Chapter 15: The Dream, Flickering in the Firelight

Camp of the Band of the Falcon

Two stretchers, several soldiers forming a wedge and an honor guard around them, made their way quickly toward the camp of the Falcons, drawing the rapidly increasing attention of those even now still awakening.

"Make way!" Casca cried out. "We need to get them to the medics quickly!"

"There'll be time to gawk later!" Judeau added. "Give them some space!"

Even still, as the news spread through the camps, a crowd began to gather, then follow. "Now what the hell happened to them?" Corkus said, his tone one that tried to be of vague curiosity even as his expression failed to conceal the true extent of it. "You run into a patrol or something while they were searching for you?"

Judeau shook his head. "Patrol doesn't even cover it. They slew 150 men between them last night!"

Guts tried to sit up as those around Judeau began to gasp and mutter, struggling to do so. "C'mon. I appreciate the concern, but I'll just walk now."

Casca put a hand on Guts' shoulder and pushed him back into the stretcher. "No," she said firmly. "Not until the medics can pull all the arrow and bolt heads out of your body."

"Aw, come on!" Guts said. "I'm fine! You're just exaggerating. Daniel threw himself in front of me more often than not! Check on him first!"

"You'll both be checked on when we get to the tent!" Casca said with a sigh of exasperation. "Just relax for a minute, will you?"

She shook her head as the medic tent came into view, Harmon stepping out to meet them. "This is ridiculous." Guts grumbled as he disappeared into the tent, Daniel following after him.

The tent filled with most of the command staff that was still there along with Anna and Gaston, those Falcons not so close to either wounded man gawking from outside the tent as Harmon and his assistant began their work. Those that could see past the tent flap saw the process of retrieving arrow and bolt heads and stitching up the wounds commence. And keep going. And going. After the first hour, people began to make their way to other duties in the camp. Only the most dedicated, and the most worried, continued their vigil as the day dragged on.

All the while, Guts and Daniel were a study of contrasts. Daniel was largely silent, wincing as arrowheads emerged from wounds or when the sewing needle hit a particularly sensitive spot. Otherwise, he closed his eyes, seemingly in contemplation.

Guts, on the other hand, was more vocal. "Ow. Ow. Ow! Damn it, man, be careful! I'm not some ragdoll to poke and prod in."

"Stop struggling," Harmon said firmly. "It'll make the stitchwork sloppy and the wounds worse. Frankly, I'm surprised you haven't passed out at this point."

Guts, even with his grumbling continuing, obliged, and the operation was finally finished as the sun began to hit its peak, both men bandaged heavily. "Well, that's both of them sorted, I believe," Harmon said with a sigh.

"So, how are they, then?" Rickert asked. "They'll live, right?"

Harmon nodded. "They will, though it was a close thing indeed. If you'd been even a few hours later, I'd be attending to corpses instead."

He paused as he shook his head. "As tough as they are, though, their wounds are grievous. Whatever else, they're likely sitting the rest of this campaign out while they recuperate."

The somewhat somber atmosphere that began to fill the tent was dispelled as Guts scoffed. "Screw that! I'll finish this campaign if I have to crawl across the battlefield. Besides, Daniel's walked out of worse than this before real quick."

"I can't guarantee you'll survive if you go into battle without at least 2 months rest. Perhaps even more if you decide to be too vigorous in the meantime."

"Now, what do survival rates and guarantees really mean in this sort of war, doc?" Guts said flippantly.

Harmon was silent for a moment before he sighed. "Well, you always have been my most stubborn patient, young man," he said. "Well, I'll at least keep an eye on you. Who knows, perhaps some of Sir Theisman's nigh-miraculous healing might rub off on you. Excuse me while I clean off."

With that, Harmon exited, leaving the command staff alone in the tent with their two wounded friends. "In any case," Pippin said softly, "you're all back, safe and sound."

Guts would have scoffed at the man if that wasn't in competition for the most words he'd ever heard him say.

"That's true, at least," Judeau said. "By the way, where's Griffith? I didn't see him this morning."

"He's at a meeting with the rest of the generals if I remember correctly," Rickert said. "Something to do with the king. He mentioned probably being gone all day."

Guts looked up at Casca and saw the disappointment on her face the moment before she hid it. She took a deep breath. "Alright. I'll go ahead and take over administration until Griffith gets back."

She made her way over to the tent opening, the others looking after her in varying states of worry. "Are you sure you don't need Harmon to check up on you?" Judeau asked.

Casca paused at the doorway of the tent, looking back. "It's alright. I'm fine."

With that, she left, and Guts looked up at the ceiling, lost in thought. In time, most left the tent, even Gaston leaving to go and give the rest of the Raiders the good news.

The day began to die, and Guts finally looked around himself, confirming that Daniel was the only other soul in the tent. He looked almost like he was asleep, deep and even breathing the only sound coming from him. "Daniel?" he said quietly, plaintively.

Daniel's eyes opened, and he looked over at Guts. "Yes?"

"I've… got a question."

Daniel arched a brow. "Alright. What is it?"

"Do you… have a dream?"

Daniel looked back up at the ceiling of the tent. "Oh, I have a lot of those indeed. Old ones lost to time or circumstance. But those dreams aren't the sort of things you've been thinking about since that night, are they?"

Guts chuckled softly, even as he felt his chest ache from it. "Come on, old man. We're both in enough pain to make a long-winded conversation start to get really stupid. Just answer the damn question."

Daniel was silent for long moments even as a smile twitched on his face. "Well, Guts… my dream right now, the one that means the most to me at this very moment, is to see you, Casca, everyone else, find some peace at the end of all this. Guess it comes with having become the camp dad."

"What about yourself? Surely, you've got to have something you want that doesn't involve us."

Daniel's jaw clenched for a moment. "I… want to get past something. Become a better man than I once was."

"Does that have to do with that brand that appears on your forehead?" Guts asked after a long moment of silence.

Daniel finally lifted his head, looking past Guts, then around the empty tent, as if he'd be able to see someone on the other side of the canvas. "Yes." he finally said, quietly, resting his head back on one of the rough pillows that had been given to them.

Guts waited for a moment to see if he'd continue, give some sort of explanation. But, as always, he remained silent on his past.

He looked away as he considered what Daniel had said. How it seemed to contrast so strongly with what Griffith had said on that winter night. Sure, Daniel wanted something for himself, but so much of what he wanted was dedicated to him. To the Band. What did that mean for his dream?

Now, especially, how did that dream work with Griffith's?

. . .

As the day slowly became night again, Casca sipped at a cup of wine, a bowl of food next to her as she sat surrounded by several other Falcons. There had been a celebration tonight, unsurprisingly, as the Falcons made merry over the recovery of their comrades and the tall tales that came with it.

"I keep hearing that Guts and Daniel killed 150 men all on their own." Marcus, one of her lieutenants, said. "It can't be true, surely. Morning light plays some mean tricks on your eyes, y'know."

"Oh, come on." another of her soldiers, one under Marcus' command said with a scoff, "would Captain Judeau or Casca lie? If they saw 150 men dead in that grove, I'm inclined to believe them."

The man shook his head. "Besides, all that matters is that they're back and safe. Mostly, at least."

"Of course," Casca said. "We must have really worried you for a little while there."

"Ah, don't worry about it, big sis." a third soldier said. "Captain Guts was with you, and Daniel and Anna were always going to be intent on getting their commanding officers back. To say nothing of the fact that he's Guts' dad."

"There's no way he's his actual dad." the second soldier said.

"What does it matter, really?"

As the conversation continued on without her, Casca regarded her wine for a moment, thinking about what Guts had said. "A sword needs to go back to its sheath, right? Go back to Griffith."

He still hadn't made an appearance, even after night had fallen. Was such a general staff meeting really going to take that long?

"Casca."

She looked up, and those with her, at Judeau as he approached. "I need to talk with you for a moment. Could you come with me?"

Casca nodded, setting her wine aside as she stood. Judeau turned, and they began to walk toward the edge of the camp. "What's the matter?" Casca asked as Judeau began to slow down.

"I thought I'd let you know something, seeing as you looked so down." Judeau began. "When Daniel and Anna went off to go and get you guys, he pulled me aside. He told me to make sure everyone that was doing our night watch with me would be ready to ride out if need be. A couple of nobles overheard, started getting on him about how wasteful it was. Do you want to know what he told them?"

Judeau smiled softly. "He said, 'They are vital to our success. To the Band of the Falcon. I will not lose them here'."

The words touched Casca's heart, tears beginning to well up. "He really said that?" she said softly.

"That he did." Judeau chuckled. "Made me kind of jealous, but I guess I just have to make myself as invaluable as you are."

Casca smiled slightly, looking up at Judeau. Any thanks she might have given was forestalled by the man tossing a pouch to her. "One more thing. Go ahead and put this on the hero of the hundred."

Casca managed to catch it, her brow furrowing slightly. "Guts?"

Judeau shrugged. "Said he'd killed a hundred people to Daniel's fifty, fair and square. Sounds like he's going to need it."

Casca opened the pouch, curiosity growing within her as she saw the glittering, iridescent powder within the pouch. "What kind of medicine is this?"

"There was an elf that tagged along with my traveling circus before I joined the Band," Judeau said with a smile. "He was good folk with a big heart. The first time I got into a bad accident, he gave it to me. Elf dust, he called it."

"An elf…" Casca said, shaking her head in amazement. It didn't seem fully real.

"That's right." Judeau's smile grew a little sad. "Even though people don't really believe in them these days, I can tell you that they still exist and that dust still works. I've escaped more than a few battlefields alive thanks to that. Now, that's about all I have left."

Casca shook her head again, proffering the pouch to Judeau. "Something as valuable as this…"

"Can go to Guts." Judeau waved her off. "It's a pretty good trade, really. One bag of healing dust for a hundred dead enemies."

Casca looked down at the pouch again. There really did seem to be something… otherworldly about it. "Thank you, Judeau."

She looked back up at him. "Did this… elf have a name?"

Judeau smiled warmly. "He said his name was Puck. Hard to miss it, really. But, even for how much I miss him…"

Judeau looked around. "I don't know if I'd want to find him here. I don't think the others would understand or be particularly gentle with him if they could even see him at all."

"I see." Casca looked around the camp. The last time she'd visited the tent, Daniel was alone with his and Guts' dinners, a slight smile on his face. It was as if he knew the boy would be gone.

Then, she remembered what the man had said. "Whenever Guts leaves like this, I always find him somewhere where he can get a good look at things."

'A good look at things…'

Casca looked around some more, then saw a hill in the distance, a lone tree at its peak. There was as good a place to start as any.

"Thank you again, Judeau," Casca said as she set off.

Judeau watched her go, noting the urgency at which she walked. 'Well, well.' he mused. 'Looks like she's grown a real soft side. I wonder what happened?'

. . .

Casca blazed a trail through the camp, looking around just in case she spotted Guts in passing. Men waved at her, raised their cups in salute. But she couldn't stop now.

She came to the base of the hill, a long and steep climb for even a fit man. How could Guts have…

And yet, there he was, shadowed in the dark, a little apart from the tree as his sword glinted in the firelight below him.

She started to make her way up the hill, glancing to the side every once in a while. The campfires, the men that surrounded them, began to blur together even as they shrank. Soon enough, each fire looked like a mote of candlelight, a vast candelabra stretching across the entire war camp. It was beautiful in a way Casca couldn't nail down.

She looked over at Guts, who regarded her with an expression of deep tiredness. "You're pretty active for someone who killed a hundred men," Casca said. "Daniel said you'd be somewhere like this."

"I couldn't sleep." Guts said with his best approximation of a shrug. "It was too hot in that tent. This was the coolest place I found."

Casca nodded slowly, stepping forward as she tucked the pouch away in her belt and began removing Guts' bandages.

Guts was clearly confused, flinching slightly as she went. "What the hell…"

"Relax. Don't move." Casca said gently as she unwrapped the last of the bandages, beginning to sprinkle the elf dust into the wounds. Her eyes went wide from behind Guts, and she was sure his own were doing the same, as the catgut threads dissolved, the wounds beginning to close up and scar over.

"What is this stuff?" Guts asked as Casca came around and began to do the same to the wounds on his chest.

"Judeau gave it to me. Said it was elf dust. Mystical healing." Casca said, still not fully believing what was going on in front of her eyes.

She frowned as Guts put a hand to her wrist. "What?" she paused for a moment before slipping it out from under his hand and continuing.

"It really isn't something you should worry about." Guts said, chuckling quietly after a moment. "Daniel always gives me crap for saying that, but this was something I did on my own, even if Daniel helped me out."

"And yet you did it to help Anna and I escape," Casca said pointedly.

"That's part of it, yeah. But fighting's been my nature my whole life."

Casca arched a brow. "So it's part of your nature to fight over a hundred men at once?"

Guts looked over at her, his brow furrowed before he shook his head. "Yeah. I guess. Besides, I had a score to settle with Adon. I guess I got so caught up in… swinging my sword that Daniel had to tell me the guy scuttled off the field after we got down to the last few."

"But even still," Guts continued, "compared to what you're doing, what Griffith's doing, me fighting a hundred men and winning doesn't really matter in the grand scheme of things."

"Why do you say that?"

"Because you and Griffith have something to stake your lives on. Something to work towards and make the struggle here have meaning. Compared to that, me killing a hundred men, a thousand, an entire army… doesn't bring me or anyone anything but closer to dying."

"Guts…" Casca had no idea what to say to that. So many men staked their lives on the stories and glory that might come from what Guts had accomplished tonight. If that meant so little to him, then what…

"It's a pretty nice view up here."

Casca was caught off guard by Guts' nonsequitur. "Yeah," she said after a moment, "it is."

"Y'know, Gaston," Guts continued after a moment, "for him, the army really isn't his thing. Once the war's finally over, he wants to set up a tailor shop in Wyndham with his savings. He's been bugging us for names with every push our forces have made. Nicholas, he proposed to a woman while we were in Wyndham, but she doesn't want to be married to any common soldier. He promised her he'd get a command of a hundred men before the war ended and that he'd be back. He's been risky, but he's been smart about it. I've already got him leading 50 men."

"It's like that for every person I've talked to. I guess people here have a habit of staking themselves to lost causes." Guts swept his gaze out across the camp. "So on nights like this, when I can get a view of the whole camp at night... I swear I can almost see people's dreams in the firelight."

Guts was silent for a moment. "A campfire of dreams… huh."

It was silent for a moment more, the two of them standing side by side and taking in the sight, before Casca chuckled. "You smooth talker," she said with a slight grin. "You sound like some stuffy prince at court trying to create poetry."

Guts had the ghost of a grin on his face as he looked over at her. "And I'm guessing that makes you the princess fawning over my pretty words?"

"Oh, can it," Casca said, blushing slightly as she shook her head. "But... you're not wrong. Maybe that's part of why we're here. Alone, any one of those dreams would gutter and go out. So they bring all their dreams together in this great bonfire."

"The bonfire called Griffith." Guts said quietly.

He loomed large in both their minds, their commander, as they looked out over the men, the lives, that he commanded. Lives that would give everything for the fulfillment of his dream.

"But," Guts said as he stood, "more and more, I don't think my flame's here."

Casca's brow furrowed as he continued. "Maybe I'm just warming myself by that campfire for a bit, since I stopped in by chance."

He held his sword out in front of him, raised as if to part the flames below them. "As long as I have this, I'm confident I can survive just about any battle. That's how it's always been, after all. Even before I joined the Band of the Falcon, even if everyone else around me died, I knew I'd survive. Regardless of whether or not Daniel was close by to pull me out of the fire."

"Even still, though… it really doesn't matter much, in the end. I was on the battlefield, killing for a living, before I was really old enough to understand a lot of things. All I had was Daniel and this." The sword swayed up and down slightly as Guts said it.

"Just like everyone else, I don't want to die. But because of that, because I don't know much more than how to use this, I keep throwing myself into battle. Maybe, more than anything, I just left the reasons why up to other people. Let myself be a nameless sword in the middle of some army or another be the only thing I needed to be. But… I need more than that, now."

It was silent for a moment, then Guts stood, chuckling as he walked forward a little way, resting the flat of his blade on his shoulder. "Aw, what the hell. I've gone and given myself a headache with all that yapping. And of all the people to talk about that to, it had to be you? It's downright sappy of you, to listen to me rambling on like that."

Casca grinned slightly. "Back at you."

Then, as she thought about what Guts had said, her eyes went wide. "Wait a minute. Don't tell me…"

Guts stood, back turned to Casca as she summoned the courage to speak her fear. "Are you planning on leaving the Falcons?"

The silence that settled on them seemed to stretch into eternity for Casca before Guts replied. "Like I said, I'm finishing this campaign, even if I have to crawl. After that, well… who's to say?"

Casca had no words for what she'd heard. However, there were others who were more than happy to speak for her.

"Guts! Casca!" Rickert shouted as he and Pippin climbed up the hill. There was a joyous smile on the boy's face. "Griffith's back in camp! He sent us to come and get you right away!"

Guts looked back at Casca's surprised expression, smiling slightly as he walked down the hill after Rickert. The men of the camp drew towards what could only be Griffith like iron filings to a lodestone, the camp growing far louder than usual as the men asked after the events of Griffith's meeting.

Griffith spoke to the men in turn, answering their questions before he caught sight of the pair walking towards him. As they walked forward, the men acknowledged both of them in turn.

Guts smiled at Griffith, who smiled in return, then looked back at Casca, frowning slightly at her downcast look. "What is it?"

"I caused all this trouble, really," Casca muttered, her voice low and frustrated. "I pushed myself, and exposed my men, along with you and yours when you all tried to pull me out of the fire. Any punishment…"

"Would be entirely needless at this point."

Both Guts and Casca turned to see Daniel walking towards them, leaning on a crutch as he smiled slightly. "I overheard, Casca. You led your men as best you could, and were not afraid to lean on others' help when required. I'd say that puts you above the rest of us from time to time."

Guts regarded Daniel with a quiet scoff. "You're awfully cocky to be walking around this quickly after what Harmon put us through."

"You're looking rather spry yourself, considering you just got well over a hundred stitches."

"And I'm thankful that all of you are so whole, after what I've heard from the others."

All turned to regard Griffith, who now stood in front of them. "Welcome back," he said, smiling at Casca, who smiled back at him slightly.

"Good to be back." Guts said, turning to find Gaston close by.

"Come on. Let's go knock one back." He said, walking over and putting an arm over Gaston's shoulders.

"Are you sure you're up to it, sir?" Gaston replied as more Falcons, likely Raiders drawn to the scene, began to follow them.

"The booze acts as a disinfectant, right? Besides, you guys wanna celebrate the hundred-man kill, I know. So let's go celebrate already!"

With that, he began to disappear from view, Casca looking over at Daniel as he passed by, a knowing look on his face. Was that aimed at her, or was he just aware of how… strange that was for Guts to do?

"Is something wrong, Casca?" Griffith asked, bringing her attention back to him as she realized just what, exactly, Guts had done.

"No, there isn't," she replied, knowing that, somehow, she wasn't telling the full truth. "How was the meeting today, sir? Anything I and the men should know about?"

"The king is on his way to oversee this upcoming siege," Griffith said, his voice raised so that those around them would hear. "He believes that this upcoming battle will be the final one of the war."

"What place are we going to that's that important?" one of the soldiers asked.

. . .

The fortress of Doldrey was built in perhaps one of the most strategically sound locations that had ever had bricks laid upon its ground. It was built into the side of a mountain range, at the entrance of a valley known as the Causeway of Kings. No force of any great size from the Tudor Houses could enter Midland except through this lane.

Midland, knowing this, had built the deadliest redoubt that they possibly could, three layers of monstrously thick walls, ascending in height, leading to a central keep that had a commanding view of a land stripped completely bare. It bristled with murder holes, firing slits, and cannons, and was garrisoned with well over 30,000 men as regulars, to say nothing of any forces staying there as part of a marching army.

The siege on the fortress had started three weeks ago. With stores set into the mountain itself, it would take many more months, even years, before the defenders likely showed any signs of flagging.

In short, it was an architectural and military wonder of the world, stolen out from under Midland at the start of the war by a singular act of treachery. And a force of a little over 35,000, the largest standing army yet assembled by modern Midland, would have to retake it.

For at least one force on the field, this sight, even now strewn with corpses from both sides, was a familiar one. The White Tigers, 30 years ago, had tried and failed to retake the fortress from its implacable defenders. Now, General Harrison, a captain of that battle so long ago, stared out again at the field of his reckoning.

"Sir!" a man cried out, a runner for the White Tigers, running towards General Harrison. "News from the front!"

The man came to a stop, kneeling before the mounted general. "Speak, young man," Harrison said, trying to contain his agitation and anxiety.

"We have heavy casualties across all divisions, sir," the runner began. "All our divisions are pulling back to headquarters in order to recuperate."

Harrison scowled and sighed. "It's all happening again, just like 30 years ago… Doldrey takes even Midland's best."

"Sir!" another cried out, running up to him wearing the colors of a scout. "About a thousand riders are exiting the main gate, coming towards our forces!"

Harrison quickly grabbed a spyglass from the man, pointing it to the massive gate in question as it lay open, letting a calvary force, gleaming black in the midday sun, advance and get into formation. Their banners were black and purple, and their commander represented the animal that their knightly order championed almost ostentatiously.

"The Holy Purple Rhinos," Harrison growled. The mere sight of them had sent all his other men running so long ago. Now, it seemed that they had returned to the field of their triumph to try and secure another victory.

"Consolidate our remaining cavalry, spearmen, and archers," Harrison commanded the captains and lieutenant commanders around him. "Put what divisions remain into the horse-catcher formation. They might be the stars of the Tudor forces, but by God, we'll make them pay for daring to shine today."

. . .

The day passed, and the Tigers had bloodied their claws against their old foes to seemingly little avail. Now, the commanders were all brought together around a long table, its surface scattered about with maps, candlesticks and small gear of various kinds strewn about to keep the maps open.

At its head sat the king, determined to see the outcome of this battle. By his side, General Garlan of the White Dragons stood, a gleam in his eye that said that he had something to say that he liked.

"Fellow generals," he began, "our spies have brought us great news. The ruler of the Tudor Houses, the beast that started this war, has died, and the houses now vie against each other for the throne and admittance into the house of Chuder. A classic succession crisis. Thus, their forces here are all that they have to spare. This is a rare chance for us here in the moment. If we do not manage to take back Doldrey now, it may yet be another hundred years at least before we can try again."

"Just so." one of the lieutenant commanders said, the confidence in his voice still quavering. "The one force that the fortress dares to send out is the one led by the mighty Lord Boscogn. The Holy Purple Rhino Knights."

The name alone sent a ripple of murmuring around the table as the man continued. "Not only that, but they inflicted grievous wounds on the White Tigers as well, one of our best. It's going to take weeks to get reinforcements up here as well."

Harrison scowled, glancing away from the thus far stoic Griffith. As the noise fell still, though, all eyes turned to the king, who stroked his beard and pondered. "So…" the king said quietly. "We must risk all on a full frontal assault."

A gasp went up around the room, and the lieutenant commander stood. "My king, I must say that is still a perilous venture. Even with just a few weeks of siege, the most elite force among us has lost at least four-tenths of its men! With a full frontal assault, there's no guarantee that Doldrey would fall."

"If this siege drags out for much longer, however," another lieutenant commander interjected, "we'll likely be dashed against the fortress by an army sent out by a more stable Tudor. If we aren't quick, we'll be wiped off the face of the earth!"

"I mean," the man continued, "if we look at it overall, our current campaign is a victory. With the Tudors in chaos as they are now, we have time to pull back, regroup, and send an even larger army to take the fortress at our leisure."

"If we do that," a third cried out, "every loss we've endured up to this point will be in vain! The final objective for this whole war has ever been Doldrey, and every plan we've made for the last 50 years has centered on our taking it to secure our victory over the Tudors. Failing that, there's no chance we actually secure any kind of victory with any meaning."

"So who, then, will be the vanguard of our assault?" another lieutenant commander, a somewhat pudgy man with a mop of blond hair on his head, said, looking around the table as he did.

His eyes finally landed on Griffith, who had remained silent the entire time. The man chuckled softly, a slight grin on his face. "What of you, Sir Griffith? Victor that you are, would you chance at leading out this assault?"

Griffith regarded the man calmly. "If I were so ordered."

The words, spoken without brashness or fear, caused the quiet conversations happening around the man to still, all eyes going to him as the man beside him shook his head. "I jest, of course. Even with your luck, there are some things that even the best of us cannot do, eh?"

Again, the silence fell on them, all attention centered on Griffith as he seemed to consider the words for a moment. "If his majesty so ordered me," Griffith repeated, "then I would see to it."

A gasp went up around the tent, soldiers looking at each other in shock and disbelief before they all leaned in towards Griffith, throwing a barrage of words at him that he weathered with a patient, almost amused look on his face.

"You know nothing, then." the first lieutenant commander said. "You're young, still. Have you any idea how many times we've marched out to capture this fortress over this entire war? Countless commanders and generals, whose names have been raised to reverence in our history, have thrown themselves and their forces against the walls of Doldrey and been found lacking. Now you think that you can succeed where they failed?"

The muttering began again, men turning to each other with looks of derision. "All his winning," one said to another, within hearing of Griffith and without caring, "and perhaps his success has all gone to his head now, hmm?" The man he spoke to nodded in agreement.

"Sir Griffith."

All voices stilled as the king spoke. "Do you say what you have spoken with sincerity?"

Griffith simply nodded silently.

Another gasp went up as all eyes turned to the king. "My lord, even you think he could do this?" one man asked. "Surely you cannot believe him!" another interjected. "This is utterly reckless on his part. No matter how much Sir Griffith might desire it…"

"My lord," Harrison said, standing with a look of resignation and regret on his face, "not even my White Tigers, or dare I say the White Dragons, can fully take on the task of capturing Doldrey any longer, not on our own at least. Whatever strategy, an assault by any single force of our army is impossible now. If we fail, the damage that will be done to us will be disastrous."

"There is no need for any great force," Griffith said confidently. "I will only require the Band of the Falcon."

Another gasp of shock, and Harrison leaned in to regard Griffith with a flickering of anger in his eyes. "What a ludicrous statement! With only a little over 5,000 men, you would think to…"

He paused, shaking his head. "In that fortress lies a garrison over six times in number to you! Even with your luck thus far, the sensible thing would be to confront such strength with a greater force of arms! Even a full frontal assault would fare better than whatever schemes you might concoct! Do not think your cunning alone will carry you to victory here!"

"Come now, general." Another voice dared to speak up, all eyes now sweeping over to General Laban. "Why make such a great tempest out of his decision? At this point, our only option, as the king has stated and you have insinuated, is an assault undertaken by our whole force. A single division's clever plan, no matter how it fares, shouldn't have any greater impact on our army's morale than any other action taken thus far."

"Besides," Laban continued, "to this point, there have been many forces that have outnumbered the Falcons and still fallen to them. Nothing says that such an event couldn't happen…"

"Doldrey is hardly so soft a target as they've faced before, Sir Laban!" Harrison interjected. "I understand you are not as experienced a field commander as many among us, and I forgive you for such a thing. But do not allow tales of Sir Griffith's experiences to warp your perception of the Band of the Falcon's capabilities."

"Enough." the king said firmly, and the tent fell silent once again.

"My Lord," Garlan said as the silence began to drag on, "your decision?"

The king looked at Griffith, all others looking with him, his eyes and jaw set. "I command the Band of the Falcon to capture Doldrey."

. . .

General Laban of the house of Manfreich stood at the top of one of the watch hills of the main camp, watching the main gate as Harrison and his honor guard stormed back to their camp. He had a decent idea of what the man might have been thinking. 'Likely that I'm a fool to rely so much on Sir Griffith's mind and skill. And however much he might deny it, the king's standing has gone down in his eyes as well.'

Laban sighed quietly. 'Well, I suppose when one has lost as much as he has on this offensive…'

"I must say, you really seem to have bought into the Band of the Falcon, Laban."

Laban turned to face the man who had spoken so casually to him, smiling at the fit, blond-haired young man who was his second-in-command. "Now," the man continued, "all that seems to remain is to see whether or not they live up to your expectations."

"All I did was state the truth, Owen," Laban said with a shrug. "Besides, I get the feeling that if Sir Griffith can't do it, then no one else in this army can."

The pair watched as Griffith rode his horse across a lower hill, catching sight of them and pausing to bow his head.

Then, all three of them caught sight of another rider, this time coming towards Griffith. He was short in stature, and his armor was at least somewhat decently fitted to him. He came to a stop beside Griffith and began to talk to the man. They were just far enough away that the words they traded escaped Laban and Owen's ears.

"Is that young lord Adonis?" Owen asked. "I hear he wasn't at the meeting as well."

"That he is. And no, he wasn't." Laban said, his jaw slightly clenching in frustration. Whatever shortcomings in the boy's education General Garlan or his father might have had, they'd asked him to compensate for. It had left the both of them familiar with Adonis, and his capabilities. He was brighter, and far more crafty, than most thought. More than his father was, at least.

Their conversation finished, Griffith departed, and Adonis spotted them, coming up the hill towards them. "Hello, master Laban. Owen." the boy said as he dismounted, taking the reins of his horse with a grip that betrayed both practice and remaining anxiety.

"Hello, Adonis," Laban said with a slight smile. "What were you talking with Sir Griffith about?"

"I've spoken to General Garlan, at length, and convinced him to join our forces with the Band of the Falcon's," Adonis said simply. "If we can offer elite troops to play into whatever Sir Griffith might plan, we have that much more of a chance of taking the fortress."

"I would presume that you also heard that Sir Griffith said that he would only need the Band of the Falcon to accomplish Doldrey's capture?" Laban asked.

Adonis nodded. "I did. And I came prepared to assert why joining our forces would ensure the reduction of casualties for both."

"And how did that debate go?" Owen asked.

"It… didn't." Adonis shook his head slightly. "I stated my intentions, and why I thought it would be mutually beneficial, and then… Sir Griffith just regarded me, as if the look he gave me allowed him to see my intentions, my very soul. Then he nodded, and said that he would take our forces into consideration with his plans."

Owen ran a hand through his hair, sighing quietly. "What a strange man, to do as he's done. But now there might be some chance for the fine-looking young commander to make his greatest mark."

Laban watched the leader of the Band of the Falcon returning to his camp, little more than a dot in the distance now. "Commanders and generals, raised into reverence…"

Owen and Adonis looked over at Laban. "Out of all of them to be on this field… we, here and now, might just be fighting alongside the hero of the century."