probably be sent for him at dawn, if not sooner.
He came to a swiftly moving stream and stopped for a few minutes to get a drink and search for supper. Along the far bank, a formation of worn, mossy rocks created a shallow pool. In the evening light, it rippled and churned as fish fed on surface insects, and he crossed the stream and climbed the rocks to look down on the scene. Dozens of fish of all sizes darted and glided through the clear water, and even in his weakened state and without a net, he had little trouble snatching one from the pool.
He didn’t dare light a fire and had no tools of any kind, so the meal was disgusting, even to a common soldier such as him. As part of their survival training, from time to time the regular infantry would be taken into the wilderness and left to fend for themselves, but in those situations he had always had at least a knife and a tinderbox. Eating a raw fish with scales and bones was a new experience. Still, it was better than hunger, and after a few minutes, he was ready to continue.
Darkness came upon him quickly and with it came a feeling of aloneness. He had only a vague notion of where he was, and other than a handful of plantations, the nearest civilized settlement was the fortress, which was at least four more days away. Between him and it were wilderness and untold dangers. Behind him was an army of slaves that would assuredly end his life if he were caught. The isolation enveloped him like a sudden fog, almost overwhelming him, but he walked on through the emotions, trying not to let the fear stop his feet from plodding one step after the other.
***
Roskin sat in the dark away from the camp. His fear no longer lingered on the edge of his mind; it had become a real and nearly constant vision of peril descending on his father. It also saturated his dreams, keeping him from more than a couple hours of sleep a night. As a result, he had taken to standing sentry and allowing the guards who had been assigned the task to get extra rest.
He wanted more than anything to be home, beside his father to quell whatever danger had befallen the kingdom. Being two nations away, having terrible visions, and sitting alone through the night were torturous, and he had written several poems as a catharsis. He hadn’t written anything since leaving Dorkhun and had lost his leather-bound journal when captured at Black Rock, so he had to write with an ornate instrument on loose scraps of fabric and parchment that he had taken from the plantations. At first, the words dribbled onto the page with uncertainty, but after completing a couple of mediocre villanelles, he rediscovered his voice and composed one that was good enough to be presented at the spring planting festival, which would occur in just a month or so.
As he wrote, he thought about the freed slaves. Crushaw had been gone for two days, and an anxious anticipation had overcome most of the army. Everyone obeyed without hesitation the orders Leinjar and Molgheon issued, but the anxiety was palpable. Roskin knew they had at best three more days of unquestioned obedience without Crushaw, and sitting there alone in the early morning dark with his newest poem in hand, even he wondered what chance they really had to escape this land.
Those thoughts were futile and distracting, so he put away his writing instrument and the poem and pulled out his sword and whetstone. He dragged the stone along the blade, faint sparks jumping out in the dark, and turned his mind to the coming battle. Crushaw had told him that he would be in the second regiment that would attack from the rear, so he understood his rudimentary role. He imagined the situation as Crushaw had described it and envisioned the coming battle to prepare himself. It was a technique he had learned in goshkenh ball, and on more than one occasion he had helped win a game because he had imagined making a certain play before the match. Now, he hoped the technique would work as well under
He came to a swiftly moving stream and stopped for a few minutes to get a drink and search for supper. Along the far bank, a formation of worn, mossy rocks created a shallow pool. In the evening light, it rippled and churned as fish fed on surface insects, and he crossed the stream and climbed the rocks to look down on the scene. Dozens of fish of all sizes darted and glided through the clear water, and even in his weakened state and without a net, he had little trouble snatching one from the pool.
He didn’t dare light a fire and had no tools of any kind, so the meal was disgusting, even to a common soldier such as him. As part of their survival training, from time to time the regular infantry would be taken into the wilderness and left to fend for themselves, but in those situations he had always had at least a knife and a tinderbox. Eating a raw fish with scales and bones was a new experience. Still, it was better than hunger, and after a few minutes, he was ready to continue.
Darkness came upon him quickly and with it came a feeling of aloneness. He had only a vague notion of where he was, and other than a handful of plantations, the nearest civilized settlement was the fortress, which was at least four more days away. Between him and it were wilderness and untold dangers. Behind him was an army of slaves that would assuredly end his life if he were caught. The isolation enveloped him like a sudden fog, almost overwhelming him, but he walked on through the emotions, trying not to let the fear stop his feet from plodding one step after the other.
***
Roskin sat in the dark away from the camp. His fear no longer lingered on the edge of his mind; it had become a real and nearly constant vision of peril descending on his father. It also saturated his dreams, keeping him from more than a couple hours of sleep a night. As a result, he had taken to standing sentry and allowing the guards who had been assigned the task to get extra rest.
He wanted more than anything to be home, beside his father to quell whatever danger had befallen the kingdom. Being two nations away, having terrible visions, and sitting alone through the night were torturous, and he had written several poems as a catharsis. He hadn’t written anything since leaving Dorkhun and had lost his leather-bound journal when captured at Black Rock, so he had to write with an ornate instrument on loose scraps of fabric and parchment that he had taken from the plantations. At first, the words dribbled onto the page with uncertainty, but after completing a couple of mediocre villanelles, he rediscovered his voice and composed one that was good enough to be presented at the spring planting festival, which would occur in just a month or so.
As he wrote, he thought about the freed slaves. Crushaw had been gone for two days, and an anxious anticipation had overcome most of the army. Everyone obeyed without hesitation the orders Leinjar and Molgheon issued, but the anxiety was palpable. Roskin knew they had at best three more days of unquestioned obedience without Crushaw, and sitting there alone in the early morning dark with his newest poem in hand, even he wondered what chance they really had to escape this land.
Those thoughts were futile and distracting, so he put away his writing instrument and the poem and pulled out his sword and whetstone. He dragged the stone along the blade, faint sparks jumping out in the dark, and turned his mind to the coming battle. Crushaw had told him that he would be in the second regiment that would attack from the rear, so he understood his rudimentary role. He imagined the situation as Crushaw had described it and envisioned the coming battle to prepare himself. It was a technique he had learned in goshkenh ball, and on more than one occasion he had helped win a game because he had imagined making a certain play before the match. Now, he hoped the technique would work as well under
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