Northern Sea

Anna shook her head and tried to open her eyes. It was awfully stuffy and hot. She felt as if she had her head in some bag. She finally managed to open her eyes and noticed the pattern of woven fabric just in front of her them. Ah, so that's why it's so hot in here. She had to be lying under her quilt. She tried to take it off her with her hands, but few things registered.

First, she wasn't lying in her bed - she was actually sitting, leaning on the wooden wall. Second, she didn't have her sleeping dress on. Third, everything seemed to swing left and right, as if… as if she was on a ship?

And fourth, her hands were tied behind her back.

Oh, dear. Was she kidnapped?

"Did she wake up?", she heard the voice with the foreign accent to the left. She immediately started to pretend being asleep, even going as far as snoring loudly.

"Nah, you hear her.", answered another, much more bored voice. "Give it a rest, Shorty. What's the difference?"

"Dunno, maybe we should give her something to drink or eat?", the man called Shorty answered in irritated tone.

As a matter of fact, Anna would like to eat or drink something. All she could taste in her mouth was salt. Or saltwater. She heard the creaking of wood and flapping of sails she came to associate with port, ships and her parent's death. I'm on a ship, she realized clearly. Why am I on a ship? I must've been kidnapped. Why? And by who?

"If she'll be hungry or thirsty, she'll just start screaming like royalty.", said Bored.

Anna had no intention of announcing herself being awake, so she stayed silent, hoping to hear something.

"Alright.", said Shorty. "But don't blame me if cap'n will get all pissed off at us when she starts 'screaming like royalty'."

She finally recognized the accent as that of Confederates who arrived at Elsa's coronation. It weren't the same people, of course - especially as the Confederate envoy was a woman - but they sure were from the same country.

"He won't.", said Bored. "And if he will, I won't get in his way. You hungry?"

Yes, thought Anna.

"You're asking me or the princess?"

"You, idiot."

"Well, I am."

"So bring me a sandwich when you'll be going for food."

Shorty snorted and Anna heard the sounds of creaking wood, going silent.

Well, I didn't learn much from that, she noted with a sour smile.

East of North Mountain, Arendelle

The camp was nearly invisible unless one came down into the valley. High in the mountains, the layer of snow was nearly two meters high. Doctrine of Arendelle advised that instead of digging passages, soldiers should dig tunnels in the snow. That's what they did. Their tents, the only parts of the camp sticking out of the snow, were painted white with splashes of light grey, masquerading them nearly perfectly. The only thing that could betray somebody's presence here were thin trickles of transparent smoke rising above the tents once a day, but even if the sight of them would bring somebody to the edge of the valley, that person would probably considered it some sort of optical illusion. Moreover, the Third Corps of Arendelle Army was primarily infantry and so there was no need for a corral for more than a few horses.

A scout in white was making his way back to the camp, going downhill. He already exchanged greetings with two other scouts who were watching his approach to the camp, and now he was mostly dreaming about sitting in warm, heated tent and drinking a mug of tea. He'd been on the patrol for the last four days and he had enough of cold food and even colder cot. Of course, he'd have to report to the general first, and with information he brought, his dream was far removed in time.

He exchanged salutes with watchmen in the entrance to the tunnel leading into the camp. They recognized him and the man passed quickly. Inside, he took off the hood of his uniform and sped up a bit to make his imaginary heated tent and a tea a reality a bit faster. Tunnels were marked at the intersections with patterns of colorful paint on the ice, which didn't stop many soldiers from getting lost in barely lit passages. The man remembered the way quite clearly, though, and a few moments later he announced himself to the general.

"So you're saying Weasels are moving in strength?", said general Jens Olafsen some time later and bit his lip.

"Yes, sir.", the scout agreed. "They divided their corps into two divisions and are moving by this… and this path."

The general nodded, tracing the paths shown by the scout with his finger. The ways Weseltonians had chosen for their army weren't much of a surprise - those two were the largest and widest passages through the Broken Back. They were still both on the Weasels' side of the mountains, leading to the valley known as the High Table (who invented that names, anyway?), which was regarded as the border between the two countries. Where exactly did the line go, was rather unclear - Arendelle cartographers considered High Table to be Arendelle territory entirely, while exact opposite was true for the Weseltonian mapmakers.

The most important thing, though, was the net of small passages, the Stone Streams, that connected High Table with the valley Arendellans were in right now. That was the way Weselton could invade Arendelle if they put their minds to it.

So, Olafsen though, what are the chances the Weasel's will stop on High Table? He agreed with Kristiani and Berg when they discussed the matter weeks ago. Not likely.

"Well, so Weasels finally made their move.", he said out loud and looked at the scout. "Is there anything else?"

"They don't have any field guns with them, sir. That's all."

"Well, that's nice. Good job, soldier. Dismissed."

Scout exited the tent and Olafsen looked at the rest of his commanders.

"You've heard the numbers, gentlemen. What are the chances of us stopping them, you think?"

"Depends, sir", said one of the colonels. "If we stay here, we're pretty much frozen fish with the numbers they brought. We can stop them in the Streams, though."

Others murmured agreement. Olafsen agreed as well. While both sides had one corps in this area, Weselton corps were nearly twice as huge as their Arendellan counterparts, making the ratio of soldiers 2:1 in favour of Weasels. On the other hand, in Stone Streams even tiny army could hold - and had held, in old times when Arendelle was part of Empire of the North - much greater forces. That's what Olafsen was counting for.

"Great, gentlemen. Anybody not in favor of this plan?"

They all shook their heads.

"Great.", general repeated. "So, let's get down to real planning. We've got four days before they enter High Table, and I want to use them the best we can."

It was already evening coming when the colonels left with plans in their hands and instructions started to be passed. Olafsen took a cup of tea from his valet - he had no aide - sat in his folded chair and started to worry.

The plan he, Bjorn and Rasmus made weeks ago presumed that the three corps would have time for an initial strike, a raid that would weaken Weselton infrastructure by the mountains, crippling their army's capabilities. Now, however, it seemed as if their worries were better founded than Olafsen imagined. The Weasel's attack wasn't some sort of dangerous possibility. It was very much an impending fact.

He looked at the calendar standing at the table. Rasmus and Berg should had made their moves by now and they were probably moving to the places they planned for themselves in the secret session the three generals had. The problem was, the plan was no longer valid and Olafsen could use reinforcements.

Dear, I hope they did start to move, he thought, putting out a sheet of paper. In many ways, their mission was harder than his - he was stationed in vicinity of this valley by his standing orders. The only thing he had to do was to invent "surprise training" and move the soldiers further up the mountains. His colonels and majors weren't even aware that there's some scheme going on.

Well, it didn't matter anyway. The schemers' worst fears were starting to prove true.

He finished writing the messages and rang a bell. Valet arrived moment later.

"I need two messengers", he told him. A while later he explained to two man which paths should they take and the pair left for the corral. General Olafsen, meanwhile, continued to worry.

Stone Streams

Corporal Vincent Meyers felt like cursing. He was well-bred sailor boy, scion of sailor families on both his mother's and father's side. What madness stroke him to apply to the Army? And what madness stroke the high command, for that matter?

Oh, sure. After the merchies' queen proven to have some magic powers - he didn't doubt them, he just considered the reports way overblown - everybody started to fret and fear as if she already stood by the gates of Port Royal. And then somebody came up with this madness. "Check out if Arendellans aren't planning something". Sure. As if merchies were planning anything other than business. Corona, as Vincent heard, approached it like any sane person should, just making the deal when they saw it.

And as if one madness wasn't enough, there was another, because why not? "Check out if they aren't planning something, but stay on our side of the border." What was that supposed to mean? How were they supposed to do the scouting if they couldn't go anywhere where they could scout? And what did one consider a border, anyway? Scout captain just shrugged and said his map shows the border to be on the east of Hight Table, by the Stone Streams, while general Potter seemed close to a seizure because merchies considered the border to be on the west of High Table. And how was he fretting about it!

Madness! Pure madness!

With that thought, Meyers slid down a particularly icy path and stopped behind a large stone an old avalanche had had to bring here. Whatever high-ups said, neither him nor his comrades were fools. You wanted to have data? Well, sorry, buddy. You had to cross the border.

He looked out over the stone and whistled voicelessly. Private Jones was right when he said those moulds looked suspicious. They were actually tents, buried nearly completely in snow. Now it was clear. There were dozens of men - if not hundreds - folding them, putting together, cleaning and doing all the things one associated with disassembling a camp.

All right. So one madness was justified. Merchies were sitting almost at the border. And now they were moving. Only where?

This thought was stopped halfway when Meyers noticed a flash of white. Shaped like the riverbeds, Streams held snow poorly - most of it was sliding down, leaving the bare rock coated in translucent ice. For once, Meyers was grateful for his gray uniform. White uniforms merchie scouts wore made them stand out in the Streams like those red Army uniforms in… well, everywhere. Meyers narrowed his eyes, catching the sight of the scout once again. The man in the hood was moving up the Stream, carefully picking his way. Once in a while, he stopped, pulled out a small notebook and a fountain pen, looked around and noted something.

Vincent recognized the action for what it was, for he did it many times in the last days. The merchie scout was finding a way for the entire army.

Meyers whistled voicelessly again and started to pull back up. So the merchies weren't going back to their shops - they were actually going up, probably even to the High Table.

That's not good, he thought, carefully retreating.

On the way to Arendelle city

Major Andersen sat in front of his tent. It wasn't a huge, bulky permanent version the army used when camping on manuevres. It was small travelling version in which one couldn't count on much comfort and in which one couldn't even stand up. Andreas, then, preferred to sit in front of his tent and observe the camp life.

It was oddly derelict, but major guess that's normal with the camp of sick and injured. Those who were injured in the avalanche moved out first, without even folding their permanent tents. General Berg ordered so, putting Andreas in command of the train and promising he'll follow him as soon as he'll finish putting down the camp.

Andersen was quite worried, to be honest. Corps' master healer had reported a lack of certain herbs he needed and the major sent a few man on horseback to see if general's component of the army has anything in store. Only the men couldn't find general Berg anywhere. It was two days by now.
Stop it, he told himself. Perhaps he simply took a different way?

Andreas changed his position a bit so that his legs wouldn't go stiff and shot a glance towards yet another worrying element. When Her Majesty went to the capital, she left the second snow horse with the army. The creature was freaking everybody out, even though it proved extremely helpful. It seemed that it could pull any weight if it was fastened properly. Andreas had to cut master healer's dreams of making the snow horse pull all of the carts in the train short, because it was already worrying for everybody to see it pull two with less emotion or visible effort than a clock. People felt a bit as if it was a demon in hiding, ready to leap at them the moment they felt safe around it.

Major rose when he heard somebody's surprised voice. A short trip took him to another tent and an animal that was standing in front of it.
It was a reindeer. Andreas blinked and asked the man next to him:

"Isn't that quartermaster's steed?"

"Uhm, it might be, sir."

The animal looked at them and approached Andreas. It looked at him and major would swear it was begging him for something. Its eyes looked oddly intelligent.

What the hell. He already saw snow creatures, flying avalanches and entire country freezing in summer. Why not intelligent animals? He pointed the reindeer to Mikkeli's tent. The animal, to his dismay, licked him and went there, then slid in.

"Uhm… sir, should we let it be inside?"

"You want to try to pull it out?"

South of the North Mountain

The army was making its pace quickly and silently through the falling night. Only the necessities were taken, as well as dozens of stored muskets and powder. Forced march was difficult, but not as difficult as it had been earlier, when they were still over the snow line.

General Berg was riding at the back of the column and listening to a major that filled in Kai's position.

"…Andersen's men were seen, sir. It seems to me they are looking for us."

"Not a big problem", general answered. "By tomorrow's morning we'll be way out of the range they'd consider looking in."

"If you say so, sir."

"I do. Is there anything else?"

"No, sir."

"Then thank you."

When the man moved away, general scolded himself in his mind. He had to admit it, he missed Kai and his approach to the job. Perhaps it was because of his aristocratic origins, but the boy had much less of this annoying regard one should reserve for saints only. And dear, how Berg missed that.

He wanted to brood a bit more, but a mounted man came to him and saluted in his saddle.

"Sir, there's a messenger from general Olafsen."

"Oh? What is it?"

A moment later a tired man on horseback arrived and saluted. General saluted back.

"What is it?"

"Sir, general Olafsen…", man took a deep breath and started again. "Sir, general Olafsen sends his regards. His scouts report seeing Weselton's military activity in the High Table valley and general worries that this might be beginning of war. There's more information in the message, sir."

"Alright.", Berg tried to keep his cool when taking the message from the man. "Dismissed. Soldier, find him something to eat and drink."

"Thank you, sir."

"Yes, sir."

Two man moved away and Berg opened the envelope. He took a lamp fastened to the saddle and read the message, growing more and more worried. Their plan was coming apart.

You knew this could happen, he reminded himself. Remember that phrase? No plan survives the first contact with enemy? Well, apparently some don't live even this long.

He only hoped that Rasmus had managed to leave the capital, and that he'd be in place before all the shit went down of Jens' head.

Stone Streams

When Meyers looked at the Streams two days later, they looked much more different. What then was a net of open roads was now a giant bottleneck with a cork made of soldiers. It looked huge, scary and unpassable.

Be professional, man, he scolded himself. Bet the captain won't accept those three words as your entire report. So Vincent started to count and observe as much as he could, remembering the positions, counting the numbers and estimating the forces. It was actually impossible to do it fully - merchies closed the Streams shut in the middle of them and it was anyone's guess how many soldiers did they have behind front line of defenses.

What were the merchies doing, anyway? They just decided to close the Streams… because what? Because they were afraid that Weseltonians were going to do what, invade them?

Well, it might make some sense for merchies, Vincent admitted. After all, Weseltonians came with entire corps and made camp on the disputed territory. Why did general stop fretting about it was anyone's guess as well. Meyers suspected it was more comfortable for him to set tent on flat ground than on the mountain slope.

He scanned the area once again, making sure he remembered everything. Then he prepared himself to go back…

A crossbow bolt took him by surprise, slashing his left arm open. He turned frantically, trying to find the shooter. There he was, on the top of the "riverbed"! Vincent rose his own crossbow…

Another bolt hit him in his forearm from the back, throwing the crossbow out of his hands. Screw it, Vincent decided, abandoning the weapon and starting to run back up. It was no time for stealth.

It was half an hour of ducking, fear and sharp shifts of his course, full of hope that merchie regulars won't open musket fire at him. By the time he finally made it to Weselton outpost, he felt nearly dead. He made it out of the Streams alive only because of his thick jacket that absorbed most of the bolts. The healer described him as looking as a needle pillow.

Arendellans considered this incident a foiled pre-battle scouting on Weasel's side.

Weseltonians considered this incident the opening shots of war on merchie's side.

Both sides started to arm up, preparing for the other one to come to them.