Sides of War

Chapter Twelve: Campfire

"Oi, lad! Lad, wake up. We're leaving." Harter's voice slowly brought Jorlin out of her dreams.

It was barely dawn, and the commotion of the army preparing to march filled the morning air. As she opened her eyes, she saw Harter kneeling beside her, shaking her shoulder. She blinked a few times as everything came into focus. Artis stood beside his friend, peering cautiously at Jorlin. He didn't appear to be of the intelligent crowd, as his large eyes studied his surroundings questioningly. As far as looks went, he wasn't fortunate, and his scruffy hair ended halfway down his neck.

Her back popped as she groggily sat up, and she found that any feeling was gone from her legs. Even though she was stiff and sore, she bit back complaints as she rolled up her makeshift bed and fastened it to the top of her pack.

As Harter put out the fire, Jorlin studied him. His face was cracked by harsh lines and old scars. It was obvious that he had seen his fair share of battles and had been in service to Lord Blair for a long while. His dark eyes were the only soft feature on his face. He was average height, but stocky.

"You ready, lad?" he asked Jorlin as he straightened up and grabbed his belongings.

She nodded, and soon the three of them matched their pace with the surrounding men as the army began to march northwards. The sun was hidden by the thick blanket of gray clouds that covered the sky, and a mountainous wind swept through the ranks.

"Draven," Harter called behind him, "better keep up, lad."

Her heart skipped a beat as she turned to look over her shoulder. Surely enough, Draven was only a few paces behind her. He sighed, his breath visible in the air, and picked up his pace. He was dressed in typical armor, with the Decaster coat of arms on his surcoat. As he neared, he threw his pack over his shoulder and stuffed his helmet under his arm.

Jorlin muttered a curse under her breath. If he recognized her, he'd surely report her, or at the very least give her a hard time.

"Who's this?" Draven asked, motioning to Jorlin.

Harter, who was marching in front of them beside Artis, turned his head and shrugged. "Dunno. He's a mute, though. Can't talk."

"I know what mute means," Draven muttered, his tone sharp with annoyance. He kept his pace even with Jorlin's and gave her a suspicious sideways glance.

She let a breath escape her lungs through her teeth. He was already irritating her. 

Despite Ancis's training, she was exhausted by the time the army stopped for a break at

noon. Her legs ached, and her limbs and face were numb from the relentless wind and late autumn chill.

Draven let his pack drop to the ground, and his helmet clattered onto the patchy grass. Artis and Harter laid their things down without a word and sat down. Draven slumped onto the ground, running a hand through his dark hair. Jorlin suppressed a groan when her pack landed near his, and she moved it away with her boot before settling onto a patch of tough grass.

After he sat down, Harter stated, "After a few days of this hilly region, we'll hit a large forest. That takes a few days to get through. Then after some more plains, we'll get to Mauntell Castle."

Jorlin realized she was the only one wearing her helmet as the four of them dug some lunch out of their packs. She longed to breathe the fresh air, but she knew that she had to endure the stuffy, metallic air of the helm. As she slid pieces of bread underneath her helmet to eat, she received a few strange glances. Their group was silent for a while, even though the commotion of all the men bustling around them filled the air.