Chapter 1391: Face to Face(4)

He lay prone upon the coarse straw mattress, forcing his heavy eyelids open against a dull, throbbing ache.

A blinding haze of pure white greeted him. The color stretched above him, beside him, and below, so pure that it felt clean enough to wash the mud from his soul.

He was in a white tent.At last.

Vilon groaned, a dry rasp escaping his lips, and a chorus of muffled groans echoed his pain from the shadows. He carefully twisted his head, his neck muscles stiff as rusted iron, protesting even the slightest shift.

There were others laying in rows beside him, fellow wrecks just like him, some in better conditions other in worse.

Some had their arms bound tight in pristine linen, others wore leather slings across their chests. On the far side of the pavilion, a man clad in a snow-white tunic bearing a bold red cross across his chest was helping a limping legionnaire adjust to a pair of strange wooden crutches. The soldier propped the notched boards under his armpits, wobbling forward step by cautious step.

I found it, Vilon realized, a faint wave of relief sweeping over him. I finally found the medical bay.

He looked down at his own chest, gingerly lifting the rough wool blanket to inspect his side. A fresh, thick swath of clean linen had been bound tightly around his ribs, smelling faintly of boiled herbs and bitter, he gave it a sniff, and gagged.

What was that?

"You are, without a doubt, the worst spy I have ever laid eyes on."

The familiar, sharp voice made Vilon flinch, his head whipping sideways with a sudden yelp of pain.

A pair of stern, dark eyes held him in their grip. The man was turning an iron object over in his calloused hands, an helmet.

My helmet , he realised.

The dark-haired man inspected it from every angle, his thumb tracing the rusted edges until his fingers came to rest on the heavy dent at the back of the skull-cap.

From the creek, Vilon remembered, the phantom ache returning to the crown of his head. When he had hurled his weight forward to stop the brigand’s spear from punching through his ribs, his head had slammed against the riverbank almost breaking his skull. It had felt strange to wear the iron ever since, cold and ill-fitting against his scalp, but a dented helm was far preferable to a cracked skull.

"Wh—" Vilon tried to speak, but the sound died in his raw throat, bubbling out as a dry, pathetic croak.

He coughed violently, and the man with a sigh thrusted a tin cup of cold water into his hand. Vilon drank greedily, the water spilling down his chin as he drained the cup in a single, desperate gulp. He hadn’t realized how bone-dry his mouth had become.

"This iron has seen its share of bloody work," the commander muttered, setting the dented helm onto a wooden chest beside the cot. The silver brooch clasping his cloak was carved in the likeness of a roaring fire, catching the dim light. In the clear air of the medical tent, Vilon could see the hard, unyielding lines of the man’s face much better now, along with the faint, white scars tracing his jawline.

"The mail was in no better state," he continued, purposefully ignoring Vilon’s wide-eyed stare. "A nasty tear right where your ribs were opened up.You were broken quite fiercely. " His dark eyes settled back onto Vilon’s broken form. "No... you are no spy. That much is obvious. Though you are still guilty of lingering outside my canvas and overhearing matters of state.Through which I will demand an explanation."

"Who... who are you?" Vilon rasped, wincing as a sharp pulse throbbed behind his eyes. How long had he been unconscious? He felt hollow, terrifyingly weak, his forehead burning as if a fever were trying to claw its way out of his skull.

"That is a question I should be asking you," the commander replied, leaning back with his arms crossed over his chest. "It was not I who was skulking outside a war council like a thief in the night. Had you not collapsed face-first onto my floorboards, I would have had my guards drag you to the irons and strip your hide. Well..." He let out a dry, humorless chortle. "I called the guards regardless, and had them carry your broken body here. Your sword and mail have been impounded. Now, give me one good reason why a man I have never seen, heard of, or summoned was creeping around my personal pavilion."

"I... I lost my way," Vilon stammered, trying to piece together the truth without making himself sound like a madman or an assassin. The man standing over him radiated an absolute, terrifying authority; Vilon had no doubt a single word from those lips could see him strung up from the nearest oak.Or maybe nailed up....

Terror welled in his stomach. He did not want such death.Could the Gods be so cruel?

"I was... searching for a white tent. A place for the wounded. And yours... yours was white."

"White?" The commander lifted a dark eyebrow. "Am I truly expected to believe you blindly stumbled your way through , past four guard posts, and straight to my threshold? Did you not see the standards planted at my door?"

"I... I did not," Vilon cringed, the words sounding hollow and pathetic even to his own ears. "I... I scarcely remember riding past the gates. Everything was... smoke and noise."

From the shadow at the foot of the cot, a second voice broke in, deep, smooth, and resonant. "I can believe it. When the guards carried him in, his skin was burning like a blacksmith’s forge. The poor bastard was likely walking through a waking nightmare.Have pity on him."

It was the other man from the pavilion, the warrior with the long, gleaming blond braid. Up close, Vilon could see a neatly trimmed, sharp beard framing his strong jawline.

"Yes..." Vilon breathed, grasping at the lifeline. "I could not make sense of the roads as I walked—"

He froze mid-sentence, his eyes widening in sudden, icy terror. Walked?

"My horse!" Vilon gasped, trying to sit up, only for a wave of agony to pin him back against the straw. "Chestnut!"

"The beast has been cared for," the blonde muttered smoothly, waving a dismissive, mail-clad hand. "Hard to miss a prime war-stallion standing alone outside a command tent. Quite the beast especially to someone who....has your looks. He is in the officers’ stables, belly-full of oats. You are a knight, yes?"

Vilon offered a strained, rapid nod.

"One for the hedges, no doubt,coming here uninvited and unwelcomed" the other interjected, his dark eyes narrowing as he leaned in closer to Vilon’s cot. "So, we are to accept that you casually drifted through a host and landed at our feet by pure chance? And what of the conversation, ’ser’? Why were you lingering at the split of the canvas, hanging on every word we spoke?"

"I... I don’t know," Vilon whimpered, cold sweat bursting across his brow as he pressed his back into the thin straw pillow, clutching his stitched side. "I was out of my mind with the burning! I was wounded... the pain... I just wanted it to stop..."

The blond commander studied Vilon’s pale, sweat-slicked face for a long, quiet moment. He turned toward the head chirurgeon, making a subtle gesture with his hand, mimicking a man raising a cup to his lips and swaying his head.

The medic in the white-and-red tunic offered a crisp, formal bow, turning immediately to fetch a dark glass vial from his table.

Vilon watched the exchange, his heart hammering against his ribs. The effortless deference of the medic spoke louder than any banner. The two men standing over his cot were not merely officers, they were lords of iron and blood, commanders who held the power of life and death over every soul in this camp.

"The chirurgeon will bring something to dull your senses, perhaps boiled willow bark, or a drop of poppy milk. I would suggest the willow; it leaves a man’s mind less tangled."

"Tangled?" Vilon rasped.

"Forget it. It shouldn’t concern you," the dark-haired commander snapped, thrusting the dented helm back onto Vilon’s stomach with enough force to make him wince. "What should concern you is giving us an honest account of who you are and why you are bleeding on our straw."

The blond commander leaned his heavy shoulders against a wooden support beam. "As I recall, the Crown has posted no bounties for wandering hedge-knights to take service. And you look far too broken to hold a lance."

"We have more than enough iron-clad meat filling the trenches for patrol duty," the dark-haired man added coldly. "In your current state, you couldn’t defend yourself against a farm boy, let alone a bandit."

Remembering the captain’s instructions, Vilon forced himself up against the thin pillow, clearing his throat. "I am a knight-errant in service to no lord. I was wounded down by the creek, defending a local woman, when some of the King’s own outriders came to my aid. They... they informed me I had rendered service to the realm and brought me here to the main host." He swallowed hard. "Captain Saron told me if anyone questioned my presence, I was to say I was with him."

The blond warrior lifted a golden eyebrow, his expression shifting. "Saron?"

Vilon gave a rapid, nervous nod. "Are you... are you perhaps Mars?"

"Why do you ask?" the dark-haired commander interjected sharply.

"Oh... nothing," Vilon stammered, feeling a sudden wave of cold sweat break across his neck. Looking between the two imposing figures, he began to deeply regret opening his mouth. "He merely told me I had a message to deliver if I happened to run into Mars."

"I am Mars," the blond commander declared smoothly, pulling over a three-legged wooden stool and sitting down, resting his calloused hands on his knees.

Just then, a medic approached the cot carrying a steaming tin cup. Mars held up a single, imperative hand, stopping the man in his tracks. "What is that?"

"Willow bark tea, my lord," the medic whispered, bowing his head.

"Hold a moment," Mars ordered, his sharp blue eyes locking onto Vilon without so much as a flicker. "What did Saron tell you to say to me?"

"N-nothing of importance, truly!" Vilon squeaked, shrinking back into the straw.

"Hardly so if the old wolf took the trouble to send a messenger," he said softly, a dangerous edge creeping into his voice. "Am I to get angry, ser? Out with it. What were his exact words?"

Vilon’s throat went dry as bone. He looked at the vast shoulders of the blond commander, then at the hard, unyielding jaw of the dark-haired lord beside him. Panic seized his chest, his mind racing as he realized there was no clever lie that would save him now.

"H-he..." Vilon stuttered, his voice cracking pitifully. "He told me... he said to tell you... that you ought to go search for your missing silverii...elsewhere"

"Elsewhere?That was what he said?I hardly believe it. Search for them where?" Mars asked, his eyes narrowing to ice.

Vilon felt tears of sheer terror welling in the corners of his eyes, his voice dropping into a desperate, trembling whisper. "...in your...back. Because you won’t be getting a copper from.... him" He squeezed his eyes shut, practically whimpering into the blanket. "Those were his words! His, not mine! I swear it on the gods!"

For three agonizing heartbeats, the white tent was suffocatingly silent. Mars stared daggers at the terrified knight, his jaw set so tight a vein throbbed along his temple.

Then, the tension snapped.

Mars threw his head back and let out a booming, chest-heaving laugh that echoed through the canvas. "That old, one-eyed bastard!" he barked, slapping his knee. "I was wondering what in the five hells my second had against him. "

Vilon opened his eyes, blinking in utter bewilderment. Second? he repeated silently in his mind.

The , not Mars it seemed , noticed the stunned, glassy stare Vilon was giving them and allowed a faint, approving smirk to touch his face.

"Allow me to clarify your mess, Ser Vilon’’ he said smoothly. "Both Captain Mars and Sariol serve directly beneath me. As for ourselves..I am Rykio, and this one is Edric. Both in direct service to the Crown.One that you have rendered great service to."

As he said that he extended a gauntleted hand, his dark eyes gleaming with quiet respect.

"Pleased to meet you properly, Ser. We have been awaiting your arrival for quite a bit."