A host of sparrows gathered upon an imperial road that ran over soundless currents. One fledgling was perched on an iron cross, preening its feathers, before it took flight, scared by his siblings who fought over a worm. The stones beneath their beaks were centuries old, quarried and built in the Middle Ages, from the days of the First Zhermanner Kingdom. But its borders were long gone, erased from the map like the Sixth Kingdom that took up its mantle. Engraved on a cornerstone were a few eroded words, their language forgotten and forgotten of their meaning. The crossing served as a boundary between two lands, separating one kingdom from another in the north. For whatever reason, the men who had camped on the southern bank had been told they were forbidden to cross that bridge, yet they did not bother to ask why. They simply trusted their commander’s word, just as the people who once lived in the vicinity trusted the engravings.
The field that they camped on sat behind a ridge, and the sparse woods that overlooked the virgin soil untouched for thousands of years. Slowly sloping into the waterline, the land was fertile from the river that flowed like a glacier’s stream, and on the other bank, the terrain was mirrored. From what began as an army headed by a brigadier, their numbers had dwindled to no larger than that of a cohort of a thousand men.
The able drew water from the river while the weak mingled, forming a protruding bridgehead that was hastily put together by low walls of logs, carts, and anything that could stop a bullet or an arrow. The camp had many wounded, and those of age perished sooner. Mostly the young remained, able to withstand the harshness of winter. Sat around fires, their faces were shrivelled of hope, hugging onto their swords and rifles. The only things which sheltered them from the snow and winds were tattered canvases and flipped-over waggons. They had marched for nearly a week but the whole endeavour felt like it had taken a month. The cold breezed into their bones. Their coats did nothing to comfort them, and they failed to find energy to move, especially not with a poor diet of quarter rations and occasional game. However, they were slightly thankful for the abandoned villages they had passed by that provided them forsaken livestock and crumbs. They did not know how much longer they had to bear this torment, and they wished that their commander could provide them with an answer, but like them, all he could do was conserve his strength, tucked away beside a fire, cuddling his knees as he was squeezed in between two friends, preserving whatever warmth they had.
The snow had stopped, and under an open sky, Arminius sat waiting, wary of the open field around him that spelt trouble if battle came. He listened to the growing voices that sounded more sensible than they did a few months ago, losing their complacency for battle as if they had finally learnt what it meant to be at war.
“Did the general ever mention why we aren’t meant to cross?” Asked Arnau, sharpening his blade with a whetstone.
The one and only unbothered by the weather, the blonde-haired corporal freely lay in the snow with his legs stretched out. “No,” Said Julien. Noticing that the youngest of the nine huddled around their fire was shivering, he wrapped his jacket around him. “But I’m sure there’s a good reason behind it.” Holding his head by his temple, he tried to remember whether the general did mention anything more he could have missed.
“Then perhaps we ought to cross.” Arnau, fearing that they have waited for as long as they safely could, spoke his worry.
Sighing, the Rus shuffled closer to the fire. “What good is there to set foot on land we are unfamiliar with?” Lev countered him, reaching outward for the flames, as he gave them a reason to be deterred from the thought. “It could be enemy territory by now.”
His comrades stared into the fire with uneasy expressions, their eyes squinting from the pestering wind that plastered their faces like pins. Fidgeting with anything that was in their hands, their thoughts dried up. No matter how they weaved around their questions, every path they took was destined for a dead end. It was best, then, to leave their lives up to fate, but one, as always, was in denial. The brute leapt up, and those around the fire turned towards him. Knowing that he had nothing productive to say, the giant beside him sat still, ignoring his sudden outburst of energy with a grunt. Although all of them thought that nothing fruitful would come from his words, they gave him a chance to speak his mind at least.
The air was like ice on his face, furthest from the flames. However, his pride denied him from sitting down again without taking action. “T’hell wit’ dis, crossin’ or not crossin’, y’all are doin’ my head in.” Gin voiced. “We stand and fight. Dat’s all there is to it.” Hoping that it would restore their morale, he suggested as much as his head was capable of thinking.
“That’s all well and good, Gin, but we’re at a tenth of our strength, probably less.” Arber looked around him and judged, seeing the dozens wounded and the hundreds of sick, young, and inexperienced men and women. “If an army even twice ours appears, we’re done.” The usual pessimist reminded him in a flat tone.
Snorting, one flapped his hand in dismissal. “Have y’all never studied the histories?” Colt pointed a twig at his comrades, though not all were present. “I could name a couple of battles when armies outnumbered tenfold have caused an upset.” Resting his cheek on his fist, he seemed to agree with the brute for once.
“Yeah…” Julien sounded tentative. “But more often than not, it was luck.” He could have chosen to continue, but he would rather not encourage them further, fearing that too much hope and reliance on Lady Fortune might fester in their minds.
“Luck, rationality, and hope—the three things needed to defeat a larger foe.” Colt held his hand up with three fingers pointed at the heavens. “As far as I’m concerned, we’ve already fulfilled one of those three things. Ain’t that right?” The sergeant reached over Arnau and nudged his friend on his knee.
Intending for him to hear it, Colt bothered him unrelentingly, but the lieutenant-elect had long been detached from reality. He stared into the fire, and his eyes were not focused on the present. It took a stronger nudge to wake him up from the abyss.
Sitting upright, light returned to his pupils, and startled, his eyes widened as if he had been dragged off his bed. “I can’t say…” Arminius replied, and determining that he was safe, he slouched over again.
Unnerved by his half-responsive answer, Colt brought his hands onto his knees. He sighed, reflecting the disappointment of much of the squad, but often good things emerged from the quiet.340Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡore0E3dmg4
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