The Father of Withering

Chapter Twenty-Four: Preparations

The message was sent in good time. Then came the waiting, and that was the worst part of it.

Relma was concerned at any time that things would go from relative peace to violence. The satyr's good mood gave way to boredom, and men gave them uneasy glances. A few scuffles nearly broke out between them and the men at various points. At the same time, the funerals and cleanup from the battle were underway. Varsus got called into places to mediate disputes between them and the soldiers. Relma believed the fortress had not been built to house this many people. As a result, the army camp stretched out behind, and letters were being sent constantly.

"Will we be able to feed them all?" asked Relma, reading through some documents on logistics. Her ability to read had gotten a lot better lately, but she was having trouble with this book's scrawl.

"I hope so," said Varsus, adjusting his gauntlet and stretching his neck. Standing up from the heavy chair, he loosened the sword out of habit. The man always seemed to be checking himself and others. "An army is difficult to keep in the field, however. I've been arranging shipments from Gel Carn to supplement those De Cathe arranged.

"The satyrs, however, are restless. Or so Reginald says. Now that they've tasted blood, they want more."

"Then what will we do?" asked Relma. Privately, she wondered if Varsus was as in control as he pretended to be. Or was he putting on a bold front? So far, he hadn't led them astray, but she doubted he was as in control as he pretended.

"For now?" asked Varsus, letting go of his sword and adjusting his cloak. "I want you to go talk to your friend, Shren. Ask him what they will do if they survive this war."

Relma blinked and thought the question insensitive. "That's a bit dark."

"It's a question we need to ask at some point," said Varsus.

Relma supposed Varsus was right. Since Shren and his associates were a very violent and brutal collection of people. So Relma went to find Shren and found him on the wall, leaning on his falchion. He was smoking a pipe, gazing at the remnants of a pyre—where many bodies had been burned. Some were still burning.

"So, Shren, can I ask you something?" asked Relma.

"Of course," said Shren.

"If the war was won without all of your warriors being killed, what would you do?" asked Relma.

"We would launch a mass assault on our enemies, slaughtering all who would dare halt our crusade!" said Shren, raising a fist for a mark of strength. "And if you were to stand before us, we would be forced to kill you."

Relma decided that he answered the question very well. Actually, it was better than she'd have hoped. And judging by the cheers from the other satyrs, it was well mirrored by the other troops. "...Well, we'll have to find a way to make sure you all die then."

"Are you planning to murder us?" asked Shren, curious sounding.

"No!" said Relma quickly. She wondered why he seemed to regard her as the leader. And why were satyrs so obsessed with murder and death anyway? Relma couldn't stand doing it herself. "I, I don't really want to kill anyone. I'd much rather everyone get out of this alive. Even the Dragon Empire."

"That does not seem possible," said Shren, motioning to the pyre. "You've already helped kill a fair number of people. You helped one side win, and win we did."

Relma sighed and looked down. It was a bit selfish, she supposed. "I know."

"I do have an idea," said Shren, sitting down to warm his hands near the pyre. Relma kept back a pace or two from it while trying not to show she was. The smell of roasted meat was coming from it.