The Balance (First Draft | Discontinued)

Chapter 8 (Aleksander)

Aleksander was standing in the town hall of Feirvangen, waiting for the leader of the local militia to arrive. For a soldier who was supposed to be combat-ready all the time, the man certainly didn't seem to mind making him stand around all day. He tapped his foot against the wood floor, focusing on landing his toe within the narrow planks in the herringbone pattern.

He was tempted to leave. It wasn't his fault if the town was overrun, nor did he particularly care. But word would get back to the queen as it always did, and that was something he didn't want to deal with. So he walked around, brushing his hand along the beige wall, running his fingers over the smooth surface of the oaken table in the center of the room. Beyond that, there was nothing but wall décor: several painted portraits of ancient warriors and monarchs, and one wood-carved symbol hanging behind the head of the table— three interlocked triangles, the sign of their god. The Rikensk called the god Skaperen, but it didn't matter to Aleksander what they called him. If he existed, he was doing an awful job of keeping his followers in line.

He considered touching the symbol just to anger the militia leader, but before he could, the man finally arrived. Aleksander was tempted to knock the man's teeth out for making him wait, but decided that the man had enough problems on his own. The militiaman had bushy, reddish hair that stuck up as if he'd been caught in a strong wind, a face as narrow and pointed as a rat's, and watery green eyes, all of which contrasted with his body, which was wider than the table and thick with ropy muscle.

The militia leader extended a hand. "Jens Larssen."

Aleksander shook it but didn't offer his own name. He had sent it already in a wired message, and if this Larssen didn't have it, then it wasn't his problem. He wasn't here to be friends with the man.

"Please, sit," said Larssen, gesturing toward a chair.

He did, and Larssen took the seat across from him.

"Good morning... erm, is there a certain rank by which I should address you?" Larssen asked, but Aleksander was silent. "Right then. Good morning, Herr...?"

"Jelen."

"Jelen? A defector, then?"

"You could say that."

Larssen nodded. "Well, I can't blame you. I'd flee too, if I lived in a country like that."

I did not flee, he almost spat, but he held his tongue. Instead he said, "I doubt you'd like it much. But I'm not here to talk about that."

"Yes, I got the message— an attack, it said, by one of their special soldiers?"

"Yes."

Larssen was biting his lip, clearly a little frustrated with Aleksander's terseness, but his voice was calm when he spoke. "Do you know when, and by how many?"

"A squad, and soon. I don't have any specifics beyond that."

"I'm well aware that Feirvangen is small, but I think we're capable of handling a squad."

"You aren't."

"Are all Queen's men this rude, Herr Jelen?"

"No, most of them are just stupid." He stared pointedly at Larssen. "I am from Moravsko. One of their 'special soldiers'," he said, baring his teeth slightly, "can kill most or all of your tiny town militia."