Hunted Queen

Chapter Fifty Four • Chrushed Dreams

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-Rowan- 

"They are growing in numbers by each day." Rowan's commander informed him while he studied the battlefield without the slightest trace of an expression in his face. 

The man, who he had unwillingly learned was called Wright,  had outlived as his predecessor by quite some time now. Amidst an aggravating increasing number of deserters, Wright had earned a sliver of Rowan's respect for not letting the war or his traitorous brothers failing in arms loyalty get to him. Something the commander would never ever hear from his king. However, he had started to appreciate the commander's growing confidence and decreasing urges to voice complaints or issues about the tasks he was handed. Now, Rowan barely had to tell the Wright twice when giving the man an order he earlier would have hesitated to carry out. At least before making sure that his king had not misspoken. Wright's stomach had grown used to the colors of war and the heavy presence of its sibling; death. Soon, the commander would be just as Rowan preferred them; empty on the inside, loyal and strong on the outside. 

Beyond the bleak battlefield, his nephew's numbers was slowly increasing, turning his thoughts darker for each boot he imagined walked into that whelp's camp. Rowan's eyes never fell on the bodies of his rotting men that laid between the two battling armies and their camps. He ignored the strange shapes their bodies formed, or parts of them scattered or lost. Not wasting any time on these men when they were no longer of any use for him. 

"How many?" He asked Wright, his voice empty of life. His gaze fixed on the faint light of his nephew's camp leaking out through the trees. The very trees his enemies cowered behind. 

The light means that they are still alive... enough of them at least. Which means there is still hope among William's soldiers. The thought angered him so that he clenched his right hand hard, the leather glove it donned screamed in objection. Folds of the glove, created by his what he was doing, made it feel like the leather cut into him when his grip did not loosen. He ignored the discomfort, would not admit to himself that it was in fact pain he was experiencing. 

The commander hesitated calmly after hearing his king's question. Taking his time to think before speaking. He cleared his throat before he opening his mouth. "Our scouts have not gotten close enough to oversee their complete-" 

"Spit it out." Rowan grunted impatiently.

"Over five hundred men..." Wright did as he was told when noticing Rowan's foul mood. The words almost stumbling out between his lips from being pressured to speak. 

Wright inhaled slowly before continuing, collecting himself "...But there could be more of them. There most likely are. I am sure their numbers have grown by at least seven hundred." He seemed more certain for each word leaving him. 

Rowan's eyebrows crept closer to each other as his commander's sentences grew more and more confident. Was they true or did he just spew the words out? Was his estimations correct? Either way, William's forces was growing.

Fuck. That bloody whelp managed to get over five hundred men to come to his aid? How? Did his father send for his old allies? How are they constantly growing in numbers while I am slowly having to execute deserters and diminishing my own numbers? 

The large numbers of men who had known no fear and longed for the battlefield where almost all gone now. There was still some left, but they had their hands full disciplining the young brats they had squeezed out of the villages of the kingdom. In this rate, Rowan would stand at the front alone as a seasoned fighter, children surrounding him on all sides.