Upon hearing his name, Nikola's troops turned around and gave way to the elder who was not a part of their army, lowering their eyes not out of fear but out of respect. However, he only returned the gesture to Žižka, who smirked and tipped his head in greeting. As Warneńczyk approached the Bohemer general, the orange-haired archer, having recognised his voice, squeezed through a gap in the crowd, and his face lit up with joy when he saw him.
Slowly marching towards Nikola with his thumb tapping on his hand behind his back, the elderly man did not seem too pleased with what had been happening. “What crimes have they committed but to the enemy?” He curiously tested the general, wondering what he would say in response. “From what I have heard, they drove a stake into the lion’s heart and bought you and your men time to retreat. Is that not enough to warrant our commendation?” Warneńczyk challenged the general’s decision.
The squad listened to his footsteps, gentle but forceful, conquering every other ambient sound. Wind flowed alongside him like chariots in escort as he led with him a band of soldiers, among them were two who stood out from the rest. One was an academic with a book often in his hand, but those who did not know him would think him to be an officer without talent on the field. Another was a hunk of muscle mass, as tall as Miklós. His old scars were made by the claws of the beast beside him, yet the creature, a massive white bear, two paces tall on all its limbs, behaved like anything but needlessly violent. However, even these men who exuded an aura of authority and power were completely overshadowed by their commander, who calmly halted his party on the edge of the opening on the ridge before advancing alone.
A silver-white badge featuring an eagle was pinned to the elderly man’s red beret, which was slouched to one side and perched above his white hair. He was in his late sixties, but his wrinkles were few, and despite his frequent claims that he was not concerned about appearances, his moustache was always combed into the shape of a neat brush. His demeanour was always neutral, which made it difficult to determine whether he was outraged or not. Unlike many of his age, his spine was upright, requiring only his two legs for support. Despite the years which had taken a toll on the rest of his body, he was still as tall as Skowroński. He wore a modern, formal uniform with a plain white shirt and a tie beneath his coat, and the colours around his trousers’ knees had faded, its length covering half of his brown shoes. The leather on his belt was cracked, just like the skin around his eyes, and the amber embers of his iris had long faded. With the heat slowly burdening him, the old man retrieved a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped down his brows and the bridge of his nose. In the corner of his eyes, he caught sight of Nikola lowering his head in embarrassment, but Warneńczyk ignored him, instead focusing on the squad who had been apprehended, locked under the tight grip of Nikola’s guards. However, his presence seemed to worry even the elites, and they loosened their hold. One by one, the youths broke out of their captivity, yanking their arms out of the hands of their captors. They flexed their shoulders and wrists, but Julien remained kneeling, trying to gather what had changed the guards’ minds, and when he looked up, he saw the elderly man looming over him, analysing him. It seemed odd at first, but the boy realised what it was that captured his attention. He lowered his gaze and saw his pendant dangling out of his shirt, its sapphire glow undying. Warneńczyk appeared captivated by its otherworldly beauty, but there was a hint of understanding in his eyes.
The old man turned away and faced his Bohemer counterpart. “A word, Adrien?” Warneńczyk spoke to him like a teacher would do to a student and led him away from the eyes and ears of his troops.
After narrowly escaping the sword, the squad stood up, and Warneńczyk’s colonel spoke with them. However, their voices were drowned out by the chatter of soldiers dispersing, except for the archer who stayed and listened to the squad’s recount of what had happened.
Nikola followed closely behind, eager to match the elder’s pace as he wondered what it was that brought him to his position. “I did not expect to see you here, general.” Said the Bohemer, his tone sounding as if his character had changed.
“Neither did I.” Warneńczyk asserted when he suddenly halted and spun around to face him. “But the commander-in-chief has something for you.” He placed a hand in his jacket and searched his pocket.
From his chest, he revealed a letter, signed and sealed with wax by an intricate stamp that was impossible to replicate, but with one glance, Nikola knew he had to take it off Warneńczyk’s hands without question. The seal was snapped, and its contents unfolded, its lines carefully inked along the creases. Warneńczyk intently watched the other’s expression as he read it, standing among waggons and felled tents before a backdrop of smoke from corpse-burning bonfires nearby. They were familiar and unconcerned with the regular smell of death, but in his decades of service, not once had Nikola ever received such a letter.
In disbelief, he had to repeat the words found in the letter aloud to make sure he had not misread anything. “Line Two-Five-Nine? Surely, there is no need.” Nikola peered at Warneńczyk, seeking his input, but there was something telling that he had known about the letter long before its seal was broken.
The old man brought his hands up to his belt and pretended to ignore the order. “She’s the greatest fortress on the continent, perhaps the world, and it may be true that she has no need of a master.” Warneńczyk offered to care for the letter if the Bohemer general did not wish to keep it, but Nikola was not convinced that high command would want him away from the frontlines. “Be that as it may, an order is an order, and I am sure you are well aware of the consequences of denying it.” After folding up the letter, he placed it into his pocket and reminded Nikola of his recent actions.
Nikola’s wrinkles disappeared as he accepted the reality he had to face. “Do they wish to rid of me?” He enquired, realising that all of the glory he could have had would soon go to another, more capable general.
A nod from his ally seemed sympathetic, but in his heart was a sense of relief. “Unfortunately for you, yes.” Warneńczyk replied straightforwardly. “Thus, I have decided to commandeer the boys you think ought to die.” Looking over Nikola’s shoulder, he gazed at the squad which he saved as the sun continued to glaze the earth with its humid heat.
The Bohemer general, puzzled as to why anyone would want to take on a squad that would willingly ignore orders, stared at Warneńczyk, who did not appear to be joking. “What good is a band of scoundrels?” Nikola chuckled anxiously, voicing his concerns.
Warneńczyk glared at Nikola with disdainful eyes, seemingly uninterested in him, then the Bohemer’s grin faded, and silence fell when he noticed the clamour of troops, neither dispirited like his army nor far like the Confederates’. It felt close, and a gust washed over them with each chant, the heavens feeling every jab of spears, pikes, pitchforks, and swords, aided by a powerful war horn’s bellow. The drums of a moralised army beat, disrupting the peace and rhythm of nature.
When it grew louder, until his fading ears could hear it, Warneńczyk lifted his head and asked his ally. “Do you hear, Adrien? That is the sound of an army.” He pointed at the sky and taught his senseless counterpart, knowing it had been years since he last heard the voices of unbroken soldiers. “An army tenfold greater than whatever’s been shat here, not led by some noble brat who can’t discern the difference between victory and defeat.” However calmly spoken he was, Warneńczyk’s words struck Nikola like a fist to his face before he marched off, passing him without a bid of farewell, certain that it would be the last he would see of him.
The elderly man smiled when he spotted an orange-haired archer coming his way, and he patted the boy’s head as he hurried elsewhere, where he would not have to breathe in the same air of despicable incompetence. Before he turned away, the archer spotted the Bohemer general still with his back against him, having suffered from such a gashing defeat on the battlefield only to be sprinkled with the salt of truth. His feet were bound to the earth, where he was doomed to one day return.447Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ0ewa4asH2C
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