Chapter 2: SEPARATION
Say what you will about Drevon's military, but it was efficient. Fourteen hours. Fourteen hours had been more than enough for the Drevonish to flood Quenasses and set up camp outside its walls. A bird flying overhead would simply see a sea of greys, blues and greens. The wounded were wrangled into larger tents, given whatever attention by anyone even slightly medically trained. Holes were still being dug for the dead, but at least they'd been lumped into distinct, easily manageable piles.
The people of Quenasses, the Vovequians, were still restless, or so Conrad had heard. He'd not stepped outside the safety of the city residences cleared for Drevon's forces. Civilians could be an odd bunch. Most wouldn't care whose rule they were under, but others were patriotic. Well, more idiotic. They'd throw shit at soldiers, spit on the floor as they walked past, Conrad had even seen a lad stabbed by some lass in a street once. The lass had been cut down almost instantly, but she didn't care. To stab someone she'd never met was enough revenge, enough to throw away her life. Conrad decided at the sight of that that he'd never understand people, not really, and so thought it best to stay away from most of them.
"Oi," said a voice from outside Conrad's tent. Thick fingers, a couple of which had clearly lost their tips. "You decent?"
"Yeah," Conrad was indeed decent. More decent than usual this early in the morning. Apart from his breastplate and helmet, he was dressed fully in uniform, and was now strapping up his boots.
Biter entered the tent awkwardly, catching himself on the flap as he came in. He looked ready for battle. Well, apart from the obvious missing helmet atop his stubbled head.
"Fancy a spar?"
"Not today," Conrad had been shying away from sparring with Biter as of late. With Arten, it was a fair fight, where either man could come out on top. Against Biter though, it could get close, but Conrad never won. The older man had superior technique, or dirty tricks if he needed them. Time after time Conrad's arse would be on the floor. After a while, the possibility of victory stopped motivating him beyond the likely despair of an inevitable defeat.
"What if I let you win?" Biter asked mockingly, a grin he couldn't stop rose across his face. His loose jowls wrinkled at the corners of his mouth.
"Don't be a prick," Conrad said. He sighed, looked at Biter's smug face and sighed again.
"Fine. Fine, but this time I'm wiping that look off your face."
"What look?" Biter taunted.
"Not another word. You've got me angry now," Conrad said.
"Did someone miss breakfast?"
"Someone's going to be missing teeth if he keeps going," Conrad seethed.
Biter burst out laughing at that. Despite his irritation, Conrad couldn't help but smile.
Bastard, Conrad thought. Never lets me do anything seriously.
The air hung heavy, grey clouds overhead let Conrad know the rain wasn't done, just taking a moment's rest. It was warm, too. Warm enough for the rain of yesterday to have all but disappeared. A smell of fresh water filled Conrad's nostrils. He'd never been fond of the odour that appeared after rain had fallen, but it was at least better than the shit-filled alleys of yesterday.
He nearly didn't notice it at first, he was too busy watching the clouds roll. No man could've missed her though. The statue was over twenty feet tall, all solid iron, and she was perhaps the only part of Quenasses without colour. She had no face either, a simple blank slate was left where it should've been, and a long shawl wrapped around her head. What looked to be a long, loose skirt covered her lower half, while her feet, chest and arms were left bare. Crouched slightly, she held her hands out below, so they were at a man's eye level. There, in those cupped palms, aside from collected rainwater, were words etched in gold. Conrad didn't understand the words, they were written in a language he simply couldn't read. He wasn't even sure it was Vovequian.
"Don't stare too long," Arten teased, appearing behind Biter, causing the bald man to jump. "It's rude, you know."
"Alright mate," Conrad said.
"Alright lads. What're you doing out here this early?"
"Could ask the same of you," Biter said.
Arten gestured to the statue. "Thought I'd take in some of the local culture."
"I'd take in all the culture I could if it looked like that," Biter commented. Arten and Conrad didn't even need to guess what he was looking at.
"Vile man," Arten tutted. "You alone could set society back a hundred years."
"Don't get pissy at me. It's whoever moulded that thing you should talk to. Whoever they are, their mind's dirtier than mine. How else do you explain some massive woman with her tits out?"
"That massive woman with her tits out," Arten said, in a low voice. "Is a god here, the god, actually. Condau D'Viere, or Giver of Life, I think it translates as."
"Worshipping something like that," Conrad said. "It's little wonder they've lost every battle."
"Worshipping has nothing to do with winning wars," Arten paused. "Do you not think there's more to faith than war?"
It was a good thing the big lad spoke with little more noise than a mouse, for if anyone else had heard that, the very least he could hope for would be a back full of ridges. None questioned Atoth, especially not under the rule of the Patriarch.
"Quiet down with that," Biter ordered. "You know better."
"It is merely a question," Arten said defensively. "Atoth gives a soldier strength for battle, the will to carry on, but what does he give to the farmer, the shopkeeper, the child? This statue represents gifts, good harvests, good fortunes, life, whereas half the time we pray is in battle, for the death of our foes."
"That's enough," Conrad said. "I know you don't mean that but not everyone else might get the joke."
Arten looked scorned for a moment. He stared at the statue for a moment longer before resuming a less confrontational self. "Sorry, what can I say? With a woman like that, I suppose I'd have said anything to please her."
"Right," Conrad said. "Remind me not to let you near any faceless women anytime soon. Seems they drive you mad."
"Enough about me," Arten replied. He wasn't looking either of his friends in the eye, and it was clear he wished to move away from that awkwardness as quickly as possible. "You boys still haven't told me what you're doing out this early?"
"Sparring," Biter smiled.
"More accurately," Conrad added. "I'm about to be knocked on my arse again. If I'm lucky, might even lose a few teeth."
"Do you enjoy being beaten?" Arten asked. "You can just say no."
"How can I?" Conrad replied. "Look at his face. It'd be like kicking a dog."
Biter had been wearing a cheerful smirk until he'd been referred to as a dog. Then it seemed he transformed into one. His face became miserable, his mouth drooping low like a bulldog.
"Let's just get this over with," said the bald man. "I've found us a nice speck just round the corner."
The 'speck' was neither nice nor a place Biter had found. To keep soldiers drilling, readying themselves for the next fight, a makeshift training yard had been set up in one of Quenasses' many market squares. At least, Conrad assumed it used to be a market. Stalls still littered the grounds, but no one was there to man them. It was a shame really, a market would've perked the lads up a bit. Fresh fruit, fresh bread, fresh fish. Well, perhaps not the fish, but the other two at least were smells Conrad loved. They were the only things that made him miss home.
As Biter stepped into one of many small hexagons, outlined either with scrap wood or odd pieces of cloth tied together, a small crowd amassed. Everyone in the Pups, and most of the Zweihanders knew who Biter was. They'd either seen or heard of his most infamous incident – the one that earned him his nickname. It was a simple affair really. In battle, Biter had been disarmed, and so forced to kill a man by tearing out his throat with only his teeth. It proved a gruesome enough show to break the enemy, allowing Biter to drink in the blood of his foe and the glory of a battle won. Since, that moment had given Biter his reputation. He was a soldier many knew of, though few really knew. Despite that, whenever he stepped to spar, men watched. They expected savagery, for blood to be spilled, and something about the possibility of blood being spilt that drew spectators like moths to a flame.
"Who's he scrapping?" Conrad heard behind him. "That a new lad?"
"No, don't think so," another voice replied. "Think he's called Darren. Seen him round here a few times."
Darren? Conrad thought. Really? How does that sound anything like Conrad?
He leapt back as a low sweep from Biter nearly took out his legs.
"Pay attention," Biter ordered. "Don't listen to them."
Conrad nodded. He stepped forward with his right leg, bending the knee slightly. He liked his left behind him. It was his stronger leg, a thick trunk for him to fall back on. Supported by his trunk, he stood as still as a tree, baiting his older opponent. Biter could never resist striking first.
Biter shuffled forwards, his feet barely moving to keep his stance tight. He raised his sword high, slow, and deliberately, exposing his chest for Conrad to strike. Conrad had fallen for that trick before; he'd chipped a tooth because of that trick.
Pirouetting to Biter's left, Conrad dodged a heavy swing and grabbed the middle of his blade. Half-swording wasn't encouraged among the Zweihanders. They were supposed to put all their weight into one decisive blow. Conrad couldn't help being a romantic, he loved a duel, a drawn-out fight of highs and lows. Everything else was just unsatisfying.
Biter spun on his backfoot, gliding his blade back up, aiming for Conrad's unprotected face. With his sword as his shield, Conrad parried the blow. As he'd done yesterday, he shoved Biter's sword away, following with an elbow into the bald man's wrinkly face.
A few lads in the crowd cringed and gasped. It was a mean blow; one a soldier really should've saved for his enemy. Had Conrad put any more force into the strike, Biter's nose would've been shattered.
Retreating, Biter made two wide swings with his sword. Back and forth, it stopped any wild pursuit and gave him the distance he wanted. Conrad placed both hands on his greatsword's hilt again.
"That fuckin' hurt, ya bastard," Biter said, clutching his nose. He stabbed forwards. Conrad parried, dodging another swing aimed for his head.
He stabbed back. A poor move. Biter grabbed the tip of the blade and yanked it forwards, forcing Conrad closer. Neither man could use their sword, but Biter had never needed one. He stepped forward, and slammed his hairless forehead into Conrad's. There was an echoing crack, blinding pain flashed through Conrad. He collapsed to the floor in a lump.
"Fuck!" Conrad cried. "What was that for?"
"I won," Biter declared. He didn't seem to notice the stream of blood pouring from his nose.
"Who says?"
"I do, now get up off your arse, people are watching."
"Oh, who gives one?" Conrad dusted off his arse and legs. He picked his sword up from the floor, checked it for any damage then let it rest against his chest.
"I do," Biter said. "You do, we all do."
The spectators were already returning to their business. Most were mumbling their disappointments. Some wished the fight was longer, others longed for greater bloodshed.
"You'd think we were fighting alongside animals," Conrad said. He caught a drop of blood with his finger. Red oozed from his nose slowly as his head continued to ache.
"Could learn a thing or two from that, you could." Biter said. "Your swordplay…"
"What about it?"
"It's flowery. You're dancing when you should be fighting. Doesn't matter how nice you look, no one around you is going to be impressed by clever moves when you're dead."
"I did alright yesterday, and I'll keep doing alright."
"Alright might not be good enough, mate," Biter said. "You're better than me, but you're too caught up in making things satisfying."
"Where's all this coming from?" Conrad asked. "Did I hit you too hard or something?"
"Fuck," Biter whispered. His eyes widened, looking distantly past Conrad.
"What?" Conrad turned. Then he too muttered a similar curse under his breath.
There were four of them surrounding Arten. Each wore a navy jacket, and the one in the centre of the gang wore a stiff cap and enough medals to let Conrad know he was someone of status. Strange. Rarely would the unarmoured walk among the ranks of the armoured, even less often would four of them crowd around a single Zweihander, salute him and hand him a closed envelope.
Arten looked awkward at first, like a virgin in a whorehouse, he didn't know where to look. He listened, nodded, and took the envelope as soon as it was handed to him.
"What's all that about?" Conrad asked, jogging over alongside Biter as soon as the softies had disappeared.
"Is it bad that I don't really know?" Arten replied.
Biter pulled Arten by the elbow. "Not about that fucking statue, was it? Didn't look like Pale Boys, but you never know."
"What?" Arten said. "No, nothing like that. I doubt they'd congratulate me for blasphemy."
"Oh," Biter chuckled. "Congratulations, eh? Come on then, open the pissing thing so we can see how many drinks we have to buy you." His laugh seemed mostly to be out of relief. There was something off about the old man today. He'd been acting like Conrad and Arten's father, trying to pass on worldly wisdom he didn't have. The sudden request to spar, the conversation after it, and now this.
Arten looked longingly at the envelope, eventually passing it to Conrad.
"Haven't got my dagger, do I?" Arten said.
"A good excuse," Conrad muttered, he was just as nervous as his mate. Nevertheless, he opened the letter, breaking the red seal with ease. A symbol Conrad didn't recognise fell to the floor. What looked to be a bearded, long-haired man carried two plates high above his head. Both empty, he looked at the saucer to his left, chin held high, like any nobleman would. He wasn't dressed like a noble, in the little detail the wax could prove, Conrad saw the man wore nothing over his chest, and only an odd sort of skirt covered his bottom.
"Must've been ancient," Conrad said. He cocked his head slightly to watch the man, now split in half, tumble through the air.
"Eh?" Biter said.
"Nothing."
Arten scanned over the wording. His eyes flittered back and forth. The letters were large, laid out so simply even a dog could've read them. First, Arten read with excitement, then a sigh escaped his mouth. After a few seconds, he let the paper hang loose in his hands.
"Shit," Arten said. "Hey Biter, can you say no to being transferred?"
"Transferred?" Biter asked. "Don't think you can mate, no. Not unless you cut off your leg or something like that. Where are they sending you?"
"The Third," Arten said. "Fucking Third."
Conrad almost laughed. "The Third! Rough boys, that lot. Sure you'll survive?"
"Aye, they're rough," Biter said. "But they're the best of us. Good stuff that, big man."
Arten didn't look convinced that the news was 'good stuff'. Conrad wasn't convinced either. He didn't want to be convinced. He knew Arten would survive in the Third. If anything, he'd thrive. The lad had a quick mind, good for strategy, and if the Patriarch's promise of meritocracy was to be believed, one could climb the ranks easily with those traits. Conrad was unconvinced of his own survivability without Arten. Just him and Biter? They wouldn't last a week without at least a little blood being spilt.
"Well, if we're sharing news," Biter started. "I've also got some."
"Finally going to retire?" Conrad jested. "About time."
"As long as I can still batter you, I won't be retiring. No," Biter said. "Really, I've uh, been promoted. Can you believe they'd make a mentalist like me Captain?"
"No," Conrad replied. "I honestly can't."
"Fuck off," Biter said. He laughed as if Conrad had been joking. "Well, they did. The Sixth got fucked yesterday, worse than us, so they're throwing whoever they can to make it a proper unit again."
Arten, who'd otherwise been silent, picked up his letter again. Over and over, he read the paper, looking for some way out, some ring he could jump through to get away.
"Well," Conrad said, trying whatever he could to salvage things. "At least we'll all be on the move together."
"No," Arten said glumly. "Tomorrow you'll march out, the Third are staying here. Keeping the peace."
Sad and melancholic, Arten looked like a boy who'd just dropped his cake on the floor.
"Me too," Biter added. "I've heard words. By the sounds of it, the whole fucking Council's heading down here. They'll use Quenasses as a base to plan the push North."
Conrad felt just as hurt. It was like someone had gripped his insides tightly. His heart, his stomach, everything felt knotted. The Eighth, they wouldn't be staying behind. They'd push on. The orders had already come through, a short campaign to establish a foothold in the South beyond Quenasses, see if there were any of the Stag Queen's armies nearby.
"Well," Arten said, melancholy. "This is then, lads."
"There's still tonight," Biter said. "Worthy of celebration for all of us, might I add."
Conrad wasn't sure whether he had anything worth celebrating, though he wouldn't be leaving his friends' sides. Not until his orders forced him to, anyway.
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