Socks and Soldiers
A version of Thrain I wrote a long time ago...
A youth stopped in front of an imposing carriage. Black, with the symbol of a gold dragon breathing red flame and pulled by no less than ten horses, it loomed against the sky. The lad adjusted his spear in hand, then knocked upon the door. After three raps quickly he stepped back. Moments later, a small latch sounded, and it swung open.
A soldier’s dark boot sank into the mud with a wet slop. The sun shone into the immaculate polish of the black, the sewing and thread made from the Greatworm silk of the north, the leather from the Waerpanthers of the south, and the soles from the immense Kuthian Boar hooves of the Wild Plains. One of its kind would cost the livelihood of any normal soldier, and a second soon joined it. They were the kind of boot one wore to masquerades, and they appeared to have been little used.
However, the tread beneath them was worn and scarred. It spoke of rough terrain, constant and frenzied movement, hard weather, and long marches. They flexed with the ease of countless hours walked, the soles bent without creaking, and the tips of the boots were close to the ground with each stride, the mark of man well used to his footwear.
The pants were of rare velvet, black as the night with blood red accents on the outer seams. They had no glitter or sheen as most velvet did, and light seemed to vanish into it. A short jacket completed the look, similarly black but with larger golden trim along each edge of the garment.
“Greetings, Lord Thrain.” A young voice with a slight tremor greeted him. Timid brown eyes glanced up quickly, then dipped in a bow. “The rain falls.”
Dagger-like intelligent eyes swept over the soldier. “Greetings, sir Leon," his greeting caused the boy to start, who knew the Lord addressed him by a greater title than he possessed, and somehow his name. “May it wash away our enemies.” Lord Thrain finished the greeting, then stepped forward, each stride the product of infinite consideration. “It appears also to have created mud. Are you comfortable?”
The youth’s mouth opened, but for a moment no sound came out. “I…I have my boots. The tents keep the rain off my head," he answered at last, his voice laced with surprise.
Lord Thrain smiled, and uttered a short bark of laughter. “It is clear they still teach respect, for I was once a soldier myself. When it rains, an army is wetter than the sky itself, or so it seemed to me," he parted his jacket, and withdrew a pair of socks. “Take these," he said, handing them to an ever more surprised soldier. “We battle today, and you will wish for dry socks when you march into war.”
Leon took the socks. “Th-thank you sir—Lord Thrain," his face flushed as he spoke Thrain’s title wrong.
Lord Thrain waved his hand. “For today, sir will be fine Leon.”
At this, Leon’s mouth fell open. “But Lord—sir Thrain…sir, ” and he took a breath “My title cannot be the same as yours.”
Thrain smiled. It was a wolfish smile. “If I am stabbed, ” He said, and the words themselves did much the same through the air, “Would I not succumb to the wound, same as any man?" he asked.
Leon’s eyes went wide, and while the answer readily presented itself, he felt trapped. “I uh, suppose so. Sir.”
Thrain smiled wider, but it became increasingly sharp and the warmth failed to grow with it. “Then I shall not bear a different title while I walk among you," he turned sharply away and glanced out across the encampment. “You are here to take me to the front lines?" he barked the question. Command rang from his voice with the familiarity of one born into it.
“Yes sir!” Leon replied, straightening. “When you are ready, sir.”
Thrain nodded. “Await my return. I must speak with General Haverth.” Then he turned and strode away. He did not speak the farewell. He did not need to. Lord Tyranneous Thrain of the Eastern Steppes was the King’s Will and appointed heir of Maximus Thrain before him. Very few could claim position higher than he.
His quick yet ponderous stride brought him to Haverth’s tent, and he stepped in. “Well General. I hope I did not dirty my boots for naught," he spoke curtly.
“And may the wind blow in your favor," Haverth said dryly, his face hidden behind a mask of neutrality. “No, I would not think to cause Lord Thrain any discomfort," he answered lightly, without a trace of irony. “Tell me, do you always treat boys with bent spears as kings of old?” His voice still lacked emotion, but his eyes glinted.
Lord Thrain raised his gaze, a piercing cold wrath lay in their icy depths. He smiled. “Do you trust your men, General?” Thrain’s voice bit like razor edged steel.
The General’s gaze grew ever less friendly, and ire brewed just beneath the surface of his features. “They obey me without question.”
Lord Thrain held Haverth’s gaze for a moment longer. Then he looked to the table, where was marked the Mirror. Troop movements were shown by various figures and etchings on the map. “Every order?”
Haverth let the anger show on his face as he spit the answer out. “Every last word.”
Thrain leaned forward, set a hand on the table and abruptly met Haverth’s gaze. “And you would have ordered, of course, that they not kill you," he stated.
Haverth paused, and his anger began to fade, replaced instead by the look of a cornered animal. “My men are loyal to Jarda," he said slowly. “You tread dangerous waters, even for the King’s Will. What is it you imply?" he asked.
Thrain stood and his smile vanished. “That if every man were given a knife and allowed into your chambers, you may be wishing you had given them socks instead of whips.”
The General huffed, his anger returning. “Lord Thrain, but it does sound as though you care for those wretched souls. Perhaps we should buy them furs too, and repurpose the carts for beds!”
Thrain laughed, a thin and cruel sound. “A man who loves you is a man most willing to die for you, without question. But enough with pleasantries," he gestured to the map. “What is it I trudged here for?" he declared flatly.
Haverth glared at Thrain a moment longer, before clapping his hands twice and stepping to the table. “A caravan we had not seen approaches from the south. It is near fifty strong, maybe fifteen soldiers and forty members besides," he answered.
Thrain’s cutting smile returned. “That is good news. Agnorvith has complained of late that he loses slaves faster than he receives them. A surplus will do him good," his smile dimmed. “Is good news the only reason I am here?”
Haverth let out a breath. “Our east most flank may be seen by their scouts if they remain. Unwarned, we will fall upon them as locust on a field of wheat. Half a day’s worth of preparation, however, and we may take heavy losses," he paused as two robed figures padded silently into the room.
He glanced at Thrain. “I would have simply moved the troops back myself, but to do so sufficiently will hinder our assault. There is an impedance…” He stopped and gestured to the map.
The two figures removed their hands from within the folds of their cloaks, and raised them. Blue lines traced the air in front of one, glow emanating as the lines began to cross and entwine. The other’s manifested green. Presently, they both finished, and the Runes flashed before vanishing. The map on the table began to glow, and shifted suddenly as the flat imagery changed and it was as if a bird flew over the land, and through its eyes the terrain was seen.
Over the many tents the vision glided, then past and over the ground turned up by countless marching. Presently it came to the east most flank. Soldiers milled around, managing horses, playing cards, practicing under the watchful eye of the Division Commander, and a few keeping perimeter guard.
But the most notable feature of the camp was the land that lay behind them. Formed into an oddly shaped crescent by necessity, the men had made camp just after mounting a large gulley. Thick with mud, steep and precipitous, it was the result of rapid flood waters and heavy rain. Getting over it had been neither easy nor quick.
Haverth grunted. “Now turn and face the Mirror," he commanded, naming the hill. In short order, the view tilted, turning south.
A gentle slope began to rise within the vision, its sides covered in more greenery than the dust and mud that surrounded it. The hill, for it could not be called a mountain, had no great stature, yet in this land it loomed. The flat plains of dust and shrub lived beneath its gaze, and what it lacked in height it made up for in width. At its top, wide and round, trees that could grow nowhere else close grew here in abundance.
“Those atop the mountain may see us, but to them we appear as nothing more than a large group of caravans to the north," Haverth spoke. “However, one approaches from the south.” As he said this, the view began to move rapidly southward, the terrain becoming an inscrutable and drab rush of detail. “They are large; the more winding road to the back of the Mirror will be their almost certain path," he crossed his arms, and locked his stare on Thrain. “They will be close enough to see who we are.”
Thrain’s ever present and cutting smile met Haverth’s stare, then returned to the table. He waited. Presently, the view passed the hill and tilted to look up once again. A growing dust cloud then occupied the center of the scry. The vision zoomed forward still, but began to slow. First, a rider flashed beneath the passing sight. He wore a roughspun tunic, boots old and worn, but no gloves even as he rode. He carried a sword, however, and sat upon an Aridican mount.
Past the forward guard, the vision finally came to a halt. It was indeed a caravan of fifty, perhaps more. Beasts of burden pulled a wide variety of carts, men and women milled about the movement, and children played on the sides of the road, occasionally running to catch up when they fell behind.
Thrain turned to General Haverth and nodded appreciatively. “General, I might know man better than you, but your tenacity in ensuring a ripe field of battle is unmatched," he declared, and Haverth accepted the barb and compliment impassively. Warfare was his element, and his anger had cooled as he focused upon it. “Retreat the main forces,” Thrain commanded. “If you find it within your abilities, create a way for a quarter Division of horses to launch an initial assault, and give the men some time," he stood and made his way from the tent.
Haverth was still a moment, and then sighed through gritted teeth and stared at the table. “Pass over the lead cart again.”
Moments later, the scry came to the front of the caravan. A fair skinned man with fiery red hair drove three oxen. The light wind blew through his hair, and a broad happy smile decorated his face. He appeared to be humming a tune.
Haverth cracked his knuckles against the table, then acquired ink and and quill from a box to the side of the map. Removing a sheaf of paper, he dipped the quill and wrote with practiced hand. The soldiers would not kill either on penalty of the death of their own friends. Haverth scoffed at Thrain’s notions of buying loyalty through gifts. No man would disobey him while he held a knife to their family.
Secondly, the red haired man was to be sent to the mines, and be made a Deep One. His anger burned from his interactions with Thrain, and he felt much better as he penned the Stipulation. Thrain might drive the smile from his face for today, but he would drive the smile from this man’s face for an eternity.
As he wrote, he witnessed a raven haired woman run past the side of the cart and extend her hand towards the man. With practiced ease, he swung her up and over the oxen so that she sat beside him. With the comfort of two very much in love, they kissed. Haverth snorted. Picking up his feather, he amended the letter. The woman would go with him, but be given a fair position. It was no mercy. Her beauty would be a beacon to all the wrong types in the Mines. The man would venture into the deep with the goodbyes of a woman he called his own, but he would return to the greetings of a woman to many.