Legacy (Daughter of War #2)

Chapter 7: Blood on Our Hands

Music is Forever and Never by Peter Gundry. Play it!

Media is a sketch of Gilbert! Oddly enough, I like his portrait better than Constantine's in the previous chapter.

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The settlement turns out to be a village, too small to be named. There are roughly ten families here. All tough, hardworking people; reliant on each other to keep their part in the ecosystem going. Even the women. I was surprised to see that when our party had stumbled into the village, all the wives had come out to help us.

No inns here, but the villagers are friendly and trusting enough that they'd immediately welcomed us into their homes. Sir Kendrick had fished an elaborate cloak out of one of the saddlebags while we'd been standing face-to-face with the village head. I'd frowned at him, wondering why he'd wanted to satisfy his vanity at the time. That is, until I'd seen the flash of his insignia. The villagers had fallen onto their knees then, whispering in reverence, excitement rolling off them in waves.

The only stable in here is shoddy, decrepit. Barely fit for our steeds. It'd have to do though. At least the villagers had no animals—apparently there used to be, until it had been deemed that they were too expensive to keep.

I work monotonously, limbs moving by themselves, removing the saddlebags and arranging them in a corner. A few others work with me, either handling the baggage or the saddles or brushing down the animals' coats. I'd love to collapse onto a bed and allow sleep to claim me, but there's work to be done. Sir Kendrick had also ordered us to rest on the next day. We would only resume our journey on the day after tomorrow.

We perform our tasks in silence. At any other moment, I might have appreciated it. But after what had happened back there in the forest, after the necromantic chill that kept clinging onto my skin—even now, it hasn't faded entirely. I need something to distract me. Work is not doing it.

So I attempt to start a conversation: "Well, can we all agree to never do something like that again?"

Everyone's eyes settle on me. No one speaks. Pst. Nelatius. If only I had a sliver of Gilbert's ease with strangers.

"Agreed. All in favour, say 'aye'," grunts one soldier after a while. I almost want to laugh and hug him to death. Almost.

Echoes of 'aye' slowly fill the air.

"Can't be any worse than the ghosts, right?" one voice pipes up.

Now it's his turn to be scrutinised. The soldier is young, probably twenty years of age, only one year older than I am. He raises his hands in confusion. "Don't blame me! I'd been posted in Samareal at the time!"

"So you don't know what it's like," says the first soldier. His tone is light, treading on the edge of dangerous.

The younger soldier flushes deeply. "Not really..." he mumbles.

"So don't make a comparison to something you don't know anything about, Sterrick," snarls the shorter, stockier man. His height may not be the most impressive, but one can tell from a glance that he's the leader between the two soldiers. Moonlight washes over the scars streaking all over his face, making them glow silver. I'd barely noticed them before, while we'd been travelling together-scars are a normalcy amidst our ranks. They're marks of pride, even. A sign when someone ceases to be a boy and grows into a true man—a true soldier.

Sterrick bows his head in defeat. "I was only trying to—"

"Well don't, because you'll never know what it was like to be in the Hallowed Battle."