Arendelle camp

Berg had just finished his dinner when messenger arrived. The young soldier saluted by the entrance to the tent and said:

"Sir, we've made contact with First Corps and general Simani. He ask whether he's needed and where."

"Ebbe?" Well, took him long enough, Berg thought with a frown. He must be mightily pissed that he missed pretty much the entire Tampani campaign.

Messenger gave the general a folded letter and Berg smiled, reading. Ebbe Simani was annoyed that he couldn't get here any faster.

"Well, seems like we've got an ample candidate for Weasel catching."

The small, few hundred strong group which had managed to escape what soldiers were calling the Battle of Tampani was still on the run from the Royal Army, and what advantage Arendellans had in morale and physical state, Weasels were making up for with sheer determination. The Fourth Corps' small numbers and the fact that Jens and Rasmus took most of the horses was hurting them now, as they couldn't catch up with them with sufficient numbers to perform any successful attack, and Weasels didn't feel like stopping, even though they must've been exhausted now. It wasn't a huge problem at the moment, but in a few days they'd reach populated areas and a few hundred starving, despaired men falling on a small town was not an image Berg would like to see in flesh.

Now, however, with Simani and First Corps' love affair with cavalry, something could be done about this. Berg stood up and grabbed paper and pen from his desk, then quickly sketched the situation for Ebbe and asked if the general could do some Weasel hunt for him. He then gave the message to the runner.

"That's to be in general's hands around yesterday."

"On my way, sir.", the soldier answered and sped out of the tent.

Alone again, Berg put out the map and added small marks to represent First Corps and estimated position of Weasel runaways. This taken care of, he finished drinking his we-might-as-well-call-it-tea, known also as Supplies-just-don't-care-do-they?, and frowned in disgust. Cold, it tasted even worse. At least when it was nearly boiling, the tongue didn't feel this… whatever was in it.

Leaving the atrocious drink in his tent, he came out for a small walk. The Arendelle army had left the bottom of the Stone Streams and moved to the top of them, on the High Table, giving everyone an amazing view of the mountains, made even better by the weather, which finally stabilized into something pleasant, with snow creaking under people's feet and temperature neither bone-freezing cold nor ice-melting warm. There were few clouds in the sky, and none was supposed to bring rain or snowfall anytime soon. Generally, the weather seemed to be in as good a mood as people. Of course, the reasons for this were rather different. Ever since the news of Weasels' crushing defeat had reached the camp, people had been in state of half-relaxed, almost party attitude, and everyone seemed to think that the war is close to being over. After all, haven't they crushed two Weselton armies and killed their generals? What was there left that the Weasels could throw at them?

Berg stopped by the edge of the camp, looking at flat plateau of High Table stretching before him. He didn't share his subordinates' good mood. Windsor and Potter might be dead, but there was still general Carter, and one would be fool to assume that the man would let himself be pinned down as finely as those two had. Moreover, even if he went against Arendellans and lost, what next? Invasion of Weselton? That was what Bjorn, Rasmus and Jens were thinking about in the beginning, but the Queen had forbidden them from going beyond the High Table. On the other hand, what could she do? Cut off their supplies? The three corps could support themselves on Weselton. Send Ebbe and Hakan to catch them? The latter's marines were no land fighters, and the former alone didn't have the numbers, not to mention that Her Majesty clearly wished to avoid a civil war. So the plan was doable… and yet Berg felt unsure.

Two months back, we were all rookies when it comes to actual experience in war, he thought. Now we're all veterans, and the war isn't glorious thing at all. It's mud, it's starving, it's hiding in the shadows, it's brutal combat where more depends on luck than on skill… Berg smiled sourly, remembering the enthusiasm with which they had been making their plans a month or two ago. He wondered if Jens and Kristiani saw how naïve they had all been back then. Before this war broke out, they were planning a great conquest. Now Berg could see realistically that it was a daydream. It would probably end with burning villages, slaughtered civilians and war of attrition that would hold Arendellan forces in tight lock for a long time. Berg had been on one side of guerrilla war once, and there was little on High Table to support such form of fight. He wasn't particularly eager to see how this looks from the side being attacked, and in environment that would favour guerrillas.

He took a deep breath, summing it all up in his head. So, we get as far as to the end of High Table. And then we stop, just as the Queen had ordered. And… well, we leave it to the diplomats, I think. We have them for some reason, after all.

Another sour smile appeared on his face as he turned back from the vista and walked back towards his tent. I wonder if Rasmus and Jens see things the same way I do now, he thought. I dearly hope they do.

High Table

Vincent Meyers pressed his hand to his stomach, trying to silence it when it rumbled again. He swallowed. He hadn't had anything to eat for the last four days and even before that, he hadn't eaten all that much. He could feel energy evaporating from him as he was trying to get to his own lines.
He wasn't sure if he could get to his own lines.

He looked around, at the giant stretch of land that was the High Table plateau, hoping that he would see some of his fellow scouts. There were none and Meyers sighed, falling to the ground on his back, cursing when crossbow pressed at it and looking accusingly towards the sun, shining brightly, happily and with no care in the world. He didn't have any food. He didn't have anything to heat ice he was eating for water. He didn't feel particularly inclined to eat his crossbow bolts, and only some deeply-ingrained feeling of being a soldier had stopped him so far from abandoning his weapon. The crossbow was growing steadily heavier for him, though. Perhaps I should leave it?, Meyers asked the sun.

It didn't answer him. Vincent shook his head and sat, wincing, before he could fall asleep. He feared he wouldn't wake up. He was starving, alone, and he felt as if he had been going in circles for the last two days. No, that's impossible, he told himself. I'm a scout. I can do better than going in circles.
It didn't stop his suspicions from growing. He stood up and took a moment to take his shaking legs back under control, then looked around. The plateau looked identical in whichever direction he was looking, and he stared at the mountains for a moment, trying to discern whether that were the ones he should go towards. Probably… or were those the ones he was running away from? Maybe…

For some time, he was just standing there, paralysed with indecision. Should I go there? Should I go back? Or perhaps it's a completely wrong mountain range and I'm going towards the North Pole?

The thought made him smile for some reason. His chuckle quickly turned into hysterical laughter and he fell to the ground again, unable to stop and unable to get back up, just laughing, curling on the floor, holding his stomach and laughing, and laughing, and he didn't even know what was so funny. I'm so dead!, he told himself, shaking with laughter. What does it matter which way I go? I either make it to our lines, surrender to merchies or die of hunger! What's the difference?

He almost managed to calm himself down when he saw the snow that got in his hood and another spasm of laughter turned into hysteria. Oh, and I've been drinking ice for the last days. Dear, I must've caught like twenty different diseases by now! Ha! Why care in which direction I'm going? I'll die before I reach anything! He grabbed his hurting stomach stronger and gasped for air, trying to calm down, but he just couldn't stop or control the spasm or think. I'm dead, I'm dead, what's the difference? I could just die of laughter here!

He finally managed to calm down and turned on his back, wincing as he felt the crossbow under his back. Great, he told himself. If I wasn't exhausted then, I definitely am now. What took me?

He slowly sat again, rubbing his forehead with snow-covered gloves. At least he wasn't freezing… yet. But what good would this do when he had no idea where he was, and he had no idea whether the direction he was going in was the right one? He took a breath and looked back up. I was right, it doesn't really matter. I either live in Weselton, live as a prisoner of war, die by merchies' hand or die by illness, or cold, or hunger, or exhaustion… Yeah, dying was the most probable outcome. He winced to himself. I might just as well toss a coin and decide by this. Oh, wait. I don't have a coin… He chuckled again and then quickly covered his mouth with his hand, waiting for another attack of hysteria. It didn't come, though. He breathed deeply and stood up, looking at the mountain range he was going towards. He could simply continue in this direction and let the luck decide his fate.

It wasn't as if he had any other option.

At least the snow isn't deep, he decided a few hours later as the sun was slowly going down. It would disappear behind the mountain range he was going towards, so he was probably heading in the right direction. Or was he? The sun was setting on the… Wait. He stopped and rubbed his forehead again. The sun was setting on the west, right? Or was it east? And which direction did he plan to go in, anyway?

Ah, I don't care, he decided after a moment and started to walk again. The sun would set soon, so he had to find some hiding… or should he? Would he actually wake up after this time, or would the thaw the next spring reveal his frozen remains? Or perhaps there'd be no thaw and he'd remain buried there forever? He sighed and kept on walking.

When the sun touched the mountaintop, he was staggering rather than walking. Half-blinded by the sun, he wondered whether he was actually moving forward, or was he just making a few steps, then a few steps back, or perhaps he had turned around and didn't notice? He felt like stopping, but the only thing he was sure of was that he couldn't stop. If he stopped, he'd fall. If he fell, he'd die. No, he couldn't stop walking. Or staggering. Or whatever he was doing right now…

It took his exhausted mind a while before he registered a sound that, when he thought about it, must've been there for some time already. It took him even more to process it and realized that it's the sound of horse hooves hitting the snow and rock beneath it. And finally, it took him even more to connect the dots and figure it's someone riding a horse and coming in his direction, and that this someone could be either merchies or Weseltonians. He rose his head, shielding his face from the sun and narrowing his eyes. The three figures on top of the horses that were moving towards him were black silhouettes against white and golden sunset. When they moved closer, he blinked a few times. Someone was speaking.

"…hear me? You're not a deserter, are you?"

Deserter? No, no… He shook his head weakly, trying to see the face, but it seemed like black shadow in the blinding light of setting sun.

"So what are you doing here? You're one of ours, right? Are you from general Windsor's army? What happened to it?"

He nodded again. Yes, he was from general Windsor's army… or was he from Potter's? He thought for a moment. Did it matter? What was the man asking about again? Is Meyers one of theirs? Is he? Is he not? He was from Weselton scouts. He was from captain's force. He was… he was…

"Hey, are you alright? Frank, grab him, I think he'll faint here any moment now… Hey scout! Listen to me. Look at me. Why are you here? What happened? Where's our army?"

Frank. Frank. It wasn't merchie name. It was Weseltonian name. So this are Weseltonians. He had actually been going in the right direction. He made it… He made it? He felt like laughing again, but then his legs gave up under him and he fell to the ground. Something grabbed him and there was a face in front of him, but it was blurred.

"Scout, report. What happened to our army?"

Report. Yes. Yes. Report. What did he have to report?

"There… there is no army any more…", he said and let the darkness take him.

Lieutenant George Gardner rode into the camp, glancing behind at the man in scout uniform strapped to the saddle. After giving this ominous bit of information, the man fainted, so George left his two companions to finish the patrol and returned with him to the camp. The scout certainly needed a healer.

The captain Gardner winded up serving under walked out and looked at him curiously.

"Where's the rest of your group? Why are you back already?"

Gardner nudged Traveller to turn so that the man could see the scout.

"We've found him.", he said. "He needs medical care, and I think you'd like to hear what he's saying, sir."

The captain's eyes widened as he walked closer.

"Is he…? George, he looks dead to me."

"Oh?" Gardner jumped down from Traveller's back. The scout hadn't die on the way here, had he? Cavalier checked his breath and pulse. "No, he's alive."

"Good. You're right. Take him to the doctor."

George nodded and started untying the line that held the man in the saddle. The scout slid down and Gardner grabbed him, then nodded to one of the servants who cared fom the horses. The boy took Traveller's rains and walked away with the horse, while Gardner started to go towards doctor's small cart. The scout was alarmingly easy to carry.

"What did he say?", the captain asked, walking next to him.

"I'm not sure if you want it to be public, sir.", George told him, looking around.

The party that had set out to see what's going on in the High Table had stopped for the night. People were setting up small tents and putting the oiled fabric "floors" so that the snow wouldn't get in. It wasn't perfect, of course, but it would have to do. Some had managed to get a place on supply carts, or bribed the drivers so that they'd keep place for them. Gardner wished he could do this, but it's been ages since he had any money with him.

People were glancing at him and the man he was carrying with curiosity as he walked past them towards the doctor's cart. The healer was sitting on the edge of it, smoking a pipe, but put it away from his mouth when he noticed George and the captain.

"What is… who's that?"

"Scout from Windsor's army.", George told him. "We've found him an hour ago."

The doctor nodded, then blew his pipe and used its heat to light up an oil lamp in the cart.

"Alright, give me a moment…" he put the pipe away and pulled out a man-sized mat which he then stretched on the wooden floor. "Give him here…"

Two cavalrymen put the man inside and Gardner gently took the crossbow off the scout's back. The doctor rolled the man to see his face and started to unbutton his jacket, while his assistant started to pull out various blankets and heat the water. George and his captain left the tent not to take space and Gardner walked to Traveler.

Having taken care of the horse, he navigated his way in the dark back to the cart. The doctor was smoking pipe again, looking inside.

"How is he?", he called.

"Mostly starved and exhausted.", the man told him. "I've managed to make him drink some hot tea, but now he's sleeping. I'm not sure when he'll wake up."

"But you're sure he will wake up?"

"Fairly sure, yes. He's feverish, but he should survive this, and he has no frostbite, or at least nothing serious. It's mostly exhaustion that I'm worried about, this and any illnesses he might've caught in this snow."

George nodded, said goodnight and went back to the tent he shared with two other people. He was worried. 'There is no army anymore'. There were two Weselton corps out there. Was one of them wiped out? Then why hadn't the scout go to another, but spend what must've been days trying to get here? Then were both of them destroyed? Did Arendelle actually win this campaign? The thought sent a shiver down his spine.

You better wake up soon, he told the sleeping scout, because we're going into situation we know absolutely nothing about.

Arendelle camp

The Second and Third Corps hadn't returned the way they came, by the High Table and Tampani, but had taken a shortcut and walked through the rubble in the mouth of the trail, which was why they were already by the Streams. Obviously, everyone was happy to see them arrive, and they, in turn, were happy to share the news of the battle. In fact, Berg suspected that this was the reason why Jens and Rasmus had climbed all the way to his tent and were now sharing a bottle of well-hidden whiskey by the table and single lit lamp.

"So Simani will clean up this mess with the escapees?", Kristiani asked and then chuckled. "Oh, dear, you know he'll be just insufferable for years now?"

"I can imagine.", Jens said and took a sip. He swallowed and added. "I'm sure, though, that our soldiers will repay in kind by spending years pointing out to his men that they were late."

"Yay for inter-corps rivalry!", Berg declared, rising his glass in mock toast. The others joined and glass rang. They drank and Kristiani refilled his glass before asking:

"And what do we do now? I assume taking all High Table in the Queen's name would be in order?"

"Yes, that would be a good idea.", Berg told him, wondering whether to breach the subject of not invading Weselton. "If we get as far as to Rollinson Gate, there's no way they'd surprise us like this again."

"Why stop at Rollinson Gate?", Kristiani asked. "Weren't we talking about going further? Come on, people, Weaseltown's waiting!"

It seems I'll have to talk about it, Berg thought, looking into his own glass. He rose his head and said:

"You know, for now let's see if we'll make it to the Rollinson Gate. Weasels still have general Carter, and he might be problematic."

Rasmus rolled his eyes.

"Yeah. Because if we've managed to destroy two armies, the third one will be a huge problem." He took another sip and added, "Not to mention that now we have Simani who's probably itching to get into combat."

Berg sighed inwardly. I'll have to find some way to convince him…

Unexpectedly, Jens rushed to his aid.

"I'd actually agree with Bjorn on that one, Rasmus. Little steps. First let's get to the Rollinson gate, then we'll see what the situation is. Perhaps the diplomats will work out a solution first. And mind, the Queen had ordered us to stop by the end of the High Table - which is Rollinson gate."

Kristiani sighed.

"Alright, alright, let it be. For now." He looked up. "But look, we've agreed that Weselton's dangerous. Won't it be doubly so now, even if the peace treaty is signed?"

"Perhaps.", Berg said. "But I doubt the conquest of Weselton would be easy, and did you think whether we could keep it? Her Majesty sure won't support us if she has already decided where should our offensive stop."

"You know, a month back you were talking quite the opposite thing.", Rasmus noted sourly, pointing at Berg and leaning closer. "You said something along the lines of 'she'll have to agree' and 'we'll convince her'. Now look, we're freakin' saviours of this country! I bet you she'll throw a huge-ass party in our honour back in Arendelle! Don't you think we've actually gotten enough power to convince her?"

"Now she won't listen to us because she knows what we've been scheming. She has known for some time already.", Berg told him. "She'll throw a party with one hand, but keep a dagger in the other."

Kristiani snorted.

"Well, she wouldn't know if somebody didn't prove too soft-hearted to kill one man when he had a chance!"

Berg jumped to his feet, rage boiling with him, and leaned to Rasmus.

"Don't you dare-!"

"You want everyone to hear?!", Jens snapped. He glared at Berg, then look at Rasmus. "And what the hell what this supposed to be?!"

Right. Right. Berg took a deep breath, closing his eyes and calming down. He sat back and opened his eyes. Rasmus was staring in his glass.

"Oh… Damn it, Bjorn. I'm sorry. I think I'm getting drunk."

"Looks like it.", Berg growled quietly. Olafsen put his glass on the table.

"Yeah, it's about time we stopped drinking. But look, Rasmus, it's true. Now we're heroes, but whatever led to the situation where Her Majesty knows about our plan, the fact is, we're one false move from treason accusation."

"Sure, but she won't execute people who saved her country. Imagine how badly this would look."

"I never said she'll make it a public thing.", Rasmus noted. "Remember what happened to last baron Rødaggry after Hakan worked out that the man's selling weapons to pirates?"

"Not really.", Berg told him. "I only know they couldn't hang him for some reason."

"His sister was married to the new-at-the-time Chancellor. He disappeared on the sea. Or so it seemed." He sighed. "And that was during the last king's rule. I'm pretty sure Agdar told his daughter about this way of solving problems."

"And I'm pretty sure Her Majesty wouldn't do this.", Kristiani said. "She doesn't seem like this kind of a person to me."

"Perhaps. But Hakan Madsen? Does he seem like this kind of a person to you? Because I'm pretty sure he didn't tell Agdar what happened to Rødaggry."

There was silence for a moment and then Rasmus nodded sourly.

"Alright. I see it. In the eyes of the Queen, we're almost-traitors, and we better behave or else." He stood up, leaving the glass. "And on this cheerful note, I'll leave you and go to sober up. Goodnight!"

"Goodnight.", Jens told him. Bjorn nodded and Kristiani left.

"Well", Olafsen murmured, looking at the glass. "So alcohol doesn't make man feel better after all."

"Apparently.", Berg agreed. "You think it'd be unprofessional if I pulled out this bottle of vodka I have and we drank ourselves into unconsciousness?"

"Very." Jens agreed. "Bring it on."

High Table

"Hey. You seem to be doing better already."

Vincent opened his eyes and blinked a few times. It was warm and pleasant, and somebody with his native accent was talking to him. He smiled a bit and then looked around. It was early morning and he was in some cart. There was a man sitting on the bench on the right, smoking a pipe of nice sweet smell.

"Uhm, where…?"

"Seventh Cavalry Regiment, First Division, Third Corps, Weselton Army. Currently camping on the High Table. Specifically, you're in doctor's - that is, my - cart." The man put his pipe away. "I'm Jethro Deary. Want any food?"

Vincent nodded eagerly.

"Absolutely."

Deary helped him to sit and gave Vincent a steaming hot bowl of soup. Meyers ate all and looked at the man.

"Can I have more, please?"

"Whoa, people usually don't like my cooking this much." The doctor smiled sourly. "Sorry, but perhaps later. If you eat too much after starving, you'll end up vomiting most of it."

"Uh. No, then perhaps I'll wait…"

"Good. Tell me, what's your name?"

"Uhm, sergeant Vincent Meyers. Scout Company, Second Corps."

"Right. Okay, Meyers, wait for me here. The major wanted to know when you wake up. He wants to hear what happened to First and Second Corps. You were rather ominous about it."

"Right, of course." Meyers didn't mind. He felt as if he had never been in such a comfortable place in his life.

The major arrived a moment later. He was a huge man with a moustache that would put a broom to shame.

"Good morning… Meyers, is it?" Vincent nodded. "Alright, I've got a few questions for you."

The 'few questions' stretched well into midmorning, and by the end Meyers felt like someone took his brain and squeezed all knowledge out of it. The major wanted to know everything about the campaign, from what was happening, through the morale and the final battle, to Meyers' estimate of merchies' strength and disposition. Finally, Deary stepped in.

"He still needs rest, major."

Meyers heard this with relief. He was feeling sleepy again.

"Alright. I already know what I have to." The major nodded to the doctor and turned back to Vincent. "That's it, sergeant. Rest."

"Yes, sir." Meyers was more than happy to comply. The major left and Vincent heard him speaking to somebody.

"We're going back. There's no point going into the maw of Arendelle army, and general Carter must hear about this."

We're going home. Good. Meyers slid down on the floor…

When Deary came to ask if the scout wants to eat something, he found him asleep again.