Curse or a Blessing

Chapter Five: The Captain and the Prince

"What do you think this is about," Ronán elbowed Flint in the ribs earning a groan and a sharp look.

They had been summoned to the training yard with little preamble when their meal had barely been touched by their forks. I suppose there is no need to speak to the king after all, Flint thought in relief. He dreaded any conference with his king, whether initiated by himself or by summons.

Out in the training yard, men in various states of dress and armor stood in the cold, gloomy mist of the morning. Most of the young cadets were jostling each other around and goofing off. In contrast, the more veteran guardsmen's faces ranged from solemn to tense. They knew only a few reasons why most of the guardsmen from the outlying towns would be recalled. Neither of those reasons boded well for anyone.

"Whatever it is, it can't be good."

A loud clang from a gong resounded across the open courtyard, the sound echoing off of the high cobblestone tower walls surrounding the space. All the men, young and old, turned around to pay attention. A man stood by the entrance to the barracks with the porcelain face of a boy, clean shaven and without blemish. His blonde hair was perfectly styled without a hair out of place. Even without the fine fabric of his pristine green and gold adorned tunic, Flint would recognize this man's privilege and status. This man had never held a sword in his life. The only calluses this man would have earned would be from holding a goblet of wine.  Such a disgusting substance too. Flint could never understand why the nobility chose to drink it when there were so many better options.

"Good morrow, Gentlemen. Without further ado, we have gathered you here today," The man started with great theatrical flourish. "To inform you all of a great tragedy that has reached the ears of His Majesty the King from the far away training camp of Juno. At least a thousand of the three thousand troops have died. I am to read their names, and directly following it I am to give your battalion captains instructions that you will leave to carry out."

With each word, Flints trepidation and despair grew. One thousand of his men? Just dead? How would they have died at the training camp? It lies  far away from the border with Ravenor, right along the border of the silver sea. If Ravenor troops or, perhaps more likely, Flint reasoned, Ravenor assassins had gone as far into Emraude as Camp Juno then it would be considered an act of aggression. An act of war.

This was the very thing Flint worried about and trained his men for, yet he knew they would still not be ready. Flint grew up in the time before the strained peace between the two kingdoms. He knew better than most what war with Ravenor would look like. He could see from the faces of the veteran guardsmen that they were thinking the same.

At his shoulder, Ronán was stiff as a board, and deep repressed anger was seething out from his skin like heat.

"Calm, friend" Flint whispered, trying to soothe him. "Let us listen some more. Perhaps it is not what it looks like."

"A thousand dead men," Ronán hissed.

Flint placed a hand on his shoulder, feeling all the pain and rage in those four words.

The Nobleman's voice rang out again. In a solemn tone, he began to list the names.

"Albert Atwater. Patrick Atwater. Djon Bachman. Julius Bateman..."

Every name struck Flint like a physical blow. Like he was being stabbed all over again. He trained most of these men himself, he had trained and served with the others. He knew every name, every face, and all of their families like they were his own. These were his men. What had he been doing while they were slaughtered? Oh that's right, he was here safe and sound, drinking ale and eating good food. He could barely contain the grief crushing his soul.