The Silent Watch
Mountainous Area, West of Three Hills
Amid the dense jungle, in front of the fortified camp, where the cleared ground was wide enough to hold five hundred men, Farkas paced before the formation and addressed the penal battalion. “Let me remind you that you are here for the Lord Shogun. And for the Lord Shogun, you are here. You will die as the Lord commands, and you will live as he sees fit.”
He stopped at one end of the line, then walked its full length, his thoughts flickering to how his master, the skald Sigmund, had once shaped his words. “Make no mistake. The jungle here crawls with mountain clans, smugglers, and slavers. They may be hiding, but they are always watching. In time, you will learn that the worst of them would rather drink your blood than their mother’s milk.”
Farkas halted abruptly, eyes sharp. “And even when they are not near, the jungle itself will try to kill you. Disease, rot, and miasma creep through this land. Threats are everywhere, so pay attention and do exactly as you are told.”
Most of the five hundred listened in tense silence.
“Your first task is to make camp for yourselves. There are five hundred of you, so I want twenty long cabins and three warehouses, along with a functioning gate and palisade walls with towers on all four corners. I want the first side of the palisade completed by tomorrow before sundown, and the cabins' roofs rainproof by day three.”
Mutterings rippled through the ranks. Farkas did not care. He raised his voice. “Until your camp is finished, you will be sleeping in tents right here. We do not have space for you inside. That means you will be racing against time."
Uneasy looks passed between the ranks, confusion plain on many faces.
“Either you finish as ordered, or the snakes, the venomous insects, or the jungle miasma will take you at your worst moment. And believe me when I say the weather is not your friend. It is calm now, but heavy rain can come without warning. When rain falls in the dark, men grow sick, and sickness spreads fast. When that happens, many of your bones will remain here forever. Now tell me. Do you want to die here?”
Across the formation, heads shook. Some men murmured no under their breath. Others swallowed hard. They were all Midlandians, and none of them had ever faced a jungle like this.
Farkas broke into a grin and spoke in a softer tone. “But fear not. You are in good hands. Now, it is time to get you clothed.”
At his words, Ted, one of his assistants, signaled for several carts to be pushed out into the open field, where all could see.
The carts that had arrived from Three Hills two weeks earlier carried more than rations. They were loaded with supplies and goods meant for the penal battalion.
Dozens of men pushed and pulled the canvas-covered carts. In full view of the formation, the coverings were thrown back, revealing a mountain of clean tunics, leather cloaks, boots, swords, and even armor. The items had been made across Korelia, White Lake, Korimor, and South Hill, hauled first to Three Hills, and only then sent onward to this jungle camp.
For other forces, such an undertaking would have been a tremendous logistical feat. For the Shogunate, it was simply a job well done.
“Behold, a taste of the Shogunate’s might!” Farkas declared.
Ted lifted a rugged pair of leather boots high for all to see. “Combat boots to keep your feet from rotting. A deer hide cape to keep off the rain. Extra tunics, linen footwraps, swords, and the ever important working tools.”
Farkas approached one of the carts, took up a sword, and drew it halfway, inspecting the blade. Most of the swords and boots had been taken during the wars in Lowlandia, confiscated and deemed sound enough to be maintained and issued. Satisfied, he slid the blade back into its sheath with a dull clink, then turned to the lieutenant leading the penal battalion and tossed the sword to him.
The lieutenant caught it, and Farkas said, “Now you can ditch that cheap sword and those ragged shoes. You are going to need all of this to survive here.”
Farkas then went to the last cart and took up a special tool, one unique to the Shogunate. Turning to the formation once again, he raised his voice. “This,” he declared for everyone to hear, lifting the ever-important metal-tipped shovel, “is what makes you not just men-at-arms, but part of the Shogunate’s army.”
The penal battalion had some training and carried a lesser version.
From inside the cart, Farkas' men brought out sturdy-looking pickaxes, wood axes, saws, and shovels.
Still holding the metal-tipped shovel, Farkas continued, “This makes you not only a destroyer of your enemies, but also a builder. Now make a line.”
His words made many in the penal battalion realize that the Shogunate army was truly a different beast. It was not a seasonal force raised for a single battle, but a long commitment. While it was not a lifelong path like that of squires or knights, it showed there was another path in life, even for men like them, men known only for violence and little else.
In less than an hour, all five hundred of the battalion had received their new gear, many wearing open smiles. Fresh footwraps, deer-hide capes, and solid combat boots promised dry feet and warmer nights ahead.
With the distribution finished, Farkas addressed them again. “If you are going to build a camp, you are going to need wood. Now see that forest over there.”
He turned toward the north of the camp, and every head followed his gaze.
“Do not clear that one. There are good fruits and berries there, and wild honey.”
Many of the five hundred nodded.
“Now see that forest over there.” Farkas pointed to another stretch of trees, northwest of their position.
Once again, the entire formation followed his gaze in silence.
“Stay away from there. That is where the orangutans live.”
Many men from the penal battalion frowned or squinted. Several exchanged uneasy glances, whispering, “Orangutan?” unsure what the word even meant.
“They are friendly,” Farkas stated. “We live with them as neighbors and allies.”
The lieutenant of the battalion raised his hand.
“Yes.”
“So, Commander, where do you want us to get the wood from?” he asked.
“There.” Farkas pointed toward the shadowy jungle to the west. “Take it from there. Be sure to make your camp sturdy and tight, because winter here will be very different.”
...
The newly arrived battalion had worked as hard as they could until the sun was gone. Within the partially erected wall and across a field of tents, the men gathered around a large bonfire to rest. The glow of embers reflected on their faces, revealing exhaustion, wariness, and quiet doubt as they took in the unfamiliar jungle around them.
Before they had waited too long, the cauldrons that had been simmering for some time were finally deemed ready by the camp cook. With only a few shouted commands, the men readily formed lines, bowls and spoons already in hand. The cook and his helpers moved quickly, distributing the food.
Each man received a Lowlandian style flatbread and a bowl of watery gruel. Some were given smoked fish, others salted meat. There were pickled vegetables as well, sharp and sour.
They wolfed it all down. Bowls were emptied in moments. The last pieces of bread were used carefully, dragged through the bowls to gather every remaining scrap. The gruel was savory, carrying the taste of cheese, goat fat, and likely some egg as well.
When the meal was finished, Farkas, who had eaten with tens of his men, rose and stepped forward alone. He stood with his back to the bonfire, firelight outlining his frame, and addressed the crowd. “Men, you have eaten well, I believe.”
From the ranks of the five hundred came a low surge of sound. Some muttered their agreement, others chuckled at the question, and a few offered short, rough cheers.
Farkas smiled at their reaction and continued. “Consider this meal a welcoming feast. Unfortunately, by tomorrow you will not find this kind of food again. Know that what you have eaten tonight is my men's personal stash, set aside for a special occasion. I hope it suited your taste.”
Seeing surprise, gratitude, and uncertainty spread across their faces, he went on. “As on any march, the Lord has provided mostly grain for bread and gruel. There is some fat, salt, and cheese to give the gruel flavor. Smoked fish and salted meat are kept for the start of the week or for special occasions. Pasta is reserved only for emergencies, such as when we face long stretches of bad weather."
Now, the men showed a mix of reactions at once. Many of them already knew such fare was quite a luxury, and now that belief was confirmed.
“But fret not,” Farkas added. “In time, you will learn how to catch fish. You will learn to find wild berries, nuts, fruits, and bird eggs. We have even found ways to hunt boars and other animals, even snakes.”
Stares of disbelief spread through the ranks, followed by quiet exchanges of glances.
Farkas let the reaction pass and merely continued. “In time, you will also learn to respect this cup of grain.”
Holding the cup of grain, he recalled what the Lord had once told him on many nights after marches much like this, though those had taken place in the open plains of Lowlandia. In those days, he had been little more than a poor hunter from Korelia, taken into service for his skill in tracking and his mastery of the crossbow. Yet the Lord had taught them all the same, speaking to common men as if they were his officers.
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“Now tell me,” Farkas said, tilting the cup so the grains spilled into a bowl held in his other hand, “what do you see?”
From the ranks came murmurs. Some said it was rye. Others guessed barley or oats.
“You are correct,” Farkas said, and continued, “but know this. A cup of grain grown in White Lake is worth more than twice its price by the time it reaches Three Hills, simply because of transport. Someone had to carry it from White Lake, across the Great Plains, through Korelia, and onward to Three Hills. And they expect to be paid.”
The men nodded. That much made sense.
“That same cup of grain,” Farkas went on, “once hauled from Three Hills into this jungle for us, naturally costs even more. Here, it is worth nearly three times its original price. The bread and the bowl of meal you ate tonight are worth three times what they would cost at the source. Now imagine this. The Shogunate feeds five hundred of you. That is the equivalent of fifteen hundred portions, and that does not even include my men.”
Sharp breaths passed through the ranks, followed by murmurs of surprise. Those who could not reckon the numbers leaned toward their neighbors, whispering questions. When the sums were explained, their expressions too shifted into surprise.
It was a simple truth, but a powerful one.
“The cost grows further,” Farkas continued, “because the Lord also provides you with weekly salted meat and ale rations. Two meals a day for one week comes to about sixteen copper, more than a single silver. And since everything here costs three times as much, the Shogunate burns more than three silver each week just to feed one man. Now imagine doing that for five hundred of you.”
The crowd fell silent. Many doubted the numbers, but the explanation had been clear, and no one found anything to even whisper in argument to their fellow comrades.
“So tomorrow, be grateful for your meal, even when it is meager,” Farkas said. “What we are doing here is vital. Trust that for the cost alone, the Lord has no wish to keep you in this jungle a single day longer than necessary.”
Having said everything he wished to say, Farkas signaled to his lieutenant to bring the gathering to a close.
The man stepped forward, standing tall, broad shouldered, his rough beard framing a bald head covered by a woolen cap. He raised his voice and shouted, “Tomorrow you will be split into two groups. One will continue building the camp. Those with experience in gathering food will fish, hunt, or gather berries. We must secure our supplies before the heavy rains return.”
***
Canardia Castle, Training Hall
The sharp clang of metal against metal rang through the training hall, lit by chandeliers above and lanterns along the walls. With his visor raised, as there was no danger from bolts, Lansius tried to follow Audrey’s movement. Both had abandoned ringmail and dagger, now wearing new steel cuirasses combined with older pieces for their helmets, pauldrons, gauntlets, and other parts to complete the set.
Thwank.
“Guhh!”
Thuck.
Lansius barely parried another blow, acting on instinct alone. Even with the gemstone of strength, Audrey’s strikes still jolted his wrist and shoulder and rattled his head, especially powerful blows like an overhead slash. Yet it was not as if the rest were any gentler. Her side cuts and thrusts came like a blur. Meanwhile, his shield was long gone, broken.
Gritting his teeth, Lansius recovered into a guarded stance. Sweat trickled down his face, but he did not care. He kept his eyes on Audrey despite the pulsing pain burning.
“The gemstone not only strengthens your arm. You are not a woodcutter. Act like a fighter,” she instructed as she launched another powerful thrust.
Clang.
Lansius parried it, but his footing was late. His rear foot slipped a fraction on the boards, nearly making him stumble.
“The gem strengthens your legs as well. Use them!” Audrey shouted as she followed through, her body stretching more than usual as she poured her weight into the strike.
Thwank.
Lansius managed a block, but there was too much weight behind the strike, even in such a lithe body. “Hyah!” He drew on everything he had and forced her blade aside. In the same motion, he cut at an odd angle toward her shoulder. The strike was shallow, lacking strength, but it was accurate. The armor would have turned it aside, but here it served only as a safeguard. They trained as if unarmored. Otherwise, they would already be half-swording.
Audrey accepted the blow by drawing her sword in and using the crossguard to intercept it, knocking the strike aside. She did it almost effortlessly, having already taken a few small steps, barely more than a shift of footing, yet enough to slip off his line of attack.
Not hoping for a grapple, Lansius quickly recovered into a middle guard, then noticed she had not launched her next attack. Just a fraction of a moment, subtle, but enough for him to realize her rhythm had changed. She was clearly not exhausted, and that hesitation drew his guard tighter.
A lunge?
Audrey dashed forward, her steps driving her closer than usual.
Oh fuck, she's committed.
Lansius tried to revise his stance, but his left foot was too far forward, and Audrey’s strike came in hard.
Thuck!
He read and blocked the blow, but as expected, she did not stop there. Audrey followed through with her whole body, shoulder and armored weight crashing into him. The impact drove into his chest, breaking his balance and forcing him back.
"Shit…"
His face twisted as he went down, the pain registering even before he struck the floor. He hit hard, armor slamming against wood as Audrey came down with him, pinning him beneath her weight.
Yet he did not close his eyes. Even as he fell, Lansius grabbed her sword with both hands and locked it tight. His own blade clattered across the boards beside him.
For that, Audrey gave him a brief, proud smile. “Well done.”
Despite her praise, Lansius quickly grabbed her right hand and blurted between ragged breaths, “No slap.”
Audrey chuckled briefly and nodded, a mischievous smile on her lips.
Only then did he release her hand and the sword. He had been wary of Audrey saying it was not over and slapping him silly for lowering his guard.
Audrey did not rise as she usually did. Instead, she sat on the floor beside him. Noticing his puzzled look, she explained, “I think you are out of breath and out of magic.”
Lansius’ labored breathing was proof enough. His hair felt sticky and wet. He knew his body was soaked as well, his tunic and arming jacket having absorbed most of it, making them heavy and unpleasantly hot.
“Also, it's time for supper,” Audrey added.
Their training had been impromptu. Originally, they had planned a proper night session, but their chance meeting had been reason enough to begin.
“I think I’ll get a simple dinner,” he said weakly, remaining on the floor, too exhausted. That single hour of training had felt like chasing a horse while wearing armor. His right arm felt equally numb and pained, stretched to its limit, and his shoulder was definitely bruised. “Can you call Margo?”
“Nonsense,” she said. “I am more than capable of removing your armor, My Lord.”
Lansius chuckled. “Then I will be in your care.”
Audrey removed her gauntlets and, with trained fingers, unlatched and undid his armor. She found his arming jacket and tunic soaked with sweat and pulled them free as well.
“Stay here,” she said after helping him sit. She then went to the wooden hanger beside the bench and took a clean tunic and a length of linen cloth.
She returned and wiped him clean, her fingers playful against his chest.
The training hall had only been barely restored, with many signs of damage still left behind. Broken boards had been replaced with rough planks, the wood pale and unpolished. Now, several new scratches had been added, though nothing like the chaos of their first bout, which had nearly devolved into an open brawl with mace and even a hammer.
“I am going to take this.” Audrey undid the gemstone of strength from around his neck.
Lansius nodded, his chest and shoulders still rising and falling heavily with each breath.
“This gemstone is a fussy eater, like Gilly,” she remarked as she examined it. “But once it decides to eat, it does so voraciously.”
Lansius could only nod. She had been the one to recharge it, after it had overwhelmed Ingrid more than once. Audrey was simply the better fit for it.
As she wore the necklace, her gaze moved over his limbs, searching for bruises and injuries. “No fractures. No dislocations,” she muttered softly. “Do your ears still ring?”
“They always do, but it is more noticeable now.”
She nodded, a faint pang of guilt passing through her, yet she said, “There is no point in training if you do it half-heartedly.”
Lansius stayed seated cross-legged on the floor. His new tunic was already drenched again.
“You know,” Audrey said, “the steel cuirass is not the only thing that arrived this week.”
He simply looked at her. Audrey rose and went to the box that Lansius had thought was part of the materials for the ongoing repairs. Up close, it proved to be a wooden box. She knelt and unlatched it, revealing a sword. As she lifted it free, it became clear that this was no ordinary sword.
It was the longest sword Lansius had ever seen.
“What sword is that?” he asked.
“They call it a claymore,” Audrey said. “In the old tongue, I am told it simply means a great sword.”
At first glance, it looked narrow, almost thin, but only because of its length. From hilt to tip, it rose close to her own height. It felt less like a sword and more like a spear forged of steel. Most arming swords barely reached beyond a man’s arm span.
Then realization struck him. “I suppose you wanted to train that against me?”
Audrey stifled a laugh. “Only when you are stronger.”
“I never thought I would die on my path to getting stronger,” he quipped, and they both laughed, though there was a nervous undertone to Lansius’.
“It is for bear hunting,” she explained. “It is not intended for use against people, but against creatures in the dark wood. Even then, I doubt I will ever need it. I had it made on a whim, but I hope it's alright.”
Lansius was simply relieved that she had no intention of using it on him. He did not even care that it had likely cost him a small fortune.
...
A new morning dawned over Canardia. Lansius woke groggy and tired. His arms felt heavy, as if made of lead. He tried to move it, only to be met with a sharp prickle of pain that ran along the muscles. Alarmed, he meant to check his arm, but even turning his neck proved difficult, stiff, and uncooperative.
“Ah, you are awake?” Audrey said cheerfully from the chair by the desk.
Her brightness brought the memory of the previous day rushing back.
No wonder his right arm felt ruined. Every muscle had been stretched to its limit, the lingering tingling confirming it. The rest of his body ached as well, bruised where the armor had pressed and struck. He met her gaze and said in a parched voice, “I need a hot bath. A really hot bath.”
Audrey grinned sheepishly, like a girl caught in her feelings, and muttered as she rose, “I shall notify the maids.”
Sword training really makes her happy.
He lifted his hand and looked at his palms, already mottled with bruises. He flexed his fingers and felt them move sluggishly, wrong. Even holding a spoon would be a challenge today. With a quiet sigh, his thoughts turned to the Bengrieve envoy, who had drawn ever closer to Canardia. Despite his administrator’s clever attempts to slow them, inviting the party to rest in every town and city along the way under the guise of goodwill toward the newly ascended duke’s family, Lansius was running out of time.
They could not delay the envoy any longer. Despite his boasts to the council that he would simply leave for Korelia, there were too many matters demanding his attention. Projects that would make no progress through winter and spring without his guidance.
Still lying on his bed, Lansius drew a slow, steady breath.
“Two days,” he muttered. At best, he had only two days before he had to depart. Any longer and it would look suspicious, and he had no desire to draw the new earl’s stronger gaze. Bengrieve’s agents were everywhere.
One was the gardener, tasked with keeping ivy and climbing plants off the walls, a role that granted access to much of the defense structure. Another worked as a baker’s assistant, riding with the carts that delivered bread and pastries for banquets and visiting dignitaries.
The last one they uncovered led to the wife of a prosperous cloth merchant, a shop favored by nearly every person of influence in the city.
Francisca’s Orange Skalds believed the agents acted independently and did not know one another. Yet all three, through different means, regularly sent messages out of the city, and that was what made them stand out.
One of the newer recruits possessed an exceptional memory. His task was simple. He watched the traffic at the gate while the more senior guards asked questions about visits and permits. Without drawing attention to himself, he began to notice patterns.
One man arrived almost every month from afar, stayed only a few days, then left again, each time claiming to be visiting distant relatives to discuss family matters. Another came under the guise of a traveler, yet returned over and over again at steady intervals. A third claimed to be a peddler, but his arrivals ignored market timing, coming when prices were bad and no festivals or fairs were being held.
They all followed a schedule. Once noticed, the pattern was impossible to ignore.
By tracking who they met and where they went, the Orange Skalds untangled the web of spies.
Three separate spies, each with their own handler. Bengrieve is really wary of me.
Yet that realization calmed Lansius. They were all outsiders. The fact that Bengrieve paid for those three alone suggested he had no ears within Lansius’ inner circle. He was desperate enough to fund spies simply to learn who Lansius hosted, what gossip escaped the castle, and how Canardia’s walls were defended, down to the state of its guards and sentries.
The problem was that it was also possible Bengrieve was the one behind the assassin still at large.
But why? There was no reason for him to hurt Tanya or antagonize me.
For now, that assassin lay low and made no move. Likely, he dared not. A few nights earlier, Lansius’ household had taken in three more Umberlanders, assistance from Lord Beatrix. One came from a different tribe with an unusually sharp sense against magic.
***
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