Erwin accepted the sheet of parchment but didn’t put it away right away.
His lips pressed into a thin line, and his fingers rubbed back and forth along its edge.
“The third matter…” His voice carried the weary resignation of a man at the end of his rope.
“Miko’s progress with his studies…”
Rhoen looked at him quietly.
“I’ve been teaching him grammar and writing for three days.
Three whole days.
Just look at the exercises he’s turned in.”
“I swear it’d be easier to teach a troll.
At least a troll wouldn’t punch holes through the paper.”
Erwin took off his glasses and wiped them with his sleeve.
“Do you have any idea what it’s like trying to teach someone in his twenties who’s spent his entire life holding a hoe instead of a pen?”
The corner of Rhoen’s mouth twitched.
He forced the smile back down and glanced toward the courtyard, where Miko was crouched in front of one of his comrades, adjusting the straps of the man’s breastplate until they fit properly.
“At least he spelled his name correctly,” Rhoen said.
“What?”
“His name.
He got that right.”
Erwin opened his mouth, then let out a quiet sigh instead.
He said nothing more.
Rhoen lightly tapped the tabletop with his fingertips, a faint smile hidden in his eyes.
…
The smithy stood on the eastern side of the camp.
When Brom took it over, the camp’s original blacksmith was squatting in front of the forge, filing rust off a sword.
His name was Tod.
He wasn’t even twenty yet, and only a few wisps of soft beard had begun to sprout on his upper lip.
When Brom walked in, he immediately stood up, the file still in his hand.
“You,” Brom said.
“Show me the forge, the bellows, and the quenching trough.”
Tod looked around the workshop.
The ashes hadn’t been cleaned out of the furnace, the leather piston on the bellows was leaking air, and a layer of rust and oily scum floated on the surface of the quenching trough.
Every place Brom inspected earned a grunt through his nose.
By the time he reached the quenching trough, the grunts had blended into one continuous rumble.
“This is it?” Brom asked.
Tod nodded.
Brom stroked his beard to either side, the copper rings at the ends of his braids swaying.
“The forge’s still serviceable.
Replace the leather piston on the bellows.
And the water in the quenching trough—change it every day.
One bucket of water with three pounds of salt.
It’ll harden the blade’s edge better.”
He slapped Tod on the thigh so hard that the young man’s knee buckled.
“Lad, you’ll stay on as an apprentice.
My apprentice.
We’re starting from scratch.”
Tod nodded vigorously, his eyes reddening.
He had thought that once Brom arrived, he’d never be allowed to stand before the forge again.
Brom had already stopped paying attention to him.
The dwarf pulled out the stack of blueprints Rhoen had given him and spread them across the workbench.
Third revision of the crossbow replacement parts.
An eccentric wheel, a draw rod, two pulley assemblies.
He studied the drawings for a while, his thick, stubby fingers tracing back and forth over the marked dimensions.
“Not exactly forgiving tolerances,” he muttered to himself, “but nothing I can’t forge.”
The firelight reflected in his eyes, making them gleam like two freshly reheated pieces of flint.
…
On the northern side of the camp, Aina was crouched in front of Pet.
Pet sat against the wall with his injured leg stretched out before him, half of the bandage already removed.
Aina gently pressed around the edge of the wound.
The muscles in Pet’s thigh instantly tensed, but he didn’t make a sound.
“Good.
It hasn’t become infected.”
As she spoke, Aina took a jar of medicine from the leather pouch at her waist.
She spread the salve evenly around the wound, then drew out a strip of linen that had been soaked in strong liquor and carefully wrapped the injury again.
After tying the bandage into a slipknot, Aina stood up, brushed the dirt from her knees, and let her gaze wander across the courtyard—over the recruits changing into their new equipment, the smoke once again rising from the smithy, and the stretch of barren land outside the camp where people had already begun turning the soil.
Several civilian women passed by her.
Each lowered her head in greeting as they went.
One elderly woman stopped and held out the clay jar she was carrying.
“Priestess, these are white myrtle flowers we gathered this morning.
Do you think they’ll do?”
Aina accepted the clay jar and looked down at the herbs inside.
Even after being blanched, their leaves still stood upright.
“They’ll do.
Next time you harvest them, leave two joints on the stem near the root.
They’ll grow back.”
She returned the jar to the old woman, then added, “Just call me Aina.
I’m not a priestess anymore.”
The old woman took the jar back.
Her lips moved as though she wanted to say something, but she swallowed the words instead.
She nodded and walked away with the jar in her arms.
After taking a few steps, she turned back.
“Lady Aina.”
Aina didn’t correct her this time.
She stood beside the herb garden, the afternoon sunlight bleaching her pale golden hair almost white.
A breeze drifted in from the river bend, gently swaying the leather pouch at her waist.
The faint scent of medicinal herbs escaped from its opening, mingling with the smell of freshly turned earth.
…
By evening, the patrol led by the Battanian Fian Champions returned with a wild boar and a doe.
Both had been brought down by arrows through the eye.
One champion carried each carcass over his shoulder, and as they walked through the camp gate, everyone in the courtyard stopped what they were doing.
Rhoen lit a bonfire in the middle of the courtyard—a true bonfire.
Flames slipped through the gaps in the wood, bathing the courtyard walls in a warm orange-red glow.
The boar was skewered on a heavy iron spit, resting across Y-shaped wooden supports on either side of the fire.
The aroma of roasting meat mingled with woodsmoke, rising from the castle courtyard and drifting into the evening dusk.
The ale was brought out from the storeroom.
Brom was the first to raise his wooden mug.
The dwarf planted one foot on the base of the anvil and lifted his mug high above his fiery red hair.
“I was locked in that cage for twelve damn days!” His voice carried over the crackling of the bonfire.
“Twelve days without touching a hammer or a drink.
I was damn near driven insane!”
He threw back more than half the mug in one gulp.
Ale streamed down through his beard.
He slammed the mug onto the forge bench.
It rocked, splashing ale across the hot metal surface, where it hissed into white steam.
“Tch…
not strong enough,” he grumbled.
“Still beats having nothing.”
The recruits sat together on the opposite side of the fire, mugs in hand, but no one drank first.
Cole glanced at Miko.
Miko raised his mug.
“To the wounded!
And to us!” he shouted.
Fifteen mugs rose at once, all pointed toward Pet.
Pet sat against the wall with a mug in his hand.
His face flushed in the firelight.
Then he lifted his mug in return and took a long drink.
Then the singing began.
It came from the veterans seated on the other side of the fire, their weapons planted upright beside their knees.
The man on the far left started first.
His voice blended with the crackling flames, sounding as though it had traveled from somewhere far away.
He sang in the Common Tongue of Calradia, utterly unlike the rhythms of Velen’s local folk songs—its cadence was short, forceful, and tinged with a deeper melancholy.
…
Brom’s mug remained suspended in midair.
He had never heard the song before, nor could he understand the Common Tongue of Calradia, yet his fingers tapped lightly in time with the rhythm, and every so often he lifted the mug for another hearty swallow of ale.
Aina sat among the civilian women with a basket of herbs in her lap, but her fingers rested motionless on its rim.
She no longer sorted through the leaves.
Erwin sat beside Rhoen.
The lenses of his glasses reflected the bonfire’s glow as his lips silently moved along with the unfamiliar lyrics.
When the final line faded away, a shower of sparks burst upward from the fire, flared brightly for a single instant, then dimmed.
No one spoke.
Rhoen gazed into the dancing flames.
A trace of restrained emotion flickered across his eyes before he drained the last of the ale from his mug in a single swallow.
Beyond the camp, the sound of the river winding around the bend drifted through the night.
The bonfire continued to burn.