Chapter VII: Discretion [2]

The general emerged into his soliloquy undisturbed, neglecting the risk of eavesdropping as he blatantly spoke his thoughts. Upon further contemplation, several minutes had come to pass when he suddenly heard simultaneous cries of "hurrah" coming from the outside of the canvas; soldiers' hails and cheers indicating a triumphant return. By of whom, he had no qualms of guessing.

The Duke has returned, he thought to himself. 

"I shan't delay then, I must not be indecisive in such times," he said, bearing a determined face as if mustering every ounce of courage and resolve he had. As an idea sprung to mind and an impulse to acquiesce, Balmeister eyed the other wine goblet upon the table. Instead of getting the object that had been the focus of his attention, however, he picked out the bottle beside it and refilled his cup. After doing so, he plucked a small vial from his military garb, one that contained a mauve colored substance. Unfalteringly, he poured the whitish purple liquid, half emptying the vial as he steered the bottle gently, until only the color of wine was to be spotted.

"How did the battle go, my liege?" Balmeister greeted the Duke the moment he had set foot upon his own lodgings, accompanied by a pair of knights in full set of armor. "Although I could already surmise judging from the cheers of victory from our men outside." 

"The Crown Guard fared well more than I expected," came the Duke's reply. "We need not even withdraw our forces, it was a full rout!" As he exclaimed that, Duke Gaverone slowly motioned for the knights' dismissal, earning a salute from the pair as they exited the tent momentarily.

"You need not humble yourself, Your Grace. I am sure that you yourself and our own knights were equally if not more formidable as the King's men."

"I would concur, then. And you need not also keep the formality now, Balmeister. No one should bother us for a while, my knights could handle my duties in the field."

"So how many have been routed?"

"They sent a small horde as an advance guard, some four hundred men strong. We slaughtered a quarter before everyone else had to flee. We mowed down another quarter before giving up pursuit."

"I thought the barbarians were not fond of retreating?" Balmeister laughed, gesturing towards the goblet, offering the liquor as he knew too well the thirst the Duke had whenever he concluded a favoring battle, thus he already proceeded on pouring the cup full, sparing no time to await an easily anticipated reply as he needlessly asked, "Care for a drink?"

"The barbarians are brave yet they are no stupid brutes as you think they are. And aye, I would love to drink after such feat was done." Gaverone heartily chugged down the wine from the goblet, not even nursing the fine booze as dictated by noble customs, as such pretenses for good company was superfluous in the presence of his lifelong comrades-in-arms, unlike the countless nobles and Royals he mingled with upon banquets and Royal ceremonies he had attended upon his lifetime.

"How many casualties on our side?"

"Out of the hundred men, none came with their limbs nor heads torn," Gaverone proudly remarked, removing his gauntlet to properly grip his cup.

"Then I would presume them to be cautious about their advance. That should at least buy us a few days if not weeks. They might even cower away altogether!"

"By Lamellia's grace, I hope that be the case. But what fun a war without an actual fight?"

"Speak for yourself. If one of your subjects heard you saying that, he might think of your character poorly."

"Aye, I am well aware of my reputation. Given the martial background of my family, one can expect that liking war is in our blood, would you not agree?"

"Be that as it may, war might not serve upon many of your subjects' interests, especially the peasantry. We might not have to levy them due to the our strong standing army, but there are also major repercussions brought by this war. You cannot deny that. Towns may have walls and garrisons to protect the people inside, but villages and smaller settlements hardly have such luxury. Vermin season is not to be taken lightly, Gaverone."

"Indeed, so it is imperative that we end this war soon. The absence of the army might cause an instability in the region if left unchecked. On the side note, have you nothing to report that may require my attention?"

"Aside from the army's upkeep and logistics, none would be worthy of your concern…" Balmeister slowly mouthed the response, extending his cup towards Gaverone's, proposing a toast. "Anyway, here is to your victory!"

* * *

The blazing orb of the sun was on the verge submerging upon the cluster of hills yonder, hinting the coming of nightfall. The messenger cantered his mount, without the slightest intention for a halt whatsoever. It had been hours since he left the Duke's camp, and the boundary between Ruggleford and Kurlon would be mere two miles away, where he would commission a boat at the River Dalewood in guise of a lone traveler to make his way towards the open sea and land at the coast of Rondelle. Under normal circumstances, the man would have had set his camp for the night, departing on the next day as soon as daybreak. Yet try as he might, he cannot stay fateful at such common practice. Merely gazing back from whence he came from sent shivers upon his spine.

"Are they bandits?" he asked himself, though finding the notion somewhat ludicrous. "There has not even been a settlement in Kurlon yet. The roads might be frequented by merchants to buy iron ores but who in there right mind would linger at a soldiers' den so close?"

Steadily closing the distance between them and the messenger were three horsemen of an unknown origin. Upon the risk of discovery that he had already sensed the riders' pursuit, the messenger avoided eye contact. He knew it had been miles away since the three pursuers followed his trail, but cannot fathom their objective upon doing so. He neither carried any lucrative goods nor was dressed in an extravagant clothing, and was of low-born upbringing to be worth of a significant ransom. The only thing that possessed any real monetary value in him was the horse he rode in, which would easily fetch half a year's wage of an ordinary artisan worth around less than a thousand silvers, and at the back of his mind he found it almost unlikely that they would merely rob him of his mount.

"The only thing I carried with me of value aside from the horse would be the reason I rode to Rondelle. They are after the message… and my head. Conniving bastards!"

The moment he uttered the curse, a sharp, hissing sound penetrated his ears. Before he was able to react and turn around, an arrow had suddenly found its mark upon him, grazing his left arm with pain. The arrow had not punctured deep, but inflicted a cut that caused a gush of blood to pour out. The messenger had almost lost stability upon the saddle as he groaned from pain, a yelp that confirmed to his assaulters of the unsuccessful marksmanship.

"They brought a bowman, huh?" the messenger remarked mockingly, pulling out a dirk from his person.

Another whizzing projectile flew towards him, but this time it struck the horse, causing the beast an unruly temper as it reared up and staggered. As the horse went berserk, the messenger lost his balance and was dismounted, plunging into the ground violently. With his left arm sore from the bloody wound, he had a toil upon arising to his feet and recovering from the fall. Enduring the excruciating sensation from his body, the man looked around, retrieved his dirk from the soil, and stared at his forthcoming adversaries with menace. As sweat trickled from his temple, he stood his ground; foot firmly attached upon the ground in order to intercept the brunt of the enemy riders' charge. It was three cavalry against a single dagger-armed scout, and the latter knew odds were not in favor of him coming out alive.

The mounted archer was the first to charge, circling the messenger to force another arrow towards him. Moments later, the shaft of the arrow can be seen poking out from the man's torso, making him wail from pain and anger. He knew that even if he defeated the three riders charging him, he had not the enough strength to travel on horseback, and the hope of him being luckily found out by someone was slim, and the time it would take would be the death of him due to excessive loss of blood. Also, even by some graces he reached a settlement to plead for help, the closest place he could hope for was a garrison located upon Ruggleford's border, and the blood from his clothes would just arouse the Marquis's men's suspicion assuredly.

Summoning his final strength instead, he hurled his blade towards his attacker with blind rage and optimism. At least I could take one of you with me in the Abyss, he mused. The man was not a devoted believer of the Goddess Lamellia and her church, neither was he an exceptional warrior for his soul to be claimed by the Goddess of War, so he was firmed upon the belief that he would be sent towards the depths of the Abyss with all the sinners, faithless, or simply all the zealots who believed upon the God of Death and the underworld. To his dismay, however, the dirk he threw only grazed the horse archer's legs.

"Traitors…" was the messenger's last words before the second horseman decapitated him with a cavalry blade.