Hope Sundered

“You’re the luckiest man alive, Captain,” Riak said as Sollin flexed and rotated his arm with care. “Remind me never to roll dice with you when there’s coin on the table.”

He and Bayse helped him rise and led him from his tent. As soon as he emerged, the camp erupted in applause. Sollin was quick to quiet the crowd, concerned the noise would give away their position, which served as a convenient cover for his embarrassment.

His stomach led him to the nearest table, where he devoured some fresh game as he recounted the details of his foray behind enemy lines. Dozens of his men crowded around, hanging on his every word. After the meal he left camp with his war council to witness the fruit of his efforts.

It could have been the coolness of the winter wind, but tears formed in Sollin’s eyes as he looked upon the crumpled, burnt wreckage of the Azrahteran scaffolds. Even from this distance, he saw that their destruction was complete.

According to Bayse and Riak, who were more than eager to tell him of that night’s events, a dozen or so tents caught fire as well, along with a few stacks of crated supplies. It took the enemy most of the night to get the fires under control. General Zordecai himself had been involved with extinguishing the immolation.

The following morning, the furious general murdered several officers he held responsible for the epic failure in security.

Sollin missed it all, having slipped into a deep sleep as his battered body attempted to heal itself. The bleeding eventually stopped, and his fever broke the next day. The first thing he saw when he opened his eyes was a very relieved Crenshaw.

Sollin was grateful to be alive, but more surprised. All of the shallow cuts and bruises were well on their way to healing. The gash on his right arm could’ve been a lot worse, but it would be some time before the bandages came off.

“Is it over?” Crenshaw asked him as they crouched in the tall grass, looking out at the Azrahteran army.

“What do you mean? The war’s not over yet.”

“Your guilt over Morlo.”

“Ah, that.” Sollin looked away and rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah, I think so.”

Crenshaw sighed. “It’s about time. Your men revere you now more than ever, but even that can be dangerous if their admiration leads to blind loyalty. It’s bad enough they’ve taken to calling you Greataxe, but some might become reckless just to impress you. Some wanted to launch a frontal assault once they saw the flames. Remember these are ordinary folk, not soldiers.”

“But we are soldiers now! Those Maker-forsaken Azzies didn’t give us a choice!” Sollin’s ire cooled as he looked upon the sadness in his friend’s eyes. “But you’re right, and I’m sorry. A true soldier leads by example. He takes care of his men and puts their welfare above his own. I won’t let you down again.”

Crenshaw shook his head. “You haven’t let me down, old friend. I just want you to understand you’re more valuable as a leader than a martyr. As you said, the war’s not over yet, and more of us will die before it is. You’ve many hard decisions ahead of you, and they won’t all be right, but if they’re made carefully, wisely, I know you can live with their outcome.”

Sollin stood and stretched. He reached out and put a hand on Crenshaw’s shoulder, his eyes thanking him for his unwavering guidance and support. “Well then, it’s time to start making new plans.”