The apprentice and guard had left and it was now just Dzherbon and Dartelo looking at each other, amidst the tent full of injured and frail men. Dartelo's eyes slowly took in his surroundings as he forced himself awake and began to weave the tale he would tell the healer.

While this may seem a bit odd, since his family had lived on the border, his parents and uncle had encouraged him to lie since he was little. It was not considered a bad skill to have, when you were constantly living on the edge of a sword. If the Vilruhns had a choice, they would have moved long ago to a safer place, but like all things in life, that would require a lot of money. Hence, until they managed to save up enough, they taught their son as much about life as they could. If lying could save their boy from harm, then who were they to deny their son of safety?

After all, even the scriptures of the Battle Saint Pietra had affirmed this type of thinking. 'He who can hide his fangs and deal with enemies with the might of his words is no less a warrior than one who can not.' No Pietran would doubt these teachings, as the Battle Saint had risen from nothing, and from an impoverished peasant had become the first ruler of their country.

Dartelo looked at the healer and his mind raced to think of a believable story to hide that he was born in the Holy Pietra Empire.

Finally, after a moment that spanned dozens of breaths, he said, "I was born on a merchant's caravan very far away, Blessed Healer Dzherbon. We came from deep in the south. The first memory I have is of my mother's smile as she toppled on top of me. The caravan was attacked and with her last dying breaths she fell on top of me, so that I may survive. She wasn't the only one to die, most of the caravan guards and a lot of the merchants and passengers died before those damn bandits were repelled. I must have been less than five years old at the time, so I do not remember much, except that it took the rest of us a week to get to the nearest village. If I did have a father, I never met him, but the caravan leader took pity on me and gave me work so that I would not die."

"Where do you hail from then, boy? And why do you speak Pietran so fluently?" Dzherbon questioned him.

Dartelo looked up anxiously at the healer, that had now stood up next to his cot, and continued, "I do not know, Blessed Healer. The caravan leader, Sim, was born in this kingdom and so I learned it from him. I asked everyone that had known my mother and was still with the caravan, but none of them knew. They just said that she had paid to ride the caravan and seldom talked to anyone..."

"Interesting, continue. Your story won't tell itself..." said Dzherbon, somewhat puzzled.

Dartelo tried to stand up, because his neck had started to hurt from looking up all the time. Dzherbon noticed and, after glancing around, untied his hands and feet. With a sigh of relief the young man propped himself up and thanked the healer.

'Didn't expect that to work.' Dartelo thought, as he sneaked a glance at the surrounding cots.

He cleared his throat and continued, "We traveled a lot, for over 8 years across the kingdoms of the north. Mostly we bought wares from here and there and sold them along the way. One time we even stumbled upon an old Duke that hired us to bring him goods regularly. We spent over two years there and it really began to feel like home, but then the Duke died. His wretched son drove us away, because we were somehow 'cheating' him. He had even brought the castle guards to threaten us, the wretch!

"We continued traveling after that. It was a wonderful way to live, but after a few years Leader Sim decided it was time to retire. He had earned a lot of gold and longed to settle down. The caravan broke up when he left and since I had nowhere to go he took me all the way to Pietra. I worked in his hometown up on the north coast until I saved enough money to buy some land. Sadly, it wasn't that much, so I could only buy a farm out here in the rural part of the kingdom. But I don't really miss that town, it was very cold up in the north." Dartelo said as he planted a stupid grin on his face.

Raindrops started splashing against the tent, one by one. Soon enough the downpour that was typical for this part of the year came.

Dzherbon watched Dartelo with an unreadable expression for some time, before saying, "You've lived quite a life, Tarum. I must say I'm a bit jealous that a fifteen-year-old boy has traveled so far and wide. I will see if I can talk one of the chiefs into handing you over to me as an apprentice, but I can't guarantee anything. Whether you were born right here on in the depths of their Iorissian Kingdom matters not. You're just like these old men around us, a captive." The tall green-eyed man ran his hand through his grey hair as he walked away and left the tent.

'I really hope he bought it,' thought Dartelo as he massaged his wrists. The ropes had been so tight they had imprinted themselves onto his skin. The youngster looked around, hoping to find somebody to help him escape, but all of the other cots were full of men deep in the clutches of sleep. A few were breathing so shallow that one could tell they were at death's door. 'Just my luck...'

Outside, Dzherbon had walked over to a solitary and crude little hut that was in the middle of the temporary camp. While the camp didn't look like anything special, the soldiers had still managed to create it in a few hours, even going as far as erecting a small wooden fence with two makeshift towers for their archers. This, of course, wasn't done on a whim. It was all part of the plan that the regiment's leader, Alfors, had meticulously created. It was he who lived in the crude little hut. Dzherbon slowly walked into the hut's only room that was littered with parchment. It was thoroughly spartan - a standard weathered table, a standard rickety chair and an even more standard half-asleep Alfors greeted him as he made his way through the mess that was strewn across the floor.

'I pray he gets married one of these days before he drowns himself and all of us in this garbage,' Dzherbon pleaded his gods, as he slowly made his way to the table.

"Battle Healer Dzherbon of the Western Tribes, at your service my lord!" said the healer as he clicked his boots and stood at attention.

Lord Alfors, leader of the Fifth Regiment of the Iorissian Kingdom stifled a yawn as he looked up at the tall man in front of him. 'I'll never get used to these western giants,' he told himself for the umpteenth time as he gestured Dzherbon to be at ease. The tall westerner barely loosened his back and continued standing as still as possible. 'Oh, nine heavens save me, why do they always stand as if you caught them stealing your wine? If they were half as good at fighting as they are at towering over me, I'd have won this war in time for afternoon tea.'

One couldn't blame neither Dzherbon nor Alfors for their thoughts and peculiar ways.

On one hand, the former had lived most of his life among foreigners and felt he had to be twice as good just so that he wouldn't be stigmatized. It was typical for most westerners to be looked at as if they were slightly more intelligent than your average pig, and only if they were having a particularly good day. Or so they said.

The latter grew up with court intrigue and would have gladly spent his life as his older brother's spymaster if not for the war. The King of Ior, after having lost numerous wars and most of his generals, had resorted to conscripting the noble families and their personal soldiers. Obviously, times were hard even for relatively big kingdoms. Of course, Alfors could have been spared the tediousness that is war, had he not discovered an assassination plot against himself and promptly decided to make somebody's life a bit harder.

"Have you got anything of substance to report?" Alfors asked.

"Quite a bit, milord."