Chapter two

The cleanup took the entire offseason. The huts had to be rebuilt, and quickly; winter wouldn't take long to arrive, and the entire troupe needed shelter. The horses, as well, would need protection from the impending snow and cold; there were a few hardy enough to withstand winter with only the shelter of the trees, but not many. Eothen built a lean-to for Orin out of her tent and some broken beams from her hut; she shared it with him until she had finished rebuilding the actual hut. Thatch was expensive this time of year; they were just after the last harvest of the season, and most of it had already been sold to the villagers. So instead they cut small branches from the trees and wove them together with the leaves still intact for the roof and laid boards across on either side for extra stability. Anything that had been burnt but was still usable was used; this was expensive work, and none of them wanted to use their entire seasons' pay to rebuild if they could help it. They would need to buy new supplies for the next season too, not to mention food to survive the winter itself. The walls themselves were made of mud daub packed around logs; next spring, they would be reinforced with cut boards on the outside to make them sturdier, and the inside too for anyone who had the funds and the time to do so, but they would be warm enough for now.

As soon as her hut was completed, Eothen began adding the addition onto her hut for Orin's shelter. Most of the troupe kept their mounts in a common stable, but Eothen felt more comfortable with her stallion close by. She made it large enough to accommodate her two mares as well, although she did build a wall to separate them; she didn't want them to fight or to breed too early. Her people valued their horses very highly, and were very careful with their care and breeding; Eothen did not want to take the chance that Orin would impregnate a mare without her knowledge, and more so she did not want the care of her horses to be left to someone who didn't know how to work with him. The mares would probably tolerate someone they recognized, but it wasn't definite; but while Orin was obedient, it was only to Eothen herself. Anyone else attempting to lead him or brush him would swiftly find themselves missing an arm. Not all of her peoples' horses were trained to be so aggressive and resistant to theft, but the ones with high value were; Orin definitely qualified, and besides, he was trained as a warhorse. He was entirely loyal to Eothen and would not tolerate another rider, not even if she tried to command it. He might reluctantly follow another on lead, if she were there and commanded it, but he would not do so otherwise.

The winter was spare, and cold; but Eothen had managed to take down a bear and cure the fur just in time to make a warm enough blanket, and she spent most of the winter under it. She made a new cabinet for the few foodstuffs she was able to buy and went hunting as frequently as she could; she spent most of her days curing whatever skins she had to make herself warmer gear. The bearskin functioned as both blanket and cloak until she got a wolf; soon enough she had rabbits she could make into gloves and liners for her boots. The fire had taken all of her winter gear, so she had to start all over; she looked a little ridiculous, wearing every single summerweight piece of clothing she had in layers until she had enough new winter clothing to wear. But by the end of the season, she did have a sufficient quantity of winterwear; just in time for spring and the new season of fighting.

Ordinarily, the winter would have been spent making repairs to the spring and summer gear, the weaponry, the armor; since the troupe instead had to spend the rest season hurriedly making repairs to the stronghold itself and re-making their winter gear before they froze to death, none of those repairs had been completed. So Eothen spent her travel time making those repairs from horseback; her people could do a lot of things while riding. They had to, since they very rarely stopped traveling; otherwise nothing would ever get repaired or made. So as she rode, she stitched her leather armor back together, she made new arrows, she hunted for small game and even the occasional deer in order to have the skins to make new leggings, new tunics, new soles for her boots. In the evenings she worked the skins and resharpened her swords and knives. It was a very busy journey, and by the time they arrived to their first battle she needed a vacation, but there was none to be had.

This season of fighting was, like so many before it, a mess. There was no order to it at all, as much as there could be said to have ever been order to battle. Eothen had learned from her elders about all the wars of history, where one leader abused his people and then attacks another in a blatant quest for power; the other leader heroically fights him off, and then despite being the winner remains benevolent towards both his people and the survivors of his foe. She wondered how much of that was ever actually true; was there really one bad guy and one good guy? Or did it just depend on which side she looked from? She could see, in fact, when she learned about the horrid King Ancar and how he had forced his people into battles in order to conquer Valdemar. He had been the king of a small nation, with limited resources, with the fabled Eastern Empire on one side threatening him and Valdemar, the land of plenty, on the other. Who wouldn't be tempted to try and take it? Ancar needed land and people, and Valdemar had it. On the other hand, Valdemar hadn't done anything to deserve his wrath; indeed, they had simply sat there and minded their own business. And Ancar was particularly abusive, both to his own people and to those he captured, so perhaps there was some degree of actual evil – but was it entirely black and white?

Eothen wasn't sure. She figured it didn't really matter much, that war was hundreds of years before her time. But she found history fascinating, so she wondered. These days, it was pretty difficult to believe that there was any such thing as "right" and "wrong" in a war, and it got harder every season. These weren't despotic nobles attacking benevolent ones, or at least not in any sense that one could choose sides and actually truly support them. This was one despotic noble attacking another despotic noble, and neither one better than the other, just fighting, constantly fighting, for more land, more power, more money, just – more. Eothen often wondered exactly what she thought she was doing; there was going to be fighting anyway, and she was fairly good at it, so why not make a living at it? But other days she couldn't reconcile the fact that she was making money by killing people. They knew what they were getting into when they signed up to fight, just like she did, or at least that's what she told herself; but she knew plenty of people who had signed up with mercenary troupes not because they wanted to fight, but because they had no other way to make a living. They didn't own land, so they couldn't farm. They had no education, so they couldn't teach, they didn't know how to make anything and no one would take them on as apprentice, there were any number of reasons people signed up in a mercenary troupe that had nothing to do with enjoying battle. She was under no illusion that the people on the other side of the field were any different.

She sighed as she slipped her armor on over her shift and strapped her swords and knives in their places. She was the only person she knew who fought with two swords, instead of a sword and a shield; it was a particular skill passed down in her family, supposedly from that legendary ancestor that had left her own swords to hang on Eothen's wall. It was actually the thing that convinced Eothen that whatever else this ancestor had been, she had actually existed and had actually been a relative of hers. The swords themselves, well, they were merely evidence that someone had once been a swordsperson; it was only legend that they had belonged to any particular person, let alone someone she was related to. It was the fighting style, unique even among her people, which she had learned at her father's knee that had convinced her. Somewhere along her family tree, someone had been trained by this ancestor, and passed on the knowledge all the way to her.

"Top o' the mornin' to ye, lass," said Rozem as Eothen walked up to the line for breakfast. He had decided to stay on with the troupe, not as a fighter but as an auxiliary member; he helped pack the supplies that the troupe shared, like the food, the healing supplies and the officers' tents. He helped cook that food during battle, when the troupe members were not expected to hunt and feed themselves. They also kept the camp clean and assisted with the removal and burial – or burning – of the casualties.

"Morning, Rozem," answered Eothen. "What's the grub today?"

"Biscuits, of course," said Rozem. "with venison gravy, boiled eggs and some berries."

"Hardly enough to fuel an army, as delicious as it sounds," said Eothen. "Are they getting stingy with the rations again?"

"But of course, my fine young friend," said Rozem. "But don't you worry, I be scooping on a bit o' meat to yours."

"Thank you," said Eothen.

"And while ye be fightin' I be out huntin' for more venison, maybe some pork," said Rozem. "Try to find us enough fresh meat for a decent dinner."
"Even better," said Eothen.

For all its stinginess, the biscuits themselves were large and the gravy rich. Eothen ate her share and was grateful that it was at least delicious. The troupe was a little low on funds, since it was the beginning of the season and much of last season's pay had to go for rebuilding their homes. Still, Eothen felt certain that they had hunted enough meat along the way to provide a bit of meat, and not just gravy, with their meals. One more reason to not return when her contract ended. Problem was, she had no idea what to do next.

The battle raged. The two sides were fairly evenly matched, and neither was making much progress. Eothen fought well, and so did Orin; but at the end of the day, neither had taken – or lost – one inch of territory. Eothen trudged back to her tent and cleaned Orin's wounds, gave him a good rubdown and a bowl of mash; then she did the same for herself. She cleaned her weapons and checked them for flaws, cleaned her armor and repaired any damage; she re-stocked her quiver of arrows. She would need to make more arrows before the end of this campaign, but first she needed dinner.

"I see ye lived," said Rozem when Eothen got to him in the line. "I be right glad."

"Me too," said Eothen. "Not even a decent injury that might get me to the chirurgeon's tent instead of my own."

"Aye, but ye be glad of that, too," laughed Rozem.

"As much as I'd like to just sleep for awhile, you're right, I'm glad!" said Eothen.

She took her share of venison – Rozem had managed to get a deer, as had another of the auxiliary crew – so there was enough meat to go around. She had a slab of meat covered in that same rich gravy from breakfast, some mashed up root vegetable and a thick slice of crusty bread, all with plenty of gravy. She took her meal and her cup of kava and went back to her tent to eat; some of the troupe members ate together in the open area around the auxiliary camp, but she preferred to eat alone. She was a solitary sort; she had friends, like Rozem, but few of them. She didn't want to make many of them, since she was likely to lose them all – if not by her own death, by theirs. So she sat on the ground by the small fire in front of her tent and ate her dinner. It was delicious. When she was finished, she drank the rest of the kava and got to work making arrows. When she couldn't keep her eyes open anymore, she slept – only to do it all again the next day.