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Fantasy story, about divides between countries and the conflicts this causes. |
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Prologue Somewhere within an unnamed ocean, there are two large islands, a smaller one to the East. The Southernmost Island is the largest. The capital is a bustling port town sheltered within a sandy cove in the South-East. Here you can find numerous and often exotic items being sold by traders in the marketplace. Ships stop here, bringing with them both people and goods. There are much fewer people living in the West of the island, mostly farms and small villages. These people living on this island are dark-haired and mostly dark-eyed with tan to olive skin. This is one way to distinguish between the two peoples. The Northerners are fair-haired and have much paler skin due to the difference in climate. Most of the Southerners believe them to be vicious and cruel, though in reality, those who have been told such stories tend to know little of these people and their customs. If they could only know how similar they were, they might think differently of each other. For between these two countries, a battle rages... A cloaked figure scrambles up a steep slope, running swiftly from tree to tree. He keeps most of his face covered by a hooded cloak and a woollen scarf wrapped around his face. He stops suddenly, and ducks down into the undergrowth. A feathered arrow lies on the ground, in the direction he is running. A frown appears on his face, hidden underneath his scarf. He waits for a minute, until finally satisfied he decides it is safe to move on. Before long, he is out of the undergrowth. He knows that, here, swiftness of foot is all that is needed. There is no chance of remaining hidden. He presses himself flat against the ground and listens. Hearing nothing, he raises his head a few inches and looks around him. He sees nothing. His clothing dark, he hopes it is enough to keep him camouflaged. Just because nothing else can be seen, doesn’t mean no-one is there to see him. He turns his gaze further down the slope and into the valley below. The smoke rising above the trees means there must be a fire. Nothing unusual there, it is a cool spring morning; he wouldn’t blame anyone for trying to keep warm. He decides to make a run for it. He can see no-one, and all he can hear is the occasional birdsong. Not that he is afraid; he would just rather not find a knife in his back anytime soon. Another quick glance behind him, before he is running again, keeping low to the ground. After what seems a lot longer than it actually is, he reaches the plateau and is no longer visible to the valley below him. He knows, however, that it is just as dangerous, if not more so, to return to the Southerners’ camp. Thinking he is an enemy, they might well decide to shoot now, ask questions later. Unsure, he creeps behind what appears to have once been a wall, now the remains of one. Taking a sharp intake of breath, he blows. He waits for a few minutes, believing that the camp will need that time to spread the word, if indeed there is any. Again keeping low to the ground, he creeps out from behind the wall. He stays where he is. Keeping still, his dark clothing against a dark wall; he is almost invisible. It doesn’t take much longer for one of the sentry guards to appear. Slowly, carefully, the man raises a pale-skinned hand and the guard’s gaze shifts. Knowing he has been seen, he approaches with caution. “The wolves are becoming hungry.” The guard looks at him expectantly. “There will be no hunting on this day.” The figure lets out a small sigh of relief as the guard nods his head and lets him pass. He walks into the camp, finally able to stand with a straight back, without the fear of being seen. Tents are scattered in a seemingly random pattern around him. These are protected only by the row of wooden posts that the guards like to call a wall, flimsy protection in these troubled times. A water supply is kept in one tent, and this is where he heads first of all. “Morning, Ren.” A man sits, sharpening a long blade. “Anything you want?” Saying nothing, Ren takes his water canister from his waist and shows it to the man. He says nothing, knowing he will need all of his breath for his talk with the General. “You don’ have to say nothing. You just rest a minute.” The man gets to his feet and walks across to an open barrel. He carries on talking as he fills up the bottle. “You were out long this time.” Ren looks up. His expression cannot be seen. “It was difficult… getting back…” He takes the water, expresses his thanks and leaves. He does not feel like a conversation just yet. He doesn’t like to get close to anyone in the camp. He knows that when the camp attack there is every chance of coming back wounded or dead. He doesn’t like the thought of losing a friend in battle, and so he prefers to think of them as ‘comrades’ or at most ‘acquaintances’. Much easier to find out someone has died if it is someone he doesn’t know. He stops at the door of a large tent. “Halt! Who goes there?!” A second sentry guard; he stands barring the way, one hand on the hilt of a short sword at his waist. Ren lowers his hood. Still only half-visible, his face is easily recognisable by his thick, light-brown hair and a scar starting below his left eye and ending somewhere underneath his scarf. Bright green eyes stare out from underneath his long fringe. “Sorry, Sir.” The guard moves quickly away from the door. “I didn’t recognise you then. Go right in.” Ren replaces his hood, pulling it as far over his face as possible before entering. “General.” He salutes: his right arm is brought swiftly across his chest, his hand clenched in a tight fist. He resists the urge to check the hood of his cloak, instead stands still, his back straight. “Please. You’re no soldier. These formalities are not needed.” The general crosses the room, roll of paper in one hand. She pushes it towards him. “Here is the map we have so far. I’d like you to check it.” “From memory?” He glances across at her and she nods. He walks to the table and rolls the slightly crumpled piece of parchment out. He traces the lines with his forefinger, mutters a few indistinguishable words under his breath. The General speaks softly, interrupting. “Everything in order?” “Most of this is correct.” He points at a section in one corner. “Here, the ridge is more to the west, and not so wide, and here…” he moves his finger northwards. “Here, the path stops – no-one could get through here.” “Anything else?” She runs one hand through her hair, clearly agitated. He shakes his head. “Not offhand.” There is a short cough behind them. The guard, the same soldier who had greeted Ren on the way in, stands in the doorway. No less tense than before, he speaks with a stiff voice. “General. The Commander wishes to speak with you.” “Very well.” She gestures with a wave of her hand. “Let him in.” The General and the Commander are not on particularly good terms, and the fact well-known throughout the camp. To say they work together would be an overstatement. It would be more politically correct to say that they tolerate each other. The General likes to have a good strategy and to be well-informed. The Commander, however, has a less strategic mind, and prefers to charge into a situation, full attack his speciality. Ren shifts his feet, uneasily. “If you don’t need me, General…” “No need.” The Commander enters, taking long strides as he walks across the room. He stands a good few inches above the General. “This concerns you as well, soldier.” “I am no soldier!” Ren protests. The Commander ignores the plea and carries on talking. “You’ve been gone awhile. What’ve you found?” Ren glares at him before he answers. “Small camp in the valley to the Northeast of here. Fair few archers from what I can see. Not too many horses or firepower but it’ll be hard to catch ‘em by surprise. It was hard enough for me to get there and back. It’ll be harder for the soldiers. There’re too many of them.” “Right.” he turns to the General. “I suggest we ready an attack for tomorrow morning. We’ve waited long enough.” “We need a strategy. We won’t win this war by brute force alone!” “We’ve enough information already. Your scout did that for us. We can formulate a plan before the morning.” Shaking her head, the General responds with a sharp tone in her voice. “The rest of the soldiers should be the other side of their camp. We can have someone run over there tonight and ready an attack from both sides.” With a sinking feeling, Ren knows it’ll have to be him. Out of all the men in the camp, he knows the area better than anyone. He is the only one who has ventured so far out of the camp; the only one who knows where the paths lead and the only one who knows how to avoid the enemy. Looking up, he realises that both the General and the Commander are looking his way. He holds up his hands reluctantly. “Alright. I’ll go.” “Ren, we can send someone with you.” “No.” As much as he admires the care the General is showing, he knows it wouldn’t help. “No, it’d only slow me down.” The Commander is less compassionate. “You’ll have to leave within the hour. Send a message to our men. We attack at dawn. Full strength.” Ren bows his head slightly. “Of course, sir.” He curses silently under his breath. It would take him until nightfall to get to the other camp and then he would be expected to join in with the preparations. If the men were to attack at dawn, they would need to be ready long before then. Blades would have to be sharpened and polished; and both horses and men would have to be fed and readied for battle. For the horses this would mean saddle and reins, more complications for the men for whom full armour would have to be prepared. It would be difficult for them to catch up on their sleep for the next morning. Even if they had time enough for sleep, the excitement would be too much for them. The squad full of young hopefuls wanting to go back home as a hero, none of them know enough about real war – full of blood and death, a death that means never coming back. He leaves the tent. He has just about enough time to gather the essential rations for the journey and to sharpen his knife before he leaves. He intends to make good use of this time. He hasn’t slept in two days, but there is no time for such an indulgence. He walks back towards the ration tents. Having already drunk half of his water, he fills his container once again, earning him a warning glance from the man serving. Next, he refills his ration pouches, one with dried fruits, the other with cured ham and cheese. Such luxuries are not often given, but Ren is well-known about the place. It would be considered an insult to give the man anything less. He checks his belongings; the whistle around his neck, the knife at his waist and the ration pouches he wears on his belt. He pulls the scarf tighter around his nose and mouth, pulls his hood down over his face. He does not like to be recognized, whenever it is possible not to be. He knows he must leave, and wishes he had just an hour or two longer – enough to catch up on some well-needed sleep. He takes a moment or two to sit and lean against a large oak tree. So as to seem busy, he starts to retie the laces on his boots. “Ren.” A female voice interrupts him. “You’re leaving?” He nods. “I might not be a soldier, but I know better than to argue with the Commander.” “I understand.” She smiles and turns as if to leave but Ren’s voice stops her. “Tomorrow. Don’t go.” He stands, carries on checking his equipment while he talks. “You’ll die. All of us… all of us will die.” She smiles and shakes her head. “When you return tomorrow, we can start the celebrations.” Ren watches her as she walks back to the tents, before he too, stands slowly and starts to leave the camp. |
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