It was the height of summer, and the wind was dry. The thermometer’s mercury was nearing forty, and there was not a cloud in sight. There were no trees to shade, and even the tallest bushes had lost their leaves from to the scalding winds. Across a vast, withered plain, one gravel path aided an army marching, but it was nearly impossible to keep up their pace. Sweat dripped from their scalp and brows despite their destitute water supplies, and they had to carry on for hours with empty containers swinging on their hips. The thought of thirst choked them as the haze in the air turned into mirages. Heat waves erupted from the ground, where the soil had turned to sand, shining as if the crust beneath their feet had become glass. The soldiers dragged their feet along, wanting to burrow themselves until winter, dreaming of greener pastures. It was no longer a march but torture that even officers would endure, handing over their saddles to those in need. Whenever someone spoke, their lips cracked, and their skin was easily cut when they fixed their harnesses and belts. For once, being wounded seemed preferable to having to march on foot.
The wooden wheels of a waggon rolled sluggishly since the waggoner had forsaken his whip. His horses painfully walked on as the waggon rocked side to side on the uneven country road. The swaying could easily put one to sleep, but for another, it woke him. A boy’s bicoloured eyes slowly widened, heavy after a timeless slumber, under the tarp which kept him cool despite the layers of bandages tightly wrapped around him. His awakening was hardly peaceful however when a shadowed face loomed over him, startling him.
“Y’took yer sweet time.” His brutish comrade welcomed him back to life, the light occasionally shining on his face.
Trailing behind the waggon, marching with dust in their faces from the wheels and hooves ahead of them, their squad came to realise that their comrade was awake.
At his usual walking pace, another half-blood lancer neared the rear of the waggon, caring not to trip over himself as he leaned on its edge. “I’ve never seen anyone sleep for a whole day.” Lev jested as everyone expected him to, but a hint of concern was evident in his voice.
Pushing past him, Julien placed his hands on the floor of the waggon and jumped aboard as a bump in the road gave him a boost, then rushed to Arminius’s side and kneeled beside him who was staring at the fabric ceiling. As his friend squeezed his arm, he cast a brief glance over to him before returning to his brooding. Julien sighed, relieved that his perilous hours were over.
Repeatedly knocking on the waggon, their Easterner comrade, ungrateful that he had not been wounded, dragged his feet in its trail. “If he’s awake, mind lendin’ me a seat? My legs are killin’ me…” Colt whined with a coarse voice, slumping over as he let himself be dragged along the ground before he was yanked away by Miklós.
Surrounded by supplies of materials ranging from nails to canvases, banners and undersized mats, everything needed to erect field tents had been bundled together. Arminius reasoned that he should rise and resume his duties, assuming he could remember what they were, but he had forgotten his place and time. Arminius’s wound did not hurt much even as Julien slowly sat him up, but he was sure it would leave a serious scar. Blinking, his eyes adjusted to the bright light, and he faced his squad, flicking two-finger salutes when they saw Arminius’s face appear. He looked around, peering through the waggon’s cover to see the heads of troops bobbing up and down as they marched with pitchforks and makeshift spears. These troops were different from the Bohemer. While they were also peasants, they were better dressed and disciplined. Their sergeants and lieutenants allowed them to converse as long as they followed the army’s tempo. Beyond them were grass flats that extended into infinite space, with trees scattered beneath the sprawling heavens in the far background. The two colours—earth and sky—were evenly divided along the horizon, which appeared uncannily smooth.
Puzzled by the sight of a foreign land, Arminius gazed outward. “Where are we…?” He asked, certain the last time he was awake was when he was being spirited away from the battlefield.
In the rank closest to the waggon, a soldier answered him. “A day or two west of Akülonnarchs. Eighty leagues at most.” Marching was an effortless task for Arber, even burdened by a rucksack that was half his weight on his back.
Realising what he meant, Arminius looked down on his hands, quivering and burned by the hilt of his sword, as the boiling air trickled down his neck, his blood itching as he faulted himself silently but Julien did not speak, knowing that whatever he said would have worsened the pain. Gin lowered his legs from the bench and sat up properly, contemplating what they could have done that could have changed the fate of the battle.
Words could not escape his mouth which narrowed to hide his fear. “We were defeated…” Arminius muttered to himself, guiltily.
Julien clenched his hands and peered down. “Adam bought us six hours to retreat, only that…” He recalled what Arminius had missed, but he paused, wondering if it would be right to tell Arminius everything that had transpired.
Confused, the wounded lancer knew only one man with that name, and he turned to look at Julien. “The lieutenant?” Arminius asked, unsure as to who else he was referring to. However, he was unconvinced that Skowroński had really come to the continent when he felt a tap on his shoulder.
When Arminius noticed Gin pointing to the front, he lifted himself with half of his body leaning on the bench, his jacket sliding off when he spotted the shape of a familiar figure on horseback beyond the waggon and waggoner. His excitable movements were certainly Adam’s, and when he caught a glimpse of his hair, he became sure that it was him. However, no one could explain why he was fighting for an army he had no ties to. After lowering himself having expended his strength to prove his comrades right, he felt a pain spread throughout his body, which gradually regained its full consciousness. Curled up with cramps, he brought his legs together while Julien wrapped an arm around his shoulders and urged him to lie down.
“I didn’t think the general would be so bold as to provoke Vasilevsky.” Colt, unafraid to express his opinions, attracted frowns from the soldiers around him. “But now, we’ve got a lion clawin’ at our ass.” When he looked over his shoulder, he felt the presence of an army, twice their size, giving chase, scorching the earth as they advanced.
Lev gave an uneasy chuckle at a thought he should have kept to himself. “Bold or… y’know…” He tapped his temple, insinuating that the general could have been as insane as Nikola, but before he could finish his sentence, he felt a smack land on the back of his head.
As he rubbed his head, wondering who it might have been, an orange-haired boy, tiny in comparison to Lev, shoved past him to repay his rudeness.
A childish anger ignited the flames in his eyes as he walked, free from the burdensome rucksack his comrades carried. “I'll have you say nothing bad about my grandpa.” Károly scolded Lev and the few others who doubted his grandfather.
Hooping his bow around his chest, Károly swiftly leapt onto the waggon and jumped onto its bench. Despite the fierce rocking like that aboard a ship in the wild sea, he balanced himself. However, his movements made the waggoners furious. They wanted to warn him about overloading the limits of their poor horses, but when they realised who he was, they silenced their thoughts, not because he was the grandson of their general but because they knew he would not listen.
Looking down on his squad, the archer crossed his arms, annoyed and protective. “I’m sure he has his reasons,” Károly was not much younger than Arminius but when he spoke, his voice was still juvenile. “Even if I don’t understand it.” Flustered without a good argument to back his words, he averted his sight.
The half-blood lancer could not seem to remember when he had seen the boy before, but he was sure he recognised him from somewhere amidst his memories, from his stance to the shade of his hair and the outlines of his body. “Grandpa?” Arminius remained clueless as to how much he had missed in a day, and he turned to Julien for answers.
“The general.” Julien replied, facing Károly, who spun around steadily. “Władysław Warneńczyk, Count of Krakau, the Lecher Minister of War.” He listed his titles, but that was not the extent of it.
The farmhand waggoner looked over his shoulder, surprised that the accented lancer knew so much about the general. “You know yer stuff, kid.” He interrupted their conversation, sounding as if he was praising his knowledge.
His apprentice, a youngster, took his reins as the waggoner leaned over the sideboard of his waggon, knowing that his master had an appetite for chatter, especially when it concerned his homeland.
Holding on to his cap, the waggoner smiled as he told his story. “Y’know, I ignored this war the best I could, as did ev’ry other man, woman, an’ orphan ‘ere but when war knocked on our doors, we’re forced to take up whate’er arms we could an’ rallied to defend our lands.” His voice was full of pride, more than any other soldier the squad had seen since arriving on the continent. “Simple folk like I’s, we knew, even if they were just stories, there was one man who’d treat us as persons rather than fodder.” A grin spread across his face as he turned around again, gazing up at the blank sky, his cap shielding him from the intense flares, and speaking of the man he referred to like a saint.
The waggon’s wheels sturdily turned as Károly, whose weakness often involved a war story, stepped off the bench, his heels tapping on the thin flooring as he approached the front of the waggon, from where he could see the back of his grandfather, riding in the centre of his winged hussars.
“Each’un ‘ere volunteered, not levied, not bought and I’d die happy havin’ fought wit’ ‘im.” Marching alongside the waggon, a spritely soldier chimed in, unable to contain his passion. “We’d make cer’ain our deaths’d come b‘fore we break.” He placed his fist over his heart and appeared as if nothing could break him.
The squad’s eyes turned towards the boy whom they believed was trustworthy enough to verify the soldier’s words, but even he did not realise how popular his grandfather was. Rubbing his head with an awkward smile, he hastily sat down and picked at the string of his bow.
The Easterner tightened the straps of his rucksack as he followed the tracks of the waggon winding down a dip in the path. “How rare is that… for a general to give two shits about his soldiers…” Colt scoffed, unimpressed by one face he had in mind.
The brute rose from the bench, antagonised by the thought, and stumbled around shirtless, pacing about as he held on to his wound. “Fuck Nikola! He be’er rot ‘way ‘fore dis war’s over, else I’ll turn ‘im into bonemeal m’self.” Gin cursed eastward, where they came.
The waggoner and his apprentice shuddered when they heard his horrid words, but even Julien could not rein in his rage. Only when Arminius let out a sigh did Gin seem to calm down. However, the brute seemed to have done so out of fear, having heard the sorrowful tempest welling inside Arminius’s heart.
Slouched over his own hands, covering his face, having learnt of the result of the battle, he sulked. “So that’s what happened…” Arminius mumbled to himself as he pieced together the events in his mind, which disheartened him.
“Anyways, you’re with us now.” Károly leapt off his seat and distracted his comrade from thinking too much about the past. “But I haven’t introduced myself, have I?” He remembered as he skipped towards Arminius.
Arminius removed his face from his hands and discovered Károly crouched beside him, only a few inches away. The half-blood lancer flinched, but the archer was confident that his balance would keep him from falling over. Arminius appeared to recognise his ember-like eyes, staring into his own, as well as his boyish grin. His scent was familiar, reminiscent of the night he first met Julien, and his name came to Arminius before he had even introduced himself.
Károly waved at his face when he saw that he was lost in his thoughts and reached out his hand to greet him. “The name’s—”
“Károly…” Arminius answered him, abruptly.
Bewildered that he would know his name, Károly retracted his hand, Julien righted his posture, and Gin was silenced, but they were the only ones who heard Arminius. It could not have been coincidence, as if Arminius’s subconscious had always known his name.
The archer who was most surprised of them all leaned back, frightened, even if he was curious. “Lienz… Károly…” He muttered his full name and tested for his comrade’s reaction, but he did not seem to remember any more than what he said.
Having come to the realisation of what he did, Arminius glanced at Julien, who was stunned, and turned his eyes away. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to…” Flusteredly, he apologised, his words melting into an unintelligible noise.
“No… no need to be.” Károly promised him, shaking his head. “I’m sure you overheard us.” It was a blatant lie he told himself, but he knew that there was no reason that could explain that surreal moment.
Softly smiling, he reached his hand out once more, but he did not wait for Arminius’s response. He simply took his hands and clasped it tight, his warmth reminding him of family, a memory that slowly withered away. The thought of everything that he had endured ever since his easy life had been snatched away by the Calamity was being filled in by the familiarity of his comrades around him.
“Nice to meet you, Armin.” Unsure if it was their first meeting, Károly was convinced that they had met somewhere before when he addressed Arminius by a childhood name.
Arminius did not reply, and his vision blackened as blood rushed away from his head, attacking his nerves whenever he tried to remember his past, but the throbbing pain persuaded him that it was better to forget about it. Károly released his hands as the half-blood lancer lay down again, and the smile on the archer’s face retreated as he watched over him alongside Julien. Yet he wondered why Károly and Julien appeared so familiar to him.
Arminius stared at the canvas of the waggon that had a hole, giving him a restricted view of the cloudless sky. “So we lost…” Arminius muttered, moving his hand over his eyes, his sight fading as he repeated, whispering to himself. “I lost…”
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