Rilan spotted the hanging men and could not take his eyes away from the bodies. It was almost ironic, he realised. Something so horrific, yet he was unable to avert his gaze in the slightest.
Rilan almost felt obliged to memorise each detail before him so that he would never forget. The stomach-churning scent wafting in the breeze, the blackening skin, the clouds of flies and their swollen tongues.
“Gharland said that Lord Jonys requested he lead the expedition, right?” Tomas said.
“Aye, what of it?”
Tomas thought for a moment. “Gharland and Jonys did not seem to be on the best of terms last night. After you passed out, I saw them quarrelling.”
“Maybe he just wants Gharland away from him, then? Sending him straight into the path of danger. Those Magisters can’t be trusted. You’ve heard the stories… But look, Tommy, wherever you go, I go,” Rilan said, patting his friend on the back. “We gotta stick together through all this.”
No matter what lay ahead, the boys were still somewhat eager to leave as soon as possible. Rilan almost felt obliged to look out for Tomas. He was younger and smaller than Rilan and had always been an easy target all his life, by bullies and tormentors, but worst of all, by his father.
Rilan had always wondered why Tomas never stood up for himself. He didn’t exactly make it hard for those tormenting him.
Tomas was shy and would often cower at any instance of confrontation. But over the years, Rilan had suspected that this was Tomas’s way of defending himself. If anything, it was smart. The boy knew he would never be tough, tall, or good with words. As such, it was better to avoid the fight where he could.
They had had a bond for so long that Rilan thought of Tomas as his younger brother, in a way. He was always going to try and stay with Tomas, to protect him.
Heading out with this company seemed like their best chance at survival.
※
Rilan and Tomas packed up their bedrolls, cooking tins, utensils, and belongings into their packs, making sure to dress appropriately with fur cloaks over their leather gambesons, as the road was likely to be freezing.
Rilan donned his father’s old helmet over his golden hair, and both wore their worn leather gloves. They wouldn’t do much against the cold, but it was better than nothing.
Rilan groaned as he attempted to fit the glove over his injured hand. It was aching worse than anything he had ever felt. He had broken his arm when he was young, and he remembered the dull thumping pain that came with such an injury.
Yet losing his finger was far worse. Not only was the familiar pounding ache present, but his flesh was tender, and his nerves brought on a fiery sensation.
Rilan tried his best to ignore it, but that was like trying to ignore a pig in a dress. Every thought was interrupted with bursts of sudden pain shooting through his hand.
The boys gathered some food from the canteen, including some bread and dried mutton for the road. Tomas took some dried fruits and nuts since he refused to eat any of the meat that was offered.
They would not have enough for the entire trip, but figured they’d be stopping at towns along the way to resupply.
Worse came to worst, they could always forage for fruits and berries, or even hunt.
Afterwards, Rilan and Tomas headed out to the armourers to get some new weapons. Both were issued new scabbards, swords and knives. Neither had any practice with a sword besides the few days of training they had received the prior week, and the battle they had managed to crawl away from.
Rilan and Tomas found their way through the maze of tents in the war camp, eventually reaching the stables of Barrowtown.
The town was bleak and grey. The stone buildings were hundreds of years old, constructed with shale, wattle strips and daub to keep the coastal storms out. Barrowtown had no roads, only tracks of dirt and mud connecting the residences.
The rough textures of the homes and structures of Barrowtown matched the temperaments of the people. Dreary-eyed, unwashed, and dressed in monotone colours. Their dead stranger eyes watched the boys as they found their way to the stables.
They met the fully kitted Captain Gharland who stood beside his black steed. The man wore chainmail over a leather vest, blue mantle atop a wolf-hide coat, and a longsword on his belt. His dented, bloodied armour from the previous day had been replaced, Rilan realised.
Lieutenant Britus was beside Gharland, strapping down the saddle on his sandy-coloured mare. The man had a thick brow and unshaved stubble. His square jaw gave him a cold, menacing appearance.
With Gharland was a squire, some personal officers, and a dozen other soldiers all preparing their saddles, ready for the long ride ahead. Rilan guessed these were the men accompanying the captain on the journey.
The stablemaster, an old, decrepit man, brought over two horses. “Yer mounts, lad,” the old man said in a thick accent as he shuffled over before turning right around to go back into the warmer stables.
Tomas gulped as he took the reins. “Um, excuse me, ser,” he called out after the stablemaster.
The old man raised an eyebrow and scrunched up his face as he turned back, looking unimpressed. “I’m no ‘ser’,” he hissed.
Gharland’s squire, the young man, overheard the comment and hid a chuckle behind his hand.
Tomas gazed into the dark eyes of the horse and back at the stablemaster with unease. “Sorry, I only meant-”
“What’d ye want, boy?”
“I’ve only ridden a horse once before,” Tomas explained. “I just wanted to ask if there was anything I should know.”
The frown on the stablemaster’s face eased and he nodded with a stiff neck. “He’s a
