Francis took a step back after an older guard, who smelled of sweat and stench, shoved him. “Listen, boy, I don’t have time for this. If you won’t go away, I’m going to beat you senseless.”
The other guard that was blocking his path snickered at him, and Francis tried not to get upset.
They’re just doing their jobs… even if they are acting like asses.
Both guards were in chain armor from head to toe, and their swords had decorated metal scabbards.
Obviously trained far better than we were.
“What if I said I’m okay with being beaten if that means someone will hear what I claim to know? Surely, if word reached your superiors that someone knew where a beast causing problems for the army was and found out you both turned them away, you might get beaten senseless. Especially if that knowledge could have saved lives. Tell me, which of us would suffer more?”
It took a little effort not to flinch as the older man moved to stand before him; the stench of sweat was almost overwhelming. It made sense if the man stood guard in his outfit every day.
“Dirk, I don’t think he’s going to back down,” the other guard said with a chuckle. “What you goin' to do?”
Francis studied the weathered face of a man he knew must be at least forty years old. Many small white scars were hidden amongst the salt-and-pepper stubble, but sharp, unyielding blue eyes stayed locked on him.
“You’re seriously willing to let me beat you just because you believe what you know is that important?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you’re not willing to tell me?”
Shaking his head, Francis shrugged. “Either I’m right, and we both get rewarded, since I’ll mention you let me through, or I’ll be wrong, and I’ll get killed, and your name won't come up.”
“Sounds like a ninth son to me,” the other guard stated. “Who else would be willing to get beaten like that?”
“Shut it, Peter,” Dirk snapped, his eyes narrowing. “Tell you what, boy. I’ll walk you there myself. If what you say has merit, I’ll make sure you’re rewarded. If not… well, let’s just say you’re right… Death would be better.”
“Understood.”
The guard he now knew as Dirk turned and motioned for Francis to join him.
“Follow me. Leave the sword. No weapons from this point on.”
Unbuckling his weapon, Francis handed it to Peter, who chuckled as Dirk walked deeper into the camp.
“You'd better hurry, boy. He won’t wait.”
***
They moved in silence for a good five minutes, walking along a path with torches that flickered in the wind. The darkness felt oppressive as they moved through a different section of the camp. The tents nearby were larger and nicer, and a few of them had soldiers standing near a fire at the entrance, apparently on guard duty.
Eventually, Dirk led Francis toward a tent about thirty feet long and twenty feet wide.
“Don’t talk till you’re told. Understand?”
Francis nodded, not saying a word—he noticed a slight smirk from Dirk’s lips at his silence.
“Maybe you’re not a fool,” the older man muttered as he motioned to the flap where two guards were standing, watching them.
“What brings you, Dirk?” one of the guards called out. “Find some lost puppy that belongs to a noble or something?”
“I wish. No, this one claims to have information about the enemy and is willing to get beaten to have it delivered. Figure I might as well let the captain decide.”
Francis watched as both men leaned around Dirk and looked him up and down.
“Someone with guts or a death wish?” the same guard asked.
“Beats me. Either way, if I turned him away and he did know something… well, it would be my balls in a vise.”
Both men chuckled and nodded.
“Stay here. Give me a moment,” one replied.
Dirk turned and glanced at Francis.
Smiling like an idiot, he remained quiet, watching the older man roll his eyes as he sighed.
“Tell me, Douglas, how much longer till I can earn a cush guard job like this again?” Dirk asked.
The one who stayed behind chuckled once, his right hand never coming off the pommel of his sword.
“I think we both know you won’t get that for a long time. Vella isn’t happy with you at all.”
Both of them laughed at something Francis knew had to be an inside joke, doing his best to remember it all as he had no doubt it would all be useful at some point.
The flap opened, and light spilled out, almost blindingly bright.
“Hurry the hell up and get him in here!”
Moving faster than Francis had anticipated, Dirk took two steps toward him, put a hand against his back, and thrust him into the open pathway to the tent.
Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.
Silence was his only greeting as his eyes adjusted and the smell of ale and sweat reached his nose.
Blinking a few times, he finally saw seven men and one woman standing around a large table that took up a good section of the tent. The table detailed the camp, the incline of the battlefield, the forest, and the enemy on the other side.
“Does he speak?” the woman asked, looking past Francis and behind him.
“Yes, ma’am,” Dirk replied. “I informed him not to until told otherwise. It appears he is smarter than most.”
A few grunts and smirks formed on some men standing around the table, bright red wolf heads marking the white cloth covering their chest armor.
“Speak, boy, before I box your ears in,” the woman grunted. “I don’t have time for shit that wastes the night.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Francis replied. “I know where a caster will be tomorrow and that it will use some ability to make our front-line men flee in terror.”
After he spoke, most of the men around the table laughed, and Francis felt a hand grab his collar and start to pull him back.
“Wait!” the woman called out.
The sound of her voice made everyone go silent, and the force with which Dirk yanked him back almost caused him to fall.
Slowly, the woman moved toward him, which allowed Francis to get a good look at her. She wore plate armor, but it was custom-made, fitting perfectly together. She had two wolf heads on the silver chest piece, and he noticed one on each shoulder. On both sides of her hips were two swords, much nicer than any he had seen, with red gems adorning the pommels.
Everything about her screamed power, and as she drew close, he took in her sheer height, standing nearly seven feet tall.
“What kind of caster?” she asked, leaning down and getting in Francis’s face.
Doing his best to talk while being bent backward, he didn’t wait.
“A black-and-purple one… I’m not sure if it's a lizard of some kind, but it carries a staff with a sphere and–”
“Stop!” she barked, grabbing the front of his shirt and yanking him free of Dirk’s grip.
One second, Francis was leaning backward; the next, he was dangling from her fist, held in an even worse position as his clothes forced his shoulders up. He started to choke on his collar.
“Who told you this, boy? How do you know of such a creature? Why would you–”
“Captain… he can’t breathe,” someone said.
Francis felt the world getting darker.
Pain shot through his feet as he hit the trampled dirt. She had him dropped, and Francis was not able to bend his knees to avoid it.
Coughing and taking deep breaths, he watched as the woman spun and moved to the table. She leaned against it and gazed across the markings on the map.
“Someone hold him,” Vella growled. “I need to ask some questions when he can breathe. No one, and I mean no one, leaves this tent. Even you, Dirk.”
“Yes, ma’am!” the guard who brought Dirk and him in shouted.
Francis felt his escort grab and yank him off the ground, then set him on his feet and hold on to the back of his shirt once more.
The captain breathed a few times, each sounding like she was trying to blow away the enemy on the other side of the map from how hard she let it out.
“What is your name?” Vella asked.
“Francis. Francis Lancaster. Ninth son to Barron Lancaster.”
Laughter erupted and he watched as Vella looked up from the map. All the men went silent and he wondered what kind of gaze she was giving them.
Why do I feel like I fucked up coming in here… this woman is bat shit scary…
“So tell me, Francis… How is it someone with no possible way of knowing about that type of creature, let alone that it's a caster or the ability it might use, does?”
“It might sound stupid–” Francis started.
“Trust me, boy, I’ve heard stupid. I know, stupid. That man behind you is stupid. Just spit it out.”
Clearing his throat and ignoring the grip that tightened on the back of his collar, he decided to lie.
“Sometimes I have dreams… They come true, but being the ninth son means little, and people don’t want to trust me. My… father and I didn’t see eye to eye, so I hid it. However, I have had one for three nights now. I could point to you on the map where the creature will be. I can tell you when it will appear and when its attacks begin. When I dream about something three times, it always happens.”
Some murmurs and grunts came, but no one moved.
Vella’s fingers gripped the thick wooden table, and Francis heard some wood cracking.
“Dirk, tell one of those fools outside the tent to bring me Nehemiah,” the captain said. “Make sure they understand I want him immediately,y and I don’t care that he sleeps naked. I want him now!”
The hand left his collar, and Dirk was at the flap, a muted conversation taking place behind him.
Vella turned and stared at Francis. “You feel you’re certain about this knowledge?”
“I’d bet my life and the life of my eighth brother on it, ma’am,” Francis replied.
“Does he know that?” she asked with a grunt, a small upward turn of a smile on her lips for a moment. “Now, while I wait for that fool to get here, tell me where this caster will be tomorrow.”
“Do you want me to stand here and describe, or can I move to the spot on the table and mark where it will be in the woods?”
Some murmurs rose again and Francis saw Vella’s left eyebrow raise.
“In the woods…”
She nodded and motioned to him to move closer to the map.
There were so many markers on the table, and he knew each one meant something different.
Holy shit… we’re seriously just fodder… all the good troops and what must be cavalry are way behind us… We’re going to be ground like meat before they deploy the real fighters.
Francis quickly moved to the side of the table where his group would be.
In his mind, he played out the battle, feeling like he could envision himself down on the lines, fighting hordes of these beasts until the moment came, and he ran through the woods.
“May I touch it? I’m trying to work out the distance in my head.”
She nodded and waved her hand as he stood near it, studying the tree line.
Closing his eyes, he envisioned the path he had taken twice. The direction he had gone.
“It should be about here,” he said, pointing a finger. “It will start to use its power when the seventh line attacks. That is when my brother and I should be in the thick of things.”
“And you’re certain the creature will be there?” Vella asked.
Shaking his head and finally shrugging, Francis lied again: “I’m not certain. Sometimes, I dream about random things. Usually, it happens when it involves him or me. All I know is there will be a lizard mage in the woods. I could lead a group of better-skilled fighters there if you desired. It’s going to have several guards protecting it, those catkin. They’re going to be hidden.”
Francis watched as she nodded at one of the men, who picked up a purple token and set it in the section of forest he had pointed at.
“If what you say is true, tell me what you hope to gain by sharing this knowledge.”
Without waiting, Francis turned and smiled.
“I want my brother and me back in these lines here,” he replied, pointing at the section he knew would most likely survive. “After the battle, I’d also like real training. How to actually fight with a sword and shield.”
He watched as she slowly bobbed her head.
“If tomorrow pans out, I can make that happen,” Vella replied. “All we can do now is wait for Nehemiah.”
As if the gods themselves heard her request, the tent flap flew open, and a bald, wrinkled old man in a shirt that barely covered his privates was shoved into the tent.
“I swear I’m going to cut her balls off!” exclaimed the newest guest, apparently not realizing who was nearby.
“I doubt that,” Vella replied. “Mine are too big. Now, Nehemiah, I got a job for you.”