The sun shined bright at center of the prime blue sky up high. It was noon. The grassy world of hills and sprinkled forests below seemed dried and autumn hued; the wind was cool, mild, and calm—a sweet and pleasant breeze. It was the thirtieth day of Autumn’s Feast, the tenth month of this once new year; four-to-five days were all that remained until the beginning of Autumn’s Sleep—the eleventh month, the penultimate.

  If following the local calendar, of course. From the Far Western perspective, this was the end of their tenth month, if such had not already concluded.

  An infantryman—a black coat with some bands of blue, tricorn hat with a distinct ‘hackle’, and a sleeve with a number of stripes—laid prone on the edges of a slim elevation ring that was less a pattern of hills and more a long eroded, almost vestigial and wildered, primordial crater. Nevertheless, down below was a pocket of flatness, within which was…

  A camp.

  A sizable camp, indeed, although only half the size of their own relatively; structured and organized, nevertheless. And as he gazed down through the hand-portable telescope in his hand, this soldier could already tell that this camp was only growing. A road—informal in presentation—which had not been there weeks prior had been paved, on which were wagons and continued arrivals.

  Abruptly, the sounds of moving grass emerged behind him although he was hardly alarmed. As if a worm was slithering forth, another arrived and laid next and near, prone and surveilling.

  ?[Sergeant-Major.]? thus said this arriving soldier—similar in uniform besides missing the extra stripes on sleeve; a different rank, indeed.

  ?Hm…? Yet this sergeant-major remained focused, paying his subordinate no immediate mind. He did not necessarily like what he was seeing through his telescopic lens. ?[I don’t like this…]? Ah, thus his thoughts escaped his mouth.

  ?[What do you see?]? the other soldier inquired; lacking any portable monocular or telescope, he had only his eyes.

  ?[An assembling camp.]? the sergeant-major stated the obvious. He proceeded to hand his telescope to the subordinate soldier. ?[See for yourself…]?

  His other thus began to survey through the lens, one eye held shut.

  ?[Grandberriens?]? Indeed, he could spot what appeared to be Grandberrien men—their distinct patterns of armor and garments. These ones seemed to be arriving in from wagons. ?[Isn’t that the city’s personal retinues—the guards?]?

  ?Mhm.? The sergeant-major provided a simple affirming nod. ?[Not only Grandberry as well; I spotted men from Fireberry, Greatberry, so on… All Loyalist factionals.]?

  ?[So, a combined vassalage camp?]?

  ?[Check the banner.]?

  The soldier proceeded to shift his telescope’s lens, until he could spot the preeminent banners which seemed to be waving sporadically around the camp. Unlike the typical feudal and dynastical banners associated with these lands, which tended to have intricate iconography and or heraldic emblems, these banners were awfully simplified; pinkish or purplish in hue, with what appeared to be…a stem of three berries—huckleberries, perhaps?

  It was hard to identify, not only considering distance as much as the design—some emblems had more intricate details with color and embroiling, but the majority were simply plain white.

  Nevertheless, he was able to identify. ?[Isn’t that the…dutchy’s titular banner? It’s simpler than I recall, though…]?

  ?[Appearingly so—you hardly ever see it.]? The sergeant-major replied. ?[From my understanding, Loyalist armies have so far borne the banners of their lords, not the entire country.]?

  ?Hm…? The soldier went quiet as he continued his own observations. He noticed that the arriving men-at-arms from Grandberry and other Loyalist realms would both disarm and disarmor upon arrival; some seeming to be standing as if awaiting a new set of garments, while others kept their original wear although were forced to standardize into a common thematic trope.

  Intermixed—effectively segregated—amidst these native feudals, however, were men of a different kind—a different stature, a different…familiar style. Metallic helmets, shiny though militarized in simplicity, some bearing a single hair-tailed plume; most had a light pinkish sort of uniform garment, although a few had white or purple; most had a single breastplate, and no more armor than that.

  A hybrid between Far Western and native, it almost looked as if; indeed, without the breastplates, the full scope of the uniforms’ similarities were discernable.

  Officers of sorts, he could also identify—their attire was distinct from these ‘regulars’. They had a cape, a commanding saber, a more ranking-distinguished plume on their silver-shaded helmets, and many lacked a breastplate. A few in particular even had bicorns—a Far Western distinguished hat of officership.

  However, the mannerisms by which they dressed was hardly the screaming element… No, the most striking was in the way they moved and conducted themselves; the way the officers commanded and yelled. Many of these hybrid infantrymen were…beginning to assemble, it seemed, outside this camp—forming lines with an officer, a flag bearer, and even a drummer. A regimented drill.

  ?[Aren’t those the guys we trained?]? the soldier remarked, his voice speaking with less surprise as much as formerly acquainted.

  ?[Appearingly so.]? the sergeant-major simply replied. ?[And last I recall, they were being held in reserve in Grandberry County.]?

  ?[So, what are they doing out here in Middleberry?]?

  ?[Excellent question…]?

  A shout, the two of them could hear bouncing its way from the depths below. Snaps and bangs—discharges—ignited accompanied by a cloud of smoke, followed by another set of firings followed by another. Row by row, men crouched, reloaded, and stood back up.

  Line infantry tactics, hm?

  They quickly followed through with a bayonet charge as if checking off the conventional list. They were drilling, such was evident.

  ?[Artillery… They have artillery.]? the soldier noted, keeping his attention less on the regimented display and more on…the logistics. ?[20-pounders?]?

  ?[Make that 24.]? the sergeant-major corrected. ?[Field guns too. Old models—second-handed. But still…]?

  ?[There’s a depot down there, too.]? Indeed, a large, almost circus-shape, of a tent, into which wagons carrying crate after crate—barrel after barrel—of presumably supplies, munitions, et cetera would enter to offload and store.

  ?[This is the third camp we have found…]?

  The soldier withdrew his eye from the telescope, glancing at the sergeant-major. ?[Third?]? This was the first he had heard of such.

  ?[As other forward platoons have reported, yes.]?

  ?[What are they preparing for?]? the soldier inquired, for it was obvious that these men were preparing for something.

  ?[I don’t know…]? The sergeant-major began to tap his finger on the grassy dirt, contemplating… ?[Well, let’s—]? He was about to say, however abruptly interrupting was a linear array of distant yet nevertheless flinch-inducing explosive sounds.

  Boom, boom, boom. Another set of regimented drilling men tossed ahead of their formation circular objects which exploded, before a trumpet blew and with cries they charged forth, bayoneting a hapless mannequin made of straw…although donned upon the heads of which was…an ever-distinct tricorn.

  ?[A grenadier shock-charge?]? the soldier commentated.

  ?[Yeah… That’s our tactics on display.]? the sergeant-major plainly remarked; ?[Outdated by several years already, though.]? Indeed, since the last decade, each subsequent year seemed to alienate or estrange the proceeding years; things were developing faster than ever before—thus claimed every new year.

  The sergeant-major and his solider continued to observe whilst the assembling of men continued on as if obtuse to their lens.

  ?[Think they spotted us?]? the soldier finally decided to ask.

  ?[Oh, yeah.]? And the sergeant-major was blunt. ?[Which is exactly why they’re starting to drill now.]? He crouched himself up, extending his hand out to the soldier as if requesting a return.

  The soldier retracted the telescope and returned it, before he too crouched himself up.

  ?[We’ve seen enough. Let’s rendezvous with the troop and collect our gatherings, then return to the camp.]?

  The two quietly withdrew from their edge, spotters below seeing the black silhouettes departing. They remounted atop their horses, which had been graciously grazing about further back, and made off.

  -||-

  A large circularish field tent, with a little triangular flag attached to the tip-top—its only purpose either decorative or perhaps occasionally inform whomever the direction of the wind. The sergeant-major had not bothered first checking in at the stables when his steed had so galloped in. Indeed, he had galloped through and straight to… Well first the tent at which he had initially intended to arrive, only to find that tent empty and then arrived his way hither.

  He hopped off his steed, seeing that there was an infantryman—bright blue uniform, tall hat, and almost ceremonial musket in hand. This guard’s presence was an indication that this large tent was presently occupied.

  He immediately stepped towards this lone guard with rather the stomp.

  ? En séan?a. Ne poudètz pas entrar. ? And promptly, the ceremonial guard blurted out as if well acquainted.

  ?[Is he in there?]? Yet the sergeant-major ignored those words and swiftly interrogated.

  ? Chaqua cop te pousas aquesta question, ? the guard muttered aloud, ? [and I always say I cannot answer that. You know that.] ?

  ?[Then I will have to check for myself.]? He began to motion to enter through the tent’s curtain-for-doors.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  The guard immediately blocked entry with his firearm, however, to which the sergeant-major scowled.

  ?[My troop just returned from a scouting; I have important discoveries to report that cannot wait.]? The sergeant-major gave him quite the eye. ?[Reconnoiter privileges.]?

  The guard tsked and withdrew his block. ? [Say that first the next time.] ?

  The sergeant-major, entry no longer blocked, proceeded to quietly and respectfully enter the tent, taking his hat off as if to indicate submission. The floor was dirt, besides the carpet that had been placed at the middle. Lamps lit the tent’s circular-spanning interior and there was not much in terms of decoration—for this tent was the war tent.

  At the center of this war tent was a round table, on which was a large map of sorts—written, scribbled, and drawn upon post-production. Seven officers, he instantly spotted—standing, leaning on, hovering over, and otherwise occupying that central round table with rather the wordy attention.

  Leaning with focus on the forward-facing end of the table was an officer with a standard uniform or dresswear that behooved a Far Western officer, donning a simple cape and bicorn hat; flashy yet ordinary—thoroughly conventional. His theme was of an aqua sort of color, similar in principle to the Company’s own flag—Governor’s Army, New Wellington’s direct own; he was the most serious, consequently.

  On the other end was an officer who stood in an almost unassuming fashion, donning a shorter shoulder cape and whose attire of an olive-green color—Provencia, a nascently risen great power following the Valerian partition; decent at everything, perfect at none. Standing beside him, whispering in his ear, was another officer who did not differ much in uniform, besides the color being a serene whitish-blue with ancillaries of lavender—Serena, once the motherland of all things mercantile and naval. These two were as practically married as their nations were.

  Standing more idle and observant, calculations in his pristine blue eyes, was the officer with longest cape and most stylized attire, donning not a bicorn but a taller shako-like hat embroiled on which was an eagle. A dark imperial yellow or bronze—Raiche, the least participant of the signatories beyond logistics and manufactured supplies.

  Arms extended out with rather the sternness, face donning both rather the moustache and intimidating expression, was an officer who wore neither cape nor fancy attire but a long military greatcoat, dark trousers, and infantry boots—muddied as a grunt’s. He also wore not a bicorn, but a spiked helmet. A dark grey and blue—Gothia, a rising power left militarized after the great Revolutionary War.

  Then, of course, there was the chubbiest of the bunch—shaped as if born to be emblematic of a cannonball—who sat in a chair almost trembling to sustain the girth, wearing no hat as if to bask the eye with his patterned boldness, lacking cosmetics beyond his twin-stache. His uniform was almost like that of an infantryman beyond the gold-embroils, epaulettes, and fancy pants; he was the most unexceptional. White with ancillary shades of green, minus the tomato sauce stain—Bombardy, the motherland to the bombard and most things…explosive.

  Standing a bit further due to the pipe in his mouth, fresh with smoke, was a hairy-ish officer who donned not trousers but a skirt which revealed his hairy legs, his rugged face adorned by a reddish beard; he wore the iconic and traditional hat from his homeland. A medium green with secondary white—Pikeland, the hardiest bunch, perfect for heavy duties and lifting.

  Indeed, seven officers from New Wellington and the remaining signatories. These were the appointed ‘field commanders’ of the Company’s campaign against the Fallen; although each officer was of high but nevertheless varying ranks within their respective armies’ structure, their appointed field officer position rendered them effective equals within the campaign’s unified higher command, circumventing potential… rank squabblings.

  However, none of amongst them donned Exiled black. Most crucially, none donned that Elklander yellow the sergeant-major was looking for.

  Yet now that he had stepped in and the field commanders had taken notice, he could not simply leave. Indeed, he relegated himself into the corner near the entry whilst the field commanders continued what was most certainly an important meeting. Until, finally…

  ?[Sergeant-Major Hathway…]? The Governor’s field commander muttered with slightly annoyed eyes. ?[Is there a reason for your interruption?]?

  The sergeant-major—Hathway—stepped himself forth with an ahem. ?[Apologies, sirs. I was looking for Field Commander Manuel; I thought he would be here.]?

  ?Haih! Manuel, quel gran sciur lascìf!? The Bombard twirled his stache. ?[He has a meeting with his darling spy, heh… A meeting.] Birbant teribil!?

  Bombardians were rather…bombastic.

  ?[Uh-huh…]? Hathway simply nodded. ?[I checked his tent, but he wasn’t in there.]?

  ?[Maybe he was on his way there while you were on your way here.]? The Serenan commander offered his input; it was unknown whether he was serious or humorous. ?[He left us not too long ago.]? the Provencian added.

  ?[Bah! Have you tried lookin’ through the shite pit? Lad might’ve tossed himself in there.]? The Pikelander suppressed the urge to spit, doubtless.

  ?[You would not have barged in if this wasn’t important.]? The Gothic commander, however, cut through their verbose line. ?[Your troop is reconnaissance. Manuel may be in charge of intelligence, but whatever you had to tell him he would inform for us. So, you may skip those steps.]? His serious face leaned forth, his eyes sharp. ?[What did you find?]?

  -||-

  A new tent—this one more regular in its triangular shape, although it was still larger than standard. After a lengthy debrief with the field command, Hathway was finally able to make his way right back to the very first location he had checked.

  And, indeed, he could hear voices emanating from within its grasp… His face remained focused and serious, however; unable to be bothered by the frustrations of having been circled about.

  He stepped in, greeted by what was in effect an office that had been dragged straight from headquarters and imported right onto the field; a desk straight ahead with feathered pens, ink, and three chairs to meet; three more cushioned seats flanking left and right; and there was even a cabinet in the back with drawers.

  And there he was, sitting on that primary chair behind that desk; his bicorn hat gently situated aside, his hands on the desk interlocked, his cape dangling down.

  ?[Ah! Hathway! Back, I see!]? This officer greeted with a familiar cheer. Field Commander Manuel—an Elklander renegade, though not for ideological or historical reasons; rather, he had particular tastes that only Central could provide.

  ?[Manuel…]? Hathway’s eyes drifted, not eyeing the field officer whom he had sought as much as…the other that was in this field office of a tent.

  A fair lady, graciously situated upon one of the chairs. Palish skin and wearing a rather elegant and formal white-silvery dress, she had raven hair and stark yellow—almost golden—eyes. More particularly, she had pointy-ish ears.

  ?…[madam.]? Hathway gave a greeting nod.

  Yet this fair lady was unable to acknowledge back; she seemed worn, her nose sniffly with reddish outlines on her cheek beneath her eyes as if she had been mellowly weeping. Indeed, wiping her eyes, face, then nose with a handkerchief, she stood up.

  ?[Apologies. I shall take my leave.]? She had a kind of accent, one peculiar though not coerce. She turned to the officer and bowed. ?[Thank you for listening to me, as always. This…continues to remain hard for me—everything I have done; all that I have betrayed…]? Rather the theater in her voice, truly.

  The officer leaned in with a smile. ?[No, I should be thanking you! As I always say. What you are doing is hard, but necessary. Your knowledge has saved lives!]? he thus so stressed, with intentions underpinning his tone. ?[Rest assured, the Fallen shan’t have their way; your husband will be avenged. And, more importantly, I am always here to hear your words—anytime.]?

  Hathway was awfully bland-faced, simply waiting as the fair lady so wiped away the final tears on her eyes, providing a sweet fang smile.

  ?[You always know…the right thing to say.]? There was a moment of sustained eye contact, before she softly shook her head and ahemed. ?[Anyway,]? and she bowed, ?[I will return if I have any further…words from my siblings.]? She turned and began to depart, finally returning an owed nod to Hathway.

  ?Mh…? And as she departed, that certain officer Manuel’s eyes were certainly eyeing, his gaze more bottom than up.

  Hathway, however, disturbed the officer’s fair inspection by decisively stepping into his view, at the desk’s front.

  ?[Truly, a winsome specimen that one is…]? Manuel began to remark, that fair lady gone; ?[If only we had exotic kinds like her in the mainland; maybe I would return,] heh…?

  ?[She is a widow, you know.]? Hathway had to remind. There was a taboo in most Far Western cultures regarding the mingling with still mourning widows.

  ?[And a most fetching informant—never mind most helpful. By our Father in Heaven above, perfectly designed; perfectly crafted. And one of these days, I will have her in my bed.]? Manuel was amongst the youngest in the higher officership, and it certainly showed in his…priorities.

  However, Hathway trusted him more than the others, given his lack of ideological care and the fact that they were fellow Elklander ‘renegades’.

  ?[Anyway,]? Hathway skipped his dialogue, ?[you will want to hear this.]?

  -|-

  The air in the tent had shifted, from lecherous libertine to serious pondering. Indeed, Field Commander Manuel stroked his chin, staring at an unrolled regional map of the surrounding area.

  ?[So, that’s the third one, then?]? He marked a spot with a red-inked pen, crossing an ‘x’. ?[Though, actually, you can make that the fourth if you consider… Hm.]? He began to tap his fingers, musing within.

  ?[They’re encircling us.]? Hathway stated plainly.

  ?[Really?]? And Manuel looked up at him with a certain eye. ?[Encircling us? You can tell this from three?]? His posture shifted, his eyes falling back down to the map. ?[Apologies,]? he ahemed, ?[enlisted you might be, you have more fire experience than I. Still learning to respect that…]? At least he was learning—another reason Hathway preferred this womanizer over the other officers.

  ?[Field guns, artillery… And the men we observed were Company-trained—Legion-trained.]? Hathway went on; ?[My men also reported defensive developments—they might be digging in. I don’t like this.]?

  ?[Posturing, Hathway. Posturing.]? The field officer sat back, relaxed. ?[New Wellington has the whole dutchy fixated on Humbleberry and the Bulge. Any focus should reasonably be there—we are a minor force in comparison to the buildups happening easter-wards.]? he explained; ?[Beyond border technicalities, the Loyalists haven’t been molesting our logistics; they have yet to infringe on our treaty-given road.]?

  ?[Yet. But these are field camps they’ve been assembling. Posturing or not, they are too close to us; I’ve said this before.]? Hathway reiterated, his demeanor professional—neither antagonistic nor catering.

  “[For all the theater in motion, Grandberry wouldn’t dare an actual fight with us—not especially while they are in civil war.]? Manuel simply stated.

  ?[But what about us?]? Hathway countered; ?[We’re vulnerable. There isn’t anyone from the Legion in the command here—we are the most experienced in entrenched defenses.]?

  ?[Oh, and here we go again—the self-soliciting.]? Manuel so remarked, an eyeroll in his voice; ?[You are Elklander by blood, but Valerian by heart. I trust that. However, you need to let your radicalist pride go and recognize the validity of your current command. We aren’t stupid, you know.]? Debatable, Hathway would think.

  ?[We should prepare. We have sappers; we have shovels; we have everything we need to entrench ourselves in too.]? Hathway provided his unsolicited inputs, though only because he knew Manuel, for all his own pride, did at least listen.

  ?[Did you inform the ‘wise council of appointed generals’?]? Manuel so mockingly inquired. ?[Doubtless you must’ve ventured there first.]?

  Hathway was not going to clarify that he had actually first stumbled here and then ventured thither. ?[I did.]?

  ?[Then, let the wheel spin, sergeant-major.]? The field commander reminded him his rank. ?[That said, you have real field experience, right? You studied closely with your true master…]?

  Hathway did not really know if he should reply.

  ?[You were just a boy during that war, weren’t you? You didn’t fight in it, but you carry the ethos.]? Manuel so spoke on. ?[Write down any recommendations; I will advocate for them—with my more…charming voice and looks.]? He was undeniably handsome.

  ?[And rob me of the credit.]? Hathway blandly pointed out.

  ?[Yes!]? And Manuel did not deny. ?[And advance my own career using your Valerian-trained talents.]? These two were friendly, minded. ?[See, this is why I love our rapport, Hathway. We can be honest with each other. You]?—he pointed—?[are a neo-revolutionary who is undoubtedly scheming something bigger, and I am an opportunist whose single goal in life is to die surrounded by elvish bosoms.]?

  Manuel was cunning—sharper than he made himself out to be. Or perhaps he was extremely lucky with his guesses.

  ?[So, her,]? seeing that this subject was reaching its limit, Hathway returned to the start; ?[Did she say anything new?]?

  ?[As a matter of fact,]? Manuel proceeded to take out and unroll another regional map, ?[she has.]? His finger tapped a freshly inscribed ‘x’ mark. ?[She has informed me of this little spot here: another hill-cavern at a forest’s center further to our south, in Doomberry County—charming name, isn’t that one?]?

  ?[Its purpose?]?

  ?[Some kind of ‘connector point’, as she called it. The Fallen have been using it to secure supplies from the surface and transport through their underworld routes.]? Manuel briefed. ?[The dissenters in the Fallen are saying something big is in the works; destroying this…point of theirs would be bonebreaking. The problem is, Doomberry is about two…uncooperative Loyalist counties deep and is contested territory—a two-way split. We can’t risk sending a platoon.]?

  The field officer’s eyes then drifted back to Hathway, donning a look with which the sergeant-major had become awfully acquainted.

  ?[Which is precisely why,]? indeed his voice shifted too, ?[I was planning on summoning you soon anyway. Those two native adventurers you’ve adopted into your little free troop family…]? His finger tapped the demarked point on the map. ?[They have proved themselves very capable; I was hoping I could borrow them for this.]?

  Hathway scratched his neck. ?[Unfortunately, they’ve already been sent out for something else—a different task.]? he stated; ?[But they should be back soon…]? Provided that those two did not find some way to delay themselves…again.