Chapter 9:

Sitting upright in bed, Vincent's back rose and fell, heaving as he burst out short, rapid breaths. Shifting the sweat-soaked sheets, he swung his legs off the bed, hands clenching the frame of the bed.

Bringing his hands up to rub his eyes, Vincent shuddered at the thought of the nightmares he had been experiencing over the past two nights. Ever since that night when the soldiers had brought back the corpses of the dead soldiers, peaceful sleep had eluded him, causing him to wake up kicking and screaming in the middle of the night.

Although Vincent had indeed entered the tent under Blakes guidance, all that had happened was that his vomit ended up splattered all over the floor of the tent, barely missing the feet of the medic, who had promptly scooted away after the near miss.

Having thoroughly lost his dignity, Vincent stumbled back to his tent, taking whatever remaining shreds of dignity he still possessed and throwing it into the trash as the soldiers witnessed the Viscount stagger like a drunk towards his tent, clutching his stomach and moaning the whole way with specks of vomit hanging down his chin.

Returning to his tent, Vincent had picked up a bottle, chugging it down at an alarming rate, washing away the lingering taste of vomit in his mouth and replacing it with the stench of alcohol, before falling into bed fully dressed, his consciousness falling into a torturous slumber.

The next day, Vincent had postponed the strategy meeting for the revised raid plan, citing a bad stomachache as the reason. Regardless, rumours had begun to spread among the troops, starting from among the Knights before the gossip spread down the grapevine to the troops themselves. By the afternoon, the whole camp had begun speculating over the Viscounts ability to lead the troops, especially after so many men had seen him stumble his way through the camp like a drunkard the previous night.

Now, on the dawn of the second day after the failed raid, Vincent once again awoke after experiencing the same nightmare as the previous day. Feeling the urge to puke well up within him as his thoughts flashed past the faces of the dead men as they lay on that low wooden table.

Feeling his stomach seize as the pathetically little amount of food he consumed yesterday attempted to force itself out. Swallowing the bile rising through his throat back down, Vincent blinked through his tears, sensing a presence entering the room.

“Milord?”

Crouching down on one knee, Blake placed his helmet on the floor, eyes staring at Vincent.

“Blake? What are you doing here?”

“Milord, the Knights are gathering for the strategy meeting.”

Oh.

Vincent met Blakes gaze, throwing an accusatory question at him.

“Why?”

“Why what, Milord?”

“Why did you show me … that. Those corpses.”

As the tent fell silent, Blake shifted uncomfortably, armour clanking as the youthful Knight considered his words. Abruptly, as Vincent was about to repeat his question to break the awkward silence, Blake spoke.

“Milord, I grew up an orphan.”

“What does tha-”

“I never was privileged. I had to struggle every day to find my next meal.”

“I don’t see a con-”

“As a result, when I was picked up by the Viscount for my fighting skills during one of his visits to Whitesun when it was just established, I was ecstatic.”

“I trained as a soldier. I drilled and drilled and honed my spearmanship and spiritforce, rising to the Low-Iron rank in the span of 3 years starting from when I awakened it during basic training.“

“I was distinguished. I was recognised as a Knight-candidate and was sent to the capital for training. Even in Arthias renowned Knight Academy, I excelled, graduating with honors as a Medium-Silver rank Adept after 4 years.”

“When I returned, I was installed as a Knight of House Sutton. I was put in charge of the Phoenix Legion and sent to protect Whitesun.”

“And then, in my first actual combat scenario, 8 of my men died.”

Lapsing into silence, Blake let his words sink in, causing Vincent's heart to beat wildly.

Slowing down, Blake continued.

“I… fell into a shock. I couldn’t help but feel like I had killed those men.”

“I couldn’t sleep. My spiritforce rank sustained me but I began seeing hallucinations. Ghosts of the men who died. Taunting me, blaming me, screaming gibberish at me.”

“After a week, I couldn’t take it any longer.”

“I went up to the Viscount, requesting him to retake my position.”

Seeing Vincent mutely listening, absorbed in his story, Blake resumed speaking.

“And then, just when I had barely finished my request, the Viscount said this to me.”

“Your men, they died for a reason. They died defending their land. As long as you fight for a just cause, your mens deaths are never in vain. The enemy was the one to take their lives. So fight.”

“Fight the enemy who killed your men. Fight for your men who died doing what they believed in. Fight. Fight. Fight.”

“So I did. The next time a warband crossed the river, I rode my men down there and killed every last one of those barbarians.

Staring straight at Vincent, Blake returned a loaded question of his own.

“Fight. Fight. Fight.”

“That's what those men would have wanted. They died so that the merchants might know justice.”

“Milord. Vincent. Will you let their deaths be in vain? Will you let the merchants who took their lives and cheated the house walk away unhindered? The merchants within those walls have not escaped but if we delay they definitely will.”

Glancing down at his hands, which had started trembling midway through Blakes speech, Vincent felt a tear trickle down his cheek.

“What… what if more people die?”

“They swore an oath. To protect their land and its Lord. They swore to defend the banner and pride of the soaring phoenix, with their lives.”

Raising his hand, Blake pointed a gauntleted finger towards the entrance of the tent.

“Every single one of those men out there, they are waiting for your orders, everyday you delay, you deprive them of the right to avenge their brothers.”

“I showed you those corpses. Those corpses woke you up. War is never bloodless. Especially as a commander. Every decision you make, decides who shall go home to their families as a hero and who shall be reunited with their families in an urn.”

Rising to his feet, Blake slid his helmet back on his head, the young Knight Commander returning and the grizzled soldier disappearing, hiding under the surface once more.

“Milord. What shall I tell the Knights?”

Raising his head to face the Knight, Vincent felt something shift within his mind, instantly stilling the trembling in his hands. Feeling a sense of vigour and vitality well up from within him, He spoke with confidence as he rose from the bed.

“We shall convene in half an hour. Tell the men to begin collecting logs. I have an idea.”

Grin spreading across his face, Blake cheerfully acknowledged, turning around and stepping towards the exit.

“Oh and Blake? Call me Vincent.”

“Yes,... Vincent”

Watching the Knight Commander leave his tent, Vincent felt a warmth in his chest. All his doubts that had formed over the past few days and nights had washed away, leaving him with a bright hope for the future.

Stepping over to his armor stand, Vincent grabbed his helmet. Caressing the plume, he whispered to himself.

“Fight. Fight. Fight.”

------

Standing atop the ramparts of the walls, Terry Fisher surveyed the enemy camp, accompanied by the merchant that had confronted Knight Oxford, Oliver Moby, and the leader of the Garrison stationed at Greendale, Riley.

Peering at the camp, he spoke to the leather-armoured Riley.

“The troops are beginning to fell trees around their camp. It appears that their foolish Viscont has decided to make a move after all.”

“Sir, the garrison is ready to repel the Viscount and his men.”

“Fisher, what's the Viscount up to? Do you think he is really after our… er, the town's wealth?”

Hearing the greasy, oily, sorry excuse of a businessman stumble over his words, Terry Fisher had to restrain himself from screaming at the man.

“Yes.”

“But… but why, we’ve done this for alm-”

“Quiet!”

Feeling Riley cast a suspicious gaze towards him, Terry grit his teeth, thinking of how Moby had almost blundered during the confrontation with the Knight, almost giving Terrys ploy away.

Sigh… at least he managed to retrieve some of the warhorses.

Bred to run at high speeds and over long distances, the warhorses that the cavalrymen had ridden were vital to his plan. No matter how well laid out and executed the rest of his plan was, all would be for naught if he was caught at the final step.

Looking down at the armour and blade that he wore, Terry truly felt as if he had become a soldier, ready to defend the walls of a castle or charge an enemy fort.

Let the Viscount come. From what I hear, he’s merely a High-Copper rank. If he dares show himself on the battlefield, he’s dead for sure. If a measly brat half my age thinks he can outsmart me, he’s sorely mistaken. Merchants have a penchant for slyness and cunning, more so one who’s as experienced as me.

Except maybe…

Glancing at Moby from the corner of his eye, he heaved another sigh.

“Terry, what's wrong?”

“Nothing, I was just thinking about the upcoming raid.”

“Oh. Don’t worry about it. The Viscount doesn't stand a chance. You wanna go get some roasted pork? I heard the restaurant down on main street is really good. I’m even thinking of buying it”

Wouldn’t that be considered cannibalism for you?

Truely, I’m grateful to have a scapegoat, no, partner like you.

Looking at the merchant, who already had saliva staining his chin at the thought of meat, Terry began thinking of a way to decline.