

Presently, Lorraine found herself passing the very spot where she had been during the last attack. She noted that her rifle was still where she had left it when the Central Army retreated. She wondered with bitter bemusement just how hot the barrel had been when she laid it down. She was surprised it hadn’t melted in mid-shot.

 

Knowing that another attack could come at any moment, she picked up her rifle and slung it over her shoulder. Better, she thought, to take it with her than find herself lacking a weapon at a key moment in a future battle.

 

Taking stock of her ammunition and finding herself, as usual, short on rounds, she continued to march down the line. Two Southern Front soldiers, privates, both of them, were sitting together, both watching the tree line opposite their positions, rifles in hand.

 

Pausing a moment, she asked, “See anything?”

 

Both troopers shook their head, neither one taking his eyes of the tree line. Lorraine knew what they were going through. At times, one didn’t want to look away from the enemy’s last known position. She still found herself paranoid at times in thinking that if she didn’t keep her eyes peeled at all times, the Central Army might sneak up on the encampment and no one else, save her, would be there to sound the alarm.

 

“Nothing, ma’am,” one said.

 

“Those Central Army bastards will be back,” the other exclaimed, gripping his rifle a little tighter, “but we’ll be ready for them.”

 

Lorraine smiled at the young soldier’s confidence. There had been stories, on both sides, of troops giving up the fight after one too many attacks. Stories of men and women fleeing off into the night rather than face one more enemy bullet, rather than seeing one more comrade die.

 

Lorraine knew that she herself had been close, had felt the overpowering urge to drop her rifle and make for the rear. She had seen comrades die in her arms, seen bullets rip apart the soldiers on either side of her. She wasn’t sure why she had continued to hold the line, continue to charge into enemy guns. She just had.

 

She was glad to see that there were still some soldiers within the ranks who’s beliefs that the Southern Front could fend off at least another attack hadn’t quite been snuffed out just yet. Of course, maybe those two were simply using a little tough-talk to hide the fact that they were as scared as she was.

 

As she left the two soldiers behind, she wondered for the first time in hours, where Colonel Bradshaw had gone. She hadn’t seen him since the attack. Normally, the Colonel would have assumed much of the reorganization duties that she had taken on herself. She shook her head, realizing that she had been so busy that she hadn’t thought to wonder why he wasn’t in the middle of things as well.

 

A sick feeling of doom began to form in the pit of her stomach. When she had been talking to Doctor Romanson, she had let her gaze wander through his medical facility, such as it was. As the two had spoken, she had been trying to make a mental note of what soldiers were being brought in, how many troopers, how many officers, etc. To the best of her recollection, and she was sure she would have noticed, Lorraine hadn’t seen Colonel Bradshaw there, neither as a concerned commander nor as a patient.

 

Stopping where she was, she began to scan the camp. She could see the men and women moving about the firing line, some going to get more ammunition from the Southern Front’s meager supply. Here and there a Sergeant inspected his stretch of the front. But none of the soldiers she saw even remotely resembled Bradshaw, even at a distance.

 

As she scanned the area, she noticed Bradshaw’s tent about a few hundred yards away from where she was standing. It wasn’t like Bradshaw to hide in his tent after a battle. Usually he was up and down the lines, checking on the condition of his troops, finding out where the lines were weak, which area had extra ammunition it could spare. In other words, all the things that Lorraine was doing now. In other words, all the things that he had been doing just prior to the attack. As much as he might have stopped by her position to leer at her, he was in the midst of a full-scale routine inspection.

 

However, giving the devil his due, Lorraine was willing to accept the fact that perhaps Bradshaw had been hit by enemy fire and, rather than risk a drop in morale over the troops seeing their commander wounded, had retired to the privacy of his quarters.

 

Quickly, Lorraine made her way to Bradshaw’s tent. When she got there, she stood outside the opening to his quarters. No matter what might have happened between them nor how concerned she might be over his well-being, she knew she must follow military protocol.

 

“Colonel Bradshaw,” she said, “It’s Captain Lorraine McRae. Permission to enter, sir.”

 

A moment passed. No reply.

 

“Colonel Bradshaw,” she repeated, “Captain Lorraine McRae. Permission to enter, sir.”

 

Another moment passed, but still no reply came.

 

“Colonel Bradshaw?” Lorraine said again, this time a little louder.

 

When no reply came, Lorraine decided to forgo military protocol and enter the tent.

 

What she saw made her gasp. There sat Colonel McRae at his desk. His lifeless eyes stared at the ceiling as he sat limp. Lorraine saw immediately the small round hole in the centre of his forehead and the gaping, bloody mess that lay where the back of his head once was. For a moment, as Lorraine struggled to come to grips with what she saw before her, she assumed that a stray shot, one from early in the battle perhaps, must have struck Bradshaw and killed him.

 

It was only after the few moments it took for the initial shock to pass that Lorraine noticed Bradshaw’s officer’s pistol lying in Bradshaw’s right hand.

 

Something made Lorraine turn completely around, so as to look back toward the camp’s defensive line. From the bodies of the soldiers of both armies that lay, still unattended, there, Bradshaw must have seen some fierce fighting as he sat there at his desk.

 

Lorraine walked, almost in a zombie-like state out of Bradshaw’s tent and over to the makeshift defenses that formed cover for the soldiers who manned that stretch of the line. She noticed that the dead that wore Central Army uniforms lay well behind the Southern Front’s defensive lines.

 

As she stood, staring at the dead, a Southern Front soldier, a female corporal, approached her.

 

“You all right, ma’am?” the Corporal asked.

 

Lorraine nodded, dimly aware that she had even made that much of an effort to answer her comrade. A moment later, Lorraine turned to the woman and asked, “Was the fighting bad here?”

 

The Corporal nodded glumly. “Yes, indeed, Captain. There were times they were right in with us. Most of them who made it over the fence were killed but for a few minutes…”

 

The rest went unsaid. The line had almost broken here. Lorraine stood over the body of a dead Central Army soldier, one of the ones who had made it farthest into the breach in their lines. On either side of the soldiers were several of his comrades. There must have been a sizeable force that made it this far. The Corporal was right, perhaps even downplaying the events of the battle in this sector. The Central Army had almost broken through.

 

Lorraine could easily do the math, so to speak. The body she stood over lay just a few hundred yards from Bradshaw’s tent. He must have left her and retired to his tent. When the attack began, he must have decided to direct the defense from his quarters.

 

Lorraine could only imagine the sight he must have seen. A sizeable force of Central Army invaders, having breached the camp’s defenses, was headed directly for him. There had been tales of soldiers on both sides torturing captured officers. Bradshaw must have decided to take the quick and easy way out.

 

Lorraine wouldn’t have expected Bradshaw to choose suicide over one last good fight against the enemy. Despite her disgust over his advances, she knew Bradshaw to be the kind of commander, the kind of soldier, to be in the thick of the fighting. At the first sign of an attack, she would have expected him to grab a weapon and head for the nearest part of the line, fighting side by side with his troops to fend off the coming onslaught by the Central Army. Even if he had stayed in his tent in order to better direct the battle from there, the Colonel Bradshaw that Lorraine had served under wouldn’t have simply shot himself as a quick, painless way out of what might have appeared to be imminent defeat.

 

Still, perhaps the weeks and now months of constant siege, the sporadic shelling, the attacks that had whittled down his command by a dozen or so every day, the belief that every man and woman in the encampment would die with no hope of relief, maybe they had all taken their toll on his mental state. Perhaps the thought that the Central Army had finally broken through was just too much for Bradshaw. Maybe the breakthrough had been the last straw and his mind had snapped.

 

Lorraine ordered the corporal to follow her and headed toward Bradshaw’s tent. Just as Lorraine had, the trooper was stunned to see the dead body of their commander lying limp before his desk. Motioning her to quickly enter the tent, Lorraine gave the Corporal a moment to regain her composure.

 

“Round up another trooper, someone you trust to keep his or her mouth shut,” Lorraine ordered. “Get a stretcher and take Colonel Bradshaw’s body to the morgue. Let the medics prepare it for burial. If anyone asks, tell them he died fighting alongside his troops during the battle. Make up whatever story you want, as long as Colonel Bradshaw dies a hero at the end.”

 

The Corporal nodded, quickly saluted and went off to find another trooper to help him cart Bradshaw’s body off. After the Corporal left, Lorraine stood for a minute, alone with her thoughts.

 

Her first thought was that she was, for once, grateful to the Central Army. They had inadvertently relieved her of a great source of stress and worry. No longer would she have to fight off Bradshaw’s advances.

 

A moment later, Lorraine shook her head to clear it of that thought. Bradshaw, though lecherous scum, was perhaps the glue that held this encampment together. He had done more with what little he had in terms of troops and ammunition to ward off the Central Army than perhaps any other commander could have possibly done. As much as she despised…or more correctly, feared, the man for his wanton desires, she respected him for his leadership ability.

 

Lorraine knew that the question that must now be answered was “Who would fill Bradshaw’s role?” It was a question that would have to be answered and soon. She knew, as every man and woman in the camp knew, that the Central Army would not spend long licking its wounds from this latest retreat. Soon they would be back, and the defenders would need someone to lead them in battle.

 

As she stood at the entrance to the tent, she heard voices approaching. Lorraine turned to see the Corporal returning, with a private, barely past his 18^th birthday she was sure, close behind. The private barely flinched at the site of Colonel Bradshaw lying there at his desk, dead by his own hand. Of course, even at 18, the private had probably seen more than his share of death. Hadn’t they all?

 

“Is he…?” the Private asked.

 

Lorraine simple nodded. The Private’s expression never changed.

 

“Well, I guess that leaves you in charge then,” the private remarked.

 

And just like that, unofficially in every way, the question she had just been mulling over was answered. Lorraine suddenly realized the magnitude of the responsibility that had been thrust upon her. But she also heard the respect that lay in the voice of the young soldier standing beside her. She hoped it was a respect she could maintain in the days and weeks to come.

 

At the same time, in some dark recess of her mind, she wondered if she wouldn’t come to the same end as Colonel Bradshaw had, sooner or later.

 

And then, as she so often did when she felt lost in the midst of the war, she rubbed the gold band on the ring finger of her right hand.

 

CHAPTER SEVEN

 

 

Vance was not sure exactly what to make of the events of the past several hours. His arrival in Castletown and the reception he had received from the people on the Outskirts had been startling enough, but after careful consideration, he supposed it could be explained easily enough. Perhaps it could have been chalked up as a simple case where the King and his generals must have kept word of the disaster at the Crossroads as much of a secret as possible in order not to dismay the general populace.

 

However, since Gerome had spirited him away, things had become even more confusing and not so easily explained.

 

The strange runt of a man had led him to a small brick house at the northern end of the palace grounds. There awaited him a large closet filled with the finest clothes he had ever seen. If asked, Vance would have guessed that these garments were made especially for the King on his most special, regal occasions.

 

Instead, he was informed, both by Gerome and by Timothy, the tailor that owned the house, that these fine clothes were for him. He was instructed to pick out whatever outfit he believed would suit him best for an audience with the King.

 

Vance had wanted to joke that a simple blindfold and the clothes on his back might suit the occasion more appropriately than anything that hung in the closet. Instead, etiquette and the brains that the Maker gave him prompted Vance to simply keep quiet, thank Timothy and Gerome politely and go about his selection.

 

Gerome and Timothy had certainly spared no expense to give him plenty to think about when it came to his choices. As he made his way through the seemingly endless amount of outfits, he wondered just how many hours it had taken Timothy to create all these garments. They ranged from the tasteful to the outlandish with all the colors of the rainbow being represented. It had taken him a good half-hour but Vance had finally selected a regal blue ensemble that seemed to remind him of something military, as if the tailor had envisioned Northern, Central or Southern Front troops parading through Castletown’s streets after a great and wondrous victory against the Central Army, clad in these magnificent outfits.

 

But even as he stood admiring himself in the mirror, Vance could not understand why this fuss was being made over him. If they were simply going to dismiss him and possibly through him in prison, why was such grandeur being allocated to him?

 

Even as he pondered that question, Timothy and Gerome reentered the room. Both gasped, causing a startled Vance to spin around to face them.

 

“What is it?” Vance demanded. In his youth and more so during his time at the Academy, Vance had always been kidded by others for not having much of a fashion sense, so he wasn’t fully confident that he had made a proper choice.

 

“You look magnificent, sir,” Timothy replied. “I could not have made a better choice myself.”

 

Vance smiled, bemused but somewhat relieved at the reaction that his outfit had received. And with that, Timothy went to him and began to make a few markings, where alterations would be made. After that bit of business was done, Vance stripped down to his undergarments, handing the outfit to Timothy, who quickly departed for his sewing room.

 

Vance and Gerome watched him leave. Vance noticed, as Gerome turned back to face him, that he had something, a newspaper by the looks of it, rolled up in his hand.

 

“Thought you might be interested in reading this,” Gerome said, handing the newspaper – in fact, that’s what it was – to him. “A very fine article by Richard Alabaster, the Kingdom’s foremost combat correspondent. I suspect you’ve already made his acquaintance, however.”

 

As Vance accepted the newspaper, still rolled up, he said the name “Alabaster” a couple of times to himself. The name seemed familiar but he couldn’t place it.

 

A moment later, the name of the writer and what possible familiarity it might contain seemed a million miles away.

 

Nothing else seemed to matter except the bold, black headline that screamed off the page at him:

 

“HIGHLANDER LEADS NORTHERN FRONT TO GREAT VICTORY”

CHAPTER EIGHT

 

 

“HIGHLAND LEADS NORTHERN FRONT TO GREAT VICTORY”

by Richard Alabaster, Correspondent

 

In heavy fighting at a dusty crossroads, some 300 miles from Castletown, Commander Vance Highland of the Northern Front masterminded an incredible victory that stalled the Central Army Group Blue’s invasion in its tracks and, indeed, sent the barbarians reeling back toward their own territory.

 

Highland’s strategy called for our gallant troops to take the fight to the very heart of the enemy’s positions. While a lesser commander, in charge of lesser troops, might have called for defensive tactics that would have led to needless losses and delay, Commander Highland unleashed a bold enterprise that stunned and shocked the opposing generals, leaving them no choice but to fall back. That the Central Army may live to fight another day is only through their speed to escape rather than any lack of courage by our fighting men and women or their commander.

 

With an artillery barrage that seemed to swallow the enemy line whole as a precedent, the attack seemed to materialize out of nowhere as the shock troops that made up the lead element of the attack swarmed from their positions and strove for the enemy trenches. Our Northern Front clashed violently with those of Central Army Group Blue, as Commander Highland sent wave after wave of our brave defenders against the invading horde who would seek to rape and pillage out fair land. In the end, it was our brave men and women who would rule the day in the sure-to-be fabled Battle of the Crossroads.

 

Casualties on both sides were heavy, as many a brave man or woman was forced to lay down their lives in the cause of freedom for our nation. And while the families and loved ones of these perished souls may grieve for their loss, they may take heart knowing that it was not all for naught. Commander Vance’s brilliance and the bravery of all the soldiers involved with the attack ensured that our country has now reversed its fortunes and will soon be on the verge of total victory over the oppressors of the Central Army.

 

 

 

CHAPTER NINE

 

For perhaps the tenth time that morning, Captain Matt Cutter read the story about the brilliant victory at the Crossroads, spear-headed by his former Academy classmate and one of his best friends, Vance Highland. Even as he tried to get to other paperwork, or even the trivial task of simply finishing his morning brew, Cutter’s thoughts and eyes had wandered from the task at hand to the bold headline proclaiming Highland as a great strategist and general and before he knew it, Cutter had put all other priorities aside and was rereading the article yet again.

 

As he did so, he tried to decipher what he was feeling about this turn of events. On the one hand, he was proud for Vance, and on a higher level, happy that the battle had finally delivered a much-needed victory for the kingdom that would do much to boost morale among their people.

 

Still, try as he might, he couldn’t help but feel a little jealous or at least a tad envious, of Vance, who was now the hero of the hour. And here he was, stuck in some office, shuffling papers, more worried about whether the Kingdom’s colour guard had spit-shined boots than if the Central Army could be out-flanked and driven back.

 

As he did whenever he became frustrated about his lot in life, which was several times a day, Cutter angrily slapped his right knee…or rather, where his right knee should have been.  The smack that resounded throughout the office wasn’t the sound of flesh on flesh, but rather, the sound of the flesh of his hand slapping wood, the same sound that such a move had made for the past two years, ever since a Central Army shell had robbed him of the lower part of his leg.

 

For a moment he was lost in remembering the ghastly world of pain he had been thrown into, lying in the mud of the battlefield as he stared down at the bloody stump of mangled flesh that had, only a moment before, been his right leg. He had screamed, such piercing screams that he had never heard in his most brutal nightmares, as if screaming might help him through the pain he had never known existed.

 

The pain and the horror of what lay before his eyes had blotted out the rest of the world. Suddenly, there was no War of the Lands, no Castletown, No Central Army; even the battle that raged around him had disappeared. All he could think of was the agony he was in. He barely even thought of how he would make do with only half a right leg.

 

The medics that had come to his aide without Cutter even realizing there was anyone there had eventually given him so many painkillers that he had passed out. Only then was in any condition to be moved from the field to a nearby hospital. Before he was really aware of his surrounding, drugged as he was, he was back in Castletown. Fitted with an artificial leg, he had endured countless hours of therapy before he could even walk again.

 

And he had to endure the fact that his father no longer thought of him as the son who would carry on the family’s long and storied military tradition, but as an invalid. It was only through his father’s contacts that he became the man he was now. The man who would spend the rest of his time in the army here in Castletown, trapped in some meaningless position that kept him behind a desk as much as dealing with the troops he commanded.

 

As Cutter remembered his father now, he saw not the fierce fighting spirit that dominated any photographs or paintings of the General. Instead he saw the sad tired disappointed face of the man who would sit across from him at the table whenever the social calendar called for General Andromeda to invite his son to dinner.

 

“How many nights did my father stare at me as if he was watching all his hopes of continuing the Andromeda family legacy go right down the drain?” Cutter wondered, bitterly.

 

Tossing the paper aside finally, Cutter fumbled around his desk drawers until he finally found something a little stronger than the bean brew he had been drinking. He kept the flask there, much as he was assured many of the wounded (removed from front-line duty in favour of a “desk gig”) were in the habit of doing.

 

“Here’s to you, General!”  he said, toasting the thin air before him. For all Cutter knew, the ghost of his father, dead more than a year now, was probably still in the office with him, watching over him with that same hum-glum look on his kisser. Maybe General Andromeda had committed some infamous sin that none of the family knew about or had hushed up, and now he was doomed to spend eternity watching his crippled son pretend he was still a soldier.

 

After a sip or two, things didn’t look any better but Cutter had been fooled into thinking just maybe he had the courage to make it through the next few hours without cracking up.

 

After he was done taking one last big sip, Cutter shook the flask, cursing when he realized that he had only another couple of sips before he had to fill up again. He laughed, a bitter laugh nonetheless, that he had just filled the damn thing up a few days ago. Nevertheless, he put the flask back in his desk drawer, hoping that he’d remember to bring in a fill-up tomorrow.

 

Meanwhile, he had duties to perform. A couple of years ago, he might have gotten all melodramatic, telling himself that what he was doing was for King and Country, that he was doing his part to ensure the inevitable victory over the Central Army, to keep the peace-loving citizens of the Kingdom free.

 

But he knew that was just as much a falsehood as the stories he had been told as a child about fairies that did good deeds and kept the bad spirits away. He was a beaurocrat, pure and simple. A bureaucrat that held the rank of Captain, a bureaucrat who was saluted, sometimes half-heartedly by the men who were in his command, but a bureaucrat nonetheless.

 

Any chance for battlefield glory, the kind that he had always envisioned for himself, the kind that his father, the great General Andromeda had expected for his son, and the kind that Vance, good ol’ Vance, had somehow managed to gather for himself, had vanished as the smoke cleared from the shell that had almost killed him, and had ruined his body forever.

 

Instead of battlefield glory, Cutter now had to settle for paperwork and he realized that if he didn’t put feeling sorry for himself on hold for a few minutes, he wouldn’t even have that. Staggering to stand, using the table to steady himself, and grabbing up the pertinent papers, he headed out of his office, not really caring enough to make sure he locked it behind him. He knew there were enough people wandering the halls of his building that anybody trying to steal something would be discovered within a few moments. Besides, there was nothing but the paperwork he had been working on in there to steal, save perhaps for the most important thing in the desk and indeed the entire office, his flask.

 

Meanwhile, what command that fate had left him with was awaiting him and so he moved as fast as he could without losing all coordination. Sometimes it was easier said than done, and he knew that the effect of the alcohol wasn’t doing him any favours. Of course, having been wounded the way he had been, any on-looker would have simply written any sluggishness in his step off as a result of his wooden leg, rather than because of his drunkenness.

 

Still, it wasn’t too long before Cutter was standing before his command. He knew there could be worse assignments, but still, compared to where Vance had found himself, it just wasn’t the same. After he had recovered from his wounds, Cutter had been adamant that he could return to the Front. But the powers that were in charge of such things weren’t so confident. Of course, while being the son of a famous general had meant unrealistic expectations, it hadn’t meant that a young soldier could get around army officials who could decide where one was posted. Quite the opposite in fact. General Andromeda had pulled a few strings and, rather than see his son sent back to the Front where he might be wounded again, or even killed, the General had made sure that Cutter was posted to a much-safer, and less-glamourous position about as far back in the rear as one could get. In this case, he was in charge of a unit of Castletown’s Home Guard, a position that was more administrative than anything else. Instead of leading thousands into battle, he was in charge of making sure 50 troopers were manning a never-used section of the Castletown’s last line of defense.

 

“Yep, if the Central Army makes it this far, we’ll do our best to fight them off,” he mused, bitterly as he viewed his troopers. Most of them had been wounded in regular front-lone duty and much like he had, had wanted to go back to active duty, and failing that, as he had, resigned themselves to serving their Kingdom in the only way that they would be allowed to do so.

 

Still others were shirkers, rich daddy’s boys who were able to get out of doing their duty at the front or who had done any number of vile and even criminal acts to get themselves as close to being tossed out of the service as possible.

 

And much like Cutter himself, the men and women under his command knew that they were the bottom of the were the bottom of the barrel, the inept and infirm dressed up in colorful uniforms in an attempt to fool the local citizenry into believing that, in the hopefully unlikely event that the Central Army managed to penetrate all the way to Castletown, all was not lost as the vaunted Home Guard would swing into action and save the day and, more importantly, the Kingdom.

 

Cutter knew that some of the troopers under his command, perhaps many of them, were good soldiers who were simply no longer able to serve their Kingdom at the various Fronts. Many of those troopers still carried themselves as if they were active on the front lines and these men and women, Cutter knew that if push came to shove, would man the lines and fight to the last.

 

But, Cutter knew, sighing, there was an element of troopers amid his command who did the minimum they could get away with and, if faced with a real threat, would run at the first sign of trouble. While Cutter’s roster reports may claim that his unit boasted a strength of 45, he knew that, in battle, he would not be able to count on at least a third of those names on the report.

 

No matter, to the best of his knowledge, the Central Army wasn’t going to reach the gates of Castletown today, so as long as the 45 troopers under his immediate command showed up and were in something resembling parade dress uniform, he wasn’t going to make a big deal out of it.

 

As he approached, he heard his Sergeant-at-arms call the unit to attention. He doubted many of them would make too much effort in that endeavor. Their “attention” would make a front-line unit’s “at ease” look professional. Normally, Cutter would have the troops switch to just such an at-ease stance immediately. But today, he decided they could remain at attention for a few minutes, it wouldn’t kill them.

 

“Good morning, troops,” he said, still unwilling to let them fall into an easier stance. “As many of you know, a great victory has occurred on the Northern Front…”

 

Most of them nodded, although more out of acknowledging that they had heard the tale rather than of any great reverence for such a victory. A few sneered at the news as if unwilling to believe that the fortunes of war might be going in their favour or because they  couldn’t see why they expected their commanding officer to believe that they cared one way or the other.

 

“Commander Vance Highland, the leader of the Northern Front, has arrived in Castletown and will be honored in a ceremony, befitting his accomplishments,” Cutter continued. Those that had sneered at news of the victory seemed even more cynical about such a ceremony. Cutter had expected nothing less but if he was jealous about Vance’s accomplishments, he was proud that his friend was receiving an official ceremony in his honour. He had been pleased to read in the morning’s courier that his unit would be involved in such an event.

 

Well, to a degree, he was.

 

“All troopers’ dress uniforms are to be inspection-ready and better by 17:50 tonight. Meanwhile, Sgts. Whitehall and Cumberland will be giving you further instructions as to your preparation duties and defensive maintenance duties within the hour…Dismissed.”

 

And so, the troops began to disperse, some quicker than others. The ones that moved out quickly were the good ones, the ones who would rush to their barracks to ensure their dress uniforms were up to code, the ones who would head towards their position on the defensive line, to start their daily maintenance of that position. Of course, since the line had never seen any action, there was little to do. Still, he tried to keep his troopers busy, brainstorming ways to keep them in battle-ready condition…or at least something close to resembling that, just in case.

 

The rest of the troops moved out at a more leisurely pace. Most didn’t care if their dress uniforms were rags, save the possibility that Cutter might enforce his orders and punish any misdemeanors with more duties. Still, with little to do but sweep up their positions, make sure their weapons were in good order and stand on the line watching for non-existent enemy attacks, there was plenty of time to iron out any creases in the uniform.

 

Sergeants Whitehall and Cumberland watched the troops disperse, urged and then forcibly convinced a few to quicken their pace with that regard, then approached their unit commander. Whitehall was just as much a slacker as some of the more moderate troopers, but had distinguished himself in battle and thus earned a promotion when he was posted to the Home Guard. Cumberland had seen action, as well, and had been wounded badly enough to lose a hand and be sent to the rear for good. Of the two, Cumberland was more valuable to Cutter, and the one that he talked with the most.

 

Cutter had a couple of ideas about training the troops further over the coming few weeks, and which troops he thought he could trust enough to do the right thing if given a little extra responsibility during the ceremony for Vance. Over the next few minutes, he discussed these thoughts with both Sergeants. Afterwards Whitehall headed off towards the barracks, using the same lethargic, nonchalant pace that many of the troopers had used.

 

Cumberland stayed with Cutter, but watched Whitehall leave. Cutter looked to Cumberland and saw the distaste in the look the one Sergeant gave the other.

 

“Wouldn’t trust that man to save my life if that life depended on it.” Cumberland said. Cutter laughed, trusting Cumberland to say what he felt without making trouble between the two men.

 

“Well, he has battlefield decorations and leadership experience under fire,” Cutter said, trying to rationalize, to himself and Cumberland, why Whitehall held the rank he did.

 

“So what? He figures he can slack his way through the rest of his life?” Cumberland replied, losing his composure for a split-second. He turned, his face ashen at his remarks. Cutter knew he was going to apologize, probably profusely, but cut him off with a wave of his hand. He thought the same way, and wasn’t ashamed to admit it, nor criticize those thoughts in someone else.

 

Cumberland thought it wise to change the subject but wasn’t wise in his selection of a new topic.

 

“So, Commander Vance has returned, the conquering hero. You and he went to the Academy together, didn’t you?”

 

 

Cutter nodded but said nothing more.

 

“It will be nice to see an old friend?” Cumberland asked.

 

Cutter shrugged. “It will at that, I suppose.”

 

Cumberland took a hard look at his superior’s face. He knew something wasn’t 100 percent.

 

“Hard feelings between you two?” he asked.

 

Cutter shook his head. “I haven’t seen him since we all left the Academy to go off to our respective units. We had a cordial goodbye.”

 

All at once, Cumberland nodded, as if a light had gone on and he suddenly knew what the score was. He opened his mouth to say something, and then thought better of it. Standing at just a bit more attention, he asked, “Permission to speak freely, Captain?”

 

“You know you always have that particular permission, Sergeant,” Cutter replied truthfully, “As long as it’s just between the two of us.”

 

“Is the Captain perhaps feeling sorry for himself, again?” Cumberland asked. “I mean, is he feeling poorly that it’s his friend, Commander Highland, and not himself who has returned a hero and victor of a great battle?”

 

Smiling a smile he didn’t really mean, not quite, and shaking his head, Cutter replied, “You should have gone into the intelligence biz, Cumberland. You sure know what’s going on everywhere.”

 

“Captain, I’d like to tell you that there isn’t a man or woman in this unit who wouldn’t want to be in Commander Vance’s shoes right now, but damn it, sir, there’s more than a few I can name right off the top of my head who’d rather be back here in the rear than anywhere near the front lines.”

 

Cutter nodded, acknowledging a sad fact he already knew. Cumberland continued, however, “Funny, isn’t it, sir? And I mean funny is a sad, ironic, sort of way. But funny nonetheless how this unit is made up with no middle ground in terms of the troops.”

 

Cutter turned to Cumberland, a puzzled look on his face. “How so?” he asked, looking for clarification to Cumberland’s last statement.

 

Cumberland turned to his commander, a bemused look on his face. He knew he had been vague about his comment and was glad to see that Cutter had picked up on it.

 

“Well, it would seem to me that half of the soldiers in this outfit would do anything to NOT see action and the rest would do anything TO see action.”

 

Cutter laughed. Cumberland was never afraid to speak his mind and usually ended up saying something along the same lines as Cutter was thinking.

 

“Count me among the latter group, will you Cumberland,” Cutter jokingly ordered.

 

“Already was, Captain, already was,” came the reply.

 

Both men chuckled for a few moments before Cumberland turned the topic to a more serious note.

 

“Beggin’ the Captain’s pardon,” he said, “but since we’re more or less the only Home Guard unit with a commander who is a close friend of Castletown’s newest hero, I must assume that, since we’ve already been chosen to participate in this ceremony, might we also get picked for some kind of extra-special duty…honorary color guard or some such nonsense.”

 

Again, it was as if Cumberland could read Cutter’s mind.

 

“Assume you can,” Cutter replied.

 

A moment passed. Cutter could see that Cumberland was struggling to get the courage to say what he wanted to say next. That startled Cutter, knowing the Cumberland rarely found himself at a loss for words.

 

“Speak freely, Sergeant,” Cutter told him.

 

“Well, sir…perhaps we should advise headquarters that we’re taking the unit out for exercise” was Cumberland’s suggestion. “You know, get the troops some real field experience, rather than just knowing how to march around the city limits. Might even be fun, camping out in the woods for a night or two, like when we were kids.”

 

For a brief moment, Cutter considered it. He hadn’t wanted to acknowledge it until Cumberland brought it up but Cutter was dreading, at least some what, having to be at that ceremony, having to watch as the Kingdom decorated Vance, gave him every honor they could bestow.

 

Meanwhile, here was poor Cutter, poor wounded Cutter, stuck at home and having to worry more about making sure one of his misfit troopers didn’t embarrass themselves during the ceremony.

 

But as much as a troop exercise might be a simple way of getting out of being volunteered for duty at Vance’s ceremony, Cutter knew how it would look and how the reasoning behind his absence wouldn’t fool anybody. In fact, it would probably just raise too many questions that he didn’t feel like having to answer.

 

“When we were kids…” he said finally. “Everything seemed more simply back then, didn’t it, Sergeant? No pressure, no failed dreams, no worrying about saying or doing the wrong thing.”

 

Cutter sighed.

 

“Sergeant, get over to HQ. Let them know our unit will be more than happy to ‘volunteer’ for any duty at the Ceremony.”

 

Cumberland looked puzzled for a moment. In a flash, however, his look of puzzlement vanished. He snapped to attention and saluted.

 

“Yes sir!” he added smartly before turning and heading off towards the Home Guard’s headquarters.

 

Cutter knew that Cumberland had been surprised by his decision, but like a good subordinate, he would support it. Cutter wasn’t sure why he was going out of his way to volunteer for the very assignment that he had, just moments before, contemplated leaving the city to avoid. Perhaps he wanted to prove that he wasn’t going to run and hide like some pathetic bitter cripple. Maybe he wanted to be part of Vance’s ceremony…and he had to admit, it would be great to see his old friend again after so long.

 

Of course, if he was going to make the best impression possible, Cutter knew he had to get his troops up to standard. He ran a tight ship, something his soldiers were only too aware of, but for now, the ship had to be made tighter.

 

Wishing he had saved some of his morning brew, Cutter sighed at the thought of the amount of work that lay ahead of him, and then began to head back towards his office. He knew he had a lot of work to do to get his unit into shape so they might make a good impression on Commander Highland, but right now he needed a little something to kick start his ambition to get started.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER TEN

 

“No, you bastard. It’s a lie,” Lorraine cried.

 

Cutter, her close friend from the Academy stood before her, telling her lie after lie, and she screamed obscenities back at him, wanting to shame him into telling her the truth, that Dmitri wasn’t missing, that he was fine and serving his Kingdom on the Western Front.

 

Before Cutter could do anything of the sort, Lorraine woke up. It took her a moment to realize where she was. She had hoped, for a split second even prayed to the Maker, that she was at home in Castletown, that Dmitri and Cutter and Vance were all there, that this whole never-ending war had just been the subject of her own personal nightmare.

 

Before she was awake, she realized that she was on a cot in her tent, having caught an hour’s worth of snatched sleep. She wanted more, hours more, days more, but she knew that she should be grateful for the hour, for it might be the last she got for some time, if the Central Army and finding herself in charge of this encampment had anything to do with it.

 

Lorraine was not really enjoying her new command as much as she thought she would. Of course, she hadn’t exactly asked for it, nor would her role as commander be noted on any table of command chart back at Southern Front Headquarters, wherever that was.

 

Of course, wherever that was and whoever was in charge there, probably didn’t know the first thing about what was going on in the encampment. For all she knew, someone probably had inked a big red question mark on a map indicating the encampment’s position. To them, this wasn’t a young woman in charge of an ever-dwindling number of troopers trying to fight off total annihilation against seemingly endless attacks by the enemy; this was just an encircled encampment, a small black dot on an operations map.

 

For all she knew, the only people who really knew what was going on out here were the people in the encampment and the Central Army’s troops that seemed destined to over-run it.

 

And those where the thoughts that lurked in the dark corners of her mind when, in the aftermath of the latest attack by the Central Army and a few incidents of sniping between the two sides’ forward positions, the surviving officers had held an emergency meeting, to discuss what would be done in the aftermath of Colonel Bradshaw’s death.

 

The fact that the meeting was being held in Colonel Bradshaw’s tent, and that Lorraine was now sitting in the very chair where Bradshaw had shot himself was an irony not lost on her. She simply didn’t have time to think on that right at the moment.

 

Lorraine was shocked…scared to death, really, when she saw how few officers had remained. Of course, there weren’t as many regular soldiers of the line remaining as she would have liked, either but what else was new? Still, she had expected about a dozen or so officers to be in attendance at this meeting, a meeting she had taken upon herself to call.

 

There were only four…counting herself. Two Lieutenants-one that had been assigned to the encampment the last time there had been a courier, just a few weeks ago and another who had arrived a few weeks before that- and a Sergeant.

 

Technically, the Sergeant wasn’t an officer, but with so few experienced official officers, Lorraine had promoted the woman, who had served at the encampment for over a year to temporary 2^nd Lieutenant.

 

“Are any of the outposts reporting heavy enemy activity…or anything unusual at all?” Lorraine asked.

 

“The usual, ma’am,” one of the Lieutenants replied. “A bit of sniping. Some movement towards our right flank, nearest the Gap. Looks like they might try to push us back a few more yards, if they can.”

 

“If they can, Lieutenant,” Lorraine replied, trying not to let the impatience in her voice show. “They’ll try and push us all the way back until we are surrounded.”

 

The Lieutenant who had spoken simply nodded, embarrassed. Lorraine was instantly ashamed that she had snapped like that. The officers gathered there were probably just as far in over their heads as she was and were simply trying to give her status reports.

 

“Still,” she said. “If there are moving towards the right, we’d best reinforce that flank, so we can stop them there if we have to.”

 

Lorraine scrambled a moment to find an up-to-date roster report. One thing that she had never realized through her studies or her time at the front was how much paperwork was involved in commanding the encampment. Her respect for the late Colonel Bradshaw was growing. How he managed to keep all the reports about the order of battle, ammunition supplies, medical reports, troop movements, maps and geographic reports straight, Lorraine was sure she’d never know. If the situation at the encampment wasn’t so tense, she knew she’d also have to worry about requests for R&R, leave, promotions, demotions, conduct reports and who knew what else. Things like that were important, she knew, but important more for the office clerks who sat back in Castletown and took hour-long coffee breaks before writing up reprimands to line officers who didn’t fill out the proper forms in triplicate. Lorraine would mentally apologize to all of those clerks but for right now, she had troopers to keep alive and an encampment to keep out of enemy hands.

 

A long moment later, Lorraine found the report she had been looking for. And even though she thought it was impossible for the situation to look any bleaker, simply scanning the spare listing of troops, broken down into companies, platoons and squads, made her heart sink.

 

Even the minor, short-lived attacks and sniping by the Central Army, attacks meant simply to probe for weaknesses in the Southern Front’s lines rather than complete the encirclement, were taking their toll on the Front’s numbers. A single sniper attack might take out three or four good troopers, either permanently with a fatal shot or for a few days with even a minor wound. Of course, the situation was so bleak that it now warranted that every trooper who could shoulder a weapon be put into the line in case of an emergency.

 

Still, unless Castletown sent relief, and in a major way, pretty soon all of Lorraine’s headaches over paperwork would be over, because there’d be no more troops to report on.

 

She felt the three Lieutenants, all of them as keenly aware of the situation as she was, watching her, expectant. She wasn’t sure if they expected her to throw up her hands and contemplate surrendering or if they expected her to brainstorm a magnificent idea that would save the day. She could do neither.

 

“Anderson, I want you to take Company A and move it to the furthest extent of our right flank,” she ordered.

 

“Will do, ma’am, but that will leave a big gap in my center,” Anderson reported.

 

Lorraine nodded.

“Company C is your largest unit, correct?” Lorraine asked, although the figures right in front of her told her that was so.

 

“Correct, ma’am, although, it’s still only about a third of its original strength,” Anderson reported.

 

Lorraine shrugged. “That’s the way of every other unit in this encampment. Take Company A and send it to the right flank. Then take Company C and use it as the center of your line. Spread it out as much as you can without leaving your center any thinner than absolutely necessary.”

 

Anderson nodded. He wasn’t happy, but he could see the wisdom of Lorraine’s strategy. Lorraine was about to ask on the condition of the left flank when a private rushed in, out of breath. He saluted, almost passing out from exhaustion as he did so.

 

“Ma’am…beg…to…report,” the private gasped.

 

“Unless the Central Army is right behind you, Private, take a moment to catch your breath. Don’t want you passing out on us. Right now we need all the troops we can.” Lorraine suggested.

 

A moment passed. As much as Lorraine knew this young man needed to catch his breath, she had to admit to being more than a little anxious to hear what he had to say as to the reason he had obviously rushed to her headquarters.

 

“Sorry, ma’am,” the private said as soon as he regained his breath. “Thought you’d want to know as soon as possible, so I ran all the way. There’s a riding party -about a dozen or so – coming through the Gap.”

 

The Lieutenants looked at each other and then to Lorraine. Lorraine wasn’t sure what to make of this news. She knew she sure as hell wasn’t going to find out sitting behind a desk in her tent.

 

A moment later she was on her feet and, pausing only to grab her rifle, was headed towards the mouth of the Gap. Only after she had run a couple of hundred yards did she think to check to see if the officers were coming as well. They were.

 

She was not halfway to the furthest-most spot in the encampment’s perimeter when she began to remember just how out of breath the young private had been when he reached her tent. As she gasped for breath while still maintaining the fastest pace that her lungs and legs would allow, she began to see just why he had arrived in the condition he had. Before she had taken less than another dozen strides, she was beginning to admire the private for his physical conditioning to have run all that way.

 

From the gasps and wheezing that she heard behind her, the other officers were not having any easier time of the quick trek to the Gap. She suddenly didn’t feel quite as out of shape. Of course, if you weren’t in at least some semblance of physical fitness on the Southern Front, you were quickly put out of your misery by a Central Army shell or bullet.

 

Just ahead, she could see several figures on horseback, surrounded by perhaps a dozen of those Southern Front troopers who were defending this stretch of the line. As she struggled to catch her breath as she slowed her pace to a jog, she was somewhat amused to notice that the encampment’s defenders had their weapons not quite aimed at the newcomers. Even if outsiders arrived wearing the same uniform and flying the same flag, which these men were, Lorraine noticed, they were still treated with at least a touch of suspicion.

 

The arrival of “friendly” troops surprised Lorraine, and piqued her interest in their arrival. She had half-expected these new arrivals to be of Central Army origin, here to ask for the surrender of the encampment. There’d already been one such request, about a week prior. She remembered that Colonel Bradshaw had laughed in the leader’s face before sending him on his way. She had wondered at the time, and fleetingly on the way here, what she might do if put in the same position. She was glad to have not been made to answer that question, at least not in the immediate future.

 

Finally coming before this party of maybe ten or twelve mounted troopers, Lorraine tried to look as if she was in charge of all they saw before them. The troopers looked as if they were just arriving from a few weeks on R-n-R, with fresh uniforms, clean shaves and no doubt, Lorraine surmised with a hint of envy, full bellies. No sense in appearing as the squalid, malnourished, foul-smelling rabble they might take us to be. Some of this newly-arrived party were already looking the encampment over the way one might to a dead rat on the road.

 

”It may not be the Royal Castle,” Lorraine thought, “but we’ve fought to keep every inch of this encampment out of enemy hands.”

 

Even as she placed herself on the defensive from the opinions of these new arrivals, she noticed the one on the lead horse wore a Colonel’s insignia. As best she could, she snapped to and saluted.

 

“Captain Lorraine McRae, sir, welcoming you to this encampment,” she added, hastily.

 

The newly-arrived Colonel had obviously been waiting for the proper respect to be paid to someone of his rank, and impatiently returned the salute.

 

“Colonel Will McAuley, 45^th Royal Infantry,” the Colonel replied. And then, with a nod over his shoulder, he added, “My staff. Might I ask to be directed to Colonel Bradshaw, commander of this encampment?”

 

“Colonel Bradshaw is dead, sir,” Lorraine didn’t see the need to go into any more detail than that. “I’ve assumed temporary command. What brings you and your staff to our encampment, Colonel?”

 

“Good news, Captain, we are beginning to break the siege of this encampment and relief will be on its way,” the Colonel replied, loud enough to ensure that as many troops as possible heard the news. In fact, the way the Colonel looked around the gathered assembly of defenders as he spoke, Lorraine knew that his words weren’t meant to be kept between the two of them.

 

A few relieved cheers went up from those within earshot. The Colonel waved a hand as much to say that it was nothing, really, and act much the modest hero. Lorraine paid the officer’s vanity no mind, for it was all she could do to keep herself from kissing him, so grateful was she for the news he had brought to the encampment. The Colonel could be as obnoxious and boastful as he wanted to be, if he had a relief corps en route behind him, he was all right by her and, from the sounds of things, the rest of the encampment’s beleaguered defenders.

 

“That is excellent news, sir,” was what she managed to say.

 

The Colonel nodded. “As you may have noticed, the Central Army is withdrawing troops from around this encampment, and is sending them further up the line to try and stop our breakthrough.”

 

This time it was Lorraine who nodded, as if something clouded in mystery had suddenly been swept clear. “We had noticed movement towards our left flank. We assumed it was in preparation for an attack to close the Gap.”

 

“Oh, I’d hazard a guess that the Central Army might still attempt an attack here, but more likely they’re going to have a go at pushing us back further back,” the Colonel informed her, “We’ve opened up the other mouth of the Gap a good five miles in the last three days. It may be another few days or so before our troops reach the encampment and fully break the siege. Think the troops here can hang on for another three days, tops?”

 

“Colonel,” Lorraine said, “I won’t lie to you. We’re almost tapped out here, in terms of food, supplies, ammunition, medical equipment, and above all, manpower. Basically whatever we’re supposed to be in supply of, we’re in short supply of. But once word gets around that relief is finally coming I’d be willing to bet that every trooper here in this encampment will find it in him or herself to be able to hang on for a few more days.”

 

The Colonel smiled, a proud, fatherly smile, as if his son had just graduated first in his class at the Academy.

 

“That’s the spirit!” he exclaimed. “Now, I am here to take command of the encampment, and my staff and I are to oversee the relief of this position and direct the continued advance against the Central Army in this area. I was supposed to relieve Colonel Bradshaw, as the senior officer, but I guess that’s no longer an issue.

 

Lorraine turned to head back to her…or was it now, the Colonel’s… headquarters. “Let me show you the way to our makeshift headquarters so I can brief you on the situation here.”

 

The Colonel dismounted and was walking beside her a moment later. As the two made their way through the encampment, Lorraine saw the Colonel survey the troops and defenses as though he might survey the grounds of some palatial estate, albeit one he was becoming increasingly distasteful of.

 

Lorraine knew that to some staff officer, which she was beginning to suspect that’s all this Colonel really was, the condition of the encampment must look like some hog’s pen in the lower levels of Hell. Still, not a foot of it had a Central Army banner waving over it, and for that, she was immensely proud of her fellow troopers.

 

She wondered if this assignment was some reward for the Colonel. A chance to get a little low-risk front-line action so as to beef up his resume for some future promotion. Riding a few miles and maybe hearing the odd far-away shot could easily transform itself into being able to “led relief of Encampment A-110” on his resume with a little creative editing of the real events.

 

For a moment, Lorraine had a real fear that the defense of this encampment, so close to relief, could still fail with another major attack by a Central Army that might see its chance at over-running the position starting to slip away. If such an attack came and the defense was run by a Colonel with almost no combat experience…well, Lorraine didn’t want to think that the months of hard-fighting and sacrifice might still come to be all for naught.

 

Desperate to do anything she could to stave off any potential disaster, Lorraine felt compelled to speak up, “If I may, Colonel, I’d like to offer my services as a liaison between your staff and the front-line troops. No offence to your men, but I’ve served with these troops for…”

 

By this time, Lorraine had noticed that the Colonel had stopped dead in his tracks, and had done so a moment or two after she had began talking. For a moment, she believed that must have said something to offend him.

 

”My word,” the Colonel exclaimed, “In all the excitement, I totally forgot!”

 

With that, he began to fish around inside his jacket pocket and seconds later, he withdrew a piece of parchment.

 

“Under normal circumstances, I’d be honoured to have you as part of my staff. Lord knows, I can use all the experienced front-line subordinates that I can lay my hands on but you’ve received orders to report to Castletown,” he explained as he surveyed the parchment and then handed it to Lorraine.

 

”Orders, sir?” Lorraine asked, unsure of exactly what the Colonel was talking about. As she took the parchment, she began to read it.

 

“Yes, that arrived just a few hours before we headed out to bring you word of our relief efforts. I took the liberty of prying, hope you don’t take me as too much of a busy-body. From what I can see, it’s less official orders from Southern Front headquarters and more of a Royal summons, actually,” the Colonel continued to explain. “Something about the King himself wants you to appear at a Royal Ceremony honouring General Vance Highland.”

 

The mention of Vance, her old friend from the Academy, made Lorraine’s eyes widen. She hadn’t read that part yet, just some fancy jargon about being invited back to Castletown. It was a moment later before she managed to interpret from the fanciful writing that Vance was being honoured and she was invited to attend.

 

The Colonel took her silence and interpreted it, quite correctly, as confusion.

 

”You have, of course, heard of the victory at the Battle of the Crossroads,” the Colonel inquired.

 

Lorraine sighed, “You’ll have to pardon my ignorance, Colonel. I’m afraid our knowledge of the outside world has been rather limited before your arrival. To put it bluntly, we knew the war was still on-going because the Central Army was out to capture our encampment and that was the extent of it, I’m afraid.”

 

For a moment, Lorraine thought she saw just a flicker of embarrassment cross the Colonel’s face. After that quick fluster, he chuckled slightly. “Quite right, Captain, an oversight on my part. No matter, this battle of the Crossroads is the talk of Castletown, as is your defense of this…uh, encampment, of course, so I’m sure you’ll get all the detail once you arrive.”

 

Lorraine doubted very seriously that anyone past Southern Front headquarters even knew this encampment existed, much less made it the talk of Castletown. She would have to hear all about, as she suspected she would, Vance’s actions at this Battle of the Crossroads, as the Colonel had called it, when she got to Castletown.

 

All at once, as she stood there, looking to this newly-arrived Colonel, who brought news that the long-awaited relief was on its way, she began to realize that she was leaving the encampment that had so long been her home, that for so long she assumed she would die in, the victim of some Central Army bullet or artillery shell with her name on it. Instead, she was being told – ordered, no less – to leave, for some kind of fancy ceremony honoring a name from her past.

 

The idea just seemed so foreign to her that she couldn’t quite get her mind around it. If these orders that this Colonel had just delivered to her were correct, she was being pulled off the line, the very lines she had defended for so long, within a few hours of the long-awaited relief, the troops that she had started to believe would never come from commanders who she had convinced herself had forgotten that the encampment had ever existed.

 

“Colonel,” she said, scarcely believing she would ask such a question. “If it is all the same with you, I would prefer to forgo this…ceremony, and remain with my troops until we are properly relieved.”

 

The Colonel shook his head. “I’m afraid that is out of the question, Captain, for that order comes from the King’s Royal Court itself. No one outside of Castletown can rescind that order.”

 

And so that was it. The encampment that she had defended for so many weeks would, she now had reason to believe, finally be relieved without her. The siege that she had combated for so long would be lifted even as she rode away to Castletown.

 

The Colonel didn’t seem to have any patience for sentimentality.

”Come on now, Captain,” he ordered. “It took us several days to open the gap wide enough for me and my staff to make our journey here. You’ll have to leave and soon if you expect to make it to Castletown for the ceremony. Make sure you take your rifle. Lord knows that there are still sections where Central Army troops are close by.”

 

Almost numbed by the events that had transpired in the last few minutes, Lorraine could only nod. She turned and hurried to her tent.

 

Once there, she packed what few meager things had survived her time here in the encampment. Alone in her tent, she finally, after so many weeks and so much turmoil, broke down. As silently as she could, she wept. She wept for the friends and comrades she had lost, she wept for the pain, physical and mental, that she had endured. She wept for the men and women who might still be killed, with relief so close. She wept for the joy that those who would survive would experience when the relief forces finally appeared on the horizon. And she wept out of the frustration she felt, for not being able to be there. Even as she left, she felt as though she was not yet complete in the telling of the story of her time there.

 

Within the hour, she was on horse, one borrowed from the vanguard of the relief that was still en route. One of the Colonel’s aides had given it to her, even as the Colonel told her, reassured her in fact, that he would be supplementing his staff with those several experienced troopers who had made up the meager officer’s corps in the encampment. Lorraine still feared that something horrible might happen in the days and hours that separated her troops from a final relief of their siege but she felt better knowing that the Colonel, as inexperience though he might be, had a good enough head on his shoulders to recognize that inexperience and seek out those who knew better of the situation. Perhaps her troopers might still make it out of that hellhole alive as she, guilty as she felt, was able to do.

 

After she left the encampment, trying not to weep before those troopers who made for an impromptu farewell party, she could not bring herself to immediately look back for several miles. Only then, when she was at a good distance away did she trust herself to look back.

 

Lorraine felt, as she made a silent goodbye to the encampment, much the same way she had when she had left Castletown years before. It was as if she was leaving behind everything that had been the steady norm in her life and setting out for a trek into the unknown. And now, here she was, leaving what had somehow, after so many months, transformed itself into her home, the place she had come to know so intimately, and riding off to face the unknown. What awaited her in Castletown? How would she be received? Did anyone even know what she and her fellow troopers had been trying to accomplish?

 

She took her first real view of the encampment as a whole and was struck by the stark reality of how small it had been, resembling so much a small rock trapped in the river’s onslaught. She wondered now, as she had so many times before, how the Central Army hadn’t just rolled right over their positions and on towards the main lines. She also wondered why orders hadn’t come to abandon the place or why Colonel Bradshaw or she hadn’t just told the troops to get out and flee back to safety.

 

Maybe Bradshaw was just too damned stubborn, too full of pride to let the enemy take what the soldiers there had fought and died to protect. Maybe she was the same way. She laughed as she wheeled her horse back towards the main lines and eventually towards Castletown. A few weeks ago, she would have balked at being compared to Bradshaw. Now she took her own comparison as a source of pride. Every man and woman in that encampment had shared the same stubbornness, the same pride, however unstated that pride had been, in not allowing the encampment to fall into enemy hands.

 

As she rode away, towards Castletown, towards this ceremony for Vance, towards this bit of safety that everyone in the encampment had long stopped dreaming about, she vowed to return the first chance she had, to ensure that the small, frail encampment, that few hundred square feet of land that had been soaked in the blood and sweat and tears of her comrades and her enemy, was indeed properly relieved. The men and women who had fought and died there deserved that much.  She just hoped that Colonel McAuley realized that.

 

 

As she rode along, keeping an eye out for Central Army troops that might be moving west in an attempt to close the gap that McAuley and his troops had opened, she couldn’t help feeling guilty. Her mind kept wandering back to the encampment. Could they hold out until relief came? On more than one occasion, she thought about turning back towards the encampment, of staying with her comrades until proper relief came. Orders be damned!

 

 

It was then that she came upon a column of Southern Front soldiers, hurrying past her, with heavy guns in tow. She pulled her horse, suddenly skittish, off to the side to let them past.

 

“Come on, boys!” a burly Sergeant yelled, “We got people depending on us! That encampment ain’t gonna relieve itself.”

 

Lorraine sighed audibly, relief filling her. For a moment she thought she might break down as she marveled at the long line of troops that streamed by. She estimated there were probably at least ten times the soldiers here than were currently manning the defenses at the encampment. As long as they reached her comrades in time, her worries could be set aside as there would be more than enough to hold off any future attacks by the Central Army.

 

An officer, also on horseback, rode up. Still desperate for more information about the situation, Lorraine waved him aside.

 

“Lorraine McRae, Captain of the Southern Front,” she reported as a way of introduction. “I was at the encampment that your troops are en route to.”

 

The officer nodded. “Captain Nero Brinks, 45^th Royal Infantry.”

 

“I met your Colonel McAuley when he arrived at the encampment. I was pleased to make your Colonel’s acquaintance, more than you can imagine. Glad to see your troops are putting in good speed to reach my comrades still there.”

 

“Indeed we are, Captain. I estimate we should be to the encampment in a couple of hours. As you can see, we’re bringing up some guns. That’s slowing us down somewhat but the guns will beef up the defenses once they arrive.”

 

Lorraine nodded. She looked back once more at the tiny speck on the horizon that was her encampment. She saw no smoke coming from the speck, which she took as a good sign that there was no attack in progress.

“The troops there will be glad to see you, on that you can bank. God speed to you and your troops, Captain,” Lorraine said, snapping a salute.

 

“We’ll do everything we can to ensure we waste no time in reinforcing those troops,” Brinks replied, adding his own salute before spurring his horse on down the road.

 

Lorraine watched him leave, marveled again at the number of troops that were streaming down the road towards that little speck, that speck where she had lived and feared she would die for so many months. Now, as she realized that in fact the encampment would, for all she could see, be held, she took one long last look before heading towards Castletown.

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER ELEVEN

 

Vance didn’t realize that his first “audience with the King” would be an unofficial one, a dress rehearsal so to speak, for the next day when the King would officially bestow the honours that the Kingdom believed Vance richly deserved.

 

Even so, the fact that this meeting was unofficial did nothing to calm the butterflies that seemed to have been unleashed in the pit of Vance’s stomach.

 

Even as he stood in the stony, deafening and most definitely uncomfortable silence of the great cathedral where tomorrow’s official ceremony would play itself out, Vance couldn’t help wondering just what was expected of him, by the King, the people of the Kingdom, the Royal Staff and perhaps, most confusingly, by himself.

 

As several of the members of the Royal Staff looked on, all the while going through the motions of preparing for tomorrow’s ceremony, Vance feigned gazing around the cathedral. As a cadet, he’d sat through many a similar ceremony as he himself would be the focal point of tomorrow, and so he knew the place, knew the great theatrical-like stage on which the ceremony would take place, knew of the elaborate reviewing stand where honored guests would sit, looked up into the balcony where those members of the public who could gain entrance, either by who they knew or by sheer determination to find their way inside, would sit.

 

He heard the staff members talking in low whispers, officially about the coming events of the next day, but Vance knew that all eyes were, even surreptitiously, upon him. Everyone was trying to catch a glimpse of this young man, just in from the front and hailed as a hero.

 

“Hailed as a hero?” Vance thought to himself, “How is this happening? A day prior and I’m a failure, a disgrace, doomed to be imprisoned or worse. And now I stand here, preparing to meet the King so he can tell me of the great honours to be bestowed upon me.”

 

Vance shook his head in wonderment. But even as he did so, he realized that there was a moral obligation here. He must certainly tell someone the truth, and assuredly someone here in Castletown, perhaps even on the King’s staff, must also know the real story behind the Crossroads.

 

Before Vance could think any more, before he could formulate his thoughts on what he should do or say, the side entrance door, located just to the left of the stage opened. Through the door marched two gruff-looking guards, decked out in the black uniform of the Royal Guards.

 

Vance nearly gasped. He quickly surmised that this must, at last, be his come-uppance. Surely these two men were here to arrest him for the crimes he committed in failing his Kingdom in battle.

 

However, even as Vance’s stomach knotted, he saw past the two guards to the small cluster of older men, beaurocrats mostly, that brought up the rear. In the midst of this group was a stooped, white-haired man in a regal blue robe.

 

Vance immediately recognized him as King Heth. With a younger man by his side, all but leading him forward, Heth made his way, slowly but surely to where Vance was standing. So shocked at the arrival of his King, Vance could do little but stand agape until the King held out his hand and with a solid grip that belied his weakened appearance, shook Vance’s hand.

 

“Commander Vance, it is a pleasure to meet you. I trust that you had a pleasant journey from the Front,” Heth said.

 

Vance had never met the King before, only seeing him from afar at the odd state affair that he had attended while at the Academy, and that had been several years ago.

 

Of course, Heth’s visage appeared in all sorts of military publications that made their way to the front, but most of those were illustrations where the artist was probably under strict orders to make the King look as healthy and vibrant as possible, since it was good for morale to see their King in the best light possible. Being that the King, for security reasons, of course, had never made it to the front lines, an up close and personal view of Heth for the common soldier was out of the question.

 

The longer Vance saw him, the worse he felt for the health of his King. Heth coughed several times as he and Vance spoke, having to pause at one point to suppress a rather lengthy spell. There were deep lines around his face and his voice faltered as he spoke. The war, a conflict he had inherited from his father and grandfather before him and their fathers and grandfathers before them, was taking its toll on him. Vance realized, perhaps for the first time that while every man and woman involved in the fighting carried their own burdens into battle with them, the King carried perhaps the greatest weight of them all, forced to send generation after generation of young men and women into battle in defense of their country and kingdom.

 

“Very quiet, at least in comparison to what I am used to at the front,” Vance joked.

 

The King nodded, as if he knew exactly what Vance meant. However, the mood darkened by Vance’s remark.

 

“I shudder to think what sights you must have seen along your route. So much of our magnificent Kingdom along our front lines has been destroyed. Even if the fighting ended today, it would take years, centuries before the farmlands in the outer provinces became workable again. It saddens me to think of how much hunger and malnutrition, both at the front and here at home could be avoided if only we were able to work those fields. And of course, the cost of this war, in terms of the lives of the brave men and women we send out to fight it is the cruelest price of all.”

 

For a moment, Vance feared that the King might openly weep. Instead, he pulled himself together and continued on.

”Perhaps your heroism, your brilliant actions at the Battle of the Crossroads will go a long way towards ending this war so that our Kingdom can begin to recover,” the King stated, almost as if he was rehearsing his speech.

 

Even the flowery, over-reaction by the King somehow made Vance feel worse. Some part of him, knew that he had to stop this, all of this, the ceremony, the hero worship, the belief that some great victory had been engineered under his command. The King began to cough and Vance was set to take the opportunity to come clean and tell all.

 

Before he could open his mouth, Gerome had suddenly materialized from nowhere. He handed Heth and Vance, as well as several of the King’s staff each a sheet of paper. Vance pulled his eyes away from the King’s frail form before him and glanced at the paper. He found that the words meant nothing to him. It was if they were gibberish, swimming before his eyes.

 

Distracted, almost overwhelmed by it all, Vance could barely hear Gerome speak.

 

“Your Royal Highness, Commander Vance, I have finalized the itinerary for tomorrow’s ceremony. It will begin precisely at 11:00 p.m. and we hope to be able to fit as many citizens and on-lookers in the cathedral as possible…within reason, of course.”

 

It was all Vance could do to keep from shaking his head in disgust…disgust over what? This elaborate hoax that only he knew was a falsehood? At himself for not screaming at the top of his lungs that this was all a ruse? At Gerome or the King or whoever it was that elevated him to hero status for getting the story of the Crossroads so horribly wrong that it would have been laughable had it not been so tragic.

 

All at once, to Vance, the predicament that he found himself in was as if he was somehow on a runaway horse that was stampeding through a thistle patch. He had no way to escape and when he was finally thrown, he would end up in the worst spot possible.

 

As Vance’s head swirled in turmoil, Gerome droned on for several minutes about the ceremony’s schedule with Vance trying to pay attention long enough to remember even a small portion of what he was saying. As if things weren’t going to be difficult enough, having to stumble through a ceremony where he’d only half-know what was going on was going to make the difficult all the more unpleasant.

 

“Father?” came a cry that broke Gerome’s momentum and jolted Vance’s concentration back to the present. Everyone  gathered in the cathedral turned to see a young woman dressed in the same regal blue that the King was clad in came rushing towards them, a trio of maidens in her wake.

 

If King Heth had appeared ill and morose when he first entered the cathedral a few moments before, the arrival of this young woman seemed to cheer him up tremendously.

 

Vance found his breath caught in his throat. For the young woman was Lady Rachel, the King’s young daughter. As the only child of King Heth, Lady Rachel would soon be Queen of the Kingdom. She was considered one of the most beautiful women in the entire Kingdom as well as one of the most brilliant. Her ascension to the throne would make her the first female leader of the Kingdom in nearly three centuries and, by all accounts, she was expected to be the equal of her father.

 

But perhaps more importantly, she was also Vance’s former lover.

 

After Rachel crossed the Cathedral floor, she embraced her father.

 

“My darling, Rachel. It is so lovely to see you,” the King exclaimed as he held her close to him. As Rachel peered over her father’s shoulder at Vance, she smiled. It was not the smile of a loving daughter as she hugs her father. Nor was it a friendly smile to welcome a hero back home. No, Vance knew that smile. It was the wicked, seductive smile of Lady Rachel as she eyes a potential mate. It was one he had seen her use before.

 

It was one she had used on him before. Suddenly the level of uncomfort that Vance felt as he stood on that stage was raised considerably. He quickly glanced around and was relieved to see that no one else had noticed Rachel’s expression, or at least they weren’t letting on that they did.

 

Gerome was at the King’s side and shook hands with Lady Rachel as she broke from her father’s arms. Rachel respectfully shook hands with her father’s aide.

 

Gerome turned to Vance and introduced him to Lady Rachel, obviously unaware that the two knew each other.

 

“Lady Rachel, it is my privilege to introduce the hero of the hour, the victor of the Battle of the Crossroads, Commander Vance Highland,” Gerome said.

 

For a brief moment, Rachel gazed at Vance with another playful look that once again, neither the King nor Gerome noticed to Vance’s great relief. Vance was also relieved to note that the look quickly passed and Rachel greeted Vance the way she would have any of the dignitaries that she met in her official duties.

 

“Commander Vance, it is indeed an honour to meet you. You have certainly done this Kingdom a great service.” Rachel said, curtseying to which Vance bowed in response.

 

“You’re most gracious, Lady Rachel,” Vance said, shocked that he wasn’t stammering like a blithering fool. In other circumstances, he would have said more, kept up the charade. However, with his head spinning, Vance promptly decided he should keep his mouth shut whenever possible.

 

“This day just gets ever more bizarre,” Vance thought to himself. Of all the scenarios that had flashed through his mind on his way from the Northern Front to Castletown, none of them included his coming face to face with Lady Rachel. He couldn’t believe that she was standing before him, and even had the impudence to be making subtle but, for Vance, clear indications that she remembered their past.

 

Of course, Vance was still wondering why he wasn’t chained up in some prison somewhere, so anything short of that became much less puzzling in the grand scheme of things.

 

Pondering those thoughts, he realized, was all that was keeping him from staring in wonderment at Lady Rachel. She looked as beautiful as she had when the two had last seen each other, the last night they had spent together before Vance left for the front.

 

Even as he had ridden out of Castletown for the front the next morning, Vance could only believe that their final night together had been the conclusion of an affair that had lasted two years. He assumed that once had had left her bed, Rachel would begin her search for Vance’s replacement, another young man to make love to her whenever she had such a need, which as Vance remembered, was quite often.

 

Vance pushed the images of their time together from his head. He could not think of such things at a time like this.

 

He was still blown away by the very fact that she was here at all. Her appearance here, at this very unofficial event was puzzling to him knowing her the way that he had.

 

He wondered if Gerome, the King or any of the staff were as perplexed as he was. Certainly, she had not been expected to be in attendance at this unofficial occasion and had never been in the habit of doing any more than she had to when it came to matters of the state.

 

On more than one occasion, Lady Rachel had complained to Vance, (usually after he had lain with her) about her distaste of having to sit through any of the myriad of social functions that went along with her status within the Kingdom. She seemed to use any excuse that she thought her father would find believable to get out of her attendance.

 

The fact that she was here now when certainly she could have just made a minimal, yet required, appearance at tomorrow’s ceremony said a lot for Vance’s current prominence in Kingdom society. Vance’s so-called “hero” status must be true if Lady Rachel was willing to pull herself away from whatever she was doing and come to the Cathedral.

 

Vance was so lost in thought that he could barely keep his mind on what the King was saying. Thankfully, he picked up just enough so as to not to appear completely oblivious to what was happening. Gerome was continuing with his outline of his itinerary of tomorrow’s ceremony. From time to time the King, as well as several of his aides, interrupted Gerome’s discourse to ask a question or clarify a point. From what Vance could see, all he had to do was show up, be herded onto the main stage of the cathedral and stand there to receive his honors and awards.

 

“Doesn’t seem too hard,” Vance silently supposed.

 

Of course even as he breathed a sigh of relief that there was no elaborate directions that he had to remember and follow, he realized that his getting through the following day’s ceremony hinged on whether or not he could stomach the fact that every word in every honour and tribute that was paid to him during the ceremony was completely unfounded.

 

Vance managed to keep at least partially alert to the information being verbally tossed his way until finally, the King took his leave, wishing him good luck during the ceremony tomorrow. With the aides in their wake, King Heth and Lady Rachel walked together until Rachel came upon her ladies-in-waiting, who had remained a respectable distance away.

 

“Well, there’s really not much for you to do until the ceremony tomorrow,” Vance heard Gerome say. Not that he was paying all that much attention. He was too busy watching as Rachel conferred with her ladies-in-waiting. Every once in a while, she would look over at him, as would the other young women who were with her.

 

Gerome didn’t seem to notice, or perhaps he simply chose not to. “If you’d do me the honor, Commander Vance, I’d like to show you a few sites here in Castletown, you might be interested in. It has been a long while since you’ve been back to the city, has it not?”

 

While Gerome had been suggesting a trip down memory lane, Vance had been watching as Lady Rachel scribbled something on a piece of paper and handed it to one of her ladies-in-waiting.

 

“Two years,” Vance replied, never taking his eyes off Rachel, studying her activity intently.

 

As Rachel and the remainder of her ladies left, the one entrusted with the note made her way over to Vance and handed it to him.

 

“Lady Rachel wishes for you to read this,” the lady said.

 

Vance nodded his thanks and, shielding the note from Gerome, opened it. He instantly recognized her elegant hand-writing that read:

 

“Am glad to see you back. Perhaps we could renew old acquaintances. Come to my chambers tonight.”

 

For a moment, Vance was stunned by what he believed Rachel was suggesting. At first he wondered if he was reading too much into her words. Perhaps she simply wanted to talk to him. But then he remembered that this was Lady Rachel he was thinking of and the note could mean only one thing.

 

Quickly, Vance folded up the note and put it into his pocket.

 

“A note from Lady Rachel?” Gerome inquired from over Vance’s shoulder, his voice filled with playful suspicion.

 

Vance knew he had to think of something to throw Gerome off the trail.

 

“She just wanted to compliment me, and you by extension, on the fine choice of my outfit,” Vance said.

 

The expression on Gerome’s face informed Vance that his quick-thinking had worked. The idea of a compliment from Lady Rachel seemed to both impress and satisfy Gerome, who patted Vance on the back before leaving the Cathedral.

 

“I have a couple of things to look into, Commander, won’t take but a second,” Gerome informed him over his shoulder as he walked away. “If you’d like a moment, I can meet up with you outside.”

 

Vance had to smile at both his ingenuity and in relief for not letting Gerome in on the true nature of Rachel’s note.

 

“Uh sure,” he replied.

 

All but alone now, Vance took out the note and read it once more. The second study of the three sentences contained within the note all but confirmed that Lady Rachel had more than simply a cup of tea and some reminiscing on her mind.

 

A moment later, as he turned and left the Cathedral himself, he repeated what he had thought earlier. “This day just gets ever more bizarre.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

 

Vance was still shaking his head as he and Gerome walked from the Cathedral over how utterly bizarre this day was becoming. If Gerome noticed just how flabbergasted his young charge was to the events of this afternoon, he paid it no mind, and continued to read over some of the reports that he had picked up.

 

“Magnificent,” he said, absent-mindedly, his eyes scanning the sheets of paper in his hand.

 

Vance had been thinking about Lady Rachel, her note secure in his pocket, when he was distracted by Gerome’s exclamation.

 

“What is?” Vance asked.

 

Suddenly Gerome looked up, a little embarrassed that he had spoken aloud.

 

“Dreadfully sorry, Commander Vance, but I was just reading some of the early reports regarding the attendance at the Ceremony tomorrow. Looks to be quite an impressive turnout.”

 

Vance’s heart sunk as Gerome told him this news. He hoped that Gerome wouldn’t go on, but he was afraid that the aide lived for this kind of thing. Not unlike Cochrane, Vance mused. Both of them seemed to love showing off their knowledge of whatever information was relevant for the situation, paying no heed to whether their audience actually cared to be informed about such things or not.

 

Sure enough, as Vance continued to stride down the street from the Cathedral, he saw Gerome jubilantly leafing through the reports in his hand.

 

“Every seat in the cathedral has been spoken for, and the organizers of the event, myself included, have been given special permission to allow for some visitors to stand in the aisles,” Gerome reported. “Within reason and with regard to the safety of those in attendance, of course.”

 

Vance nodded, “Of course.”

 

The two men continued to walk, to whatever destination that Gerome had in mind. Vance hadn’t thought to ask but he could see that they were not headed back to the quarters he had been assigned.

 

“You know, Gerome,” Vance said, “Are you sure that I’m worthy of…”

 

But Gerome was too enthralled with the reports before him to hear much of what Vance was saying. And certainly, Vance still lacked the conviction to blurt out that all of this was for naught.

 

“My goodness, look at all the scribes who will be there,” Gerome read, “I’d be willing to state, as a fact without fear of rebuttal, that every scribe worth his pen and paper will be in attendance to capture every detail of your ceremony.”

 

“Great”, Vance mused to himself, “the scribes can make sure that every moment of this charade can be taken note of.”

 

By this time, Gerome had led Vance to a boarding house some blocks from the Cathedral, in a less than upstanding part of Castletown. Vance had noticed this as he followed the King’s aide, but had paid it no special mention. He just assumed he’d find out where they were going when Gerome told him that they had arrived.

 

“Speaking of scribes,” Gerome said, “there’s someone who lodges at this…house, that I’d like you to meet, although I’m sure you know him quite well already.”

 

Vance could not immediately think of anyone that he knew that would have taken up residence, no matter how temporary at a boarding house that had seen such better days than this decrepit, rundown one.

 

Shrugging his shoulders, he simply followed Gerome inside. The interior of the house looked no better than the exterior. Inside they were confronted with the obvious owner of the establishment. Wart-ridden and dressed in clothes she might have worn for days, the woman gave both men the once-over.

 

“You be needin’ a room?” she asked, suspiciously.

 

Gerome was taken aback, a little offended that this woman might believe that he should ever have to resort to staying in a place like this. For a moment, Vance thought he might laugh at the look on Gerome’s face, but managed to keep his mirth within.

 

“Good heavens,” Gerome exclaimed, “Certainly not, my good woman. I am asking after one of your current residents, Richard Alabaster.”

 

With the mention of the scribe’s name, Vance sobered up. Was he not the very one who had penned that ridiculous report on the “victory” at the Battle of the Crossroads? Vance damned his memory but at the time he had been so overwhelmed by the lies that the story proclaimed as truths that he had not bothered to memorize the name of the writer.

 

“Up stairs,” the woman replied, flicking her thumb in the direction of the rickety stairwell. “Second door on the right.”

 

Gerome nodded his thanks and motioned for Vance to follow him. Vance could feel the woman’s eyes on them as they crossed the room and ascended the staircase. As they climbed the stairs, Vance was becoming assured that at any moment, the staircase would collapse beneath them, but they reached the second floor without incident.

 

Gerome rapped on the door that the woman had directed them to.

 

“Who is it?” came the hesitant reply from the room beyond.

 

“I am one of the King’s aides, here with an important guest. Mr. Alabaster, scribe, I suggest you receive us immediately,” Gerome replied, his voice rising to stress the importance of this visit.

 

A moment later, the door opened just a crack. Vance strained to see the man behind the door but failed. Obviously, this Alabaster character was there to make sure that whoever was knocking at his door meant him no harm. A heartbeat later, however, the door swung open as the scribe decided that Vance and Gerome were not out to get him.

 

“Gentlemen, a good day to you and welcome to my humble abode,” Alabaster exclaimed, his voice thick with false enthusiasm. As Vance finally got a good look at him, the memories of this scribe came flooding back.

 

Indeed this was the same scribe who had barely been on the battlefield during the entire campaign that led up to the Battle of the Crossroads. He seemed more intent on remaining as far out of harm’s way as possible, relying on reports and the recollections of returning officers and soldiers to form the basis of his news reports. He was en route back to Castletown to bring news of this great “victory” before the battle at the Crossroads was even complete.

 

“Humble is not the word for it,” Gerome remarked sarcastically. Vance had to agree with him. It was the sparsest of rooms, and what little it offered was threadbare and well-worn. A bed to sleep in and a desk to write at, and that was about it. Alabaster had a small bag of clothes at the end of his bed, and some writing utensils on the table. Other than that, the room was bare.

 

“Come now, my good sir,” Alabaster exclaimed, the falsehood of his sincerity still ringing out, “I am a scribe. I can’t be tied down with useless possessions. I have to be able to go at a moment’s notice to wherever the action is.”

 

Vance wanted to cry out that he had never seen Alabaster anywhere near “where the action is” but rather hiding out of harm’s way. However, this was not exactly the time nor place to be discussing the mishandling of the truth, and so Vance remained silent.

 

“What brings you here today, gentlemen?” Alabaster inquired. “Certainly it can not be simply to critique my living quarters, can it?”

 

Vance heard Gerome chuckle. “Certainly not. I am sure I tell you nothing you don’t already know when I introduce Commander Vance Highland, late of the victorious Northern Front. As I am sure you are aware, tomorrow he is to be the subject of a most glamourous ceremony, and I thought it only fitting that he meet, once more, the man who brought the news of his glorious victory at the Battle of the Crossroads. I had hoped that this meeting might be in a bit of a better setting, but one takes what one can get, I suppose.”

 

“It is a pleasure to meet with you once again, Commander Vance,” Alabaster said, extending his hand.

 

Vance wanted to break the hand that was extended, but that wouldn’t do, at least not in front of Gerome, who would of course, demand an exclamation. Instead, he simply clasped and shook the scribe’s hand.

 

“The same, my good scribe, the same.”

 

As Vance looked Alabaster in the eye, he caught sight of something, a look that said “I know” that was reflected in the slight, almost undetectable sneer that was a part of the false smile that Alabaster wore. All at once, Vance realized that he needed to be alone with the writer for at least a few minutes.

 

“Gerome, would you mind giving me and Mr. Alabaster here a few moments alone?” Vance asked. He knew that Gerome might be alarmed at this request, so he added “I’m sure that his newspaper of choice would be very interested in an interview with me…you know, on my return from the battlefield, looking forward to the ceremony tomorrow, that kind of thing. I’m sure that after all Mr. Alabaster has done for me, it’s the least I could do to repay him for his actions.”

 

Vance never took his eyes off the writer, for he wanted to see his expression. In doing so, he couldn’t see if Gerome looked any less puzzled through his explanation. However, his voice sounded like he had bought it.

 

“Of course, Commander, a good idea, for sure.” Gerome replied, “I shall see myself out if that’s all right. I shall look in on you at your quarters sometime tomorrow morning, before the ceremony?”

 

“Excellent, Gerome, looking forward to it,” Vance replied.

 

This time, Vance did turn to watch Gerome leave the room. As soon as the door closed, Alabaster tried to speak.

 

”Commander…” was all that he could get out before Vance shushed him with a wave of his finger in the scribe’s direction. The stairs in the boarding house were in such bad condition that Vance could hear Gerome’s departure quite clearly, the steps creaking beneath his every step. A moment after the creaking stopped, he heard the faint muffled slam of the front door.

 

With that, Vance turned, rushed towards Alabaster and slammed him against the wall of the room, his face only inches from the scribe’s, which was now twisted into a horrified expression.

 

“What the…” came the meek cry.

 

“Shut the hell up!” Vance ordered as forceful as any command he had ever given on a battlefield. He kept his voice low, so as not to attract the attention of the owner or any of the other tenants, but the tone said enough.

 

After a few moments, Vance spoke again. He knew he had Alabaster terrified out of his wits over what he might do and that pleased him, for that’s exactly what he wished to accomplish by his actions.

 

“Why did you lie about the Crossroads?” he asked, beginning his inquisition.

 

The few moments that Vance had stood there in silence had allowed Alabaster to collect himself as well. Vance knew that the scribe, have never seen the full-fledged terror of battle, would have been rendered speechless at the site of an outraged man rushing towards him. However, that condition proved to be simply temporary.

 

“I had to,” came the reply.

 

The answer did little to satisfy Vance.

 

“You had to?” Vance spat back in Alabaster’s face. “You mean to stand there and tell me that events occurred that meant you had to lie to the people of Castletown?”

 

“You don’t understand, Commander!” Alabaster replied, his voice not quite breaking. “It was all with the best intentions!”

 

“Best intentions?” Vance repeated. “And what is it that I don’t understand? That you lied to the Kingdom, leading them to believe that a great victory occurred? That I understand. I just don’t understand why you distorted the facts. Why? Was it because it sounded like a good idea? Because you enjoy filling the Kingdom with false hope? Or was it so that my guts would be twisted in two as I am forced to live a lie? Tell me where these best intentions lie, my writer friend!”

 

With that, Alabaster somehow found the strength to escape Vance’s grip. As he did so, he stormed across the width of the room to the window.

 

“Look!” he said, almost as an order. Vance followed him across the room and stood next to him. He looked out of the window and down onto the street as Alabaster had directed him.

 

At first, Vance could not see anything out of the ordinary. He looked down upon a normal everyday street scene where the youngsters of Castletown played, the merchants hawked their wears, the elderly sat and talked about their own days of war.

 

“What exactly am I supposed to be looking at?” Vance demanded.

 

“Everything and nothing,” replied the scribe as a way of explanation. Vance was about to whirl around and give him what for when Alabaster continued, “It’s not what you see with your eyes, it’s what you can feel.”

 

Still confused by Alabaster’s words, Vance demanded, “You must explain yourself further, scribe!”

 

“The people here in Castletown needed that victory at the Crossroads,” Alabaster replied. “And I was there to give it to them.”

 

“You gave them lies!” Vance shouted, unable to keep his cool any longer.

 

“I gave them a reason to believe that the war was going in our favour,” Alabaster countered.

 

“What would you know about the war?” Vance replied, pointing a finger accusingly at Alabaster. “You barely got close enough to hear the shells falling. You know nothing about whether the war goes in favour of one side or the other.”

 

“I know enough,” Alabaster stated, a tone of smugness creeping into his voice, “I probably know more than you do. I know that the Central Army is advancing on all fronts, and it’s taking every effort we can muster to keep the wolves from the doorstep of Castletown.”

 

“Well, so far they’ve never come within shouting distance of the capital,” Vance reminded Alabaster, “so I’d like to think we’ve done a pretty good job of taking care of things.”

 

“And the Central Front probably never will fully break through on any front and threaten Castletown,” Alabaster assured him, “Just like we’ll probably never push them back to their capital. The war will continue to go on and on and on. A victory here, a defeat there. We’ll advance a few miles only to get pushed back over those same few miles.”

 

Finally, Vance could take no more. “Enough,” he exclaimed, pounding his fist against the wall, “What does any of this have to do with your outrageous lies when it comes to the Crossroads?”

 

The outburst had little or no effect on the scribe. He calmly looked out the window at the scene playing itself out below them.

“The people here in Castletown are tired of this war. You can feel it when you walk through the streets on most normal days when the news is bleak. They are tired of sending their young people off to war, to fight and die and be crippled just so the generals can move their little play pieces across the map. They want to know that this war might end sometime within their generation.”

 

A moment passed. Vance knew what Alabaster was saying.

 

“These people need hope. They need to believe that sending their children off to fight these battles is going to amount to something,” Alabaster continued. “If they open up the newspaper and read that the Northern Front has been defeated in a major battle, thanks in no small part to a bad leadership decision, the citizens would be demoralized.”

 

 

Vance wasn’t sure if he should let that “bad leadership decision” remark pass but he did, for he knew it was true. He also knew that Alabaster probably hadn’t meant it as an undue criticism. Meanwhile, Vance was coming to realize just why Alabaster had done what he did and he wanted to hear the other man continue to explain himself.

 

“Yes, I understand that what I did was wrong,” Alabaster admitted, “but you see, Commander, I did it because it was the best thing for the people of Castletown to hear.”

 

Vance nodded. He supposed that if he looked deep within himself, he could see the scribe’s point. However, he could also see the one fatal flaw in the other man’s logic.

 

“What happens, my dear scribe,” Vance asked, “when word gets back to Castletown that the Crossroads wasn’t as grand a victory as you have written it to be? Surely some of those sent home on wounded leave must have arrived before I did, what do they tell?”

 

Alabaster shook his head. “They tell nothing, Commander Highland, most of them were so badly wounded that they were directed towards the nearest hospitals where they are kept from the rest of the population. Those that were able to be sent to their homes were, most likely, stunned to read of the Crossroads as a victory. I’m certain that more than one wanted to tell the real truth.”

 

“And why didn’t they?” Vance asked, bewildered.

“My dear Commander,” Alabaster replied, chuckling softly and shaking his head, “Every newspaper in Castletown reported the Battle of the Crossroads as a great victory. The King himself proclaimed it to be so. The population has been led to believe one thing: that we carried the day. Imagine then that you are a common soldier, wounded in battle, who tries to tell his friends, his family, his neighbours, anyone who will listen that what is accepted as universal truth, is in fact a falsehood. How quickly do you think that you might find yourself in another hospital, a different kind of hospital, once people found out about your outrageous claims?”

 

Vance found himself overwhelmed by this idea.  He could not reply, could not speak, could barely keep himself from exploding in rage, and yet he did not know why.

 

Finally, Alabaster spoke softly, more soberly than he had before. “We didn’t know, those of us who came up with this plan, that it would ever come to this. We expected only that it might improve morale for a week or so until it was forgotten. Even after the wounded began to come back to Castletown, we thought that everyone would have forgotten about the actual outcome, I guess we were naïve. Because then the King decided to use this victory as a rallying point like no other, had you return to the capital for this ceremony et al.”

 

“So what do you propose I do now?” Vance asked, partly sarcastically and partly to see if perhaps Alabaster, the inadvertent cause of all this, might have some wisdom he could impart.

 

Instead, he just shrugged, as if to rid himself of whatever responsibility he could. “Ride it out, Commander, enjoy the moment. No one in this city is going to have the guts to challenge what the good citizens have been led to believe as truth. Not even yourself. In time, even those who were there will come to remember it as a victory. In the years to come, the veterans will sit their children on their knee and talk about their role in the grand victory of the Crossroads.”

 

Vance looked upon the scribe with more disgust than he had before. It was that easy was it? Just “ride it out”? Part of Vance had been willing to do just that. Part of him knew that it would be easy to just clam up and accept these accolades to come, falsely won by the blood of an army he led to defeat.

 

And part of him knew he couldn’t live with himself if he did.

 

Without another word, he stormed out of the scribe’s room and the boarding house in which he stayed.

 

 

 

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

 

After he left the less-than-modest boarding house where Alabaster was staying, Vance stormed for several blocks, not caring to hide in the shadows. His anger had, momentarily, blocked out his desire for secrecy, or want of keeping a low profile.

 

Vance was angry, that particular emotion blocking out, at least momentarily, the one of guilt and confusion that had wracked him since he had returned to Castletown.

 

Silently, and sometimes not so silently, Vance damned the scribe Alabaster for printing those outrageous lies. Vance could not believe that this writer, who had probably barely even heard an angry shot, leading the people of Castletown astray. They had a right to know the truth, didn’t they? Had it not been for him, Vance rationalized, a few blocks from the boarding house, none of this would be happening.

 

And suddenly, Vance stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and began to laugh to himself. Suddenly he became aware not only of the site he must make, a madman laughing at nothing, and of the absurdity of his last statement or perhaps every statement he had made in his muddled head since he had stormed out of Alabaster’s room.

 

Quickly, he ducked down a deserted side street where he shook his head as he laughed. Had it not been for Alabaster, he might have found himself facing a prison…or worse…when the King had summoned him from the Northern Front.

 

Meanwhile, perhaps Alabaster was right, perhaps the people of Castletown needed to hear of victory rather than defeat. Perhaps it was better for the mothers and fathers of the dead to hear their son or daughter was killed in a great victory rather than a horrific setback.

 

“And just when I thought I had all the answers,” Vance mused, “they change the questions again!”

 

An hour ago, Vance realized that he was tormented over whether or not he should come clean over the outcome at the Crossroads, simply to ease his own conscience. Now, he realized that perhaps keeping quiet might just be the best thing for all involved. Would the people of Castletown be able to survive the news that he, Commander Vance Highland, the hero of the hour, was in fact a fraud?

 

Vance’s head spun. He wondered if he wasn’t just now taking Alabaster’s words and reasoning to heart just to escape the humiliation he would face if he actually admitted to his failure on the battle field.

 

Did Alabaster’s words ring true because Vance wanted them to? Or because, in the end, it was best for the people of Castletown to go on believing the Battle of the Crossroads was a victory?

 

Tormented by these conflicting thoughts, Vance continued on his path. The confusion that had been temporarily replaced by anger returned. As he journeyed through Castletown, he slammed his hand into his pocket.

 

With a start, he felt something in his pocket: a piece of folded up paper. Even as he withdrew it, he remembered one of Lady Rachel’s ladies-in-waiting giving him that piece of paper with her invitation written on it.

 

Suddenly, Vance knew that he must see Lady Rachel, if for no other reason than to get his mind off this overwhelming dilemma that he found himself faced with.

 

He began to quicken his pace, trying not to break into a full run as he made his way towards the Castle where Rachel must surely be waiting. Suddenly, he couldn’t make his way there fast enough but finally he found himself before the Castle.

 

The guards at the Castle snapped to attention as he approached.

“Commander Vance,” one of the said as he drew near, “We were not aware that the King had requested your presence. If you’d like we can announce your arrival.”

 

Quickly, Vance waved them off. “Actually, I received an invitation from Lady Rachel.”

 

The guard who had spoken glanced towards his comrade. Vance hoped that it was simply due to the fact that they had not received any notification of his arrival and not because they both knew what an invitation from Lady Rachel meant.

 

“Lady Rachel is in her chambers, Commander,” the guard informed him. “Would you like an escort there?”

 

Vance shook his head and then proceeded, “Not necessary. Lady Rachel and I are old friends, I know my way around this castle.”

 

Leaving the two guards behind to their suspicions, Vance quickly made his way through the familiar corridors to Lady Rachel’s private chambers.

 

As Vance entered Lady Rachel’s quarters, he became aware of her moaning in pleasure. Vance sighed deeply, remembering that sound. It was a sound he had first heard in this very chamber seemingly an eternity ago, when he had first made love to Lady Rachel. Over the months that the two had been together, those moans had been echoed many times.

 

Little did Vance know then that, on many lonely nights at the front, those moans of desire would inadvertently keep him company as he posted picket duty. With death only a sniper’s shot or an artillery shell away, Vance had never expected to see Lady Rachel again, let alone allowing himself to believe that he might be with her again.

 

And yet, just as she had really been there that afternoon at the cathedral, he was even now here in her chambers. And even as he battled to keep himself in check, he wondered what the reason for her moans might be. Certainly she would have taken many lovers since his departure. It was to have been expected. But to call Vance to her chambers and be lying with one even as he arrived? Well, even Rachel had her decorum. She was the King’s daughter after all.

 

Vance had become Rachel’s lover while he was still at the Academy. During one of the Academy’s Formals, she had been the Academy’s guest of honor, arriving with several of her court in tow. In a grand ball gown that seemed out of place amid a sea of cadet uniforms, Rachel had stood atop the Grand Ballroom’s staircase, all the better to look out over everyone and to be admired.

 

At first Vance had paid the Lady no mind, preferring to set his sights on Cadet Sergeant Valerie Mason, who was a year ahead of Vance and the rest of his classmates, and, it was rumoured, more than a little experienced in the ways of love-making. To Vance, a young cadet who was struggling simply to not be overwhelmed with his studies, much less have delusions of being any more than a first-rank officer upon graduation, Lady Rachel was out of his league.

 

It had taken most of the evening, but Vance had managed to summon not only the courage to ask Sergeant Mason to dance, but the right words in which to do so. Once she had agreed to dance with him, Vance made sure that she was impressed and, it would seem, ready to impart some of the wisdom gained by her experience on to him.

 

However, while Mason may or may not have been impressed with Vance, he had earned the attention of someone else at the Formal: Lady Rachel.

 

Within moments of the music ending for Vance’s dance with Mason, he received a tap on the shoulder. One of the Royal aides in attendance, a rather stuffy looking gentleman who certainly wished to be anywhere but there, informed Vance that Lady Rachel wished to have the next dance with him.

 

As thrilled as most of the male members of his class might have been to receive such an honour, all Vance could think of was how this was going to screw up his plans to be with Mason. Already the female sergeant was looking for a new dance partner and looked rather indignant that Vance was leaving her behind in favour of Lady Rachel.

 

He was introduced to Rachel, who held her hand out to be kissed. He obliged her, and then led her to the dance floor as the music began to play: a slow number.

 

Even as Rachel deftly slipped her body ever closer to his as the pair danced, Vance held her firmly against him as the two moved gracefully across the dance floor. Vance knew that it would be in his best interests to show Rachel a good time. More than one aspiring military leader had seen his career chances evaporate because he had offended a member of the Royal Family during a social setting.

 

After a few moments, he had to admit that this young Royal was a more than adequate dance partner. She wasn’t the clumsy oaf that even many of his fellow classmates had gotten stuck with as dates. He became aware of her firm body against his, within his embrace. He tried not to think about what she might feel like on top of him, having been stripped of the gown she wore.

 

Instead, Vance put his dance skills to the same good use he had with Mason, and had taken no small amount of pride in seeing Rachel smile like she was having the time of her life.

 

However, alone as the Formal ended, Vance still found himself damning his luck as he found himself. Rachel and her Court had left as soon as the last note of the last dance ended. Mason meanwhile had spent the next dance with a freshman cadet, and the two had snuck off soon afterward. By morning, it was all over the Academy that Mason had “initiated” the lad.

 

However, a week later, Vance received an invitation, delivered by the same stuffy aide that had informed him of Rachel’s desire to share a dance with him. This time, the invitation was for a private audience with Her Majesty, Lady Rachel. The invitation, written up in the most formal of script and set upon cream-colored paper, puzzled Vance as much as it excited him. He could see no reason why he, a second year cadet with no more noble blood in him than the beagle that served as the Academy mascot might draw the attention of the heir to the throne.

 

Certain that he would be embarrassed if he got too full of himself, he told no one, not Dmitri, not Lorraine nor Cutter about the invitation, although all three of his friends still riddled him with questions as he dressed in his finest uniform on the night of his appointment with Lady Rachel.

“What brings you out in your finest dress colours?” Cutter asked, blatantly fingering the fabric of Vance’s uniform. Vance, trying to remain light-hearted about the whole affair, playfully slapped his friend’s hand away.

 

“I happen to be about to embark on a fact-finding mission amid the streets of Castletown and felt it best to appear as formal as possible to the civilians,” Vance said.

 

“Stop with the run-around,” came Lorraine’s voice from across the room.

 

Vance sighed. Cutter might have been fooled by Vance’s line; Dmitri might have seen through it but shrugged it off. Lorraine, however, would have none of it.

 

“Okay,” he replied. “I felt like walking around Castletown proper and figured I might run across some beautiful damsel that would be impressed with the uniform.”

 

It wasn’t a lie, at least in Vance’s mind. He was hoping that a beautiful damsel, namely Lady Rachel, would be impressed with the uniform. Besides, he had tried that very ploy on a couple of occasions in the past…but with no success.

 

Whether it had been a lie or not, it had worked. Lorraine laughed, as did Cutter and Dmitri.

 

“That sounds more like it,” Lorraine admitted, and even Vance had to laugh at himself before leaving the cadet barracks and heading to the Royal Palace. He had chosen to walk even though the Palace was separated from the Academy by several Castletown blocks. He didn’t want to hire a cab for fear that his friends might trail him. Nor did he choose the most direct path, wanting to throw anyone who might be following him off his trail if at all possible.

 

It was a warm summer night, he told himself and a nice night to get some fresh air. He even caught the eyes of several young ladies who were also out for an evening stroll. Perhaps, he thought, my story of using the uniform to impress the ladies wasn’t so far off. Of course, a part of Vance knew that he was also delaying his arrival at the Palace because he was unsure of what he would find there.

 

Finally, with only a few minutes to spare before the appointed time specified on the invitation, Vance summoned up his courage and made his approach toward the Palace. But as he walked up the elaborate sidewalk, a young woman, clad in the elegant dress that identified her as one of Lady Rachel’s Ladies-in-Waiting rushed to his side.

 

Startled by this, Vance missed what the young woman was saying. Finally, she repeated herself.

 

“Come quick, you mustn’t be seen,” she said as she led him down a dimly-lit path to a hidden side entrance to the Palace. From there, and against Vance’s ever-increasing uneasiness, the young woman led Vance down a dark corridor. All at once, Vance wondered just how many people in the Palace, much less the rest of the Kingdom, knew that this corridor existed. He was also wondering just what awaited him at the end of it.

 

Finally, that question was answered as the woman stopped before a door and knocked. From behind the door came a voice that Vance thought he recognized as Lady Rachel’s.

 

“Send him in.”

 

With that the young woman who had guided Vance this far turned to him with an impish smile and motioned for him to enter the room.

 

“Good luck,” she whispered in his ear as he passed her.

 

Puzzled at the woman’s remark, Vance opened the door and stepped inside. His instincts had been right; it had been Lady Rachel’s voice he had heard. He caught sight of her as he entered and the vision that presented itself to him was breath-taking.

 

There was Lady Rachel laying back on her bed, naked, leaving no part of her body to Vance’s imagination.  Any confusion over what Rachel intended to transpire there over the course of the evening was dashed as she beckoned him towards her.

 

In a daze over what was happening, Vance made his way towards the bed where Rachel lay. He noticed that Rachel’s eyes drifted down to the bulge that had quickly formed in his uniform trousers. When he was at her bedside, Rachel raised herself up and sat on the edge of the bed. Much to Vance’s arousal, she rubbed her stomach, her breasts and shoulders, before stretching as if she were awakening from a good night’s sleep.

 

As Vance looked down on her firm, subtle body, he suddenly ached with a longing he had not realized he had had. She set her hands on his hips before looking up to him and saying, “I couldn’t get you out of my head so I have decided to invite you into my body.”

 

With that, she began to undo his belt and commenced to undress him. With a lack of regard for his uniform that would have made his cadet masters shudder, he helped her with the process.

 

Once they were both naked, Rachel again lay back on the bed, this time opening herself to him. He wasted little time in entering her, and as he did so, he heard her moan beneath him for the first time.

 

It was Vance’s first time but he suspected that the same could not be said for Rachel. She made for almost a tutor as well as a lover on that night, leading him through the entire love-making encounter, offering him encouragement, guiding his hands and mouth across the pleasure points of her body.

 

As they lay together, their nakedness intertwined in the aftermath of climax, she whispered a warning to him.

 

“You must tell no one of this, not a soul,” she cautioned him. “If my father or any members of his staff find out that you’ve lain with me, you will…disappear.”

 

Vance shuddered for reasons that had nothing to do with his nakedness. He didn’t think he lived in a Kingdom where his government would murder people for political reasons…but to protect the image of their King’s daughter, he could envision an angry King Heth sending men out to “clean up” any embarrassment.

 

He wondered if he should ask whether any of Rachel’s former lovers had disappeared but before he could, she looked at him, a more mischievous look in her eyes to replace the deadly serious one that had been there a moment before.

 

“But,” she said, “if you can keep a secret, this will not be the last time a night like this will happen.”

 

Laughing playfully, she drew him to her breasts and welcomed him between her legs once more.

 

Dutifully, Vance kept his trysts with Rachel a secret, and developed a knack for coming up with believable reasons for leaving the Academy on those nights he spent with her. And if Rachel had been a gentle lover during their first encounter, she transformed herself into a wild beast in their ensuing nights together, leading Vance to one new level of desire and then another as she instructed him in every method of lovemaking he had ever heard of and some that he had never dreamed possible.

 

For hours at a time, the pair of lovers would ravage each other, taking the other, begging and crying out, to a frenzied pinnacle of ecstasy until they collapsed against one another in a heavy mass of spent nakedness. It had been like that every few nights for two years until Vance had graduated from the Academy and left for his destiny on the Northern Front.

 

And now here he was again, years later approaching Lady Rachel’s bed, the same bed in the same room where he had taken her so many times, and once again, the same moans of pleasure filled the air.

 

As Vance, he could see her, lying there, with a figure standing over her. A few more steps revealed that Rachel, lying on her stomach, was naked while the other, a woman, was clad in little more stood over her. That Rachel might be lying with another woman didn’t surprise Vance. In fact, over the course of their relationship, Rachel had revealed to him that she had lain with several female members of her court and enjoyed the experience immensely.. Vance had little reason to doubt that such activities would have ceased.

 

This time, however, as Vance approached, he could see that the woman was simply given Rachel a massage, rubbing her hands over Rachel’s naked shoulders and back, thus prompting the moans of pleasure.

 

Taking a deep breath, Vance walked over to stand beside Rachel’s bed, a move that startled the young woman giving Rachel a massage. The woman was slightly embarrassed by her state of undress and tried vainly to cover herself. Glancing at her only briefly, Vance recognized her as the lady-in-waiting that had delivered Rachel’s note to him.

 

Rachel, also having become aware of Vance’s presence, rolled onto her side, exposing herself to him as she had on that first night they had lain together.

 

Despite his attempts to be a gentleman, Vance could not help staring at Rachel’s nakedness. Vance knew her body intimately, knew what every part of her felt like to his touch, knew what it tasted like to his tongue.

 

Still, no matter how many times the two had made love, the sight of her, naked and waiting for him, had never ceased to arouse him. She would probably never know it but he had used the memory of her nakedness and of their lovemaking, so wild and ardent at times that it had scared him, to keep him company on the many lonely nights that had plagued him when he first arrived in the Northern Front.

 

And now, after so many months, here he was standing before her, watching her seductively undulate that same naked body that had filled so many of his fantasies. The firmness of her breasts, the subtleness of her hips, the tautness of her belly all remained, as though she had not aged a day since he had last been with her.

 

He could not control himself, his eyes roaming the length of that magnificent nakedness that he had felt against him so many times in the past. He was hard already, the way he had been beneath his trousers on that first night. He struggled not to ripe his clothes off and take her right then.

 

Rachel knew the effect she was having on Vance and let her eyes drift down the length of her own body and then over to his trousers, her mouth curving into a wide smile.

 

When she finally met his eyes, she said “Welcome Home, Vance.” before slowly, seductively, rising up off the bed and just as she had at the Formal years before, she slipped her body against his. This time, however, she was more forward. Even as her hand slipped down to cup the bulge in his crotch, her mouth found his.

 

The pair stayed that way for a long moment. Vance mind was reeling. As he had ridden those long, lonely miles from the front, the last thing he had been expecting was the reception he had received from the Outers, who had hailed him as little short of a hero, nor had he expected to be told that he would be decorated tomorrow for leading his army to victory at the Battle of the Crossroads.

 

By this point, he had expected to be imprisoned in some dungeon somewhere deep in the bowels of Castletown, shackled and disgraced. Certainly, he had not expected to be in his lover’s bedroom.

 

A lover whose naked body was pressed against his, her hand caressing his manhood and who’s tongue was probing inside his mouth. Finally, he was unable to hold himself back any longer, his feelings of fear, uncertainty and suspicion turning to lust. Before he knew it, his arms had encircled Rachel, gripping her and pulling her against him, and he returned her probing in kind.

 

His manhood, already hard against her grasp, grew and began to throb. After a muffled gasp of surprise, he once again heard her moaning in pleasure, only this time he knew the reasoning behind it.

 

After a few moments, she drew away from him. He noticed with bemusement that that she was flushed and her breasts were heaving. Rachel turned towards the young woman who had been giving her a massage and who had been, up to now, simply a witness to their lust-filled embrace.

 

“Victoria,” Rachel said. “Would you give us a few minutes, please?”

 

Victoria, as Vance now referred to her, had barely taken a step when Rachel turned back to him. “Unless you’d like her to…join us?” she asked.

 

Under normal circumstances, Vance would have politely declined such an offer. Lady Rachel had a reputation for wearing out most lovers all by herself, a fact that Vance could attest to. However, if today had proven anything, it was that these were anything but normal circumstances.

 

He opened his free arm towards Victoria, inviting her to him. As he did so, Rachel smiled, almost lecherously, at him and also welcomed the younger woman into their embrace.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

 

Vance was dreaming. And all at once, he knew he was dreaming, and yet that knowledge gave him no comfort. For he knew that, try as he might, he could not awaken himself from this dream. He knew that he must simply follow this dream through to whatever end he would find himself in, whenever the dream might end.

 

As he found his bearings in this dream, he realized that he was once again on the battlefield at the Crossroads. He was not surprised that, if a dream this must be, he would find himself here. He had wondered, on the long, bleak march from battle some days prior, how long it would be before the events of that fateful battle would come to haunt his dreams. He also wondered for how many years hence that these events would continue to haunt him and how many more times he would find himself transported back to this time and place as he slept.

 

He looked out upon the great battlefield to see the sights and sounds that would, he knew, follow him to the end of his days. He could only assume that his psyche must have sent him to the field in the moments immediately following the battle, for there was evidence that such a cataclysmic event had just occurred.

 

He could only assume, as he strode hesitantly across the field, that the battle must surely be over, for a haunting hush had descended around him. He wondered if, at first, he had been struck deaf, for he heard barely a sound.

 

Great mounds of smoke still rose where the shells of battle had crashed, splitting the ground open in ugly tears in the earth. Here and there bits of dry brush had caught fire, adding to the smoke and confusion of the eerie dream world that Vance now found himself in.

 

Vance looked around, saw the sparseness of the area that had, only a short time ago, become a battlefield. His memory of the ground had been duplicated exactly in his dream. Here and there a tree stood, barren of its leaves, able to survive somehow despite the shelling that had dotted the landscape.

 

Vance found it necessary to step carefully, as here and there a broken weapon lay, useless now. He could see no bodies of the soldiers from either side but there was much debris, as there always was after a battle of any size. Helmets. Packs. Small arms. No doubt, Vance knew, the exact same things that had probably littered the very ground on the battlefield at the Crossroads.

 

At least until the Central Army, victorious at the battle, had looted through the aftermath. Vance wouldn’t have blamed those enemy troopers for doing such a thing. Certainly, he had seen, and in fact, approved of the troopers of the Northern Front doing the exact same thing. It was just the way things were done in battle.

 

Suddenly, ominously, the smoke that had plagued Vance’s chances of a better, more complete view of the battlefield cleared, revealing a horrific site for Vance, indeed. For there, only a short distance away, he could now see the well-entrenched lines of the Central Army. The artillery batteries were evenly spaced up and down the lines, their crews hurrying to bring up more rounds as if in preparation to repel a coming attack. The main line, however, was, much like it had been during the actual battle, manned by the battle-hardened troops that his soldiers had faced, secure behind solid fortifications, their weapons at the ready, with a clear view of the battlefield, a wide field of fire before them.

 

Suddenly Vance become of one fact that this most realistic dream had gotten wrong: there was no attack to be made upon those enemy positions. For it dawned on Vance that he was alone on the field. There were no thousands of Northern Front troopers marching across the fateful field of battle at the Crossroads. In fact, as far as he could tell, there was not a single soldier loyal to his cause within shouting distance.

 

In this dream, the only army that stood on this battlefield flew the tattered battle flag of the Central Army, with what seemed like several thousand of their best front-line troops, all heavily-armed, well-equipped and standing solidly behind entrenched positions.

 

As Vance stood there, the only man wearing a Northern Front uniform for miles, or so it seemed, he saw things so much clearer now. There was no way the attack that he had ordered could have ever succeeded. From the safety of the rear, looking at a situations map, it looked so simple: simply order his troops forward and they need only march a few hundred yards, a mile at the most, to take the position and split the line in two.

 

And yet here, he saw what every man and woman who had been ordered into battle must have seen. The artillery pieces at the ready to carve huge holes in their lines as the men and women under the Northern Front banners crossed the field. The Central Army infantry, ready to pick off their targets one by one with expert precision and, thanks to the strong defenses, with little or no risk of being hit with return fire.

 

As Vance stood there, exposed on the open field before the enemy positions, he could only shiver and shake his head at what those brave men and women must have gone through. To have ordered his troops to march such a distance over an open field, and exposed, as he was now, to such heavy fire would have seemed, had Vance read about it without being there, the work of a madman. The attack was fool-hardy and all of them must have known they were walking towards their certain deaths.

 

And yet each and every one of them picked up their weapons, left their own trenches and walked into the murderous fire because they had been ordered to. They must have known that the objective could never be reached, that they would never reach the enemy line in any great force, much less split the line. They must have known that these grand exclamations of victory were simply the delusions of an officer who had no idea what he was talking about.

 

Yes, Vance realized just how real this dream was. Even the feelings of those men and women who had taken part in that foolish charge were here: feelings of frustration, of anger, and of simultaneous fear and courage.

 

But something was different this time. Vance, alone and unarmed, standing before the might of that line, squinted across the several hundred yards that separated him from the Central Army’s lines. He squinted to see the faraway faces of the enemy soldiers.

 

Startled at what he saw, his eyes scanned along the rows of troops that faced him. Despite the distance, he knew that his eyes weren’t betraying him. Horrified now, he realized that all of the soldiers looked exactly the same, as if cloned from one soldier. And not any soldier, but one particular soldier.

 

Vance recoiled, instantly recognizing the face that appeared before him, hundreds and thousands of times over. It wasn’t a Central Army soldier at all, but the face that stared back at him from behind the barrels of aimed rifles and artillery pieces was that of the angry Northern Front veteran who had berated him at the Ceremony only a few days prior.

 

And now it was as if the wounded man had come back to haunt him in his dreams, and had brought an army along with him, as if to condemn him to death, or more importantly, to force him to endure the same deadly field of fire that Vance had sent so many of his comrades at the Battle of the Crossroads.

 

As the shock of the sight before him subsided, Vance quickly took stock of his situation. He was all alone, under the guns of the enemy. All at once he saw one of the soldiers, with the face that all the others shared but dressed in officer’s garb, step up onto one of the ramparts and raise his sword.

 

Even as he watched the officer move into position to give the inevitable order, Vance told himself that it was all just a dream, that nothing that happened here could really hurt him. In a few moments, he was sure, he would wake up and all of this would be gone. And yet, despite all the things he tried to say to reassure himself that no harm could come to him, his courage finally failed him. And as much as he knew that this was simply a dream, he also knew that running would not save him, that he was too close to the enemy to get out of range in time. It was of no use, he still began to run. He had only been able to take a few hurried steps when he heard the officer cry:

 

“FIRE!”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

 

Vance eyes flashed open, awakening from the nightmare with a start, the officer’s cry still echoing in his ears. He awoke with a gasp, grateful that in fact, he was still alive, and awakened, finally from the horrible dream.

 

As he fought to get his breathing back to normal, he realized that it was morning now in Castletown, and Vance was no longer about to be overrun by a monstrous army of revenge. Instead he found himself surrounded by the nakedness of Rachel and Victoria.

 

Vance looked down to study the way that the three lovers’ bodies had intertwined themselves, trying to force the vision of the nightmare out of his head. Normally, awakening to find himself with two beautiful naked women with whom he had made love to the night before would have been enough to arouse him to mammoth proportions. Instead, even as his eyes wondered over bare breasts and thighs, all he could see was the onslaught of the army of his dreams. Even as he tried to remember the lust-filled events of the previous evening, how he had watched Victoria and Rachel pleasure each other, much to his erotic delight, his mind’s eye saw only the blood lust of the enemy soldiers. Even as he tried to recapture the sound of their moaning as he entered each in turn, his head was filled with his own screams for mercy.

 

Finally he could stand it no longer and bolted upright in bed, then scrambled over the bodies of his female companions, searching out his clothes as his feet hit the floor. His sudden movement was enough to awake the two women with whom he had spent the night. As they awoke, wiping sleep from their eyes, both women looked with great puzzlement at Vance as he sprang from the bed.

 

“Vance,” Rachel asked, her tone a mixture of questioning and indignance, “Are you quite all right?”

 

By now, Vance had struggled into his trousers and was in search of his tunic. He answered without pausing that he was indeed quite all right.

 

“Just in need of some fresh air,” he offered. “Need to clear my head.”

 

He glanced over at the bed to see both Rachel and Victoria watching him. He noticed that the sheets draped over only certain parts of their nakedness and they were in no hurry to cover the rest. He also noticed that they weren’t entirely buying his excuse of needing some air.

 

“I guess I’m just nervous about today…Big day and all,” he added, hoping that Rachel might buy it.

 

With that, Rachel grabbed the sheet that barely covered her and Victoria to begin with and tossed it to the floor.

 

“I think Victoria and I could help take your mind off things,” she said, briefly looking back towards Victoria and smiling the same wicked smile she had before their lovemaking session of the night before. Still wearing that smile, meant to arouse him into returning to between her thighs, Rachel began to crawl across the bed towards him.

 

As he watched her, he felt his manhood begin to stir and, for a moment, Vance considered staying. However, he knew that what Rachel had on her mind would, most likely, exhaust him and send him back into a slumber filled with the nightmares from which he had just escaped.

 

Despite that, it was still a matter of will power not to stay, but a flash of the nightmare he had just escaped from was enough to solidify his decision to leave, to get away. Still, he was grateful that he was now fully clothed as Vance fled with a shake of his head and not a look back that might tempt him and shake his resolve.

 

The sound of his own footsteps drowned out Rachel and Victoria’s puzzled comments as he left the room in which he had spent the night. He all but ran down the hallway and out the nearest door. His pace picked up even more once he was outside, racing down the cobbled streets, past the early-rising vendors, farmers en route to market, children on their way to school and every one else who made a habit of being up at the crack of dawn.

 

Moments later he ducked down a side street and into a deserted alleyway. Winded by his escape from the lingering effects of the nightmare, he leaned back, using a stone wall for support. He took a few deep breaths, and realized that with a few minutes of being out in the crisp morning air, he felt a world better. He had been lying about needing some fresh air to clear his head when he had left Rachel and Victoria, but in actual fact, that turned out to be exactly what he had needed.

 

He closed his eyes, just for a moment, almost afraid that once again, he’d be bombarded by the images he had so wanted to escape. When the nightmare didn’t return right away, he opened his eyes again, not wanting to risk it. He took another deep breath, partly to breath in some more of that crisp, fresh, morning air and partly to sum up the courage to keep moving, and not spend the rest of his days just standing against the wall in the dark alley.

 

As much as the thought amused him, he wondered if that might be a better fate than attending the ceremony that was being assembled even as he stood there, a ceremony to award an act of bravery that never existed, to reward a hero that never was.

 

Eventually though, he kept walking.

 

Much as he had only the day before, he kept in the shadows and side streets of Castletown as he walked along, not wanting to allow his presence to be known to the general public. However, unlike the circumstances of the day before, Vance had no fears that he would be discovered and stoned to death by angry and vengeful citizens who would blame him for the defeat at the Crossroads and the needless death of friends, family and loved ones. Instead, he was concerned that he might be mobbed by grateful citizens who wanted to thank him for his brilliant leadership at the Crossroads and wanted to drown him in their gratitude for delivering such a great victory.

 

The way he felt, just then, the magnitude of the falsehood that he was a part of, that he was watching unfold…he just wasn’t sure if he had the bravery to look any of these citizens, the citizens who would treat him like the hero he wasn’t, in the eye.

 

Vance continued his early morning stroll along the streets of Castletown, relishing in the sounds of a city waking up. Even as the morning sun warmed his face, he knew that there was a dark cloud lurking somewhere, but for the life of him, he could not see it. He knew that some part of the horrific nightmare that had plagued his sleep the night before was a partial reminder of the guilt that was hounding him with every step he took towards this ceremony.

 

As he passed block after block, he almost felt a surreal feeling overtake him, as if he was no longer sure what was reality and what was fantasy. For so many weeks and months at the front, he had missed the serenity and security of Castletown, it’s familiar sites and sounds, the people he had grown up knowing and were awaiting him at home. As the days passed and he was confronted by the horror of the war he hadn’t possibly imagined could be so awful, he wondered if he had ever really known a life like he thought he had at Castletown. There were even nights, as he had huddled with his men awaiting a Central Army Group attack or in the midst of battle when he saw friends die in agonizing pain, when he believed that the life he had known at Castletown might just have been a cruel dream that had come to him in some snatch of sleep.

 

And yet, here he was, back in Castletown. And now, ironically enough, as he watched the children burst out of doors to find their playmates, as he heard the first calls from vendors and as he watched Castletown slowly come to life in the dawning of a new day, he wondered if it was in fact the war that was just a dream.

 

He kept walking, his pace never slowing nor ever quickening past a leisurely stroll. Eventually, as the city of Castletown came to life on the same streets he walked, he realized that he had lost track of time and was no longer exactly sure how long it had been since he had torn out of Lady Rachel’s chamber. Maybe a half hour…maybe an hour. He didn’t really care except that eventually he knew that he must soon return to his place of lodging if he was to ever be ready in time. He vowed to go just one more block, then return. As much as he had mixed feelings about the entire ceremony, Vance realized that it wouldn’t do to be late.

 

He had not taken another dozen steps when a group of children rushed past him, so absorbed in whatever game they were playing or en route to playing that they barely noticed how close they came to running right into Vance. As it was, he had just enough warning to leap to one side.

 

Laughing, he watched them as they departed, partially relieved that he hadn’t been run over and partially envious of the carefree youth they were so much apart of and that had escaped him.

 

A moment later he remembered that he had a walk to complete and turned to do just that.

 

Vance swung himself and that is when he nearly ran into her.

 

Lorraine.

 

He wasn’t sure he could believe his eyes and for a brief moment, wondered if his mind had finally snapped and he was seeing apparitions from his past.

 

As much as he had thought of Dmitri and Cutter while he was stationed on the Northern Front, he had thought of Lorraine. Wondered how she was surviving, the only thing one could really ever hope to do on the battlefield, so far from the rest of them.

 

And now here she was, standing before him, gazing at him as if it had been a thousand years since they had seen each other, which, now that he thought of it, was about how long it had been.

 

He saw her eyes widen, not so much out of alarm out of almost being knocked over by this person, but in the shock of recognition. Despite the many years that the two friends had been apart, it took Lorraine no longer to recognize Vance than it had for him to recognize her.

 

In the long moment after they came face to face with each other, neither of them spoke. They just stared at each other, both obviously scrambling for the words they wanted to say but not knowing exactly what they were.

 

“Well…imagine running into you here,” Lorraine began. Despite the buoyancy of her greeting, Vance could see that she was unsure of herself for the first time since he had known her. “Ah…well, I guess I should say something about how you haven’t changed a bit, the usual things people say when this kind of thing happens…but it’s been…you know…two years, and well stuff’s happened to you, stuff happens to me…stuff happens and…well, things, people, can never really NOT change.”

 

She had been trying not to break…not to fall apart, but that was as far as she got. Weeping, she fell into his arms and he held her, only then realizing it was what he had wanted all along, to hold her. To see if she was real and not just some wild figment of his imagination.

 

He realized that, save the location, this was almost an exact replay of the last time he had seen her, as the four friends, fresh from the academy all dressed in their best battle dress uniforms had gathered at the gates of Castletown saying their last goodbyes before going off to war.

 

As they parted, he finally spoke.

 

“Oh my God, it is so good to see you,” he gushed. “What are you doing here?”

 

A brief, horrifying thought, her reason for being on the streets of Castletown rather than on the Southern Front, where he’d heard she had been posted, exploded into his brain. Taking a step back, his eyes frantically scanning her body, not out of lust but out of concern. He couldn’t see any great wounds, the type that would have gotten her out of the line and back home.

 

“You haven’t been wounded, have you?” he asked, fear thick in his voice.

 

“A few times,” she replied matter-of-factly, a smile creeping across her face. “Mostly shrapnel…got nailed rightly in the shoulder a couple of weeks ago, but that’s not why I’m here.”

 

Her remarks had done nothing to calm the twisting of his guts. Scanning his face, she caught on to that and laughed softly.

 

“Please,” she said, “I’m fine. A lot better off than a lot of people I’ve shared the lines with, mind you.”

 

By now, Vance could see that Lorraine had none of the horrendous wounds that had sent many a soldier home crippled. But if the fear of her being sent home due to wounds had subsided, there was still the nagging question.

 

“Okay,” he asked, “then if you are not home on a wounded furlough, what brings you back to Castletown?”

 

“Funny that you, of all people should be asking that question,” she replied, reaching into her breast pocket and withdrawing a folded piece of paper.

 

Proceeding to unfold the paper, she handed it to him for him to read. Vance had barely time to note that it was an official military order of some kind, with the signatures, official stamp and letterhead to prove it before…

 

“I’ll save you the trouble of reading it too closely,” she explained, “Basically, it says that I was ordered to come off the front lines to attend a ceremony honouring you as a hero of the Kingdom.”

 

She nodded towards the paper he now read which, as he expected, said what she had just summarized, only in much more detail. “Sounds like a pretty big to-do if they’re willing to pull me off the line to make an appearance.”

 

He shook his head, not wanting her of all people to make anything more out of this “victory” that was anything but, except in terms of a publicity bonanza.

 

“It’s nothing, really,” he said.

 

“Anything that gets me out of the front lines is a big deal,” she said, joking with him. “Of course, if you’re even half the hero the papers are making you out to be, we should probably get you off the streets or you’re going to get hounded.”

 

It was only then that Vance realized that, over the course of the conversation, the day that was just beginning when he started out was now in full swing. Even on the small side streets, the flow of people was beginning to pick up. No one had noticed him yet, but…

 

“Do you remember that little pub the four of us used to visit when we were at the academy…the Dirty Glass?” Lorraine asked.

 

“That little hole in the wall?” Vance replied, even as a thousand snatches of memories from days long past flew through his subconscious. “Yeah, I think I remember. Now that you mention it, other than cadets, I don’t think anyone in Castletown ever went there. Of course, that may have had something to do with the fact that the beer was so awful.”

 

“But it was cheap,” Lorraine reminded him, “So it fit into our budgets.”

 

Both of them laughed at the shared memory.

 

“Well, I passed it while I was walking here. It’s only a block from here, and from the looks of things, the situation involving the lack of patrons hasn’t changed a bit since we were cadets at the Academy.”

 

She tugged on his tunic sleeve and he willingly let her pull him towards “the Dirty Glass”.

 

Lorraine, as she had been about so many things throughout the years of their friendship, Vance duly noted, was right. With the condition of the pub, the same bad-tasting beer, and the early morning hour as key factors, the two friends had the place to themselves, save for the bartender, who either didn’t recognize Vance or was so grateful for the patronage that he didn’t dare do anything to upset his customers.

 

“So, how does one become Commander of an entire Front in just under a couple of years?” Lorraine asked as she downed the last of her beer, wincing only slightly at the taste.

 

“I was lucky enough to be in the right place at the wrong time, I guess you could say,” Vance explained, “The truth of the matter is that I was fortunate or unfortunate enough to be posted to a regiment that was involved in some of the heavy fighting that broke out just after I arrived there. I guess I made some smart decisions, made the appropriate commands and the right reports found their way the Front Commander, who ordered me to report to his Headquarters. I guess I impressed because he assigned me to his staff. From there I worked my way up until I became his second in command.”

 

Vance paused for a moment, not really seeing the bar or the glass of beer in front of him, or even Lorraine watching him. He was somewhere else, somewhere long ago and far away. “To be honest, I figured that would be about it for me. I figured I’d do my duty, hold down the fort for a while, get the experience on my service record, maybe get awarded a few trumped up medals for victories I was never really involved in, watch the war unfold on paper for a few years before being assigned some advisor’s job back here in Castletown.”

 

“And then Commander Albright was killed,” Lorraine said, bringing Vance briskly back to the present, “I remember hearing that. Of course it was weeks before we received any official word. That’s the way it is on our Front, and I suppose the same way it is on the Northern Front, the front-line troops know the news usually from word-of-mouth long before there is ever any formal announcement. I remember one time, we were supposed to…”

 

With that, Lorraine stopped. Vance supposed it was the look on his face that made her halt.

 

“Geez,” Lorraine said, “Look at me, here I am asking for your story and I was just about to ramble on about something that happened to me. Continue, please.”

 

”He was inspecting what everyone assumed was a quiet part of the line,” Vance explained, almost as if he was defending the actions of his commander. “Routine. No enemy activity reported for such and such length of time. Every buzzword and synonym you could toss out there to say that nothing was supposed to happen there. The problem was that the Central Army had noticed, just like we had, how little activity had been taking place in that general vicinity. Thought it might be weak spot, decided to probe it. First using artillery, then with a raiding party. I think there were only about 800 Central Army troops that hit that area that day, less than a regiment, they made a mad dash for the fortifications, see if they could break ‘us. The whole attack lasted fifteen, maybe twenty minutes. They turned tail and ran back, and somewhere along the lines someone must have decided the fortifications were too strong because it was months before there was any more major activity in that area.”

 

Vance paused, a heartbeat or two passed.

 

“Didn’t matter though,” he continued. “The reports said that Albright was killed by one of the very first mortar shells that fell in the area. Of course, he was buried with full military honors, became a martyred hero for the Kingdom. Somewhere around here, I’m sure there’s a statue or something in his honor, I seem to recall hearing that. The guy was conducting an inspection when a mortar shell fell on him, and the brass here reacted like he had been leading an attack on the Central Army’s headquarters with only his dress sword. The same thing has probably happened to a million soldiers since the beginning of this damned war but none of them get a statue. Funny how the press can twist things, huh?”

 

Another pause, as Vance took a sip of beer. He wasn’t sure of how far he would have gone with his rant if he hadn’t stopped just then. Lorraine hadn’t replied as yet, and for that he was grateful. He was afraid that if she had replied, she might have asked him to say something more on that subject, something he still couldn’t bring himself to do, especially not to her.

 

“I can still remember the exact moment when one of Albright’s aides came back to the HQ. After we heard, everyone…there were maybe a half dozen people there, a couple of aides, a brigade commander that was waiting on reassignment orders, a clerk or something… Anyways, they all looked at me and although no one said it, I knew what they were thinking. That now I was the guy in charge and the next thing I knew everyone was looking at me as if they expected me to answer all their questions and solve all their problems.”

 

“And it was more than you could have possibly comprehended handling,” Lorraine said. “I’m only a major, recently promoted – thank you very much, and I wasn’t in command of the outpost where I was for all that long, but at times it was like I couldn’t see an end to everything that I had to deal with. Just keeping everyone alive, healthy and fed between battles is a job and a half. I can’t imagine what a Front Commander must have to deal with.”

 

“It’s like… it’s like thinking and feeling safe in the fact that you’re at the shallow end of the pool,” Vance explained. “It’s not the most challenging situation in the world, but it’s safe…and then suddenly you’re tossed into the deep end with a ball and chain attached to your ankle. Suddenly, you’re trying to keep your head above water when all the elements are trying to pull you under.”

 

They both laughed at Vance’s analogy.

 

Lorraine shrugged and said, “I never thought of it like that in so many words, and yet that’s what I felt like. Well, you seem to be handling it pretty well. I mean, you are the hero of the hour, after all.”

 

“The hero of the hour”? Lorraine had used that exact phrase before to describe Vance and his new status here in Castletown. The way she had said it both before and just now, in almost sarcastic fashion, made Vance bristle. She had mention the way the news filtered through the front lines long before any official word ever came.

 

Did she know?

 

If she did, he knew that she must be furious at him for allowing the charade to continue. The fact that she was saying nothing more than that almost led him to believe that it was just his imagination running away with him. The Lorraine that he had known was never one to hold her tongue if something was bothering her. Certainly, as much as the two of them must have seen in the two years that they had been away, things about them would have changed. But Vance couldn’t bring himself to believe that Lorraine had changed that much.

 

A paranoid thought struck him. Perhaps she knew but simply was giving him the opening to say something, to come clean. He studied her for a moment. Her face revealed no indication that she had anything else on her mind but having a drink with an old friend.

 

In the end, he decided that she didn’t know anything. Lorraine had never been one to allow any kind of deceit to go on for too long, especially between friends. He didn’t think she’d be the kind to call his bluff in public, at the ceremony, for example. If she knew what had truly happened or at even heard so much as a credible rumour, she would have called him on it, especially here, in private.

 

The thought that she didn’t already know the truth about the Battle of the Crossroads eased his worry a little bit. And yet, he knew that this knowledge presented an even greater dilemma.

 

If she truly didn’t know, he knew he must be the one to tell her before she found out some other way. He paused for a moment, trying to decide how much, if anything, she knew about what had really happened at the Crossroads.

 

It wasn’t too late to tell her the truth, Vance told himself. Perhaps she might even know of a way to get out of this whole bogus ceremony. Of course, even as he began to feel better about Lorraine’s ignorance of the truth, the butterflies in his stomach began to awaken again, as he knew that he must tell her and tell her now.

 

Just one last sip of beer for some “liquid courage” and…

 

Lorraine laughed, a quiet sad laugh. Vance realized that she had been, for a moment, somewhere far away.

 

“A lot has happened in two years, hasn’t it?” she asked, almost absent-mindedly. He supposed it was a rhetorical question, but Vance found himself nodding.

 

“As I was riding into Castletown last night, I came across a new brigade, oldest was maybe 19 cycles,” Lorraine said, as she continued. “Riding at the head was a young woman, just out of the Academy, reminded me so much of me two years ago that I thought for a moment that I had nodded off and was dreaming. All of them had that look, that “drive back the enemy and save the country” look in their eyes, that crisp precision marching, clean battle dress uniforms, perfectly oiled rifles to their shoulder. And I thought, as I rode past, if I had asked any one of their number how long the war would last, not a single one of them would have expected it to last more than a few more months.”

 

“We were like that, once,” Vance reminded her.

 

“Don’t I know it?” Lorraine chuckled. “God, how stupid we were. We were going to be the generation that changed everything, right? We were going to make the difference, that we’d finally drive back the Central Army and force the bastards to sign the armistice, and we’d all come home.”

 

Vance took a last sip of his beer, then added “Didn’t quite work out that way.”

 

Again, Lorraine laughed the sad, soft laugh of a moment before. “It sure didn’t. I remember thinking, just before we all went off to fight, all I wanted to get out of life was for us all to come home and grow old together. I could see us all at some dinner, telling our kids our war stories, like the crazy old vets on the streets used to, only without the checkers and the stale liquor breath…but I guess that won’t happen now.”

 

Vance knew what was going to come next, wanted to stop it, but was powerless to.

 

“I mean,” Lorraine said, not meeting his eyes but instead gazing into her now-empty glass. “We all won’t be coming home, will we?”

 

She looked at him then, her damp eyes meeting his. He had heard the catch in her voice, but had also heard not only the grief but the anger. He had seen this before, resentment loved ones had felt towards their beloved surviving comrades. The unspoken question of “Why him and not you?” With Lorraine, he also wondered if the question of “Why him and why not me?” was mixed in as well. He knew, as a moment of pondering passed, that it would be. Vance had asked himself the same question enough times after losing a close friend in battle.

 

Vance had no idea what to say next. His confession that he was not the hero that people were claiming him to be now seemed even more beyond his ability to complete.

 

“Has there been any more…has there ever been any more…” he began. Lorraine put her fingers to his lips, to shush him.

 

“Sshh…if you don’t talk about it,” she whispered, finally talking her hand away from his mouth, “it’ll go away and you won’t have to think about it.”

 

Vance wasn’t sure what she meant by that. His puzzlement must have shown.

 

“I’m sorry,” she continued, trying to laugh by failing, “It was just something a Sergeant of mine told me about losing people. Anytime we lost someone in our section he used to say ‘If you don’t talk about it, it’ll go away and you won’t have to think about it’. I don’t know if it worked any better for him than it ever has for me.”

 

Vance watched, helplessly, as Lorraine began to dredge up feelings and emotions that she had tried to keep hidden away, even from herself, for the many months since she had received word that Dmitri was missing.

 

After a moment, she wiped away a lone tear that had managed to make its way down her cheek.

 

“I buried Dmitri, at least mentally, a long time ago,” she announced. “When I first got word that he was ‘missing and presumed dead’, to put it into government-speak. I…I lost sight of everything else. It was almost as if the entire world just disappeared, save for my trying to find him. I wrote to every staff officer in the Western Front, every government official in Castletown, anybody I could think of, begging for more information on his unit and who I could contact. Anyone he had mentioned in his letters got an urgent letter from me asking about the circumstances surrounding his disappearance.  I spent every furlough I could get on the Western Front, looking for him, looking for any scrap of evidence or any kind of lead. In the end, I was all but begging people to throw me a bone, something to go on, something that would tell me whether he was alive or dead.”

 

Vance winced at the thought of the anguish she must have gone through, trying to find her lover in the mountainous wilds of the Western Front.

 

“About six months after his disappearance, six months of looking and hoping and trying to find some piece of evidence that he might still be alive, I found myself wondering, mad with grief and frustration, through the woods near where he had been last seen, yelling Dmitri’s name. And all at once I realized that…are you ready for this…I was in the middle of a Central Army attack. It must have been going on for some time before I even realized it.”

 

“My God,” Vance replied, realizing perhaps for the first time how strong the love had been between his two best friends for Lorraine to lose her sanity over his loss.

 

She smiled, reflecting on how her behavior must seem. “Luckily, I had been just sane enough to have brought my rifle so I joined in the defense of the area. I guess my survival instincts won out over my desire to find Dmitri. I don’t know if I should be ashamed or proud of that fact. After the attack was over, I was sitting behind a fallen tree, one I had used for cover and I could somehow see what I must have looked like. There I was in the middle of a battlefield looking for something I knew I’d never find without really having a clue what I was I was looking for. And just then, I realized that he was dead. It was just a matter-of-fact understanding that just came over me. For the first time in months, I started to rationally putting the facts together, rather than just grasping at straws and twisting everything out of context so that I’d still have hope. But in six months, someone should have seen him, or the Central Army should have sent word that he had been captured or he should have walked back into a camp with an amazing story about being wounded and/or separated and lost behind enemy lines…But he didn’t, and I finally knew that he never would. So, I let him die and I buried him.”

 

This time it was Lorraine’s turn to pause.

 

“The day after the attack that I found myself a part of, just before I was to head back to my unit, I went back to the area where he had last been seen. From what I could find out and from what I could figure out from filling in the gaps and reading between the lines, there had been some heavy, desperate fighting there, and his unit had been sent in to plug a gap in the lines. It had ended up being pretty much decimated by Central Army fire, artillery, small arms, that kind of thing, the stuff we all see every day. It couldn’t hold and eventually what was left had fallen back, heavy losses, you know the drill. And so when it was over, Dmitri was unaccounted for,” she explained.

 

And then she began her narrative. “As I stood there, imagining what it must have been like, I watched him die. In my head, I watched and yet it was as clear to me as if I had been right there when it happened. I saw him trying to rally his men, a show of gallantry to stem the tide. And for a while, it had worked too, his men had rallied, formed a battle line just a few yards from where I stood and were preparing to counter attack. But then I saw a Central Army soldier, raise his rifle and fire. The bullet struck Dmitri in the chest. He staggered and fell, crying ‘Forward, men!’ even as he died. But his men were overwhelmed and the survivors were forced to retreat.”

 

Lorraine paused for a moment, looking down at the table, laughing almost shyly even as tears stained her cheeks.

 

“I know. It’s stupid, corny even. Like something out of those old popcorn movies they used to show us in the student union back at the Academy.”

 

“No,” Vance interjected. “It’s not stupid, it’s…it’s Dmitri. That’s probably exactly what happened.”

 

Lorraine sniffed, wiping away the tears that formed at the corners of her eyes with the back of her hand.

 

”Oh come on, it was so damned melodramatic, but it’s what ended up playing out in my head,” she continued. “I mean, for all I know he was taking cover behind some tree when a stray shell killed him.”

 

A pause just for a moment as she drove that image from her head in favour of the one she had created months before.

 

“But I like my version better. And that’s the one I saw that day as I stood there in the forest. And once I saw everything, the battle, the shot, his death, I went over to the exact spot where I had envisioned him falling. I recited a hymn, the one we used to sing at the Cathedral on Heroes Morning. And then I said my goodbyes to him…and I left. I didn’t even look back. I had buried him and I knew that he’d want me to get on with my life.”

 

Vance didn’t know what to say to her. No magical words popped into his head to express how much he respected her strength.

 

“It was the right decision, and it’s the decision that Dmitri would have wanted you to make,” he said finally.

 

Lorraine smiled at him. “Thank you for saying that,” she replied. “It’s one of those things where you wonder if you’re being horrible for leaving someone for dead like that. To this day, my biggest fear is that he’ll show up and I’ll have to explain why I just gave up on the chance of him making his return.”

 

“He would have wanted you to go on, no matter what had happened,” Vance reassured her. “He knew, and I know, that in combat you have to have your mind on your job. One stray thought and you’ll make a mistake, costing you your life or worse, someone else’s. I’ve seen it all too often just like you probably have.”

 

She nodded at that. “I know, in my heart, I know that my decision was the right one and the one I would have wanted him to make if something had happened to me. I guess I just like some one else’s voice saying the words that are in my head.”

 

She took his hand in hers and squeezed it tenderly. “Thank you for being that voice.”

 

He watched her watching him, and then his eyes strayed to his hand in hers. He had always thought that his feelings for her had been limited to just friendship, that he would always see her as Dmitri’s lover, even with him gone. But now, he felt something he hadn’t felt in years when he felt her hand against his, saw her smiling at him from across the table. Feelings he hadn’t even had with Lady Rachel.

 

And yet, these feelings proved no comfort to him. Instead they troubled him, as if he was committing a crime or betraying a trust. He wanted to tear his hand away from hers, to drive these feelings from his heart or his head or wherever they were coming from. And yet, he couldn’t. For the first time since the Battle of the Crossroads and perhaps for the first time in months, he felt safe, comfortable, as if he had finally found a place where he didn’t want to leave. All Vance wanted to do at that moment was to stay here and look into Lorraine’s eyes.

 

The arrival of the bartender to startle him more than it should have. Thankfully, neither he nor Lorraine seemed to notice.

 

“Can I get you two anything else? Another round perhaps?” the bartender asked, obviously wanting to milk as much coin out of his sole customers as possible. Vance hadn’t noticed any large throngs of customers rushing in to buy a round or three of drinks.

 

Vance paused, the troubled feelings in the pit of his stomach raging. As much as he was enjoying this time with Lorraine, his feelings toward her, newly discovered, was just one more thing that his mind was trying to get itself around. He doubted it, but perhaps they could be soothed by another round of ale, even if it was the worst he had ever tasted. Perhaps all the ale would do at this point was dull his senses so that his myriad of problems requiring decisions on how to solve them would lapse into the background for a while. He was all set to agree to another round but his hesitance proved to be his undoing.

 

“Just the bill, thank you,” Lorraine replied, already rising from the table. “This gentleman has a ceremony to get to.”

 

Vance eyes widened in shock. He had almost forgotten the ceremony. As he watched Lorraine get up from the table that they had shared and felt himself doing the same, he now realized that he could not stop the events that were going to happen. Vance now wondered just what was going to transpire over the next few hours, and saw no way to stop any of it.

 

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

 

 

If the streets of Castletown had just been coming to life as Vance had walked them that morning, they were abuzz with activity as Lorraine and Vance navigated their way from the pub and back to Vance’s quarters.

 

To make matters worse, Vance’s picture was on the cover of every newspaper in the city, accompanied by a lengthy article about his arrival from the Northern Front and today’s ceremony.

 

It seemed, at least to Vance as though they couldn’t walk more than a few steps before he was recognized and then surrounded by an adoring mob.

 

Lorraine had to laugh every time Vance was caught up in the embrace of some elderly woman who planted kisses and beads on him in a bizarre show of hero’s affection.

 

“See?” she said, trying not to burst out laughing. “This is what they call some people might call celebrity.”

 

“Well, they can keep it,” Vance replied as he struggled to escape the arms of a rather robust woman who had seen perhaps 70 winters. Unfortunately, even as Vance escaped from one citizen, two or three more caught up to him, all wanting to touch the hero of the moment, to shake his hand, to pat him on the back, to offer him a token of their appreciation.

 

The time it was taking him to travel even a few steps was so long that Vance wasn’t sure if he would ever make it to the ceremony. For a brief moment, he wondered if he shouldn’t take advantage of the situation and use it as an excuse to no-show.

 

As word spread that Commander Vance Highland was in their midst, more and more men and women of Castletown rushed to catch a glimpse of him. Within minutes, even Lorraine was beginning to get a little worried for Vance’s well-being as well as for her own. For while Vance might have been the hero, Lorraine was simply someone in the way. It took all her self-preservation skills not to be swallowed up by the crowd. She was jostled this way and that and finally elbowed aside. Lorraine wondered for a brief instant whether she had faced more danger at the Front or here in Castletown.

 

“BACK!” came the shouted command from somewhere. At first, few within the core of the mob paid little attention and continued to advance towards the hero Vance.

 

But the voice repeated “BACK!” and even Lorraine, still struggling to stay afoot had to turn and finally saw a row of Home Guards, resplendent in their uniforms and perfect in their precise movements as they parted through the crowd. They were obviously using care to ensure that none of the citizens were injured but from the looks on their faces, firm and set, all knew that they wouldn’t hesitate to use whatever force necessary.

 

Seeing an opening in the crowd as most began to disperse, Lorraine made her way towards Vance. He was shaken up, for sure, and had been knocked to the ground, but still in one piece.

“Are you okay?” she asked. Vance nodded. He began to mumble something. She couldn’t make it out. It was then that the vanguard of the soldiers reached them. There was movement in their ranks and finally, two of the lead troopers parted and an officer stepped forward.

 

It took Vance and Lorraine a moment to recognize the face. The fluffy bush of blonde hair was gone, as was the peach fuzz beginnings of a mustache. The face had been weathered by the years but eventually they saw enough of the man they had known from years gone by.

 

“CUTTER!” they both cried in the same instance. And despite the decorum that the officer carried with him, he broke into a wide grin.

 

“To your feet, my friends, for I have come to rescue you,” Cutter said, adding a little more flourish to the line than another person would normally have. Lorraine was glad to see that Cutter hadn’t lost any of his satirical wit, at least around them.

 

No matter what tone he might be using, he didn’t have to ask twice as Lorraine lept to her feet and aided Cutter in helping Vance to his feet.

 

“Cutter,” Vance said, “Am I glad to see you, for more than one reason.”

 

“All in a day’s work, my dear Commander, but we’ll have to save the nostalgia for another time.” Cutter told him, his voice sobering.

 

Turning to his troops, Cutter ordered them to form a protective circle around the three friends and they began to march off. Moments later, they were away from the maddening crowds, as Cutter referred to the mob they left behind, and on their way back to Vance’s quarters.

 

“Well, it’s not leading troops to victory over the Central Army, but being Castletown’s heaviest armed escort service is about as good a job as I can get these days,” Cutter explained as they sat together, admiring the plush surroundings that the King had seen to it that Vance received.

 

Neither Lorraine nor Vance knew how to react to Cutter’s words. A moment later, he let them off the hook.

“Come on, that’s a joke,” he said, finally, “They do have jokes on the front lines do they not?”

 

“It’s good to see you again, Cutter,” Lorraine said. She paused and then added “Especially in a situation where I’m not calling you a lying bastard.”

 

“Actually I found my duties today a lot easier than I did the last time I saw you,” Cutter replied.

 

Seeing the confused look on Vance’s face, Lorraine said “It was Cutter who came to the firebase I was stationed at to tell me…about Dmitri.”

 

Cutter just shrugged and said “Didn’t want you to have to read it in some telegram or letter.”

 

For a moment no one said anything, and then Cutter spoke up.

 

“Well, for my next mission, I think I’ll scope out your quarters here, Vance. Digs like this must have some ale stashed around here somewhere.”

 

With that, Cutter got to his feet, waving off the aid that both Vance and Lorraine offered. A moment later he was scouring the kitchen. A moment after that, he had returned with a bottle of ruby ale.

 

“And a nice vintage at that,” Cutter observed, pouring three glasses of the ale, “Of course, any vintage is okay by me, long as it wets my whistle. Now, any one have a good toast?”

 

Lorraine took her glass and raised it to Vance. “I say we toast the conquering hero!” Cutter instantly echoed her sentiments.

 

With a glass in one hand, Vance waved off the honor. He had his two closest friends in the same room, something he never thought he’d ever see again. And yet, they were treating him as the hero that he wasn’t. Perhaps this might be the best time to say something, anything, to get the ball rolling towards relieving himself of this great burden of guilt that seemed like an albatross around his neck.

 

“Listen, before this ceremony gets underway, I have to tell you both…” Vance began.

 

But there came a knock at the door. Vance was tempted to just ignore it, planned on doing just that so he could tell the only two people he believed just might understand his side of the story.

 

But the knock came again, and Lorraine, drinking down her glass of ale, motioned towards the door.

“Are you going to get that?” she said after swallowing. Chagrined and frustrated, Vance got to his feet and went to the door.

 

“Three guesses who that is?” Cutter joked.

 

Vance didn’t need three guesses. He knew who it would be and the reason for his visit. Sure enough, it was Gerome, arriving to escort him to the ceremony he was dreading more and more by the second.

 

“There you are, Commander Highland. I have been worried sick when I heard about that mob,” Gerome cried, breathlessly as he rushed into the room. “I did hope you escaped without injury.”

 

“I’m fine, Gerome,” Vance assured the aide. “Actually, I’d like you to meet…”

 

“There will be time for introductions later, Commander. That bring us to the other reason I am here. You simply must hurry, or we shall be late for the ceremony,” Gerome exclaimed, “That certainly wouldn’t do, to be late to accept one’s own award.”

 

And just like that, Vance saw another opportunity to come clean, to tell his two lifelong friends the truth about what had happened at the Crossroads, slip away from him. He was torn, unsure whether to be relieved or frustrated. In the end, he decided he was the latter.

 

He turned back to face Cutter and Lorraine, hoping that somehow he might see something in their faces, an opening that might still allow him to unburden himself of this tale of guilt he felt within himself. But all he saw was his two friends rising from where they had been sitting, to follow him out of his quarters.

 

He felt Gerome by his side, gently but firmly pulling towards the door.

“Come now, Commander Highland,” Gerome said in a voice that was just as gentle but just as firm. “The King will not tolerate being kept waiting.”

 

“Go on Vance,” Cutter called after him, as if shooing him away, “We’ll catch up with you at the Cathedral.”

 

“Good luck, Vance,” Lorraine joined in.

 

Sighing as frustration won over relief, Vance turned and allowed himself to be pulled away by Gerome.

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

 

From the street outside Vance’s quarters, Lorraine watched as Vance was spirited away by the aide Gerome. She couldn’t help but laugh as he kept looking back to where she and Cutter stood, as if he was a small boy being led away by a parent to some school function he didn’t want to attend. All he needed was to be itching at his Sunday best and the scene would be complete.

 

“He looks like he’s being led away to the death chamber,” Cutter joked. As Lorraine laughed, she nodded. Cutter had it right; Vance looked downright scared as he left his quarters.

 

Lorraine knew that Vance was probably just nervous; she would have been as well. But she wondered if there wasn’t something more to it. At no time during their time together had he seemed overly excited about being honoured by the King for this great battle at the Crossroads. A ceremony before the King was not something that came along every day. Certainly, when the four of them had left that morning for their respective posts at the front, none of them ever dreamed that they might one day be honoured in such a fashion. Lorraine would have imagined that Vance would at least be happy and proud of his accomplishments. Boastful, perhaps not, that wasn’t Vance’s style, she knew, but she saw something in Vance’s demeanor that struck her as troubling.

 

As she watched his carriage roll out of sight, she found herself more and more troubled by his reaction. Perhaps it was something about the battle itself. Of course, other than it being acclaimed as a great victory, she had not the first clue about this battle of the Crossroads that Vance was being lauded for.

 

Turning to Cutter, she asked “So, what all went on at this Battle of the Crossroads that everyone keeps talking about?”

 

“You mean, you don’t know?” he replied, exaggeratingly aghast, “It was in all the papers. I’ve got one back in my office.”

 

 

About a half an hour later, she was sitting in his office, reading through the paper that contained Richard Alabaster’s “front-line” coverage.

 

Cutter was conspicuous by his attempts to try and keep himself busy as she read the paper. She kept sneaking peaks over the top of the page to see him rifling through a stack of paper or straighten up the top of a filing cabinet.

 

Her heart went out to him. He was trying not to be any more bitter or jealous of Vance’s success than he could be but it might be a battle that he would ultimately lose. As she looked around his office, she caught sight of a troop of soldiers marching in formation. She admired their finesse, the crisp newness of their uniforms, the clean shaves. A far cry from the rag-tag bunch that had defended the encampment she had just left.

 

“They look good,” she said, gesturing towards the marching troops. Cutter looked up from reading a report and followed her gaze.

 

He nodded in approval and pride. “G Company,” he informed her, “You’ve heard the term ‘best of the best’? Well, they’re the best of what we’ve got here.”

Lorraine laughed, but wasn’t sure if Cutter had meant it in jest or not. She was relieved when she saw him smile back at her after he had made the remark.

 

“But in all seriousness,” he continued, “they’re a good bunch of recruits. Most of them were wounded in combat and sent back here, same as me.”

 

A flash of regret.

 

“Still, some of the troops who end up thi…that way decide to make the best of it and put in a solid effort to their duties back here in Castletown,” Cutter explained, “Captain Beuring is a lucky man to have troops of that caliber under his command.”

 

“What are your troops like?” Lorraine asked.

 

Cutter wagged his hand in a “so-so” gesture. “Mixed bag,” he explained, “Some, like those you saw this morning, are of the caliber of those troops in Company G. Some are satisfied to just put in the minimal effort and call it a day. Really, not much different from those troops on the Front, except the slackers don’t live long enough to foul things up too badly on the Front.”

 

Lorraine nodded.

 

“Is it still hell serving the front lines, Lorraine?” Cutter asked, his tone almost implying that he missed it.

 

She laughed bitterly before answering, “Sometimes I think Hell would be a respite from the Front.”

 

Cutter didn’t reply. He just nodded but did so as if he was in deep thought or remembering something from long ago.

 

“Sounds like quite the brilliant tactics that Vance employed,” Lorraine offered.

 

Cutter just shrugged. “Attacking their center? Gutsy move. All victory and glory since he succeeded. If he’d failed… well, we’d all be singing a different tune, wouldn’t we?”

 

Lorraine caught the tiny edge of bitterness that had creeped into Cutter’s tone, despite his best efforts to hide it. She wasn’t sure just how much she could blame him and couldn’t say for sure that she wouldn’t have handled the situation differently if she were in his boots.

 

“Well, I had a million and one things to do this afternoon if I’m going to get my troops ready and while I may have managed to scale down that list to just a couple of thousand last minute details, they aren’t going to get done unless I’m there to make sure they do,” Cutter reported. “Don’t bother locking up when you leave, Lorraine, you can just close the door on your way out.”

 

Lorraine was still reading as she nodded absent-mindedly. She turned however, when Cutter said “Good to see you back, Lorraine.”

 

She turned to return his smile and replied “You too, Cutter, you too!” He stood there a moment, self-conscious and maybe trying to come up with something more to say before he left.

 

As she flipped the pages, she came across one headline that caught her eye: “EMBATTLED OUTPOST RELIEVED BY SOUTHERN FRONT”. It didn’t have the bold headline that Vance’s victory had been given, nor was it given the same amount of space. Just a few paragraphs to tell how the troops that came up after McAuley’s arrival had managed to relieve the encampment where she had been stationed for so long and the survivors of the troops manning the position had been rescued and were being evacuated.

 

Lorraine read the story three times, one after another, just to make sure she had the details right, until finally, her voice choked with emotion, she cried, “Thank the Maker.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

 

“Nervous, sir?” Gerome asked, under his breath, as he and Vance stood before the King’s Royal Throne in the main Ceremony Cathedral at the Castle.

 

The Royal Throne was presently vacant as was the rostrum where the King’s Court would sit in witness of the ceremony. Vance knew from having been in the audience in previous ceremonies of all occasions that the entrance of the Court would be surpassed only by that of the King himself.

 

However, those were the only seats available in the great Cathedral. The seating reserved for the audience was packed with, from what Vance could see, perhaps as many as four or five dozen onlookers standing or kneeling in the aisles. Considering how many could be seated in the Cathedral, there must be hundreds, if not thousands, of people here today, all of them thought him to be a hero, a general who had led their sons and daughters to a great victory. In a few minutes, he would have to tell them the truth. He could no longer contain himself; he could no longer live with the lie he had been living.

 

And so in a few minutes, they would all know that he had led those same sons and daughters to their deaths, all because of some foolish scheme that he had thought would lead them to a victory. Vance know stood there, his knees threatening to weaken and fail under him as he wondered, if in a few minutes, each and every person in this cathedral would turn on him and think of him only with disappointment, scorn and perhaps hatred.

 

Vance tried not to look into the audience for more than a split second. Somewhere out there sat Lorraine. He could also see the Royal Home Guards had taken their positions throughout the audience and before the stage. He knew that Cutter would also be there as well. He hadn’t seen either of them since he had left his quarters approximately an hour ago. He hoped that by not knowing where they were, his eyes wouldn’t seek them out when he began to confess that all of this was a lie.

 

“Nervous?” he said, turning to Gerome. “Scared to death is more like it!”

 

Gerome chuckled slightly, not to belittle Vance’s fears but almost as if to reassure the lad. No doubt he had stood next to dozens of young men and women who had been presented great honors by their King and before hundreds of onlookers, and thus been stricken with a similar case of nerves. He had probably seen many who handled the situation far worse. Vance couldn’t help but wonder how many had withheld secrets of their own.

 

As he glanced out into the crowd, he saw the scribe Alabaster. He was sitting near the front, his pen and paper in hand, ready to transcribe the proceedings. Vance glared at him, but didn’t see Alabaster’s expression change a bit. Perhaps he had been steeling himself to run into Vance again at this farce of a ceremony.

 

Vance wondered just what Alabaster expected to happen here today. He supposed the scribe hoped that all hell would break loose with Vance being exposed for the sham that they both knew he was. The ensuing story would certainly sell a lot of his newspapers, perhaps resulting in a raise for the writer who not only covered it but was instrumental in creating the story in the first place.

 

Of course, Vance also wondered what possible backlash might result once the same people here in Castletown discovered that the whole story of the victory of the Crossroads was a fabrication created by that very same writer and his newspaper.

 

But in the end, Vance found he cared little for what happened to the scribe whose desire to sell newspapers had landed him in this horrible mess, this horrid battle he was fighting with emotion and conscience, even if Alabaster wanted to make himself and others believe he had done it to give the people of Castletown a morale boost.

 

Vance’s stomach, already seemingly twisted into as many knots as humanly possible, manage to invent a few more when he saw the portly, bearded gentleman that served as the Royal Crier enter the Cathedral. The murmurs of the crowd on hand, which had merged into itself to create a “white noise” that Vance had mostly been able to block out, rose tenfold in volume as he approached the center of the rise on which the Throne stood.

 

“All rise…and honor the entrance of his Royal Majesty’s Court of Advisors,” he bellowed. Almost as one, over a thousand sets of feet shuffled as the audience rose to see in the Royal Court.

 

The Court itself, consisting of 10 of the King’s advisors (7 male and 3 female), made their slow trek onto the rise and towards their seats. Clad in the same majestic purple robes as Heth wore on such occasions, they were sometimes called “the King’s Monks” in a less-than-flattering way. The youngest of the Court was just a tad shy of 70, the oldest was nearing 100. All of them were handpicked by the King to advise him on just about everything. The same people who referred to the Court as Monks were the same who whispered that the King had chosen them because none of them were fit, physically or perhaps mentally, enough to try and overthrow him. The King had given power to the only people who couldn’t pose a threat to him. If they were mentally capable of doing the job and giving him sound advice, well, it was widely rumoured, that was just an added bonus.

 

Of course, with the advisers being as advanced in age as they were, they didn’t move with the spry energy that they might have had decades ago. And for Vance, who fluctuated between wanted to get the ceremony in progress so he could relieve himself of his burden of guilt and never wanting to take one step forward in order to do just that, every moment of delay seemed to last for an eternity. The audience gathered for the ceremony seemed to think so. While they might have tried to be patient as the Court made their first appearance, the sudden respectful silence in the Cathedral was soon punctuated by several coughs and groans of boredom.

 

After several agonizing minutes, the Court was finally assembled in their places. Vance, who had been about ready to scream for the Court to move faster, knew what, or rather, who was coming next.

 

“Please remain standing for the arrival of His Royal Majesty, King Heth the III,” came the Crier’s call.

 

Vance wasn’t sure if he was more or less grateful that the King’s entrance was quicker than that of his Court. The King was in his full Royal wardrobe, the same outfit Vance believed he had seen at every major ceremony that he had ever witnessed or seen photographs of. A former colonel in the army (serving in the Southern Front, as veterans of that area were so proud and quick to point out, long before Vance was even born) he wore his dress uniform, with dozens of medals (few earned in combat but most frivolously awarded by generals who were hopeful that the young officer would remember them when he became King). Over the uniform he wore his own regal robe, complete with the bejeweled ceremonial crown as headdress.

 

The King stood before his thrown, gazing out at the multitudes of his loyal subjects in attendance. His expression was one of grim determination, as if he was showing the Kingdom just what it would take to win this war against the Central Armies.

 

He finally sat, his actions followed by everyone in the audience. As soon as quiet returned to the Cathedral, Gerome tapped him softly on the elbow and nodded toward a spot by the foot of the King’s Throne. Not sure how much he trusted his own feet and legs to carry him, nevertheless, Vance walked slow and dignified towards the King’s Throne, with Gerome just a moment behind him.

 

As they both now stood before the King, Gerome withdrew from his uniform overcoat a scroll, and began to read from it, his voice echoing throughout the Cathedral.

 

“Your Majesty, Advisors of the Royal Court, Loyal Subjects…I am proud to present today a hero of our kingdom, the commander of the Northern Front who, most recently, gave us the most glorious victory in this long and terrible war against the aggression of the Central Armies.”

 

“At the fabled Battle of the Crossroads, Commander Vance Highland stopped the advance of the Central Army Group Blue from plunging into the heartland of our kingdom where they most certainly would have plundered the homes of our loyal countrymen.”

 

“Commander Highland did this by adapting brilliant tactics that struck fear and terror into the very barbarians that would have done the same to our innocent civilians. The brave men and women under his command fulfilled their duty to the utmost and struck deep into the centre of enemy lines.”

 

“Commander Vance, as well as the soldiers who fought at the Battle of the Crossroads, have given this Kingdom victory, and above all hope, hope that with men and women of their caliber, perhaps one day soon, the Central Army will realize the folly and this long and terrible war will finally come to a conclusion.”

 

“Lies!” Vance wanted to scream as he stood there, listening to Gerome expound his fictitious virtues and bogus deeds. At any moment, he expected someone, anyone, to shout such an accusation, to tell the gathered on-lookers just how much of a fraud Vance was. In fact, perhaps some part of him was hoping that someone would do just that, and thus save Vance the humiliating duty of doing it himself. Feeling sweat pour down his face, Vance searched frantically for the proper opening, and then the proper words, to interject the truth into this ceremony.

 

As Gerome fell silent, the King rose from his throne. He motioned to a nearby aide who hurried to his side, a black leather case, about the size of a book, in his hands. Turning to the King, he opened the case, revealing a gold and jeweled medallion. Vance recognized it instantly as the “Royal Medal of Combat Valor”, the Kingdom’s highest honor.

 

“It is for Commander Vance Highlander’s bravery, skill in command, loyalty to King and Kingdom and his invaluable service to the morale of his troops and those on the home front that I present him with the Royal Medal of Combat Valor.”

 

There were more than a few gasps throughout the audience. Anyone who had served in the army knew of the Royal Medal and all who did knew of its importance. In all the years, all the generations that the war against the Central Armies had raged, only 25 men had ever been awarded such an honor, and know the King was leaning over Vance, about the bestow the honor upon him.

 

Vance knew the names of all 25 soldiers; he had had to memorize them all as a legacy that had been taught at the Academy. He remembered his professors speaking in glowing, reverent tones of those soldiers and their actions that earned them the Royal Medal. All at once he heard a professor talking of Commander Vance Highland, discussing in great detail the Battle of the Crossroads.

 

And it was then, as he saw how horrible it would be for his name to take its place alongside those 25 soldiers. All of them had done their duty; many of them had given their lives, in the hopes that their Kingdom might bring the War of the Lands to a close. All Vance had done to earn the same recognition was simply keep his mouth shut…but no more!

 

“I can’t allow this to happen,” Vance exclaimed, taking a step back from the King’s presence. The King’s eyes widened in surprise and not just a little bit of anger. King Heth stood where he was for a moment, his arms still outstretched in preparation of putting the medal around Vance’s neck. Only know the space where he was to have placed the medal was empty. Gasps again filled the auditorium, only there were more of them.

 

“What is the meaning of this?” the King, in a whisper, demanded of Vance. Heth had been made to look foolish, a moment ago and now he wanted answers. Vance hoped he was finally prepared to give him those answers. Suddenly, he was aware of Gerome once again by his side.

 

The King also made note of Gerome’s presence. Turning to the aide, the King asked, trying to keep his voice down so as to not make the events into any more of a spectacle than it was already on the verge of becoming. All three men were aware that the on-lookers were creating quite a fuss over what appeared to be a serious breach of protocol.

 

“Gerome,” the King asked, his voice as hushed as he could control it, “what in the blue hell is going on here?”

 

Vance glanced over at Gerome, who was trying to keep a good face on all of this. Vance had to give him credit for trying to be the good aide.

 

“I am sure that the Commander is simply becoming too modest,” Gerome announced not only to his King but the audience as well, “History shows that many a great leader would rather NOT be lauded for his achievements but rather simply let victory be their reward.”

 

As Gerome turned back from addressing the audience to face him, Vance could see that for the brave fight that the aide had put up, he was losing his own private battle to understand what exactly was transpiring on the stage. For the first time in the two days that Vance had known him, Gerome looked anything but calm, cool and collected.

 

“You’d better make this a good one,” came the harsh whisper. Vance knew that Gerome perhaps believed that he was simply having a case of stage fright and it would have been very easy for Vance to take Gerome’s lead about being too modest to accept the award.

 

But Vance knew that for him to be able to live with himself and his conscience for however long the rest of his life turned out to be, he would have to come clean in front of his King, in front of his friends and in front of the Kingdom as assembled here in this cathedral.

 

Without waiting for the chatter that still emanated from the audience to die down, Vance began “I can not accept this honor. I…”

 

He got no further. There was a disturbance among the crowd. Near one of the entrances, two of the Royal Guards were scuffling with a burly man. Despite having the numbers on their side, the two guards were unable to hold the man down and keep him under control. He evaded them, getting to his feet where he pointed accusingly towards Vance and cried “That man is a disgrace to our army!”

 

Vance’s eyes widened in horror. He instantly recognized this scruffy, bearded man clad in a torn, frayed front-line uniform of the Northern Front. It was the man who had confronted him that day at the Ceremony of Heroes and had set the blame of the dead and defeat of the Crossroads squarely on his shoulders. It was the man who had haunted his nightmares that very morning.

 

And now, like something out of a nightmare, the man had materialized here, to stand as his accuser before the King and the Kingdom.

 

Before he could get any further though, the Guards were upon him, with back-up. Even as they tried to bodily remove him from the Cathedral, the man still cried out the truth.

 

“There was no victory. That man had our troops massacred in a fool-hardy charge. He ordered thousands to their deaths.”

 

“Halt!” came a cry from somewhere. Belatedly, Vance realized that he himself had cried out. Taking a deep breath, Vance began his confession.

 

“This man speaks the truth,” Vance exclaimed, his voice now echoing throughout the cathedral the way Gerome’s had only moments before. “The truth that I myself should have told sooner. There was no victory at the Battle of the Crossroads.”

 

Gasps once again filled the cathedral. This time there was no doubt that these gasps and the whispers and murmurs were not of disbelief but of anger. He heard many people, those who were seated closest to the front where Vance still stood, whisper the words “traitor” and “phony”.

 

“I shall shoulder all the blame for the loss,” Vance began; it was finally time for him to tell the truth of what had happened at the Crossroads. “After three days of bloody battle, neither army had gained a clear advantage over the other. It was a stalemate.  There were officers among my staff who believed that we should remain on the defensive, allow the Central Army to throw itself at us, in the hopes that we might have the better position and they might destroy themselves.”

 

“On the morning of the final day of battle, I received word that the very center of their lines had been stripped of several key divisions in preparation for an attack on our flank later that afternoon. I decided that we would attack first, in the center, in order to break through their weakened front and split their lines in two.”

 

Vance paused to gather his thoughts and take a breath. For a moment, he was back in his headquarters at the Crossroads, reading intelligence reports and looking at a map of the enemy’s lines. It had seemed so easy then. One powerful assault and the war might well be on its way to being over. Instead…

”The attack was poorly planned,” he admitted as he found his voice again. “Too hasty, but it seemed as if there would not be much time. Had the enemy been allowed to form for an attack on our flank, our lines might have crumbled and we’d have been routed. Artillery support was almost non-existent, as we had little time to get the guns into position. The men we gathered for the attack were brave and loyal and willing to give their lives in defence of this Kingdom but to be asked to take the position which I ordered them to advance against was more than any man should be asked.”

 

The cathedral was now deathly quiet, as though it had suddenly become a tomb. For Vance’s career, it must as well have become one. Vance knew that every eye was on him. He felt no different than when he had led men into battle and knew that every enemy soldier had their sights trained on him. He had felt vulnerable, as if at any moment, he must certainly be struck down. He had known however that he must press on and he was filled with that certainty now. Everyone seated in the cathedral, from the King to the lowliest peasant now strained to hear what he would say next, afraid to speak for fear of missing so much as a word.

 

Vance turned towards the guards who still restrained the soldier from his nightmares.

 

“Unhand that man,” Vance commanded, unsure how much weight an order from himself might carry, “He has done nothing save to force me to do what I should have had the courage to do by my own accord in the first place.”

 

Neither guard budged, nor loosened their grip on the man. Instead, both sentries looked to the King for confirmation. Vance did not follow their gaze, but a moment later they let go of the soldier, so Vance could only assume that the King must have made some indication that they should listen to his order.

 

Vance braced himself as the man struggled to his feet.  He half-expected the man to lunge forward him, to leap from the balcony in some foolhardy attempt to attack his former commander for his sins, now revealed to all, on the battlefield.

 

Instead, the man simply looked him the eye, held his former commander’s gaze for a moment. In that moment, Vance saw something change in the man’s remaining eye. At first, there was hatred, but the look softened. Vance couldn’t bring himself to believe that, at last, he had earned the man’s respect. More likely, the man felt some sort of moral victory for being the catalyst in the final disgrace of the man who had ordered so many of his comrades to their deaths.

 

However the man felt at Vance’s confession would never be known, for all at once, the man turned and fled, as if expecting to be restrained or even arrested again. For the first time in several long minutes, sounds other than that of Vance’s voice as he confessed filled the cathedral, as those that stood between the soldier and the nearest exit hurried to get out of his way.

 

Vance watched him go, wondering if he was off to tell all who would listen, and were not already in the cathedral about the events going on inside. It didn’t matter, really, Vance realized, for there were more than enough people inside the cathedral who now knew who could sufficiently spread the word. Within a few hours, no one in Castletown could not know what had just transpired and, as a result, all would know the real story behind what had happened at the Crossroads.

 

Vance turned to face the King, realizing even as he pivoted on his heel that he was, in reality, turning to face the full consequences of his confession. He was not sure he was ready for such a thing, but knew that there was no possible way to avoid what the King might say or do to him.

 

There, only a few dozen paces away, King Heth stood, stone-faced on the stage, the medal still hanging in his hands. He had no expression on his face, other than perhaps that of silent contemplation. He look not at Vance so much as looked through him. Vance wondered if that was simply evidence of just how deep in thought the King was, or if it was evidence of just how little Vance mattered now.

 

Vance thought perhaps it was the latter and if so, Vance’s life might not be worth the dust that drifted into the cathedral through the noon-day sun.

 

Vance’s gaze drifted to the throne, less regal than the King’s but still impressive, where Rachel sat. She looked not at him but through him as well, but her reasons were certainly clear. Last night she had taken him to her bed thinking him a hero, their love-making not so much an expression of love for him as much as lust, a notch on her bedpost. That feeling had changed over the last few moments. She had already returned her own personal verdict on him: he was a disgrace to the uniform he wore and a disgrace to the King he served.

 

Vance knew, had always known, how her mind worked. All those years ago, she had taken him as a lover believing that he would become one of the elite leaders of the Kingdom’s military. She had welcomed him back into her bed believing that her forecast for his career, made all those years ago had come to fruition. With Vance having returned and hailed as a hero, a great leader of the Kingdom, she intended to use him to better her position in the Kingdom.

 

It was a great dream, Vance had to give Lady Rachel that, but now, with his reputation tarnished, he was of no more use to her. It was as clear as the lines on her face. She glared at him for a moment longer before averting her eyes from his.  After she did so, Vance stood there, pondering what this knowledge meant to him, how he felt about being discarded like trash by Rachel. He was disappointed, to be certain, but in the long run it mattered little. He doubted she would think of him much longer than it would take her to leave the Cathedral, and by nightfall, she would have begun her search for another, another cadet from the Academy with credentials that made him a likely candidate to rise in rank and prestige in the field.

 

It was then that finally the King spoke. Not another sound was audible within the cathedral.

 

“Commander Vance,” King Heth began. “You were called before this court so as I could bestow upon you the highest honors and accolades that we as a Kingdom could offer. We would do this because we believed that you delivered to us a great victory, one that was cause for great celebration and one that boosted the morale of our people. This victory we now learn was instead a disastrous defeat, one for which we could not and can not afford to sustain, either in terms of manpower or the psychological effect on the home front.”

 

Vance could hear only the slightest of rumblings of conversation from behind him, from the gallery of onlookers. However, the mood was unmistakable. So many people had arrived here today intending to celebrate victory. Instead, the defeat with which he had had to live with for the last few days was now hitting home.

 

Heth paid little mind to those people who were speaking in whispers and low voices.

 

“At no time did you accept the full accolades which were bestowed upon you, I can see that now,” Heth granted, almost begrudgingly, “However, at no time, prior to this very hour, did you acknowledge that your accomplishments might be less than certain of our kingdom’s scribes had made them out to be.”

 

Vance was quick to notice that King Heath’s voice had raised an octave or two over the last few words he spoke. Inwardly he smiled. If the situation were different, he would have loved to have seen the look on that certain scribe’s face.

 

If King Heth could see his face and was gaining any enjoyment out of what must be some first-rate squirming, he gave no indication and barely paused.

 

“Had you done so in a more timely and convenient fashion, we might all been spared this bother and embarrassment,” Heth explained, the disapproval evident in his voice.

 

Vance no longer was concerned about the scribe and any squirming or uncomfortable feelings he might be going through. He knew that the King must now make an example of him, in order to save face over what he himself had termed “embarrassment” after declaring that this grand ceremony be organized to celebrate  a victory that was no discovered not to be.

 

Heth raised his hand to his chin, taking a moment to contemplate what to do next. The murmuring that had been simmering in the background over the last few minutes came to an abrupt halt. No one dared make any noise for fear of missing the decision that the King was about to make. For Vance, time seemed to move in slow motion, almost halting, as he watched the King ponder his very fate. It was almost a relief when Heth began to speak again.

 

“Commander Vance, you have committed no crime. Certainly, commanders on all fronts and on both sides have made poor decisions which have led to defeats in the field. It is the very nature of war,” Heth stated.

 

Vance was disheartened as he heard the noise level among the audience rise as they shouted their disapproval. It seemed unanimous, at least to Vance’s ears, that the people gathered here in this cathedral wanted blood, his blood, in revenge for the loss at the Crossroads.

 

“QUIET!” the King roared, an instance that stunned the crowd into momentarily silence. “I must have quiet!”

 

The hush that fell over the crowd, as much out of shock than any desire to obey their King’s wishes at this moment, held as Heth turned his attention back to Vance.

 

“While losing a battle may be no crime, you have still done this kingdom a great disservice,” Heth stated. “Something must be done. As of this moment, however, I must confess that I can think of no suitable punishment. For now, I order you to be placed under house arrest while I meet with my top aides to decide your fate.”

 

Even as the King spoke the words, Vance felt the presence of two Guardsmen at his sides. One of them, he realized with horror, was Cutter. Perhaps that was why neither of the Guards was as rough with him as their comrades had been with the veteran of the Crossroads.

 

“Just take it easy, Vance,” Cutter whispered. “We can get you out of here if you don’t try anything funny. Just play ball with us and I’ll see you make it out in one piece.”

 

Vance had never had any intention of trying anything funny. All he had wanted to do was confess and accept his consequences. And now that he had done that, he gave no struggle and allowed himself to be led away. He knew that a scene would simply tarnish his reputation further; a struggle could lead to his death.

 

He knew he could not flee, for he would not get far. Cutter may have been a close friend back in the Academy, but duty would not allow him to just let Vance make a break for it. If he had to, he would order his Guards to fire. Vance knew that to Cutter, to any of them, friendship would have to come second to their duty to the Kingdom. Vance was, in no better terms, a prisoner and Cutter would treat this particular prisoner with no more special treatment than any other.

 

Vance had already decided that he wasn’t going to give Cutter and his Guards any trouble. No matter what was about to happen to him, he wanted to live to find out. He moved at the same quick pace as the Guards that surrounded him as they ushered him out of the Cathedral.

 

As he was marched out of the cathedral, he caught Lorraine’s eye. Her eyes moist, she still remained stoic, as if she felt she must be brave for him. There was a hint of disappointment, even disillusionment in her eyes, as though he had broken some small trust with her. And yet…and yet, it appeared as though she somehow knew the whole story.

Vance realized all at once that she was the only one, save Cutter, who had been in the front lines, who knew what happened in war. How sometimes, despite the best intentions, things went horribly wrong and could not be righted.

 

Just as he was about to lose sight of her, she smiled slightly, as if to reassure him that he would survive this, somehow. Vance wasn’t so sure of that himself, but seeing Lorraine, even if it was for the last time, made him realize that not everyone in attendance was against him. For the first time since he had begun his confession before everyone present that he allowed himself to believe that things just might work out for the best. In seeing Lorraine, Vance knew, for the first time, that his decision to come clean had been the right thing.

 

He knew that, even with the wounded veteran having confronted him, he could have easily shrugged the whole thing off as the ramblings of a delusional old man. No doubt the Guards on hand would have immediately dispatched him, probably throwing him in the neighborhood drunk tank for the night, and the ceremony would have gone on as if nothing had ever happened.

 

Instead, the great weight of guilt that had been on his shoulders for the last few days was finally lifted. Even as he saw himself, surrounded by a disapproving and vocally hostile crowd, being taken away under guard to an unknown fate, he knew that at least Lorraine, one person amid hundreds, was sympathetic to his plight. Not everyone wanted to see him punished for his failure at the Crossroads and his delay in telling the entire story.

 

Perhaps not everyone, but nearly everyone. Behind him, Vance could hear the cathedral erupt in the voices of those gathered, each debating, no doubt, what would and should be done with him. In an instant, Vance heard every conceivable option from him being hanged as a traitor to his being freed immediately.

 

Still, Vance knew, just as Lorraine had somehow told him with a look, that he would survive. It was simply the somehow that would need to be arranged.

 

 

 

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

 

Within a moment, the Guards were leading Vance out of the Cathedral through a rarely used exit that was secluded from the main streets of Castletown.

 

“With luck, we’ve got a few minutes before the crowd finds out where we’ve gone,” Cutter said, “But that’s going to be a very few minutes.”

 

Vance wasn’t sure if Cutter meant to reassure his old Academy classmate, or if he meant to warn his troops that time wasn’t exactly a commodity in which they were well-stocked.

 

Vance was glad to see that there were several more members of Cutter’s Home Guards unit waiting for them as they left the Cathedral. He could only assume that this exit was used to move Guardsman and from time to time dignitaries in and out of the Cathedral without the general population noticing.

 

Vance was just a little discouraged to see that Cutter was barely taking notice of him as he made preparations to get from the Cathedral to whatever location they would use to hold Vance. It was as if his old friend was seeing Vance not so much as a person but part of a mission to be completed.

 

With learned precision, Cutter ordered for several more of his Guards, including Sergeant Cumberland, to provide protection as they transported Vance to this new location.

 

As they had traveled down the isolated corridor from the main stage of the Cathedral, Cutter had spoken briefly with one of the King’s chief aides who announced that Vance was no longer welcome to stay anywhere near the Castle. The fear that the crowds, who might start to riot, would bring their destruction too near the Castle for the King’s liking.  And so it was there was the dilemma of just what to do with Commander Vance Highland, suddenly the most infamous prisoner in Castletown history, or so it would seem.

 

Cutter realized that the longer Vance remained out in the open, the more of a danger his life found itself in.

 

“Get him into the wagon,” Cutter ordered one of the Guardsmen. “The less he’s seen the better.”

 

And so Vance was herded into a sheltered wagon that had been used to move some of the Guardsman’s equipment and that was used that to temporarily station him. However, Cutter knew that as word of the incidents that had just played themselves out in the Cathedral began to spread throughout the surrounding area, those who decided to have some revenge on the disgraced Commander would rush to the Cathedral, and while they were in a secluded area, the building was not so big that it would take a mob all that long to make their way around the entire circumference of the building. Once such a mob stumbled upon the Home Guardsman’s position, things would get ugly in very short order.

 

“Stay ready, troops,” he ordered, “Keep an eye out for anything. If you see any large gathering of citizens that might be wanting a peek, let me know immediately.”

 

“Colonel, we gotta do something and fast,” Cumberland said, “The longer we keep this fellow out in the open, the hairier and scarier it’s gonna get.”

 

Cutter snapped, “Thanks, Sergeant. While you’re at it, would you be gracious enough to tell me something I don’t know.”

 

Forcing himself to cool down just a bit, he asked, “Got any ideas? I’m open to suggestions.”

 

Most of the other Guards just shook their heads, and Cutter noticed that all of them were looking more worried by the moment as they scanned the area for any signs of trouble.

 

“There’s always the old watchtower,” one of the soldiers suggested.

 

“Not a bad idea, Corporal Plymouth,” Cumberland replied.

 

Cutter was just thinking that same thing. Generations ago, the Kingdom had built a sturdy, stone watchtower on the far side of Castletown, just a few hundred yards inside the very outskirts of the city itself. The reason behind its construction was to ensure that the Home Guards had a location high enough above the other buildings in the city in order to see far enough in any direction, but especially to the west, so as to observe any enemy activity and raise an alarm in time.

 

For the Home Guard’s current purposes, however, the construction of the watchtower had features that would come in handy. There was only a slim staircase up to the main observation deck, one that could be easily blocked and defended by a few burly Guardsmen. In addition, that same observation deck was roomy enough to keep Vance imprisoned (Cutter hated to think of it that way, but basically that’s what it boiled down to) in relative comfort for however long the King decided to keep him there.

 

Yes, Cutter thought, a good idea, a very good idea. In fact…

 

“Brilliant idea,” Cutter echoed. “Driver, head toward the Watchtower. Private Zinsky, I want you to inform the King’s aides of our plan, but let no one else know of this. The longer we can keep it quiet, the better.”

 

The Private that Cutter had spoken to saluted quickly, and then rushed off towards the Cathedral.

 

Cutter wasted little time in turning back to the rest of the assembled guardsman and issuing his orders. “The rest of you, form up on the wagon, and hang on. I want to get there as quick as we can.”

 

Within minutes, the wagon and the Guards were making their way through the outskirts of Castletown. Cutter took up his position just behind the driver so he could see what lay in front of them. As soon as he saw that the road ahead was clear for sometime, he turned back towards Vance.

 

He was surprised, or maybe not so surprised, to see Vance calm, almost as if he was accepting or even surprisingly welcoming his fate. He sat back against the side of the wagon, no real expression on his face as he stared straight ahead. Cutter had to give the man his due, no matter what might have happened at the Crossroads or in the days since, he was handling his impending imprisonment and punishment with courage.

 

As Cutter watched him a moment longer, he struggled with what to say. He felt the silence that lay between them as heavy as a full pack after a 10-mile forced march. He knew that he had to say something. He owed Vance at least that for all their years of friendship at the Academy. He looked at Vance now, not as a criminal or a traitor or a coward but as a friend, someone whose well-being he cared about. But if he felt the silence weighing heavily on him, he also felt the eyes, the stares of his Guardsmen. In Vance, they saw the same kind of officer they had grown to despise, someone who ordered their fellow troopers into battle in a fool-hardy gamble where those on the frontlines had paid with their lives while he had, until just now, come away not only scot-free but was celebrated for his actions. And now Cutter had to choose where his allegiances lay, with his fellow officer or with his troopers.

 

“Ladies and Gentlemen,” he surprised himself by not speaking to Vance at all, but to the other Guardsmen gathered in the wagon. “When you’re young and foolish, and many of you know that feeling…”

 

Cutter paused just a moment to let the laughter that followed die down. He noticed, out of the corner of his eye, that Vance had not looked over to him as he began speaking.

 

“You do things that seem like a good idea at the time, but end with you in a whole heap of trouble,” he continued. “Back when I was about the same age as most of you privates, I decided to steal one of my professor’s prized possessions, his battle helmet from his own time in the field, out of his office.”

 

Cutter looked at the faces of the troopers. All of them seemed intent on listening to the story he told. A few of them, Sgt. Cumberland among them, looked over the driver’s shoulder at the road ahead from time to time, as Cutter himself did, just to ensure no trouble lay in their path.

 

“Well, about half-way through my little break and enter, I heard footsteps out in the hallway. One of the Security Corps was doing a random patrol. Deciding that if they caught me as I was leaving, which the Corpsman did, they’d assume that after I jumped out the window of the Professor’s office…which was on the third floor, by the way, that I’d scurry down the chimney towards the ground. Well, I decided to use a little strategy I liked to call “do the unexpected” and so I climbed up onto the roof, figuring I’d double-back and climb down the other side where no one would be looking for me.”

 

Some of the Guardsmen nodded their heads at this, deciding that was sound strategy. Cutter remembered thinking the same thing at the time and, for a moment, was almost lost in reminiscing. He hadn’t thought of this incident in ages.

 

“Well, the problem was that this little adventure of mine took place in the dead of winter and the top of the roof, a sloped roof I might add, was icy. I bet I hadn’t taken three steps when I went, as my grandfather used to say, ‘ass over tea kettle’, and as I fell went sliding towards the edge of the roof, expecting to fall three stories down to my demise…or at least a world of hurt.”

 

Cutter shivered, remembering what thoughts had run through his head as he headed towards the icy lip of the roof.

 

“Luckily, I had brought a back-up, reinforcements you might say. Well, my friend there, he managed to snag my jacket and stopped my fall…although the helmet rolled off the roof and landed on the pavement below, denting it quite severely. Now, it was cold that night, bitter cold, but my friend hung on to me for, oh, several hours, until the Corpsman discovered us up there and got help.”

 

Cutter now looked over at Vance, who he found looking right back at him, smiling just a bit, as much as a perhaps condemned man can smile. Cutter noticed that several other of the Guardsmen were noticing the exchange and realizing just who their Colonel’s “reinforcement” had been that night.

 

The wagon and its passengers made it to the Watchtower without incident. It seemed, at least to Cutter, that they were outrunning the word of mouth that must assuredly be spreading word of the revelation of Vance’s hand in the defeat at the Crossroads. Every now and again, a few people took notice of the wagon moving through the streets, as Cutter had expected. A wagon being escorted by a unit of Home Guards was bound to spark some curiosity from the good people of Castletown. A few tried to get close enough for a peak but were kept back by the Guardsman and for the most part, the curiosity was limited to some increased conversation among on-lookers as they went about their daily routines.

 

Still, Cutter was more than a little relieved when the watch tower came into view. He knew that it wouldn’t be too long before the entire city was buzzing over what had happened. Once the word got out, Cutter knew that some people would decide to take the law into their own hands.

 

As the wagon came to a stop, Cutter leaped out ahead of Vance and the other guardsman riding inside. He took a quick scan of the area. The watch tower was surrounded by a wide clearing between it and the rest of the city.

 

Cutter wasn’t sure whether to take that as a plus or minus. He would have liked to have thought that a good space would be enough to ensure no one could sneak up on his position but if they had enough momentum a mob could rush out of one of the side streets and overwhelm his troops in mere moments.

 

He selected a dozen of the Guards that had gathered before the watch tower and gathered them together.

 

“Pair off and take up positions along each of the streets heading towards this area. Keep a clear view of your surroundings,” he ordered them. “Try and look inconspicuous as much as you can, as if you’re simply pulling guard duty. Keep an eye out for any large gatherings of civilians. If things look like they might be escalating, come directly here and report.”

 

He watched his troops as he gave them the instructions. All of them nodded and he hoped that meant he was getting through. He knew there were probably a few who were just nodding as an automatic response to an officer talking to them and that his words might be all just a blur to them.

 

Anxiety growing in the pit of his stomach, he dismissed his troopers. The best he could hope for was that any of the troopers who hadn’t really been paying attention would pair up with someone who had. One good trooper might be able to pull the other one through any trouble they might encounter.

 

He couldn’t baby-sit them, he knew, he still had work to do. He called for three of the remaining troopers to escort Vance out of the wagon and into the watch tower. The rest were to use whatever they could find to construct and man a barricade, a defensive position to thwart any attack that might develop. Cutter hoped, as he was sure his entire command did, that such barricades would not be needed. None of them were counting on that, however.

 

As Cutter entered the watch tower, one of the advantages of holding Vance here was the thin staircase that the watch tower had that lead from the ground straight up to the main observation point. Even an angry mob would only be able to send one or, at the most two, people up that staircase.

 

Approximately halfway up the stairs, Cutter left the three guardsmen to take up positions. Two in front and one a step or two up, almost as a reserve. He had deliberately chosen three of the biggest men in the unit. He was hopeful that the three men would be able to fend off anyone that might try to rush up the stairs.

 

“Don’t let anyone in, no matter who it might be, without my permission,” Cutter instructed the three men. The three men nodded. Once again Cutter hoped they knew the importance of their duty. After that, Cutter led Vance the rest of the way to the observation deck.

 

“Well, this is it,” Cutter said as he showed Vance into the room. “Not a royal suite but it’s got enough room so you won’t go stir-crazy for a while.”

As Vance surveyed his new home, he agreed with Cutter. It was no where near as luxurious as where he’d spent the previous night but it would do. There wasn’t much to see save a small cot in the corner and a table and chair. Still, compared to the prison cell he figured he’d end up, it was comfortable.

 

“Least it has a good view,” Vance replied.

 

Cutter chuckled. “Be sure to give us a warning if you see any movement on the horizon. We might as well use you as a lookout against a Central Army attack while we’ve got you here.”

 

Vance smiled, the best he could do under the circumstances. “Nice to see I can still serve the Kingdom.”

 

“This tower has a cellar where they keep some non-perishable supplies,” Cutter replied, sobering up after a moment, “I’m going to have a look-see at what’s there, take inventory, so to speak. In case we do have a mob attack us, it’d be good to see how long of a siege we could withstand. Plus, we’ll all need a meal if the King decides to take his sweet time in deciding what to do with…”

 

Cutter caught himself from going any further. He knew, however that he hadn’t stopped in time. The last thing he wanted to do was give Vance anything more to be anxious about.

 

“Well, I’m going to see about those supplies,” Cutter said, quickly moving on, “Hopefully the quartermaster didn’t forget about this place.”

“Thanks, Cutter…for everything,” Vance said.

 

Cutter nodded in reply. He turned to leave but then turned back without taking a step.

 

“What happened out there, Vance?” he said, wishing instantly that he hadn’t asked the question.

 

“Sorry, I don’t mean to pry, you don’t have to answer,” Cutter added quickly. He turned and again started to leave.

 

He took no more than two steps before Vance’s voice stopped him once more.

 

“Nothing in the last ten days has been what I thought it would be,” Vance admitted, “I thought I’d win a great victory at the Crossroads and it turned into a disaster. I thought I was called home to be arrested for my actions and I was hailed as a hero. For a moment, I thought I’d let myself get away with it and I ended up here.”

 

Cutter watched his old friend, his former classmate, as he wrestled with the realities of what he had gotten himself into. Even as Vance did so, Cutter wrestled with what he could say, what he should say. Cutter realized that events must have been spinning out of control for Vance but he also knew, as much as he had tried to keep himself focused on his duty over the past several hours, they were for him as well. First he had been jealous of his friend’s success, and then shocked at the revelation of the deception behind the celebration that success caused. As he stood there, in the small, silent room that would hold his old friend until his fate was decided, Cutter realized, almost with relief that he didn’t find himself gloating over Vance’s situation but rather was concerned about what the future might hold for him, for all of them.

 

“You’ll get through this, Vance, I’ll help to see to it,” he said finally. Cutter knew, of course, that the opinion of an officer in charge of a Home Guards unit probably didn’t count for much. Still, his friend was in need and Cutter knew if the situations had been reversed, Vance would be there for him.

 

In response, however, Vance shook his head. “No matter what they decide, I’ll be able to live with it. I think if I hadn’t spoken up when I did, if that soldier hadn’t said what he said, I think it would have eaten me up inside. I would have gone insane from the nightmares and the voices in my head. Now…now, I can at least say that I came clean in the end.”

 

A part of Cutter had to admire his friend. Here he was, imprisoned in his own Kingdom, with perhaps thousands of angry citizens bearing down on him at the very minute, and yet he seemed almost at peace with the situation. Cutter didn’t know whether that was bravery, insanity or a little bit of both.

 

Yet, at the same time, Cutter, as the leader of the troops that would have to protect him from those same angry citizens that they had been sworn to protect in turn, was beginning to feel more anxiety than he had since that time he was in combat. Could his troops hold back an assault? Could he do so without having to inflict bloodshed on the civilian population? If he had to order his troops to open fire in order to disperse the crowd, wouldn’t that just add fuel to the fire and bring out more angry civilians in response? Cutter wondered just how much uglier the next few hours or days would get.

 

He said his goodbyes to Vance and headed downstairs to see about the supplies and to make sure that his troopers were in a good position to keep him abreast of the situation and react to it, if need be.

 

CHAPTER NINETEEN

 

After Cutter had left his new quarters, Vance began to pace around the brief area to which he was now confined, unsure how long he would be placed under house arrest. He was also unsure what would happen when his term would end. What he did know, however, was that when the awaited knock on the door came, all his questions regarding his fate and punishment would be over. In that regard, perhaps, the arrival of the King’s aides would be a blessing in disguise.

 

As it happened, not only was his time spent in this watch tower under house arrest less than three hours in length, but it was not simply an aide that he found outside his quarters when the knock came, but the King himself, along with several aides and Cutter bringing up the rear.

 

The King entered regally, as if he were entering a grand ballroom rather than that of perhaps a condemned traitor.

 

Vance noticed the grave look on the King’s face almost immediately. His stomach had begun to turn into itself that very moment. He knew that the King had horrible news.

 

And whatever the news was, there would be no delay in finding out exactly what it entailed. Once inside, the King placed his hands behind his back and began speaking, as if to the space before him, rather than to Vance.

 

“Less than an hour ago, we received word from a scout just arrived from the North. There has been an attack,” the King said. “Central Army Group Blue has over run the main encampments of the Northern Front.”

 

To the very moment when the King began to report of what had happened, Vance’s only concern had been for his own fate. With this news however, all those concerns vanished in an instant. Instead, Vance found himself thinking… fearing, for the safety of his men.  He wondered if Cochrane, Dr. Zavier and Sgt. Weston were all right. A thousand faces of a thousand soldiers he had served with, talked with, given orders to, heard reports from, all flashed through his mind almost instantly. What might have happened to them? Who was left alive? Any? None?

 

“What happened?” Vance asked.

 

“Commander Riley…He was among the first to flee before the assault. He was also among the first to be killed. Artillery attack, mortar shell, according to this scout’s report. In the grand scheme of things, I suppose it really matters little,” the King explained, his voice, almost a whisper, nearly breaking as he continued. “What is important is that his death left his troops without a leader. The entire Front collapsed. Some of the officers managed to rally a large quantity of troops near a small town called…”

 

The King had forgotten the name of the town, and looked back to one of his aides.

 

“What is the name of that town?” he asked.

 

“Calleta,” one of the aides supplied.

 

“Yes, Calleta, approximately 10 miles from the camp where the Front was stationed when you left, Commander Highland.”

 

Vance knew approximately where Calleta was, had passed through it on his way from the Front back to Castletown only a few days ago. To refer to it as anything more than name on a map was giving it too much justice. A generation ago, it might have been a small village. Now it was simply a widening of a road. Still, it represented a great distance from where the Front had been positioned when Vance had left.

 

The King turned towards Vance, and motioned towards one of his aides, who hurried forward and unrolled a map across the nearest table.

 

“This is Calleta, it is a…,”the aide began. Vance waved him away.

 

“I know where it is.” Vance informed the aide and, he knew, the King as well. “When you say large? Exactly how large a force have they managed to gather together?”

 

One of the aides shook his head. Vance didn’t take that as a good sign.

 

“Detail are sketchy, Commander,” the aide reported, his voice filled with dread and regret. “Optimistically, we can expect perhaps three thousand, no more.”

 

Three thousand? Vance felt as though he might be physically ill.

 

“Three thousand?” he said, “The Central Army will slap them aside without having to break a sweat. Once Calleta falls, the Central Army will be able to sweep along our Northern Frontier and be at the gates of Castletown within two weeks.”

 

The aides assembled before the map looked at him with incredulous disbelief.

 

“Sir,” one of them, the bravest of the bunch, Vance supposed, spoke up, “you can’t be serious. The Northern Front is…”

 

“Only a few days hard-ride away from where we now stand,” Vance replied, interrupting. “I, myself, took only a week to come from the Northern Front’s former encampment to the gates of Castletown. An army, especially one mostly comprised of infantry, will take longer, to be sure, but in the end, I would give the Central Army no more than two weeks before they need to prepare to storm the walls of this city.”

 

For a few moments, a tense-filled silence engulfed the room and the men inside it. In each of their minds, the end result of the Central Army’s thrust into Castletown played itself out in their individual minds. None of the scenarios looked anything less than catastrophic to the man viewing them.

 

Finally, another of the aide spoke up. “Commander Highland, your Majesty, we have had reports that those assembled at the Calleta rally point are digging in and putting on quite a resistance to the on-coming Central Army onslaught. They managed to save several artillery pieces and are putting them to use. The scout did say, unofficially, of course, that he believed Calleta could hold out for some time, if they fought to…”

 

As the aide spoke, Vance had a question nagging at him, one that had popped into his mind as soon as the King had told him about the Central Army’s attack. Finally, he had to ask the question; he needed to find out the answer.

 

“Pardon my interruption, but what does this have to do with me? I mean, shouldn’t you be having this conversation with the King’s staff?”

 

The answer to Vance’s question came not from the aide, who seemed genuinely taken aback but from King Heth himself.

 

“With Riley gone, that leaves us with no Commander for the Northern Front, even if Calleta should hold until we can get relief to it,” the King began, his tone just as grave as his face was. “Of course, my first thought was that I would send one of my military advisers to the front with all possible haste. However, few of them have served on the Northern Front, not for many years.”

 

Now, it was Vance’s turn to give a grave nod. The running joke among the encampments on all fronts was that the King’s advisers hadn’t seen a battlefield since before many of the soldiers in the front lines had been born. It was a joke that was no longer funny but rather bitterly ironic.

 

Vance looked to the King, and saw that the leader of his country was regarding him with hesitance. All at once, Vance realized what was about to happen, and what the King was possibly about to say, but could see the King was still unsure if this was the path he wished to set the course of his Kingdom on.

 

“Commander Vance Highland,” the King said, at long last. “You are the only man in Castletown, perhaps the only man in this entire Kingdom who I can turn to at this time. You have the experience of commanding a Front, and more importantly, you have experience in commanding the Northern Front, in particular. You know the area, the terrain, and you know the troops that you would be in command of.”

 

“Sir, even if one takes away the stigma that my name must have to the men manning that defensive line in Calleta,” Vance reminded the King, “One man arriving to take command is hardly going to be enough to drive off a Central Army Group that must certainly outnumber our troops there by mammoth proportions.”

 

The King put his hand on Vance’s shoulder, as if to reinforce how drastic situation was.  But his tone had almost lightened somewhat as he spoke, “Commander Vance, you are not the only one here who has a good handle on how things work in war. I may not have served as long as perhaps I should have before my ascension to this throne that is now my responsibility and the weight on my shoulders. However, I do know a thing or two about warfare. If we are to drive this enemy from the field in this most desperate time, we must have additional troops with which to reinforce the defenses of Caletta. I have spoken with the Commanders of both the Western and Southern Fronts and they are hurrying what troops they can spare, not many I’m afraid but as many as they can afford, towards Caletta. In addition, I am stripping our Home Guard units to the very bone, so to speak, so as to send every available trooper to those troops in the North.”

King Heth moved away just then, towards one of the aides. “Captain, how many troops would such a relief attempt be able to bring to Caletta?”

 

The Captain quickly glanced at his figures. “About 10 000 troops, plus some artillery,” he reported.

 

The King shrugged. Clearly it was fewer troops than he would have liked to be able to send, but it was the best they could do under these most dire of circumstances. He turned back to face Vance.

 

“10 000 troops. A force of such number will substantially increase the size of the force defending Calleta and the Kingdom from the Central Army bearing down on it but will most likely still only make things touch and go. But Commander Vance, no matter the size of the force, I still come to ask you to return to the Northern Front leading a relief effort so as to reinforce Calleta, stabilize our lines, and with the Maker’s good fortune, drive the enemy from our land.”

 

As the King ceased speaking, another long, heavy silence filled Vance’s quarters. He felt the weight of the King’s hopes upon him, saw the aides look to him, in a look filled with equal parts hope and fear. He shared their fear, fear that he might not be the man for this important position and fear that there might not be anyone else.

 

Vance looked to the King, saw the same look of hope and fear, and then quickly looked away. Part of him wanted to seize this moment for redemption, to be able to set things gone wrong at the Battle of the Crossroads, to be the hero that everyone had thought him to be just a few hours before.

 

And yet…

 

”Your Highness, while I do wish to be of service to the Kingdom, especially at this dark hour, as I have said before, I must wonder if I would be of any help at all,” Vance explained. “It must come as no surprise for me to confess that I can safely say that I no longer have the respect of the men of the Northern Front, not after the disaster at the Crossroads. I doubt they would do any more than perhaps pause to curse me as they continued their flight from the enemy.”

 

Vance saw one of the aides steal a glance towards the King. Obviously, this must have been a subject brought up by the King and his advisers prior to the offer to Vance to return to the Front.

 

“A valid concern, Commander,” the King replied, “However, you are all we have, so you must do what you can. And you will not return alone. I have commissioned Colonels McRae and Cutter to assist you and join you in your relief efforts. Goodness knows you will most likely need proper officers, both en route and in defense of Caletta. Colonel Cutter, no doubt, will be of great service to you, no doubt, in organizing those units of the Home Guardsmen that will be making up the relief column. Colonel McRae has extensive battlefield experience, especially under siege-like conditions and so I’ve had her transferred from the Southern Front to your command.”

 

With the King’s reference to Lorraine and Cutter, Vance’s heart had lept into his throat. For one brief moment, he could, again, see the three of them leading men into battle. Dmitri would not be joining them, and Vance mourned the change to his younger dreams, but the vision of the three Academy friends almost made Vance believe that this plan of the King’s could work.

 

The King shook his head. “I had hoped we could spare more from our Home Guard, but my advisors warn that they must keep at least a skeleton garrison here in the city for protection, in case we are required to make a last ditch defense. Most likely, should the Central Army reach this city, there will be little we can do but surrender and hope the enemy behaves itself properly under the rules of occupation.”

 

The King paused for a moment, a heartbeat, before looking Vance straight in the eye. A deep breath and the King began to speak, his tone most serious.

 

“As I stated during the ceremony at the Cathedral this afternoon, Commander Highland, your actions at the Battle of the Crossroads were most unwise, but certainly other commanders throughout the history of the War of the Lands have made bad decisions that have led to defeat. Your lack of courage when it came to confessing such bad decisions reeks of cowardice and deceit, even though you never claimed to have led your troops to the victory that the scribes claimed. To be blunt, were there another man with your rank and with your experience on the Northern Front, he would be going in your place. However, sometimes history gives soldiers like yourself a second chance to redeem themselves. You have that second chance, the question that only you can answer is: will you make the most of it?”

 

“Your concerns about whether your troops will find it within themselves to listen to you and follow your orders can be answered by the quality of leadership that you show upon your arrival at the Front. You will be arriving with reinforcements, and if you can use those troops to form a steady line, the rest will rally around them. This entire operation will require the best you have to offer, the steadiest nerves, the most charismatic leadership. If you are not the best commander you can be, all is lost, the Front, the Kingdom, everyone.”

 

“Can you make the most of this second chance?”

 

All at once, Vance saw two roads: one ended with the hordes of the Central Armies rampaging through the streets he had walked that very morning as Castletown burned around them; the other saw him being the very hero he had been written up to be by the scribes, the great commander he had always dreamed of being, after finally, leading the men of the Northern Front to a great victory.

 

And so all at once, Vance knew that he wanted to take the latter road, or die trying to get his army there.

 

Snapping to attention, giving a salute that his old drill sergeant would have been moved to tears by, Commander Vance Highland answered his King.

 

“I will, your Highness,” Vance said.

 

CHAPTER TWENTY

 

Presently, Vance and the army he led were encamped before the Escargian Mountains, which lay just a few miles above the dividing line between the Northern and Western Front, and perhaps a day and a half hard ride from the Crossroads. As Vance paced in his tent, his eyes rarely leaving the map spread out on a campaign table before him; he knew that by this time tomorrow, most, if not all, of the organized units of the Northern Front would have come into contact with his reinforcements. By this time tomorrow, however many or few of his Northern Front troops who wished to be loyal to him and go on the offensive against the invading hordes of the Central Army would be assembled.

 

He wondered just how many troops he would actually have under his command when all was said and done. With all that had happened in Castletown, it seemed like a lifetime ago since he had snuck away like a thief in the night from the now over-run encampment of the Northern Front and yet, it had only been a little over a week. He knew that for many of the soldiers that were streaming back in retreat before the Central Army, not to mention those still manning the lines at Caletta, the battle of the Crossroads would still be fresh in their memories.

 

And, as Vance continued to pace, by this time tomorrow he would know just how much power he had as a commander. He knew that there was a very good chance that by nightfall the next evening, his army, the only real line of defense between the Central Army and Castletown, might number few more than those that Vance had led out of the city some days before.

 

For all he knew, the panic and retreat, not to mention the total lack of faith in the army’s leadership might spread from the Northern Front’s retreating soldiers to those that had just arrived from Castletown. After hearing the men who had fought at the Crossroads and the real story of the battle, in even more graphic detail than the sanitized summary he had delivered before the King and his Court, there was a very good chance that even many of the soldiers who had formed this makeshift army of reinforcements might choose to run as well.

 

As Vance paused in his pacing, he realized that by next nightfall, he might be alone, deserted by all who he would have follow him. Perhaps the nightmare he had suffered that night in Lady Rachel’s bed might well come true. Perhaps he would find himself alone before the enemy’s guns, with no place to hide and no one to turn to.

 

Vance shook his head. During the ride from Castletown to this encampment, he had noticed more than once or twice, just how much different he had felt leaving Castletown than when he had arrived, when fear and guilt had weighed down on him until it seemed that the weight of the world was pressing down upon his shoulders.

 

And then, with that weight gone, his past sins admitted to and while not yet forgiven, at least forgotten for the moment, Vance could see the way to redemption. And while his speed along the long, winding roads had been at a plodding pace, anxious to get away but hesitant to arrive at his destination while leaving the Northern Front, Vance found himself trying to coax all members of his party to ride with as much haste as possible en route back to that very same Front.

 

And now, here he was. Here they were. Vance, Cutter, Lorraine, and thousands of troops behind them, all encamped this night, with plans to set out tomorrow to stop the route along the Front and, if possible, counter-attack the Central Army or at the very least, stabilize the line. And now, the very same fears and worry and doubts that had plagued him before had returned.

 

 

Suddenly, the flap of his tent burst open interrupting, mercifully, his thoughts. Vance looked up and there stood Cutter and Lorraine. Vance sighed in relief and smiled. With a wave of his hand her motioned them to venture further inside, and then his gaze returned to the map on the table.

 

”A strategist always,” Lorraine mused. “You always topped the class in map-reading.”

 

Vance smiled at the memory of the Academy. “You forget that I only came by those marks cheating off you, Cutter and Dmitri.”

 

A heartbeat passed where the mention of Dmitri cast a shadow across Lorraine’s features. Lorraine gave a subtle shake of her head as if to cast off any feelings of grief before they had time to form. Vance knew what Lorraine was thinking, there was no time for grief here.

 

“It wouldn’t take an Academy honour student to note there’s a hell of a lot of territory to cover if we intend to stop this rout,” Lorraine said, back to business.

 

“After the last battle, the Northern Front had 30 000 troops.” Cutter said. “That’s according to the scout that arrived in Castletown.”

 

 

“The scout was accurate,” Vance admitted, “After the Crossroads, I had my staff report on the number of troops we came out with, and the number we could put back into the field if we had to. That was the figure they gave me.”

 

“All right then. I may be optimistic,” Cutter replied, “But I’, figuring we’ll be lucky to maybe be able to round up 50-60% that number.”

 

“That figure may indeed be optimistic, Cutter.” Vance replied. “But hopefully it will be close. We’ll need every soldier we can l

ay our hands on.”

 

All three nodded solemnly. They stood around the table, pouring over the map in order to try and gain a better grasp of the task that lay before them and brainstorm a strategy that would help to recover and regroup the shattered army.

 

“What’s the story on these two roads here?” Lorraine asked, pointing at a pair of thin black lines representing roads that ran nearly parallel to each other through a range of small hills before converging at a small junction some three dozen miles from the Crossroads and only a mile or two from Caletta.

 

Vance took a moment to remember what little he knew about that particular area. He wished, not for the first time since the outset of this journey, that Cochrane were here. He hoped his aide, talkative though he was, was still alive, and perhaps helping whatever troops were making the defense of Caletta. His knowledge of the roads in question, the hills they traveled through and the junction where they met would be invaluable. Vance would gladly have put up with his long-winded stories if he could glean some useful information from them.

 

Still, it didn’t take a genius to realize that if one were traveling through those hills, which assuredly some of the fleeing troopers must, the quickest and easiest way to get through the range would be to use that pair of roads…and anyone traveling along those roads must eventually come to that junction.

 

“Good eye, Lorraine,” Vance complimented his friend and soon-to-be comrade, “I’m not sure what condition those roads are, but certainly they should be of use for quick transportation through those hills.”

 

“I’ll get a patrol out to that junction, see what we can round up,” Cutter spoke up, heading towards the tent flap as he did so.

 

“Send two men. Instruct them to take enough food and supplies for two days,” Vance ordered. “They are to wait no longer than 24 hours before heading to Calleta. We’ll need every trooper we can muster.”

 

Cutter nodded and left.

 

Vance watched his friend leave and mused that Cutter would have made a fine senior officer, had he not been wounded. Even so, the wound didn’t seem to slow him down. Perhaps had it been him at the Crossroads and not Vance, the great victory that the papers had reported it to be would have been fact and not fiction to boost the morale of the civilians back in Castletown.

 

All at once, he sensed Lorraine beside him. He felt the same sensation he always felt when she was close by. A sense of misplaced longing and of betraying a fallen friend.

 

Not turning his head to face her, Vance said, “I’ve been sending out as many patrols as I can spare, to any such junctions or possible places where our troops might be heading, and will do so for at least another day. I’ve already sent forward a patrol, they should have arrived in Caletta by now, with word that reinforcements are coming. With any luck, perhaps they’ll come across some groups of the routed along the way, and convince them to return to the lines. At the very least, the news that we’re on our way should give the troops at Caletta a morale boost.”

 

Lorraine’s voice, just above a whisper, seemed far away even though she stood not a step away from him.

 

“It will.”

 

Vance turned to look at her.

 

“I remember how I felt when I heard that our encampment was being relieved,” Lorraine rememebered. “They could have sent us a dozen men and it would have seemed like ten thousand. It may seem laughable, but with the news that these troops were on their way made us feel as if each of us could defeat the Central Army, right there and then…and it made us feel as if our comrades’ sacrifices weren’t in vain. I left before the official relief of our encampment was made, but I sensed that every trooper there knew that they’d be able to hang out for those final few hours.”

 

She was gone just then, her mind somewhere else, back in the encampment, feeling again what it must be like for those men and women serving the lines before Caletta. None of them had known if their stand would make a difference, none of them if dying before the enemy would serve any purpose other than to momentarily slow the Central Army down before they rolled over the Northern Front’s final stand.

 

 

A moment passed between them before Vance felt her hand on his sleeve. “I don’t know what you have been telling yourself since the battle at the Crossroads,” Lorraine said, “but you have turned into a fine commander.”

 

He turned to her, saw the sense of wanting to reassure him in her eyes. There was no pity there, he was relieved to see, even if he didn’t feel it himself.

 

“I just hope you’re right, Lorraine,” Vance whispered.

 

As much as he had been proud of finally coming clean, albeit too late for some in the Kingdom, he knew, about what had happened at the Crossroads, he realized that he was filled with doubts about whether he could still command. At first they had just been nagging him from the corners of his consciousness. Those little whispers of cynicism that appeared from who knows where, perhaps the ghosts of the men and women under his command at the Crossroads, had been, if not silenced, then at least drowned out by the task of organizing the relief column, by the planning of the best and quickest way to get the troops to Caletta, by Vance’s own hard work in trying to find the routed elements of the Northern Front. He had willed himself not to listen to the voices in his head that told him he was not up to the task and instead concentrated on how he was going to round up the troops that lay between him and the small bastion of defense that was trying to hold back the oncoming Central Army as it rushed towards Castletown.

 

Those same fears had been hushed yet again by the anxious banter of the good citizens of Castletown and by King Heth and his staff as this relief effort mobilized and left the gates of Castletown. The send-off that Vance and his troops had received was not quite a victory parade but had been the best effort that the citizens could put forth in an effort to raise the morale of those troops being sent off to beat back the enemy before they reached their gates.

 

But once out on the long road to Caletta, as each man and woman in the column was alone with their thoughts as each mile passed and the distance between them and the embattled troops at Caletta lessened, the demons of doubt and uncertainty had returned to Vance.

 

Lorraine saw that that those demons had returned. She had known plenty herself, as she had wrestled to cope with Dmitri’s death, and her own battles on the Southern Front.

 

“I know I’m right,” Lorraine told Vance. “Because I remember the soldier that you wanted to become, and I know that you can become that person.”

 

Vance shook his head, admitting to himself as much as Lorraine just how unsure he was of his own abilities to lead this army in the task set ahead of it.

 

“I have too many questions…Not enough answers,” Vance said.

“Will we get there in time?”

 

“Will we be able to find any of the routed troops?”

 

“Will they or the defenders of Caletta want to fight under my leadership?”

 

“Even if everything goes well, and we get the maximum troops to defend Caletta and push back the Central Army…am I the man to lead those troops into such a battle?”

 

“Is this all one big preamble to another disaster like the Crossroads?”

 

As Vance asked that one last question, he turned and began to pace the floor.

 

“I must confess, Lorraine, I wonder if it wouldn’t have been better to have stayed imprisoned in that watch tower and let you or Cutter or, my Maker, any one else lead these troops into battle,” Vance confessed, his voice nearly breaking, “I have lead this army to disaster and almost its destruction once, there is nothing to say that I won’t repeat the act again at Caletta.”

As Vance turned to continue his pacing, Lorraine was before him. She wrapped her arms around him, held her to him.

 

“Courage, old friend,” she whispered. For several long moments, the two of them embraced and suddenly the war was a long ways away.

 

After they parted, Lorraine looked at him again, and again she saw the demons, but they had lessened, or at least faded for the moment. She wondered if he saw hers when he looked into her eyes.

 

“I must tell you, Vance, from what I have heard you say and from what the others tell me, I am beginning to believe that you saved the Northern Front after the battle of the Crossroads,” she continued. “Many is a commander I’ve served under that would have fled in fear, leaving his men to be massacred. The King himself said that Riley was the first to flee, did he not? You remained at your post, with your men.”

 

Another moment passed.

 

“This last attack by the Central Army turned into a rout because their commander was not competent enough to led them. You are not that man, nor are you even the man you were at the Crossroads. A great commander must learn from his mistakes. You have beaten yourself up over what happened during the battle, you must have relived it over and over and over again, haven’t you?”

 

Vance nodded. He knew that he had replayed the battle in his head every time that there was seemingly a moment’s peace.

 

“It’s like one of those phonographs we used to listen to at the Academy Dances where they kept playing one song over and over and over again,” Vance replied. “Every time the battle ends, it begins again. I can see every mistake I made, can envision every decision I should have made instead, but the battle just keeps playing itself over and over and over again, always the same, until…”

 

Lorraine put her finger to his lips to shush him and, she hoped, stop the demons from returning. “Fate has gone against you in the past, but it has given you a second chance. When we get to Caletta, it will be up to you to turn the tide of this war. You can sweep away everything that happened at the Crossroads by being the soldier we all knew you could be at the Academy.”

 

All at once, Vance realized that this was more than two soldiers talking about an upcoming battle, more than two old comrades giving each other support and counsel. While the Maker had given him the demons of self-pity and unanswerable questions since the Crossroads, He had also delivered an angel of mercy in the form of a close friend to help him see where his mind should be.

 

This time it was Vance who drew Lorraine to him. “Thank you, Lorraine,” he said, trying to keep his voice from breaking.

 

 

“Commander Vance Highland…I am so proud to serve under you on this campaign.”

 

Even as she spoke, she leaned towards him, pulling him to her. She kissed him, tentative at first, but then hungrily, her mouth open to him.

 

Overcoming his initial shock to her boldness, Vance felt himself react. He grasped her waist, pulling her against him, losing himself in relishing the feeling of her firm body against his.

 

Horrified, he felt himself harden as his manhood pressed against her. Certainly she must feel him against her. Any moment he expected her to break away, outraged at his inability to control himself in her presence.

 

Instead, he heard her moan and realized that she wanted this just as much as he did. That suspicion was realized just a moment later as Lorraine led him to the table where they had studied the map only moments before and stepped back into his embrace. Even as they stripped each other of their tunics and undergarments, Lorraine and Vance realized that only part of their lovemaking stemmed from a need for release from the desperate situation. Part of the desire to which they were giving into had always been there, a part of each of them that remained unspoken, unrealized.

 

Their hands shook with desire as they pulled the fabric of their clothes off their bodies, each hungrily begging the other in throaty commands to hurry, until finally Vance slipped Lorraine’s panties down her thighs.

 

Naked now, they stood facing each other, only inches apart. Sighs and moans escaped their lips as they felt the other’s hands roaming their bodies, caressing and stroking as they went. Lorraine cradled Vance against her breasts, felt him take each nipple into his mouth. Her hands fell upon his manhood, felt his desire for her throbbing within her grasp, stroked him gently.

 

Finally, she lifted his head from her heaving breasts and pleaded with him to take her. He grasped her thighs and lifted her unto the table and entered her. After the initial thrusting, their bodies settled into a gentle rhythmic pattern. Her arms encircled his head and she pulled his mouth once more to her breasts. She felt his hands cup her buttocks, lifting her up to him.

 

It took all her strength to keep from crying out in the night as she arched her back, balancing herself on her elbows as she raised her body up off the table in a hurried, desperate tempo that matched Vance’s.

 

Despite her best efforts, Lorraine could finally only collapse on top of the table, her body writhing as Vance continued his drive between her thighs. Her hands grasped Vance’s and she led them to her breasts, so that he might caress them, adding to the state of euphoric pleasure that threatened to overwhelm them both.

 

Their lovemaking culminated with them both crying out as they climaxed simultaneously. Vance pulled Lorraine up from her prone position and held her against him. The two lovers remained in the other’s embrace for several moments, rocking back and forth as they held each other, as they both tried to compose themselves, regained their breath. Even as they did so, their hands continued to roam their bodies, as if they had a life of their own.

 

At first it was simply the length of her back, but soon Vance’s hands were caressing her and soon after were cupping her breasts. Lorraine felt him harden against her thighs once more and she realized that this was not over.

 

She hopped off the table and led him over to the cot where he slept.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

 

Cutter knew it was late, knew he should get some sleep, but damn it all if he wasn’t too excited to be able to sleep a wink, at least not until total exhaustion overwhelmed him and forced his eyes shut to end this day.

 

As he sat before one of the many fires that still burned in the camp, both for warmth and for light, he knew that he’d have to turn in soon, but for now he just stared into the flames and pondered the situation that he, that they all found themselves in.

 

He didn’t know how long he’d been just sitting there, staring, thinking. Perhaps it was just a few minutes since he’d plunked himself down here after leaving Vance’s tent, maybe it was an hour. For all he knew it was nearly morning. He had a lot on his mind, a lot to think about, a lot to sort out.

 

Just then there came a noise to his right, a scuffling of feet against the grassy turf of the ground they’d encamped on. Cutter paid it little mind, figured he knew what or rather who had caused it.

 

Sure enough, it was Sgt. Cumberland who was there beside him a moment later. Cutter looked up, finally, to see the tall man offering him a mug.

 

“Figured you’d still be up,” Cumberland said, “Thought you might need this.”

 

Cutter accepted the mug, peering into it as he asked about its contents. “Is it ale?”

 

Cumberland laughed, shaking his head. “I wish…or maybe I don’t. Something you and I both are going to need again in the morning: coffee.”

 

Cutter would have preferred some ale, but shrugged and took a long sip of the coffee. It wasn’t the best, rationed coffee on the front had gotten no better since he’d last tasted some, but it would do.

 

Cumberland made a move to turn. “Guess I’ll be leaving you alone with whatever you got on your mind.”

 

Cutter quickly waved him back. “Actually, Sergeant, I could use a little company. I won’t make it officially an order but I’d be obliged if you’d stay.”

 

Cumberland took a seat near Cutter and took a sip of his own coffee.

 

Cutter didn’t say anything right off the bat. Had too many thoughts racing and wanted to get them into some kind of order. In the end, he was almost grateful when Cumberland started to speak.

 

“Never thought I’d be here again,” the Sergeant said.

 

“Here?” Cutter replied, a little puzzled, “Thought you served on the Southern Front.”

 

Cumberland nodded, “That I did. Sorry, I wasn’t talking geographically. What I meant was that I never figured I’d be on my way to another battlefield.”

 

“I know what you mean.” Cutter replied.

 

“What you thinking about, Captain?” Cumberland asked, taking note of the faraway look on his commander’s face.

 

Cutter still needed a moment before he answered.

 

“Just trying to sort out my thoughts on all this,” he said finally. “I mean, on the one hand, I wouldn’t have wished for any of this to happen, not even in my weakest moment. On the other hand, I’m almost glad it did.”

 

“Sir?” Cumberland said, a puzzled look of his own on his face.

 

“Don’t get me wrong, Sergeant,” Cutter warned, “There’s no part of me bitter enough to wish for the entire Northern Front to give way the way it did. I’ve seen enough killing and death to last me a lifetime and to never wish it on anybody else, maybe not even the Central Army.”

 

Cutter paused briefly as he heard Cumberland laugh at his last remark.

“Well…maybe the Central Army High Command, but those troops opposite us, the ones doing the fighting…they’re just young men and women doing their duty, just like the troops we got here,” Cutter continued.

 

“I agree, sir,” Cumberland replied.

 

As he stared into the dark liquid that was disappearing from his mug with every sip he took, Cutter said, “But you know something, Sergeant, and this may make me come off like a horrible person, but I can’t help being almost thankful that something like this happened because at least things became so drastic enough that King Heth and his ministers and aides and generals were forced to send a battered, bitter, crippled old soldier like me into the field.”

 

“What’s that old saying, sir? Drastic times call for drastic measures.” Cumberland replied, taking a sip of his own coffee before he asked, “And what about you and Commander Highland?”

 

Cutter sighed, thinking about that as well for a moment, “Same difference, really. I mean, on the one hand, I’m almost glad to see that he wasn’t really the glorious hero that everyone was making him out to be, the kind of guy that could do no wrong. A big part of me was kind of relieved to find out that he’s human, prone to the same mistakes, lapses in judgment as the rest of us. Still, hated to see him humiliated like that in public. Part of me was fearful that he might be placed in front of a firing squad for his supposed crimes against the Kingdom.”

 

“You know, Colonel,” Cumberland reminded Cutter, “if that had happened. Well, sir, it might have been you who commanded the squad.”

 

Cutter nodded, “Yeah, I was thinking that same thing. I mean, I was a little jealous of all the success Vance was supposed to have had on the battlefield but that might have been taking it a little too far.”

 

“Indeed, sir,” Cumberland agreed.

 

“So, what do you think of Commander Highland?” Cutter asked, “I’d be interested in getting your opinion of the man.”

 

This time it was Cumberland who took a moment. Cutter suspected that the Sergeant wanted to present the most inoffensive opinion he could. Cutter was about to tell Cumberland he was looking for a most honest view when the Sergeant spoke.

 

“Sir, I’ve known and heard of and served under a lot of different men, and some women, during my time in the service. Some good, like yourself, some not so good,” Cumberland mused, “The way I see your friend, Commander Highland, he’s a lot like most commanders. Found himself in a situation, weighed the options, did what he thought was best. Turns out what he thought was best was the wrong thing to do. Back when I served on the Southern Front, I saw that more than a few times, from officers on both sides, from the ranks right up to the Commanders. There isn’t an officer, no offence, in either army that’s perfect. Commander Highland is no different.”

 

A moment later, Cumberland spoke again.

 

“Mind if I ask you a question, sir?”

 

Cutter nodded, “Go ahead.”

 

“Sir, if the situations that you and Commander Highland find yourselves in were reversed,” Cumberland asked, “would you have come clean right off the bat the moment you found out that the people back in Castletown believed the Crossroads was a victory and not a defeat?”

 

Cutter had to think about that for a moment. The topic had crossed his mind on a couple of occasions over the past day or so, but he’d never really come to a final decision on it.

 

“Can’t really say, you know,” he replied, “I’m sure many is a man that will tell you straight off the bat that he would have confessed, set the record straight the moment they found out the error. Those men, Sergeant, are liars. Nobody is ever really sure how they will react, which moral path, the high road or the low road, they will embark on until they are presented with that ethical fork in the road. In the end, Vance…well, he probably fared no better or no worse than any one else would have, if placed in his shoes.”

“Maybe that’s another thing I hate to admit to being glad for. That the events of the past few days have shown that my old friend and classmate, Vance Highland, is no better and no worse a human being and soldier than I myself am. He was not perfect, shown to be not perfect, and my only wish is that he hadn’t been humiliated and put through such mental misery to be shown in such a light.”

 

With that, Cutter got to his feet and was joined by Cumberland.

 

“You’ll be turning in, I suspect and would hope, sir, at this late hour,” Cumberland observed.

 

“Indeed I am,” Cutter replied.

 

With no more than an ounce or two of coffee left, Cutter lifted his mug to Cumberland in a toast. Cumberland lifted his almost immediately.

 

“To drastic times, and drastic measures,” Cutter toasted. Cumberland echoed his officer’s words.

 

They both drained their coffee, wincing at the taste the entire time.

 

“Next time we toast,” Cutter suggested, jokingly, “let’s make it to better coffee.”

 

Cumberland laughed as the two men retreated to their respective tents.

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

 

Even before the sun rose, morning began in the camp. Sentries were relieved, cooks began working on breakfast. Those troopers chosen for the patrols began packing for their long, dangerous, but ultimately important journeys to those areas that Vance believed might be prime areas for the retreating troops to pass by.

Just as he had to those men and women who had gone before them, Vance wished each soldier good luck as they left the camp. He urged all of them to do their utmost to track down and convince the routed troops to return. Vance also stressed the importance of getting to Caletta by the next morning. The relief effort would need every man and woman who could serve the Kingdom.

 

As the search parties rode out of the encampment, Vance felt himself wanting to watch them until they were out of sight, but he knew that on this morning, there was too much to do, the camp must be struck at once and the troops would have to be organized in short order if they were going to complete another good chunk of their journey today. He had to meet with his unit commanders, to get an update on what the status of the troops was. He had to know what supplies they were lacking, how much he could push the troops in terms of marching today. If he tried to stretch their journey out too much, the troops would be in no shape to be thrown into battle when they reached Caletta. He also wanted an update on exactly where the two units that the King had promised him from the Western Front were. The last he had heard was that the lead elements were only a few hours away, but Vance needed to know if that information was still accurate. He would need those troops with him, or close behind by the time he got to Caletta.

 

The tasks at hand also kept him busy enough so that he didn’t have to return to his quarters. Visions of his love-making to Lorraine kept trying to invade his psyche, much like the questions of his ability to lead these same troops and those at Caletta had plagued him since leaving Castletown.

 

When he was unable to keep himself occupied, he saw Lorraine, naked, beneath him. Crying out as he entered her. Even as those sights, those sounds, the same emotions that had carried them to those moments of the previous night flashed before him in his mind’s eye, he knew he must keep himself in check, and do whatever he could to drive those memories from him, at least for now.

 

Even as she heard the noise around her, heard the camp and her fellow troops awaken and begin their daily chores and routine, Lorraine remained curled upon on the cot that she and Vance had shared. Her eyes traveled from the spot where she had kissed him to the table where their bodies had joined and to the cot where they had continued to make love.

 

Lorraine took a deep breath and sighed. Her breath choked in her throat and she wept. She wept for Dmitri, her beloved Dmitri, who she knew was dead and knew would have wanted her to live her life. And yet, as she sat up and wiped the tears from her cheeks, she felt that she had betrayed him, had expected him to appear to her in her dreams, as he had before, only this time to damn her for her union with Vance, his best friend.

 

For it was not simply the encounter that she and Vance had shared last night that had brought on such feelings of shame. It was the way she had felt while they were making love, as if this was not just some fleeting moment of passion, brought on as a way of release. It was as if all the roads of her life had led her to lie naked beneath Vance.

 

In the hours afterwards, she remembered making love to Dmitri, the way they had pleasured each other with their hands and mouths when they had first begun to take their relationship to the next level, and then the slow, gentle way in which Dmitri had finally initiated her sexually, and the way they had made love throughout the course of their relationship.

 

When she had lost Dmitri, Lorraine was unsure if that part of her life would ever be the same. She had taken lovers since his disappearance but only briefly and for the same reason that she wondered if she had made love to Vance for: a sort of escape, a release from the tension of battle. None of those encounters, mostly with her fellow troopers, had meant anything. Brief, rushed flings between attacks.

 

 

Somewhere in the distance, a bugle sounded for one of the units to fall in and the call shook Lorraine from her morose state. She knew that whatever mental fallout might come from the events of the previous night, she and Vance, as well as Cutter and the rest of the troops in the camp had an important task ahead of them.

 

Quickly she dressed, a task made all the more difficult as images from their night of passion invaded her thoughts. She could see him above her, in her arms, could hear her own moans as well as his, could feel his caresses, his mouth on her body. It took all of her mental powers to drive the images and feelings from her mind.

 

As she exited the tent, the cold of the morning air helped to keep her mind where it should be: on the task at hand. Her resolve faltered somewhat after a dozen steps when she saw Vance talking to a young officer on horseback. If he was having the same difficulty keeping his mind on his duties, he didn’t show it until he glanced over and saw her. His eyes met hers only for a moment.

 

At first, she wondered if she should feel hurt that, by his outward appearance at least, Vance didn’t seem to be giving last night even a passing thought. But then Lorraine noticed the disheveled state of the officer Vance was in conversation with and that helped to finally drive the last memories of last night from Lorraine’s mind. She knew in an instant that this must be a member of one of the patrols that Vance had sent ahead.

 

She hurried over to where Vance and the trooper were, hoping to see what she could find out. As she approached, Vance glanced over to her once more and again she could see something in his eyes for a moment, but then it passed. There was no time for her to dwell on what she might have seen in that instance.

 

“Colonel McRae, this is Lieutenant Dawson, he was part of the patrol that I sent ahead two days ago,” Vance informed her, his demeanor all business. “He tells me that we are now within half a day’s march of the Northern Front’s positions at Caletta.”

 

“The situation is much worse than we feared, Commander,” the Lieutenant reported, “The force they’ve gathered there is pitifully under-strength and they believe that another major attack by the Central Army Group Blue is perhaps only hours away.”

 

Lorraine looked from Dawson to Vance. Vance looked disappointed by this news, but also as if he expected it.

 

“They must know how outnumbered the Northern Front is at this point. If we’ve heard about it back in Castletown, it must be common knowledge amongst the troops of the Central Army,” he said, “We must pray to the Maker that they don’t attack until we get there…and that we can add to our numbers along the way.”

 

Lorraine asked, “Any word on the other patrols managing to round up more troops?”

 

Vance shook his head. “I’m beginning to wonder if sending out patrols was a bad idea. We’ll need every man and every patrol we send out takes two troopers from our number. They’ve been instructed to head to Caletta after they finish their patrols, but if any are killed or captured en route, or become lost…”

 

After reflecting on that possibility a moment, Vance turned his attention back to Lieutenant Dawson.

 

”Thank you for the information, Lieutenant, you are to be commended for your efforts,” Vance praised the officer. “You’ll be wanting to get your horse watered and fill up on whatever the cooks are offering in the way of breakfast.”

 

Dawson nodded, saluted and spurred his horse on towards the smell of the mess area. Both Lorraine and Vance returned the salute and watched the young officer head off. As he left, a silence, and an uncomfortable one at that, enveloped the two lovers.

 

Vance was slow to turn to face Lorraine. They stood there a moment, amid the cold wind that had blown into camp that morning, unsure of what to say. The memories of their love-making returned to haunt Lorraine again, as she expected they had to Vance.

 

“Are you all right?” he said finally, his voice barely more than a whisper.

 

Lorraine said nothing, could say nothing, and simply nodded.

 

“I’m sorry if I acted inappropriately, last night,” Vance said finally.

 

Lorraine shook her head. It took a moment but she finally found her voice. It was low, as she didn’t want any one else save Vance to hear her.

 

“What happened last night wasn’t anything that some of me didn’t want to happen. Part of me wanted it, and part of me needed it,” she explained. “Part of me thought last night was wonderful…and part of me hates myself for letting it happen.”

 

She saw with relief that he was nodding in agreement. She also realized that he himself had something he needed to get off his chest. She looked at him, her eyes inviting him to open up to her.

 

Finally, he did, keeping his voice low, as she had.

 

“After I left you last night, I took a walk around the camp. Officially, I was inspecting things, but actually, I was just walking and thinking. All I could think of was…”

 

A pause.

 

“Dmitri.”

 

At the sound of his name, Lorraine nearly began to weep. It was as if all her private fears, all the hell that she had put herself through in the hours following her tryst with Vance had been shared with her new lover, without her knowing it.

 

And at the same time, she wondered if Vance felt the same guilt of betraying Dmitri that she had, must that betrayal be true?

 

Lorraine struggled with how to respond, as she knew that Vance was in what to say next.

 

Neither one knew what to say. Perhaps that was the only thing they could say.

 

“There is so much we need to figure out, sort out, in terms of what last night meant and will mean,” Vance said, “When all this is over…”

 

Before he could continue, Lorraine interrupted, “When all this is over, things may have changed, for the two of us, for all of us, and for our Kingdom. When all this is over is a bridge we can not yet cross.”

 

Suddenly, all thoughts were dashed as a bustle of activity became apparent a few hundred yards away at the perimeter of the camp. As Vance and Lorraine, their situation momentarily forgotten, turned to see what was happening, a female corporal rushed towards them.

 

“Commander Vance, it’s the patrol you sent towards the junction,” the corporal exclaimed. “They’ve returned with over 200 troops.”

 

And just as suddenly as the commotion had interrupted them, both Vance and Lorraine began to cheer at the news. They turned to each other and embraced. It was not the same as the one they had shared the previous night, although both experienced a moment where they felt uncomfortable in recreating the scene, but a heartbeat later they realized that this show of affection was simply an outpouring of different emotions: pride, relief and joy.

 

A moment later, both Vance and Lorraine were en route to where these new troops had arrived. As these newly arrived troops came into view, he joy they had felt over hearing the news of these reinforcements quickly evaporated.

 

They were as motley a collection of troops as either Vance or Lorraine had ever seen. Most had discarded their weapons and equipment in their rout from the Front, obviously feeling that the lighter the load they carried, the faster they could run. Vance could see where the officers had ripped any recognition of their rank from their uniforms, less chance they might be tortured for information should they be captured, Vance assumed. These men and women, newly-arrived, made little effort to come to any kind of attention upon the arrival of the officers. Many had slouched down on the ground, wanting to rest after their long journey. Vance could not fault them for that, but as he looked to them, he could see that many of them considered the war, or at least their part of it, over. They no longer felt any desire to put their lives in danger in defense of the Kingdom. Self-preservation was their only concern.

 

Many had clearly not eaten in days and some bore the bruises of men who had been beaten by their comrades for whatever loot they might have had. Few of them looked like they would be of any use in the upcoming battle, at least in their present condition.

 

This hostility only grew and intensified when they got their first glimpse of Vance. As Vance reviewed these new arrivals, he heard many of them cursing him. Several of them even began to move out of the loose formation that they had been assembled in and only the actions of several quick-thinking members of the camp prevented these troopers from deserting once more.

 

Suddenly, Vance became aware that murmurs, curses and even gasps were eminating from a short distance behind him. He turned and saw a gathering of perhaps two or three dozen members of the relief corps that had ridden with Vance from Castletown. If Vance had been startled by the appearance of these newly arrived troops that had once been thought of as a blessing, he was horrified when he realized that not only would most of the men and women assembled be of any use to him in the relief of Caletta, their presence and condition might be a detriment to the morale of those troops assembled.

 

“Captain,” he ordered a nearby officer, pointing towards the assembled onlookers “Get those soldiers back to their posts.”

 

With a quick, brief salute, the Captain rushed over to where those troops observing the new arrivals were and, with the help of some other officers, herded them back to their units.

 

Vance watched them go, just for a moment, wondering what those troops would tell their comrades when they returned to their posts. He now feared that the entire relief corps might not make it to Caletta, much less be able to throw back the enemy. If they now believed that these ragged, bitter troops were what they could expect to see at the front, would they retain their courage to go into battle?  Suddenly, he had another question he couldn’t answer to deal with.

 

He turned back to the troops that had been rounded up and brought into camp. Lorraine was now beside him, trying to put up a brave front. She had probably seen troops in just this condition while at the embattled encampment. On the Southern Front, in the position Lorraine had been, there had been no escape. If morale fell to this level, they had to find something within themselves to keep going, or perish before the Central Army’s guns.

 

 

Here, though, there was not a man or woman who couldn’t have run off, back to the mountains and forests, to hide from their duty to the Kingdom. Vance knew that many of them were probably contemplating that very thing even as he struggled with what to do.

 

 

Just what could he do? Could he bring himself to force these men and women to pick up a weapon and go into battle again, by the use of force? How could he fight a battle if he had to use troops to guard others while they manned the battle line?

 

 

Was there something he could say that might inspire them to rejoin the ranks? Perhaps, but what? Certainly from the looks, these troops weren’t prepared to listen to anything he had to say. They would dismiss it because the words would come from the lips of the man who had led them to defeat only days before. Some might blame him not only for the Crossroads but for the entire rout itself. Vance could not blame them, nor could he blame them for not trusting his judgment in any battle he might lead them into. Perhaps, if he were in their shoes, he wouldn’t have wanted to listen to anything he had to say either.

 

 

As  Vance stood before this motley bands of troops, seeing the hatred in their eyes, their cynicism blazed across their faces, he was suddenly reminded of another assembly where he had found himself speaking to a hostile crowd, made up of men and women that he had only days before led into battle. At the time, he had spouted off some ill-conceived words, a speech that he hadn’t really felt like making, and as he recalled, it had shown in the phoniness of the speech. He remembered, with a cringe, the politician that he had become at that moment, spouting off sentences that he thought he should say and yet didn’t feel appropriate. Looking back, the transparency of his words were so crystal clear. No wonder that soldier, the one who had manned the enemy lines in his dreams, the one from the ceremony at the Cathedral, had spoken out so harshly against him. No wonder that the troops had finally had enough and revolted. He wondered now why they hadn’t stormed the podium and overwhelmed him right then and there. Vance would certainly have deserved no better a fate.

 

 

As he stood there, before many of these same troopers who had been there that horrible day, Vance knew that if he was to win these men and women over, he could not revert back to that same counterfeit attitude.

 

He also knew that he could not delay this any longer. He must say something that would make these troops forget the Battle of the Crossroads and convince them to join in this relief effort.

 

“Troopers of the Northern Front…I know that in me, you see the man who led you to defeat at the Battle of the Crossroads,” Vance began, “It is a shame that will fall on my shoulders and my shoulder alone. Each man and each woman who fought at the Crossroads did their duty and performed to the best of their ability. I, as a commander, let each and every man and woman in the Northern Front down. I made a poor decision. Therefore, I will not ask you to join me in this relief effort out of any kind of loyalty to me. Instead, I ask you to think of your fellow troopers, your friends, your comrades. Many of those troopers are, even as we speak, engaged in a desperate defense against the onslaught of the Central Army.”

 

Vance paused, for a moment, partly to gather his thoughts, and partly to catch his breath. He took the moment and scanned the faces of the men and women to whom he spoke. He noticed that he had the attention of most of those in attendance, if not their confidence. A few were whispering to their comrades, and a few of the others didn’t seem as if they cared about one word he said. Vance didn’t want to let those actions discourage him, but somehow they did. He knew, then and there, that he had better make the next few sentences he spoke the right ones. He took a deep breath and continued.

 

“The battle rages just a few miles ahead of us. I won’t lie to you, the situation is very bleak. These men and women need our help. Every trooper, every rifle, every weapon that we can contribute to that defence will be highly valued. You will be doing your friends, your comrades, a great service by joining the force we have already gathered here and marching with us to their relief.”

 

He knew, as he once again scanned his audience, that he had in fact reached a few more of them. He knew that every man and woman before him must still have someone they cared about fighting in the defense a few miles ahead of them. He also knew that they must have a few loved ones at home, whose lives might be in jeopardy should that defense fall.

 

“I needn’t remind you what those men and women are fighting for, and what any trooper who joins our relief force will be fighting for. If the Central Army breaks through and overwhelms those defenders, overwhelms those of us in the relief column, there will be precious little between them and the civilians in Castletown. Our families, our friends, our loved ones will be in jeopardy,” Vance reminded his troopers, “Every man and woman who joins us in this fight will be one more trooper that will put themselves between the people back home and the enemy.”

 

Vance was no longer really seeing the people he was talking to. He stared past them, allowing them to react to his speech.

 

“The decision is yours. I ask you simply to think about what your comrades must be feeling, their numbers dwindling with every attack, facing an enemy that threatens to overwhelm them. Every man and woman we can contribute will mean that much less of a chance that the defenses fall and that much less chance that the Central Army will swarm over Castletown.”

 

With that, Vance fell silent. He stood before the troopers for a few moments, then turned and headed towards his tent. He could hear faint murmurs behind him, no doubt his troops discussing what he had said. He could make out no clear consequence of his speech, positive or negative. He knew that some might have made up their minds about their future course of action already but most would still need some time. He knew that time was not something that he, that the relief column and the troops at Caletta had a great quantity of. But still, if he was to expect those troops back there to arrive at a proper decision, they would need whatever little quantity of time could be spared to make the decision for themselves, without an officer lording over them, trying to force them to accept his way of doing things. Such an act would only make the troops decide that they would be better off leaving their duty to the Kingdom to someone else and deserting.

 

 

As he walked from the assembly, he passed one or two officers who had been with him since leaving Castletown. They all saluted as he passed, but they were a little more smart and proper with their salutes than they had been previous. Vance thought that might be a good sign, but didn’t want to read too much into it.

 

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

 

 

The sun felt hot against Vance’s skin, much like it had upon the retreat from the Crossroads, only a days before. Somehow, as he found himself at the head of the Northern Front once more, that slow, sluggish march seemed like it had happened years, even a lifetime ago.

 

And he was reminded of Cochrane’s words, about his annoying rambling about the weather. Vance wondered what had happened to his aide in the weeks since he had left the Front. Had he survived the battle that had sent the Northern Front scrambling for cover? Was he part of the hastily-created defensive line that he was marching to reinforce? Had he been killed or wounded in trying to slow down the Central Army’s drive towards Castletown?

 

 

He couldn’t see Cochrane running, heading for the hills with the rest of the rout, but anything was possible. Still, Vance found it hard not to believe that, if he was still alive, his former aide would be manning the defensive line that the Northern Front precariously held at Caletta.

 

Much like that march from the Crossroads, Vance found himself alone with his thoughts. He remembered how he had felt during that long, terrible march. He had felt alone in the world. He had known that there were men following him who wanted him dead, and many of them followed him now. He knew that not all those who had formed this makeshift reinforcement force believed in him, still thought of him as the man who had orchestrated the disaster at the Crossroads. He couldn’t really blame them, any of them for those doubts. He knew that there was still a lot to do in order for him to fully redeem himself to them…and to himself.

 

He had been surprised when, upon awakening from the first full and good night’s sleep he had had in weeks, he found that nearly all of the men and women to whom he had spoken, in the hopes that they would join the relief effort, were still in camp. He had not expected all of them to have remained, of course, nor even most. However, the response that he had received was overwhelming.

 

The pride that he had felt in hearing the news that morning was compounded by the elation felt by all the men and women in the relief column by the arrival of the two units from the Western Front that the King had promised to send them and by the arrival of several more scouts who had more of the routed troops in tow.

 

And now as he rode at the head of the column, larger than he had thought possible, he allowed himself to smile. His satisfaction was tempered somewhat by the knowledge that few, perhaps none, of these new additions were there out of any sense of loyalty to their commander. He could not have hoped for that. He knew however, that they were there out of a sense of loyalty to their comrades who were still fighting. Perhaps some of them were there out of shame for abandoning those same comrades just days before. Many of them were also there because of a sense of duty to protect the civilians back in Castletown and the other settlements. For Vance, it didn’t matter why they were there. All that mattered was that he was leading these troops towards Caletta and the possibility of a successful relief effort, while by no means assured, was at least not as bleak as they had been just a few days before.

 

 

As Vance led his troops over a rise in the road, he began to hear the sounds of the fighting. By now Vance was no longer nervous about the reception he would face when he arrived before the Northern Front’s defenses. He assumed that any troops appearing in their relief would be welcomed with opened arms by the beleaguered troops, no matter who their commander was.

 

 

At least, he hoped that would be the scenario. In any case, he attributed most, though certainly not all, of the butterflies that currently resided in his stomach to the nervousness to the fact that he was once more headed into battle.

 

 

He was distracted by movement out of the corner of his eye. He turned to see Lorraine, riding up beside him. All at once, Vance realized that he was terribly concerned for her safety.

 

“Sounds like we’re not too far out,” she stated, smiling confidently at him. “Hope those troops can hold out for a while longer.”

 

Vance mumbled something that vaguely sounded like he agreed with her. It was as if all the fears and concerns Vance, as a commander, had for the troops he was leading into this perilous situation were exemplified by the worries he had over Lorraine’s not surviving the battle to come without being wounded…or worse. It was silly, he knew, since she had survived her years on the Southern Front, including a siege by the Central Army. She had probably seen more action, seeing as how she served in the front lines, than he had. Still, he knew, just as he knew she must, that it only took one bullet from a Central Army rifle, only one shell from an enemy artillery piece.

 

 

And yet, now that she was here, about to fight alongside him, he was filled with a sense of dread. He knew that perhaps that feeling was more intense now that they had become lovers. Still, his feelings for her had always been strong, and although he had seen friends, comrades, die, it was different somehow. He felt as though he should be protecting Lorraine.

 

 

Still, as he watched her march beside him, rifle at the ready, he knew that there was no way he could pull her out of the line, send her to the rear on some false pretense any more than he could send Cutter or any other officer or soldier. If he was to be able to do his duty to the Kingdom, to the soldiers at Caletta and this relief column, he must put his fears and worries aside and concentrate on the task at hand.

 

And so, he would simply have to watch her charge into battle, no doubt at the head of the unit she had been assigned to lead. Knowing Lorraine as he did, he knew that she was not one of these officers that had plagued the army over the years, the kind of officer that even Vance himself had once been, who led from behind or from a safe vantage point. He could do nothing to stop her from not picking up her rifle and leading her troops into battle. Vance, as her commander, could have to hope that whatever decisions he made would not lead to her death.

 

 

Perhaps that was what leadership was all about, realizing that the men you ordered into battle were not faceless names, simply a row of numbers on a casualty sheet. And realizing that every time you issued a command that put troops in harm’s way, you had to realize that some of them would not return.

 

 

The din of noise that rose behind him startled Vance out of his thoughts. He turned back and saw that now the troops were quickening their pace, as the sound of battle became louder and louder. They seemed to sense that the battle was desperate and that their numbers might be needed all the more. He felt a sense of pride to see that, although no order had been given, the troops en route to Caletta had taken it upon themselves to make haste towards their embattled comrades.

 

Their commander would not be the one to stop the advance and Vance spurred his horse on. As he did so he looked to Lorraine, who was falling back to join her unit. For a brief moment they shared a look, one that said “Take care of yourself”. A brief salute and then she disappeared in the mass of troops that were following their commander towards the sounds of the guns.

 

As they marched the last few miles, they could see the smoke and flame of the battle taking place before them, could watch as troops rushed from one part of the line to another in a desperate attempt to reinforce against a possible breakthrough.

 

Before they traveled half the distance that lay between their positions at that point and the front line, a small group of troopers rushed up to greet Vance.

 

“Rear Guard, so as to check against the enemy swinging around behind and flanking them,” Vance thought. Obviously someone of decent rank and strategic ability was still in command of the defences.

 

“Commander Highland?” one of the troops, a scared kid probably just barely old enough to have been drafted into service. “Sir, are we glad to see you and your column! We had heard you were coming, but we weren’t sure if we could believe it.”

 

Vance nodded. “Who’s in charge here?” he asked.

 

One of the other troopers, this one looking a little more battle-hardened and wearing Corporal’s stripes, answered. “Sgt. Weston, sir!”

 

At once, this answer both relieved and alarmed Vance. He was happy to see that his old friend and comrade was still alive, and he knew that the success of the defence must be contributed mainly to Weston’s skills.

 

At the same time, Vance was horrified to think that no officer higher than a Sergeant was still capable of leading the troops in this action. It was possibly that the officers on hand were giving way to Weston’s experience and seniority and letting him plan the defense, but that seemed highly unlikely.

 

No matter, Vance decided, with Weston in command, even if the troops both at Caletta and in the relief column chose not to fight under Vance’s command, they would still be in good hands with Weston in charge.

 

“Let Sgt. Weston know that I’ll confer with him shortly,” Vance informed the Corporal, who nodded to the younger trooper. The trooper took off in a flash, presumably towards whatever makeshift building was serving as Weston’s HQ. There weren’t a lot of said buildings in Caletta and what few remained within range seemed to be making prime targets for Central Army artillery. Vance knew that Weston was smart enough to pick a headquarters far back enough so as to not risk falling under enemy shells.

 

 

Turning towards his troops, Vance began to direct the units that he had led here. He ordered them to fall into the lines, spreading them evenly across the entire system of fortifications currently held by the Northern Front, leaving a couple in reserve, in case Weston brought up something that Vance didn’t notice as he scanned the battlefield.

 

 

 

He had been tempted to have used Lorraine’s unit as one of the reserves, in the hopes that he could minimize her exposure to enemy fire. But, he knew that she would have never believed that he had “randomly” picked her unit to remain in the rear. Instead, much like he had Cutter’s unit, he sent Lorraine’s troops into the line.

 

As she marched passed him, they exchanged another glance. Both of them said “Be careful” in that look. He drew a breath as he watched her lead her troops into battle, and then followed the young trooper’s trail towards Weston’s HQ.

 

 

As the newly arrived troops rushed into their new positions, a loud, boisterous cheer went up from those beleaguered troops that had been manning the line for so long. Within moments, the return fire from the Northern Front’s lines increased tenfold as the defenders of Caletta, both old and new, began to vigorously pour it into the enemy.

 

 

As he rode towards the small shelter that Weston was using as his headquarters, Vance admitted that he was more than a little apprehensive about coming face to face with his former advisor. He knew that Vance had left Weston under the worst of circumstances, and now he must face his former friend, aide and mentor, and try and put the past behind them if they were ever going to be able to work together to maintain the advantage they now had and try and force the enemy back.

 

 

Weston was standing in the doorway of his HQ as Vance approached. The Sergeant had a stern look on his face as he viewed his former commander. The nervousness that Vance felt intensified with every step his horse took. He knew that Weston’s eyes were on him, every step of the way. Finally, he was before the HQ, and knew that any reconciliation must be made on solid and equal footing, not with Vance riding in like some overseer returning to take control.

 

 

He dismounted and stood face to face with Weston. Weston looked him over as if seeing him for the first time or giving him a dress inspection. The silence, heavy between them, was finally broken as Weston spoke.

 

 

“Well, Commander Highland, what brings you back here to us? No offence to you, my good sir, but we haven’t the time for a social call right now.”

 

 

Vance wasn’t sure, could garner no clue from the man’s features, just how Weston meant it. From someone else, under other circumstances, the question might have been in jest. But Vance had no evidence of that here.

 

 

“I thought, perhaps, you might be in need of some help, or at least some company.”

 

Vance had answered the same way Weston had asked. It was a reply that might have been said as a joke under different circumstances. However, Vance had delivered the reply with the same dry, somber tone that Weston had spoken.

 

Another long moment passed. Vance was aware that everyone within earshot, including Weston’s staff, were watching this exchange. Anyone who knew the history between these two or had heard the whispers and rumours that must have flooded the encampment in the hours and days since Vance had left, must know that there had been hard feelings between the two that had destroyed years of trust and friendship between the two comrades. Vance knew that it was no fault of the Sergeant’s. Much like just about every other decision he had made at the Crossroads and in the immediate aftermath, his decision not to open up to his valued colleague had been the wrong choice.

 

But Vance knew that he had changed  since those dark days. Perhaps Weston could sense it, or  perhaps it was just his duty to set aside the past and be the one to defuse the situation. For after that long moment, he smiled, the same wry smile that Vance hadn’t seen in a long time, and realized immediately how much he missed it.

 

“Well, we could use both, truth be told,” Weston exclaimed. With that, whatever tension that had existed between the two men evaporated. Weston engulfed Vance in a great bear hug. Vance echoed Weston’s laugh, out of relief.

 

Weston released Vance mere seconds before his commander was about to expire due to lack of breath. Taking a deep breath, Weston’s expression turned sober and somber.

 

“Commander, much as I’d like to stand here and reminisce and talk about what news you bring from Castletown, we’ve got ourselves a situation here, in case you hadn’t noticed.” Weston explained.

 

Vance nodded. “I understand. My troops aren’t as many as I would have liked but they’re what we’ve got. I deployed them liberally across the expanse of your line.”

 

Weston nodded, obviously near tears in relief. “Yeah,  I saw them come up. Things look more sturdy already. I have to be brutally honest. I didn’t think we’d last the day, even after we heard you were headed our way.”

 

Vance pointed towards the units he had placed behind the main lines as support. “I have a couple of units in reserve. A small force but one that could come in handy if you know of a spot that we could use them.”

 

“Commander, I have to be honest,” Weston said gravely. “What we need aren’t troops to hold this line. The plain truth of the matter is that the Central Army has penetrated too far for us to really be able to hold them for long. These reinforcements will help delay the inevitable, but soon they’ll flank us, bypass us, brush us aside and head up the road you just came from, and in a few days, a week at the most, they’ll capture Castletown and that’ll be the end of that.”

 

 

Vance let the magnitude of the Sergeant’s words sink in. His men had traveled all that way, with the hopes that their reinforcing this line of defense might be enough to turn back the invading Central Army. It was, Vance now realized, a foolish idea. The Northern Front had been too devastated by the rout, and prior to that, the defeat at the Crossroads, to be effective against the onslaught of the enemy.

 

Here he thought he had won the battle simply by convincing these troops to follow him back into battle. Instead, he had won a minor skirmish, yet was about to watch himself lose the war.

 

He turned towards the units he had in reserve. Should he simply order them into the line, so as to give the defenses perhaps a few more hours of battle before the inevitable happened?

 

Even as he was about to send word to those reserves to get ready to go into the line, an idea, a plan crossed his mind. He wasn’t sure he wanted to even attempt it. Surely the mere mention of such a plan would be enough to destroy whatever confidence his troops might have begun to have in him once again. Still…

 

“Sergeant, has there been one particular section of your defences that they haven’t really hit too hard?” Vance asked.

 

Weston paused for a moment, mentally pulling together all of his observations in order to give his commander the proper answer. Vance saw this, and was grateful. He knew darn well that over the past few days, it must have seemed like the invading troops of Central Army Group Blue were coming from everywhere. To try and decipher everything that he might have been told, or might have sensed wasn’t something any soldier could have done instantaneously. Vance didn’t want to appear impatient, he wanted Weston to give him the best answer possible.

 

“They’ve attacked us all up and down our lines, sometimes all at once,” Weston replied after much thought, “but I think they’ve been light on the left, if I had to pick one spot in particular.”

 

Vance nodded, knowing immediately what had to be done. He looked to the left flank, noticed the troops positioned there, the territory they defended and before them, and using a pair of field glasses he borrowed from one of Weston’s aides, tried to see the Central Army troops in position opposite from the flank.

 

“You have something in mind, Commander?” Weston asked. In his voice, there was no sign of doubt, even though the last time that the Commander had planned an attack, it had ended in the disaster at the Crossroads, the near defeat of the army and perhaps, the very position they found themselves in now. Still, Weston had confidence in his commander, and his decision, despite not knowing what that decision was just yet.

 

Perhaps, Vance thought, he knows that I’m no longer the same commander I was at the Crossroads and that I’m not going to make as grand a mistake as I did then. No matter what Weston might have thought, Vance knew that he had somehow, in only a matter of moments, won back the trust of the Sargeant and for that he was grateful.

 

“I do, indeed, have something in mind,” Vance explained. “The attack at the Crossroads failed because we charged into the center, where they were the strongest. If we are to drive them from this position and away from Castletown, we must attack their flank. In this case, since they haven’t devoted as much of their efforts on our left flank, I will lead the two units we currently have in reserve in an attack there, with those units currently in position on our left following as the second wave.”

 

Vance paused, letting that information sink in, and allowing Weston and his aides to raise any questions or concerns. When none came, Vance continued, “Should our attack succeed, and with artillery support, I believe it will, it is my estimation that the Central Army will weaken its center and their left to try and stem the tide of our assault. At that time, the troops manning the center and right flank would then begin a push of their own, driving back the troops opposite them, and the entire Central Army as a whole.”

 

Again, a pause. Vance had no more to say, he had explained his idea and believed that the explanation was full enough. Now he simply had to see if the men who had listened to him were totally opposed to the idea. He turned to Weston, whose face betrayed no emotion, no decision at all. Instead, he simply looked to be contemplating what Vance had just told him.

 

A moment passed, then another. No one spoke. Vance didn’t know what to make of that. Was Weston, not to mention the other aides (whom Vance suspected would not voice an opinion one way or the other until the Sargeant did), trying to find the courage to tell their commander that his idea carried no merit? Or were they simply making sure that his idea had no hidden pitfalls that he had not thought of? Finally, Vance had to know what they were thinking.

 

“Well,” he said, trying to ensure that he sounded as calm and nonchalant as possible, “Is it feasible, Sergeant?”

 

Much to Vance’s surprise and relief, Weston nodded. He was hesitant to be over-enthusiastic about the idea, Vance could see. Obviously, he had a few reservations about the attack.

 

“Well, sir, our artillery is almost spent as far as ammunition goes, although I noticed you brought us some reinforcements in that department,” Weston noted.

 

One of the aides asked Vance if he wished for the artillery to stop their work, so as to save ammunition for the assault. Vance considered this, and decided that a complete ceasefire would tip off the Central Army that the Northern Front was planning something. He did, however, send the aide to the artillery with orders to scale down their fire, so as to extend the supply of the ammunition.

 

“You’ve got two units of fresh troops, sir. That won’t guarantee this attack will succeed, but since some of the second wave will also be the fresh troops you brought with you just now, it just might be enough to push back their flank.”

 

Weston’s words, more a matter-of-fact review of his opinion, still managed to fill Vance with an overwhelming sense of confidence. He knew that if Weston could raise no objections to the attack, it must have a viable chance for success. Otherwise the Sergeant would have dismissed the idea entirely as soon as Vance had brought it up. He knew there would be risks, but it could work.

 

Within moments, he had dispatched the rest of the aides and runners to alert each of the units’ commanders as to the plan of attack and their part in it. Once they were gone, Vance decided he should go himself to see the disposition of the troops he had placed in reserve. He knew them to be in good shape but just wanted to make sure they were up for the assault.

 

He had only taken a couple of steps towards the two units he had in reserve, the units he would lead into battle, when Weston called him back.

 

“Commander Highland, I do have one problem with your plan of attack, one I didn’t want to raise in front of the others,” Weston said.

 

Suddenly, all the confidence sapped out of Vance. Perhaps Weston wasn’t as sure that the attack would succeed as he had let on just a moment ago.

 

“Wha…What is that problem, Sergeant?” Vance managed to get out, trying to hide the disappointment and indeed, disillusionment he felt inside.

 

“I am not sure you should lead the attack. You’re too valuable…if something were to happen to you…” Weston began.

 

Vance simply smiled and replied, “They’d still have you.”

 

Weston smiled, but only briefly before shrugging it off. “As much as I’m grateful for the words of encouragement and the vote of confidence, there’s a world of difference between a grunt non-com like myself and an officer…”

 

Vance had known that Weston wouldn’t be satisfied with that answer, so he interrupted to say, “Sergeant Weston, you’ve been with this Front since before I was even in the Academy. The men respect you, they look up to you, and you’ve proved your leadership ability, if there was ever any doubt, by stopping the rout as well as you did and creating this defensive line. Had it not been for you, the Central Army would have simply followed the retreating troopers right back to Castletown. Our kingdom owes you everything.”

 

Vance could see that his words of praise were causing the Sergeant to become overwhelmed with emotion. He knew that was probably the last thing that Weston wanted to happen, to show any emotion or weakness before his Commander or any of the troops that might pass by. Vance decided to continue his explanation.

 

“If anything were to happen to me, I have no doubt that this army would be in fine hands with whomever took over, as long as they had you to give them the help that you gave me over the years,” He said, placing his hand on Weston’s shoulder. “I must lead this attack, however. I can no longer simply remain in the rear and order others to their deaths without risking myself to the same enemy fire that they do.”

 

The look that Vance saw in Weston’s eyes was the look he suddenly realized that he had wanted to see ever since the two soldiers had first met and served with each other. It was no longer one of suspicion, as if Weston was waiting for the young officer to make a critical error. It wasn’t one of disappointment, as he had seen when Vance finally had made that error, at the Battle of the Crossroads. And it certainly was the look that Vance had seen in the eyes of his Sargeant the last time the two of them had seen each other, when Weston had looked upon his Commander with a look mixed with equal parts sadness and betrayal. The look that Vance saw in the eyes of the venerable, old soldier was different.

 

It was one of respect.

 

The look dashed any last doubts Vance had about leading this operation against the Central Army. No matter whether he survived, he knew somehow that this attack would succeed. Weston wasn’t the type of man who would hold his tongue. To look into the man’s eyes and see respect rather than doubt, Vance knew that even if he fell, the troops that he would lead into battle would continue on.

 

“The Maker go with you, sir,” Weston finally said. Vance thanked the Sargeant for his kind words, and extended his hand. Weston did the same and the two shook hands before Vance turned and headed towards the small clearing where his subordinates were forming their troops in preperation for the attack.

 

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

 

Less than an hour had passed since Vance had ordered preparations for the attack to begin and now, as he walked around the staging area, he felt confidant that he could order the attack to begin immediately and all his troops would be ready.

 

He walked past one of the units as it assembled. The troops there snapped to attention at his approach. He saluted them and then waved them to adapt an at-ease stance. Even as they did so, the troops paused to return his salute. It was no longer the half-hearted salute that they might have offered him in the direct aftermath of the Battle of the Crossroads, nor did the men and women who were being arranged to march into battle look on him with the same disdain, uncertainty and, in more cases that Vance wanted to admit, downright hatred that the survivors of that horrid battle had.

 

As he passed the unit, and others like it, Vance was filled with a sense of confidence, fueled by the similar feeling that he derived as he watched the men and women under his command prepare for combat. Each trooper that he observed moved with a sense of pride in his step as they bounded into formation, or worked diligently in cleaning his or her weapon or double-checking ammunition.

 

As he passed, he heard bits of conversation, much of which was followed by laughter. Vance knew that much of that laughter might come from a desire to hide the nervousness that every man and women, every officer or enlisted trooper (including himself) must be feeling just moments before the onset of a major combat operation. But the laughter and light-hearted tone of the conversations he was overhearing solidified Vance’s opinion that these troopers were ready for this attack and believed, like he did, that it could succeed. After the Crossroads, Vance hadn’t wanted to let himself believe that he would ever be able to lead troops into battle with any shred of confidence behind him.

 

But now as he walked across the staging area, he realized that he had been wrong. Here he was, about to lead these men and women into battle, a great, desperate and possibly decisive battle, and the troops he was to command certainly were not giving any indication that they were anxious about his ability to command them. Perhaps they believed that even if Vance relapsed to his poor decision making abilities, their individual unit commanders, the captains and sergeants who led them would set things right. But Vance didn’t get that from those soldiers he observed. At least from what he saw, the troopers he observed seemed to believe in this attack.

 

Just then, he came across another unit, some four hundred men strong, all of whom looked as if they would begin the charge that very moment if they were given the order. The troopers that belonged to this unit were sitting cross-legged on the ground, or lounging next to a nearby tree. There were a few men and women making last minute checks of their equipment and weapons, but most seemed ready to move out at a moment’s notice.

 

An officer stood before the unit, inspecting the troops that he would lead into battle in a few mere moments. The nervous anticipation that Vance felt in the troops also extended to their leader. As Vance drew near, he watched as the officer inspected a bit of his own gear and consulted with his own subordinates, who rushed off to make some last minute preparation.

 

Vance realized, slowly, that he recognized this officer. He didn’t know the man well but his face seemed familiar from strategy sessions from his previous stint here on the Northern Front. Vance knew that this man must be a veteran of the Battle of Crossroads and that this same man was now about to follow him again into battle.

 

Vance knew that many of the soldiers who would take part in the attack this day had been there at the Crossroads, even if many of the units involved had followed him from Castletown. He wasn’t sure why he suddenly felt that he needed to talk to this particular officer, but he felt his feet come to a stop only a few feet from where the younger man was directing his unit’s preparations.

 

The officer took only a moment to realize that someone was standing next to him. He turned to look and, seeing his Commander materialize next to him, immediately snapped to attention and saluted.

 

“At ease…Captain…” Vance said, returning the salute and becoming embarrassed as he realized that he had no idea of the officer’s name. He knew his rank only by the markings on his uniform. If he had torn them off during the rout, as so many of them had, he must have found another set of markings and replaced the missing ones.

 

“Captain Roland Ferris, sir,” Captain Ferris replied, helping out his commander without embarrassing him, for which Vance was grateful. “My unit and I are proud to have you observe the preparations for our attack.”

 

Vance nodded. “It looks as though your men are prepared to battle the Central Army all by themselves.”

 

Ferris smiled proudly. “Well, we might require some of the other units to help us secure our flanks, but other than that, sir, we are set to win the war by our lonesomes.”

 

The two men laughed at the same sort of brash talk that soldiers had exchanged since the beginning of time and had fooled no one for just as long. As the laughter faded, Vance motioned for Ferris to follow him out of earshot of the rest of the unit.

 

“Tell me, Captain, what is the morale of your troops?” Vance asked, hoping for a positive answer.

“Excellent, sir,” Ferris replied, with hardly a moment’s hesitation. “My boisterous words back there were only slight exaggerations. We believe there will be loses, for sure. We expect nothing less, but to a trooper, my unit and those of men I’ve talked to believe that we shall carry the day.”

 

“Even with me leading them?” Vance asked, perhaps a bit more bluntly than he had hoped the words would come out.

 

Neither the bluntless nor the question itself seemed to startle Captain Ferris. He took a moment to contemplate the question as if unsure how to answer. Vance realized that the issue must be one that had been discussed. It disappointed him, but only slightly and didn’t surprise him.

 

“Please, Captain, be honest with me,” he asked, fighting the temptation to add “That’s an order.”

 

“Sir, I will be honest, at that. There’s many a man and woman in the ranks who carried quite the grudge against you after the Battle of the Crossroads,” Ferris explained, being careful of his words, while still being straight with Vance. “However, for those men and women defending Caletta, most, if not all of those grudges seemed to disappear with the news that you had arrived to reinforce our lines. For those in the relief column, and those you picked up along the way, your words about our duty to the Kingdom and for our comrades here struck a cord. And many more of our doubts about your leadership were laid to rest when the news spread that you would be leading this attack.”

 

Ferris was quiet for a moment, but the silence had a temporary feel to it, as though Ferris was simply taking a moment to organize his thoughts. He and Vance stood there a moment, gazing out on the thick lines of troops as they moved into battle position. Off in the distance, Vance could see an artillery company positioning its guns. “It mustn’t be long now,” Vance thought. The artillery was in place, all that was required was to make sure they had the best range to drop a lengthy barrage of fire onto the lines of the Central Army. Vance could see, even now, some of the artillerymen were sighting their guns. It wouldn’t be long now, indeed.

 

“It’s just, sir, that we’ve been lead all our lives by Commanders who were content to sit far in the rear,” Ferris began again. “Every attack, success or failure, has been carried out by the troops in the front lines and planned by headquarters staff officers who see the battle only by markers on a map and only see the losses by statistics on some report an aide hands to them.”

 

“My troops and I…we’ve seen what can happen when an attack is ordered. Commanders don’t see the terrain like we do. Even the best maps and reports can’t show you everything, can’t figure everything into their planning. And no markers can tell you what the heat of battle is like. They see a marker moving a few hundred yards. My men and I see shells tearing holes in our lines. We see snipers taking out our officers, leaving the rest of the unit struggling over what to do next. We see small arms and hand-bombs killing and maiming the soldiers next to us…or if we’re unlucky, it’s us that goes down. And more importantly, those statistics represent more than just numbers to us, they represent friends, family, comrades. I’ll level with you, sir. I lost three good friends at the Crossroads, and several top NCOs in my unit. The casualty reports can be filled in some drawer for the archives, but those people can’t be replaced simply by juggling the figures. The officers and NCOs I have to find replacements for, mostly from less experienced troopers who may or may not have what it takes to lead their troops into battle. As for the friends I lost, well…”

 

“I know where you are coming from, Captain,” Vance said, letting Ferris’s unsaid words go unsaid. “I must ask, then, why the sudden change? What makes the men and women who will make this charge more willing to march into the enemy’s guns? What makes this idea any less preposterous simply because I’m at the head of it?”

 

“As I said, sir, any officer can order an attack when he knows he’s safe from all hazards back in the rear, seeing none of the bloodshed and horrors that the front-line troops see. But when you have the confidence in your plan and our ability to carry it out that you’re prepared to lead the attack, well, sir, we know it must be a plan destined to succeed,” Ferris replied.

 

“How do you know I’m not just some fool who wants to get himself killed at the head of an equally fool-hardy attack?” Vance said, a smile creeping across his face.

 

The smile was returned by Ferris. “I suppose that could be true as well, sir,” Ferris replied, laughing.

In a moment he turned serious again. “I think, sir, that if you were having this conversation with anyone else, sir, they’d tell you the same. A lesser man would have left this encampment never to return. Would have just ignored the news that our lines had been breached. Instead, you led a rescue party of sorts and now are set to lead an attack that may just drive the Central Army out of the Northern Front. Sir…if I may speak freely?”

 

Vance nodded. Ferris cleared his throat, using the action as an excuse to summon up his courage.

 

“There’s many a soldier here who would have gladly slandered your name after our return from the Crossroads. Few shed any tears when you departed the encampment with the arrival of Commander Riley…”

 

Ferris faltered just then, as if the idea that he may have said too much, that his speech may have crossed a line. Vance took no offence against the man, was happy that someone had finally admitted to what he had suspected ever since the battle of the Crossroads had ended. In a way, he was almost happy to find that this young Captain had found the courage to tell him about the troops’ feelings.

 

Vance saw Ferris there before him, unsure if he should continue, of what he should say next. Vance wanted to let him off the hook.

 

“Continue, Captain,” Vance said at last.

 

With a deep breath, Ferris did just that. “Well, sir, I can assure you that many of those same soldiers who have expressed their admiration of you in the past few hour, to me and a lot of the other officers. They admire your bravery simply for returning, sir. And the fact that you’ll be joining the attack, that you’ll be marching into the same return fire, you’ll be taking the same risks they will be…well, it means a lot to all of us. I guess the troops figure, if Commander Highland can make this charge, what’s to stop the rest of us from taking that position?”

 

A silence then settled over the two men. Vance wondered if Ferris was as full of emotions, emotions that, for a moment, threatened to overwhelm him. This time it was Vance’s turn to clear his throat, battling down those emotions, feelings of pride, of thankfulness and of relief, before he trusted his voice to speak.

 

“Thank you, Captain, for speaking so freely,” he said, finally. “Good luck to you and your troops.”

 

“Good luck to us all today, Commander,” Ferris replied.

 

As Vance turned to leave, he heard that sentiment was echoed by several troopers within earshot of the two men. Vance responded with a formal salute, as if to send his own good wishes back to the troops.

 

 

Vance had not walked more than a few yards when he heard someone speaking to him.

 

“He’s right, you know?”

 

Vance spun around to see the source of the voice and there, leaning up against a tree, notebook and pen in hand was the same scribe that had reported on the last desperate battle he had led troops into, Richard Alabaster.

 

Vance wasn’t sure how he should react to Alabaster’s appearance. Part of him wanted to wring the scribe’s neck, but knew that making a scene would be inappropriate, perhaps even harmful to morale, at this particular moment, no matter how satisfying it might feel. Perhaps he could simply have him escorted as far away as possible, back to Castletown if necessary.

 

Taking Vance’s silence as a sign that his previous utterance had not been heard, Alabaster repeated himself.

 

“He’s right,” Alabaster repeated, before continuing, “That Captain, he’s right when he said that the troops believe in this attack because you’re going to be leading it.”

 

“Thank you, Alabaster,” Vance replied, sarcastically, “Your knowledge of front-line military matters is, of course, your strong suit.”

Deciding he didn’t want to talk to Alabaster any more than necessary for fear of doing something rash, Vance turned on his heel and tried to put as much distance between himself and the scribe as possible.

 

Apparently his best efforts to do just that weren’t enough to give Alabaster the hint. The scribe managed to keep pace with the departing officer.

 

“Listen, Highland…” Alabaster said, “I may not know enough ‘military strategy’ to write a complete sentence but I am good at discovering just what the general feeling is on any given topic, you have to admit that.”

 

“First of all, you are to address me as Commander Highland and secondly, I need not admit anything to you,” Vance replied, “Since you are also good at skewering the truth for what sounds good in print.”

 

“Okay, COMMANDER Highland, be like that, but I just thought you might like to know that I’ve been talking to a lot of your troops, from the rank and file right up to some of the officers and what that soldier said back there is true,” Alabaster informed him. “There’s a real sense of purpose among these troopers. As if they full expect to carry the day and throw back the Central Army today.”

 

Vance slowed his pace to a halt. For once, he actually wanted to hear what Alabaster had to say. Still, he couldn’t be sure if he could believe the man’s words.

 

“How do I know you’re not just making up more lies to appease me the way you did the people of Castletown after the battle of the Crossroads?” Vance asked.

 

“Because it’s the truth, for one thing,” Alabaster replied, “And it’s not like I’m going to sell you a newspaper over this, so I get no monetary gain out of it.”

 

When his attempt at a joke fell flat, Alabaster took out his notebook and thrust it at Vance. “Don’t believe me, here’s my notebook, you can read it for yourself.”

 

Vance accepted the notebook and began to read Alabaster’s transcripts of interviews he had conducted with various soldiers that morning. Alabaster had certainly been thorough, Vance had to give the devil his due on that one. There were pages and pages of scribbled notes and all of the interviews showed that the troops that would be involved in this operation were very excited, almost looking forward to the upcoming battle.

 

Phrases like “turning the tide” and “pushing the enemy back” were mixed in among those such as “feel like we’re a part of some grand plan” and “are confident of victory”. Any doubts that Vance himself had about his ability of leading these troops into battle were vanishing with every moment leading up to this battle.

 

Vance nodded and handed the notebook back to Alabaster. He was secretly grateful to Alabaster for bringing this knowledge to his attention, but still couldn’t bring himself to allow himself to show it to the man whose fabrications had put him in such misery to begin with.

 

Again he turned on his heel and left the scribe behind. He was relieved to note that this time Alabaster did not follow him. Perhaps after the battle, Vance would give Alabaster an interview, providing that he survived the battle, or any of them did.

 

As he continued his impromptu, unofficial tour of his troops, Vance marveled at how different the troops now looked to him than they had just a few days ago. Even those troops that they had been rallied along the way, once disheartened and ready to run as far from the battlefield as their legs would take them, were now indistinguishable from the rest of the Northern Front. All the troops that Vance saw were ready for to be lead into this battle, and were ready to be lead into that battle by him.

 

 

A moment later Vance was back inside the small shack of a building that Weston, and now Vance himself, was using as a headquarters. He feigned looking over a map of the battlefield but really what he was doing was listening to the sounds.

 

The sounds of seargeants and lieutenants and captains getting their units into position, barking orders, the sound of the troops marching across the field. The sounds of aides and runners bringing in messages and reports. The sounds of the troops manning the lines as they exchanged fire with the Central Army.

 

But what drew Vance’s attention wasn’t the sounds he was hearing, they were the normal sounds on the battlefield. It was what he didn’t hear that made him take notice.

 

He no longer heard the voices of doubt. They were silenced now, as if they had never existed.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

 

As he looked through his binoculars, Cutter’s stomach filled with dread. He heard the shelling, anyone within a dozen miles would have to be deaf not to. He saw the explosions rock the Central Army positions as the shells landed amongst the troops that would be attempting to repel the first wave of this grand attack that Vance had masterminded.

 

He didn’t have the sense of awe that many of the troops, watching the barrage around him, were experiencing. He admired the fine job that the artillerymen of the Northern Front were doing in trying to soften up the defences that Vance would lead the attack against.

 

Still…the positions that the Central Army held looked awfully formidable, even as shell after shell wiped huge holes in their defences. Cutter knew that there might be a few troops, new to the front, just recruited, who might run at the first sign of trouble, but any army worth it’s salt, and the Central Army Group Blue was, according to the scuttlebutt that Cutter had gleaned from Northern Front veterans, a formidable opponent indeed, would have enough solid experienced troopers to keep the new troopers in line.

 

No matter how much the artillery pounded their lines, the Central Army was still going to be there when the charge commenced. There’d still be troops, under good cover, to meet them.

 

And there was just so much ground that the troops in that first attack would have to cover. It wouldn’t take long for Vance’s troops to come under fire, both rifle and artillery fire. They’d be out in the open, exposed and getting closer and closer with each step.

 

“I just hope you know what you’re doing, Vance,” Cutter muttered, hopefully low enough so no one could hear him.

 

Vance and the rest of his commanders had placed Cutter’s troops on the right flank of the line before Caletta. Once Vance’s troops pushed back the Central Army’s flank opposite them, (if they did, Cutter was forced to think), the right flank would try and do the same to the Central Army’s left flank.

 

Cutter was confident that his troops were ready to commence their portion of the attack once he received the order to go over the top and advance towards the enemy positions. With Sargeant Cumberland’s help, he had personally ensured that each trooper had enough ammunition, that his weapon was ready and that each soldier carried enough food and supplies to sustain themselves in case they were separated or trapped behind enemy lines.

 

He knew that he should eventually scout out the Central Army’s line that lay opposite his troops own positions but he couldn’t tear his eyes from the lines being given the main pounding by the Northern Front’s artillery, the defensive position where Vance would direct his assault towards at any moment.

 

Finally he put his binocular’s down and walked down the trench where his troops were taking cover in preparation for their roll in the upcoming assault. Cutter didn’t break his stride but still tried to give each soldier a brief once-over in case he saw something that shouldn’t be. By the time he reached where Sargeant Cumberland was pointing out where one of the heavy weapons crews should make for once their attack commenced, he had seen nothing that needed to be attended to. That filled him with equal parts pride and relief.

 

He waited patiently as the Sargeant concluded his instruction. With the good instincts he had always shown, Cumberland knew that Cutter would want to speak with him in private and, patting the members of the heavy weapons crew on the back, he sent them on their way.

 

“Things look good?”  Cutter asked, nodding towards the departing crew.

 

“Things look very good,” Cumberland replied, “The heavy weapons crews are in position. As far as that goes, every single, solitary trooper, at least in this part of the line is in position, armed and ready and raring to go.”

 

Cutter nodded even as he looked back down the line towards the right where he knew that Vance must be readying his portion of the troops.

 

“Just hope this works,” Cutter muttered, but it was loud enough that Cumberland heard him.

 

“Sir?” Cumberland said, “I thought you had faith in Commander Highland. The whole rest of the army seems to.”

 

Cutter knew that, hoped that all this wasn’t just the old bitterness he had felt when he heard of Vance’s success, success that was all fabricated by Castletown newspapers, creeping back into him. After a moment of contemplation, Cutter decided that wasn’t it at all, and he was grateful for that piece of knowledge.

 

“I guess I figure if anyone can lead the troops that can pull this off, it just might be Vance…Commander Vance, I mean,” Cutter explained, “But you look at it from this vantage point, you see they got one hell of a rocky road ahead of them. I just hope they don’t figure this is going to be a cakewalk.”

 

Cutter turned and could see that Cumberland was looking in the same direction he had been just a moment ago. Cumberland’s face was set in a hard, determined look, but one that had a trace of worry mixed in to it.

 

 

“Lot of ground to cover, and they’ll be under fire almost from the get-go,” Cutter explained, probably unnecessarily, since Cumberland had enough battlefield experience to see the same thing that Cutter saw.

 

Cutter hoped that Cumberland wasn’t going to lose his nerve once their portion of the battle started, believing that perhaps the attack was foolhardy. He needed his Sargeant to be as gung-ho as possible, so as to let some of that rub off on the troops they would lead into battle.

 

He was relieved when he saw the Sargeant shrug off any doubts that either he or Cutter had. “Our boys can take it,” Cumberland stated, more as if it was a fact than simply an opinion. “It won’t be easy but the troops can do it.”

 

Cumberland spoke with such conviction, that Cutter had to smile…and believe every word he said.

 

“I hope you’re right,” he said, believing that his Sargeant just might be.

 

Cutter didn’t know it but only a few hundred yards down the line to the south, Lorraine was doing quite the same thing as he and Cumberland had been only a few moments before, walking up and down the line, making sure the troops under her command were ready to make the follow up assault once Vance’s charge reached their targets and began to turn the right flank of the Central Army.

 

Lorraine had known the troops she would lead into this battle only for a few hours, but they were good, solid soldiers. She had no fears that every man and woman under her command would do their duty and follow her over the top without a moment’s hesitation.

 

Being new to this command, the day had been a busy one for Lorraine as she was introduced to her subordinate commanders, each of whom gave her a status report on their respective units, where they were strong, and where they needed attention. She had made sure that she followed up on every item the commanders talked to her about as best she could, getting more ammunition for those units that needed them, ensuring the troops got a hot meal and that, to the best of her ability to do so in such a short amount of time, every soldier knew exactly what was going to happen and what was expected of them once the attack began.

 

And now with the operation about to commence at any moment, with her troops at the ready and the artillery portion of the attack already underway, Lorraine finally afforded herself a moment’s respite to rest up for what was about to be a long afternoon.

 

Slumping down against the trench wall, Lorraine took a long drink of water from her canteen, surprising herself by how thirsty she was. As she looked down the Northern Front’s lines, she, like Cutter, found herself becoming more and more worried by what may lay ahead for the army.

 

Unlike Cutter, Lorraine wasn’t worried about the attack’s overall chances for success. She knew that the battle wouldn’t be any cakewalk but she’d also felt the morale of the troops that would take part in this attack. There was an overwhelming feeling that this attack would succeed, that the army assembled in these trenches could overwhelm the Central Army situated opposite to them.

 

Lorraine had seen, first hand, the effects that belief in victory, that grit and determination to simply not lose could have on troops. Her comrades at the surrounded outpost she had served…the Maker, could it only have been a week ago?…had proven that. And so, as she watched the troops around her ready themselves for the coming assault, as she felt their confidence, she knew that, unless they were wiped out completely, the Northern Front would push the Central Army back, how far was the only question.

 

No, Lorraine wasn’t worried about the question of victory or defeat, she was worried about Vance and his well-being. She knew that he had to lead this attack, to prove something once and for all about his ability to command men in battle. It was something he wanted to prove to the troops here at Caletta, to King Heth and the generals back in Castletown, and to the citizens who resided there, and perhaps, most importantly, to himself.

 

She just hoped that no harm came to him. She hadn’t realized it until the two of them had made love just how much she had felt for him, and he for her. In all the time that she had known him, somehow feelings toward him had lain just under the surface. She had been with Dmitri during their time in the Academy and he had been with Lady Rachel.

 

She still didn’t know if what they had experienced during their night together had been an expression of love, lust or just a way to relieve the stress and fear they had both felt over the events of the war. Perhaps, if something happened to Vance during this attack, she would never know.

 

She knew that she cared for Vance enough as a friend, perhaps more than that. No matter what the future held for them, she simply wanted him to survive so that she might have a chance to see what might happen between them.

 

She opened up her tunic jacket and took out the photo of Dmitri. She looked at it, as she always had before, but this time she searched for  some sign, hoping her mind wouldn’t play tricks on her this time, making her see some sign of disapproval on his face.

 

She thanked the Maker that she didn’t. If anything, the face that looked back at her filled her with a type of comfort, as if Dmitri was somehow giving her his approval to get on with her life.

 

She took one last look at the handsome face of her former lover, her best friend. “We will make you proud of us,” she said, trying to keep her voice from breaking.

 

As she tucked the photo safely back into her pocket, she could see that the artillery barrage that was reigning hellfire down on the Central Army positions was beginning to slacken off. Getting to her feet and grabbing her rifle, she knew that it would soon be time.

 

Taking a deep breath, she prayed to the Maker that she, Cutter and Vance would still be together when it was all over, and that today might go a long way to ending this horrid war.

 

 

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

 

As Vance looked across No Man’s Land towards, he wondered how anything would survived the barrage that was reaching its apex. Shells were dropping non-stop into the Central Army’s lines, the smoke and fire from the explosions obliterating them from Vance’s view. Two and three at a time, grand mushrooms of smoke arose from the gray blanket that covered the target of the attack that would come soon, perhaps too soon but not soon enough for Vance, nor, he suspected, any of the other troopers, some several hundred  in number, that were huddled in the forward trenches.

 

Vance tore his eyes away from the carnage that had burst into the Central Army’s own trenches so as to look to his left and then to his right to watch the troops that would be joining him in the coming attack. Most of them were doing the same as he had been, watching the destruction that their artillery was unleashing against their enemy. A few preferred not to watch, perhaps so as not to get their hopes up, and instead were making last minute checks of their gear.

 

Vance couldn’t say that he blamed those men and women. He knew that despite the shelling, the Central Army would still have a sizeable force from somewhere in which to repel the attack that they had to know was coming. Even if their front-line troops, the ones that would have occupied the trenches and defences that were now under such intense fire, were destroyed, there would be reinforcements and reserves that they could rush in. Vance, and the rest of the army, hoped that the attack could catch the Central Army defenders off-balance, that they could cross No Man’s Land quickly enough and in enough strength so as to slap aside whatever troops that the Central Army could muster to fill in the holes that the artillery was creating.

 

As he watched the troops mentally prepare for the challenge ahead, he saw a young corporal, one from the artillery division, hurrying down the line, struggling to get around the infantry troops. Vance had known that this young man, or one of his comrades, would be coming soon, and knew what message he was carrying.

 

 

Vance walked down the line to meet him, shouting at his troops to let the man through. He knew that seconds could mean the difference between victory and defeat and didn’t want to lose the battle simply because one man couldn’t make it down the line in time.

 

“What is it, corporal?” Vance demanded when Commander and Corporal met.

 

Despite being hopelessly out of breath, the Corporal still managed to get his message out.

 

“Message from the artillery batteries, sir. They’re nearing the end of the ammunition set aside for the pre-assault barrage, sir. Colonel Bell wishes to inform you that he will fire a flare right over this position. Each gun will then fire two more rounds and then will pause. When that flare is fired, you should start your attack. By the time the troops leave the trenches, those last two shells will be fired and you’ll be clear to cross No Man’s Land.”

 

Vance nodded that he understood, sending the Corporal on his way back to the artillery positions. It might have struck others as odd that the Commander of the Northern Front would take orders from an artillery corporal, but Vance knew that he was simply repeating what he and Colonel Bell had planned out a few hours before, to make sure that Vance had not come up with an alternate plan.

 

Vance was still as confident now about his plan of attack as he had been when he, Bell, Weston and the other officers had sat down and ironed out the last remaining details about the artillery fire, the attacks in the center and the right flank, the follow up on the left. He had a few more butterflies, but he paid them no mind; the doubts that had lingered with him, plagued him since the Crossroads, were gone as well noow. He knew that his troops were ready, were confident in his leadership, and they would perform to the best of their ability.

 

Vance spread the word that the time was near. The leaders of each unit had already known that as soon they saw the flare, they were to lead their troops over the top and towards the Central Army’s lines. Now they knew that the time was approaching fast. Each man and woman on the front line would now be making sure their weapon was at the ready, that nothing was left to chance, even as they cocked their heads skyward. The scene before them would fill them with equal parts confidence and dread. They knew that their artillery must have all but destroyed any Central Army resistance. None expected simply to walk a few hundred yards, occupy the enemy’s trenches and declare the war over. They knew that some enemy resistance could be expected. At the same time, they wondered what ghoulish scenes they might find, bodies mangled by the overwhelming cannonade that would soon cease.

 

Vance’s head jerked up as he saw the bright red light overhead. It was time, then, he realized.  Vance took a deep breath and yelled, yelled louder than he ever had before. He wanted every man and woman, every soldier, friend or foe, for miles to hear. He wanted them all to know what was coming.

 

“CHARGE!”

 

His troops answered with a rousing cheer, a cheer of victory. Vance lept to the lip of the trench, the first to do so. He wanted to be the first one over the top, so that all the rest, the ones to follow could see their commander leading this grand charge. Vance was the first to leave the trenches, but was followed by hundreds, thousands of his troops. Weapons at the ready, they emerged as one grand mass, all of them with faces flushed with pride in the victory they were all but assured.

 

No man nor woman, Vance wanted to believe, was now hiding, cowering back in the abandoned trenches, their cowardice getting the better of them at this historic moment. All of them, he hoped were now behind him, following him towards the distant enemy position.

 

Before him, Vance could see the thick cloud of smoke, remnants of the cannonade that was just now abating. He realized that while he and his troops could not see what defences may be left standing, nor what action the Central Army was taking in response, the enemy could not see this coming onslaught. As Vance advanced at the forefront of his troops, he pondered whether that was a good thing or a bad thing. Surely some of the defenders, already shell-shocked, might rush to the rear before the attackers, but on the same token, when the massive troops emerged from the smoke, right on top of the defenders’ trenches, screaming the battle cries as they did, it might be enough to unnerve what few survivors remained into fleeing.

 

A man to Vance’s left crumbled as a subtle whine whizzed past the Commander. Vance took little notice of the event, as if he wasn’t sure that such a surreal happening had occurred. A moment later, he heard a moan from somewhere down the line. It was then that he realized that he had heard small cracks that served as a precursor to both of the troopers being hit.

 

Suddenly, Vance was shocked to discover that his troops were taking small arms fire. Limited fire, but a response from the defenders of the Central Army’s lines nonetheless. Perhaps those men and women that served the lines that his troops were headed towards couldn’t see clearly the assault that was coming but they must have known something was up, perhaps could see the mass that was headed their way, and were firing blind into the smoke, hoping to pick off some of the oncoming enemy.

 

By now, Vance and most of the attacking troops were enveloped in the mist they had seen coming from the explosions that resulted from the bombardment. A good wind had come up, allowing the smoke to drift some distance from the enemy trenches. Just how far, Vance wasn’t sure. He hoped that the rest of the troops knew enough, as he did, to simply continue to move forward until they reached the enemy lines.

 

The enemy fire continued, picking up steam every moment that Vance and the Northern Front troops marched towards their positions. Vance realized that even with the smoke, the Central Army defenders must still be able to make out a mass of soldiers as large as this coming straight towards them.

 

For a moment, Vance heard another voice, another bit of doubt had come again. Would the attack come to a sputtering, confused end even before it reached its objective? He looked around him and, turning around backpedaling just for moment, looked at the troops behind him, following him towards victory or death. None of them looked worried by the fog of war, or the initial enemy fire. They continued their battle cries and continued to march forward in good order.

 

The doubt stamped out, Vance smiled as he turned back towards the enemy lines, confident in the knowledge that he had a good strong and brave force with him that would soon be upon the enemy. By now, he could see the enemy’s positions, even as the smoke from the shelling began to cloud over the battlefield. The troops that were following him were only a few steps behind him, and didn’t appear as if they were going to stop until they had cleared the enemy’s trenches and sent them scrambling for home.

 

Vance could hear the whine of enemy bullets flying past him. He had been under fire before and never really got used to the feeling of having someone hurl death at him. Never really got used to the idea that at any moment, his life might end. He also hated the thought that a bullet meant for him might take the life of a comrade. Behind him came a cry of surprise as the bullets that flew past him found their mark in the body of one of the troops following him.

 

He didn’t look back to see who had been hit. Knew that it would do him no good, and so on he went.

 

Another hundred paces seemed to flow past as the enemy’s fire grew more intense as he led his troops into closer range. The muffled sounds of the Kingdom’s artillery became clearer and Vance could now feel the impact of those shells on the enemy’s positions.  Vance glanced across the expanse of the enemy’s forward line and saw the artillery find their mark, could see the explosions and the flames that still burned after they landed. He nodded, almost to himself.

 

“Gunners are doing a fine job,” he observed, making a mental note to let the artillery know that he been most appreciative of their work. Had he not been under fire and, he had to admit, scared almost witless, he would have chuckled at the thought that he might remember anything once this battle ended, assuming that he himself survived the day.

 

For now, it was enough that the artillery was doing their best to make the infantry’s job just a tad easier. With every shell that landed, it seemed to take out a half-dozen or so enemy troops, which Lance surmised would be a half-dozen less troops that the Central Army Group Blue could use to repulse the attack.

 

A moment or two passed and the shells began to stop falling on the Central Army’s lines. Vance could only that the observers had instructed the artillery to stop firing because Vance and his troops were almost on top of the enemy positions. The alternative was that they had noticed, from their vantage points, that their shells weren’t doing as much damage as it appeared to Vance and had kept firing until they had just now depleted their ammunition. Vance knew that for the success of this entire operation, including the assaults on the center and right flank, they would still need those guns in operation.

 

 

With the shells no longer falling across the battlefield, the smoke that they caused eventually was swept away by the wind. As the vision before him cleared, Vance got his first view of what remained of the Central Army’s lines that lay before him.

 

It was then that Vance finally saw the great holes that he had expected to have been blown open by Colonel Bell’s artillerymen. He saw the smashed fortifications, the ruined artillery pieces, the bodies strewn across the field. But he also saw that the Central Army had not run in fear before the shelling. Their infantry had remained in their defensive lines, and their artillery batteries were still in position. Even now, Vance heard the ominous thumps of artillery shells hitting the ground and it was no longer those from the guns of Colonel Bell and the Northern Front. Instead, Central Army shells were striking home, blowing holes in the advancing lines.

 

Just then, Vance could somehow sense that the attack was faltering. He turned to face his troops and there was a greater distance between him and the first row of infantry than there had been just moments before. Every man and woman that had thus far survived the enemy’s return fire was still marching, duty-bound, toward the enemy but they had slowed up, not wanting to rush to their deaths once the fighting became hand-to-hand over the trenches and defences.

 

 

Vance didn’t want to believe that they had come all this way only to face defeat within a few hundred yards of being able to sweep over the enemy’s position and carry the day.

 

Vance knew that if the attack slowed down, or worse yet even stopped, then the day would be lost. If this initial charge was indeed to come to naught, the other attacks would not go forward and the troops that were following him would most likely be slaughtered as they fell back towards their own positions. Worse yet, morale would be devastated on the heels of now two consecutive failed attacks against the Central Army on the Northern front. If the Central Army could rally themselves and launch a counter assault, the Northern Front would, most likely, suffer the same fate that Vance feared it might in the aftermath of the Battle of the Crossroads. It would simply be wiped out of existence by the onslaught of the Central Army Group Blue and soon, within a few days, those same enemy soldiers would be pillaging in the streets of Castletown.

 

 

Vance knew that he had been given a second chance to prove himself a great commander and realized that he needed to rally his men and give them the leadership they needed to regain their momentum and continue the assault.

 

He had never liked the idea of having to wear a sword as part of his uniform. It looked more like something out of the old history books that he had studied back at the Academy. He felt he should have just as well worn a narcissistic hat with plumed feathers attached to it and been sporting an old-fashioned handlebar mustache. He had silently (and sometimes, not so silently, to the amusement of his comrades) mocked officers as being more adapt to the parade ground than the battlefield when they made a show of wearing their bulky swords near the Front. He himself had very nearly disposed of the dress sword before some other officer had found some rule or regulation stating that all members of the General Staff must wear their dress swords at all times.

 

 

Now, the clanging of the sword at his side gave him an idea. He knew that what he must do was more appropriate for some wordy and trashy novel that he had distained when his mother had read them back when he was a boy, but he also knew that such a show of grandeur might spark his troops to regain their momentum.

 

 

He grasped his sword and with an embellished gesture withdrew it from its holder. He held it proudly above his head, swinging it in the air so that the light might catch it and thus draw the attention of more and more of his troops. With the same embellishment that all of his movements now seemed to have, he used the sword to point toward the target that had been in his sights all along, the focal point of the entire assault.

 

From somewhere deep within him came the bellowing voice that he needed to make himself heard over the artillery shells and the enemy rifle fire.

 

“Soldiers of the Northern Front,” he cried. “Forward to victory!”

 

And with that, sword still in hand, for use as a weapon if need be, he began to dash towards the enemy lines.

 

He knew that he would look like a suicidal fool if none of the troops began to follow him, and would most likely be cut down within seconds. But then, he heard it.

 

A great roar that raced across the battlefield, caught up to him, and nearly enveloped him as it went past him. It was a cry that echoed his very own words.

 

“TO VICTORY!”

 

Even as that cry, the cry of hundreds and thousands of the Kingdom’s troops, began to die out, that sound was replaced by another sound, a deep rumble that sounded more like an earthquake or that of the artillery barrage that had accompanied the assault.

 

But Vance knew that this was no artillery barrage. He knew that he was feeling the rumble of the same hundred and thousands of troops that had shouted “To victory” just moments before, and now they were taking that path to victory, the path that Vance had pointed to with his damned dress sword, the path that lead them across the open field of No Man’s Land, the path that would lead them over the  fortifications and into the enemy positions, and beyond.

 

Vance had no need to look back, he knew that as he made this final mad dash towards his target, he was being followed by the troops he had intended to lead to victory. He knew that Lorraine and Cutter were leading their particular units somewhere behind him. He knew that somewhere, Dmitri, was looking on, and perhaps in some way, giving the Northern Front’s assault troops a gentle, helpful push in the right direction.

 

As the yards that separated the front line troops of the assault from the Central Army’s forward trenches disappeared, Vance could see the enemy troops continuing to fire back in a now-vain hope of turning back the tide of the assault. More and more, however, he could see them abandoning their positions, fleeing the way he had wanted to flee in the aftermath of the Battle of the Crossroads.

 

Even as he charged towards them, Vance noted that here and there an officer was trying vainly to order his men to stand their ground and hold their positions. But the rank and file of the Central Army Group Blue would have none of it. In many cases they were leaving everything behind, their weapons, their equipment, their comrades and officers, and heading for the safest place they could think of, which was as far away from this oncoming army as they could find.

 

Vance realized with a start that the grand plan that he had come up with was going to succeed. Up until this very moment, Vance had known in some part of himself that he tried to shut off, that there was a chance that this wild plan of his might just be all one big pipedream, destined for failure. But now, the right flank of the Central Army was collapsing, en masse, right before his very eyes. His troops would overwhelm the position they had expected at least a fairly tough battle for. He hoped that those back among the Northern Front’s lines at Caletta were able to see what was happening and would put the rest of the battle plan into action. If Weston and the other officers could make out, amid the smoke that might still be obscuring their view,  how well the assault was playing itself out on the field, the rest of the assaults would be unleashed, and the Central Army, what remained of it, would be forced back, for fear of being out-flanked, overrun and destroyed, either piecemeal or as one in the very fortifications they now manned.

 

Vance knew that eventually the Central Army Group Blue would, like his troops after the Crossroads, eventually fall back, reform if they could and form some kind of defensive line and there would be more battles to come…but if the Northern Front kept moving forward, keeping the Central Army off balance, who knew what this army might yet accomplish.

 

By now Vance was leaping over a deserted Central Army trench and the momentum of the attack showed no signs of stopping, simply because their objectives had been met. He knew that the attack must come to a halt at some point for fear of losing contact with the rest of the Northern Front’s main line, but for now, Vance never wanted the assault to end until he and his troops were in the Central Army’s capital and victory and peace were their’s.

 

But then, even as Vance continued to be caught up in the success of this assault, contemplated just how far that success might allow the Northern Front to advance, just ahead, he saw a small band of Central Army Group troopers. There were maybe a dozen of them, little match for the thousands who would momentarily be upon them.

 

But then he watched, detached, as one of them, a young man probably just old enough to have been conscripted, raised his rifle. The youngster probably had fired less than a handful of shots in anger, and didn’t look like he was too confident to be firing at all.

 

Even from several hundred yards away, Vance saw his hands shake, saw his whole body shake. Vance knew that the young man realized that he would soon be a casualty, a prisoner of war at best, but wanted to prove himself under fire while he still could. He was just young enough, not to understand the full realization of what he was doing, just inexperienced enough not to know better than to make a stand before the onslaught. His comrades began to fall beside him, struck down by those Northern Front soldiers who stopped to fire; the rest losing their momentary burst of courage and fleeing.

 

The young soldier with his rifle remained, as if frozen there, unable to move. Suddenly, Vance became aware that the barrel of the rifle that stuttered in the youngster’s hands was pointed directly at him. After running for so long, or at least that’s how it felt to the numb legs that carried him, Vance suddenly found he had no more energy. It took him a few steps to slow down but soon Vance found himself at a standstill, just a few meters from the boy, seemingly impervious to the shells and bullets that had killed so many of his comrades around him.

 

Vance knew that no matter how fast he could have run, even at peak strength, there was nowhere he could have run to get out of range. He knew that within seconds, his troops would be upon this site and would pause only long enough to send this young boy to his grave. But even then they would not be in time.

 

Vance didn’t fear the shot. He didn’t welcome it, but he knew that his death wouldn’t have been in vain, the way it would had some lucky shot caught him in the closing moments of the Crossroads, when it might have even been a blessing.

 

 

Vance watched as the young man’s finger closed around the trigger. He barely heard the shot but saw the flash from the rifle. He felt a great heaviness in his chest, and felt himself falling to the ground.

 

He heard the thud of his body hitting the battlefield as if it was a long way off, barely felt the impact of flesh and bone hitting soil and grass. Dark forms rushed over him, his troops finally catching up to him. One or two of them huddled over him, saying something that seemed like it might be important, but Vance couldn’t make out a word. He watched, almost regretful, as more of their number rushed past him to swarm over the young boy who had killed him. Using his rifle as a club, one trooper struck down the lad, while another fired point-blank into his chest. The young boy was dead instantly.

 

“They shouldn’t have done that,” Vance tried to tell the trooper that was trying to attend to him, but the words came out garbled. Even as his own life was ending, Vance hated to see any soldier, on either side, struck down like that after putting up such a brave, if foolish, stand.

 

As he lay there, watching the troopers who had made the charge with him rushed past him to drive back the enemy further, Vance tried to breath, found he couldn’t after a point.

 

Out of the corners of his eyes, Vance saw the darkness start to creep up on him. Part of him wanted to fight it, to push it back, to never surrender to it. Maybe that was the idealistic young fool he had been at the Academy, the boy who thought he would conquer the world by himself.  But the man he had become knew, as much as he hated to admit it, there was no sense fighting a losing battle. Sometimes, Vance thought, wanted to tell someone but knew no one could hear him, you have to try and win the battles you can and not fight the ones you can’t.

 

He watched as the young soldier, the dark form above him, said something to him. He had been around enough battlefields in his life to know that the trooper was probably imploring him to “stay with me”.

 

“Not this time,” Vance thought, smiling to himself.

 

With that, he relaxed, lay back and allowed the darkness to claim him.

 

EPILOGUE

 

The grandfather had to shake his head to awaken himself from the almost-dreamlike state that he had found himself in.

 

His eyes were wet, he noticed, and so he wiped them with the back of his hand. It took him that long to realize that his audience, that group of young boys of which his grandson was a member, were still there.

 

He almost laughed as he looked among them, noticing that look of awe that was etched on their faces. He chuckled to himself thinking “Who knew the old man still had it in him? Not a one of them, I would imagine.”

 

“Did Commander Vance die there, at the Relief of Caletta?” one of the boys asked.

 

Before the grandfather could reply, another of the boys replied sarcastically, “Of course he did. We read about it in history class.”

 

The names had long since passed into legend. The tales told by the soldiers on both sides were now taught to the young children who had come after them. The blood and the pain and the cries of the wounded and the mourning of the dead now fading into simply names and dates in history books. The grandfather remembered back to how similar names and dates of battles that had happened generations before his school days had simply been facts he had been forced to memorize, homework that had kept him from playing with his own school chums.

 

The grandfather slowly, sadly nodded. “You are correct, son. Commander Vance Highland was killed leading that great charge at the Relief of Caletta.”

 

“But that charge overran the Central Army’s positions, and thus began what became known as ‘the Long Advance’. The Northern Front turned the Central Army’s entire left flank.  The Western and Southern Fronts all began operations of their own and within six months, the Central Army had retreated halfway across their own territory. Finally, the war that had lasted for generations was stopped. Both sides agreed to peace talks.”

 

“And all of this because of a young man who chose to stand up and do what was right. Commander Vance could have just as easily said nothing, and be thought a hero. Maybe he still would have been given command of that relief column and maybe he still would have made that grand charge that turned the tide of the war.”

 

The grandfather thought for a moment, then shook his head. “But I think not. For many a soldier who was there that day, and many a historian and scribe has said since, that a lesser man would not have been able to lead those troops in such a charge. And had Commander Vance not come clean about the truth of what happened at the Battle of the Crossroads, he would have been a lesser man.”

 

The grandfather smiled inwardly. He could tell that he had gotten through to the boys assembled before him. He knew simply by looking at their faces. But he gave no sign that he was anything more than the disapproving old man he had been when he had started the story.

 

“No, let that be a lesson to all of you,” he warned, gravely, “Sometimes it takes more courage to stand up and do what you believe is right, than it does to simply do what you believe others want you to do.”

 

A moment passed.

 

“Now,” he cried, “Be off with you.”

 

The boys, a moment before so enraptured by the old man’s story, now regained their fear of him. They scrambled to their feet and fled in every conceivable direction, some of them tripping over others in their haste to disappear.

 

All except Cirius. Cirius slowly rose to his feet but moved not an inch more. The grandfather looked at the boy, and watched his grandson look at him. He could see that Cirius was mulling over his next words, his next action.

 

Finally the boy spoke,

 

“Grandfather, could you tell Mother that I will be home in a little bit?” Cirius asked, “I have to go tell Paulo that I’m sorry for the way I acted, see if he still wants to be friends.”

 

The grandfather nodded.

 

“Yes, Cirius,” he replied, “I will see that your mother gets that message. Hurry now, no time to waste.”

 

Cirius watched as the old man smiled, the pride he was trying to hide showing through. Cirius smiled back, happy that his grandfather was no longer trying to pretend to be the scary old man he wanted people to see him as.

 

A moment later, Cirius was away, headed toward Paulo and an attempt at forgiveness. The old man strained to get to his feet, his newspaper tucked under his arm.

 

The door to his home opened and a woman, still beautiful despite the years she’d seen, years that had brought toil and sadness in equal parts to the joy she’d seen. She was Cirius’s grandmother, the wife of the old man who stood before her.

 

She looked up the street, watched with her husband as Cirius ran towards the horizon, the way they had in their own youth.

 

“Where is Cirius off to?” she asked.

 

“Off to right a wrong,” the old man replied.

 

The old woman shook her head. “You should have been a scribe, not a soldier, Dmitri.”

 

The woman looked to her husband and shook her head.

“You’ve done it again,” she said, accusingly, “Wondered off to the war again without leaving the front step.”

 

The old man realized that he had no viable defense against her accusation. He shrugged and tried to explain, “I was simply trying to enlighten our young Cirius and his friends about what their teachers may not tell him about the War of the Lands.”

 

The old woman shook her head as she often did when he finally began to talk to the outside world.

 

“Spreading tales of your glory on the Western Front?” she asked, the accusation still thick in her tone.

 

“Far from it,” the old man replied, “I was telling him about Commander Vance and the grand charge at the Relief of Calletta.”

 

The old woman was no longer jibe. A shadow of pain and sorrow crossed her face. She fought down any further emotion and remained silent, her own memories flooding through her.

 

“Perhaps I should have called for you, Lorraine,” the old man mused, “You have a better recollection than I, seeing as you were there.”

 

The old woman nodded.

 

“Yes, I was there for the charge and I was there when Vance fell,” she admitted. “May Cirius never have to witness anything like that in his lifetime.”

 

“From your words to the Maker’s ears, my dear,” the old man replied.

 

And both the old man and the old woman, old soldiers both of them, watched as Cirius disappeared from their view, and became lost in their old memories of another time…

 

A time of war.