(Part 1, to be continued)
Banners of arms, grand ribbons dyed with the regal blues and golds of Demacian heraldry, fluttered listlessly among rows of spearheads standing out over the hilltop. Gleaming broadswords and pikes, yet to have their steel stained with the grime of battle, lay against their owners’ shoulders. Some were already beginning to drop to the ground next to resting soldiers. The commanding officer of the battalion wore a deep scowl across his hardened, well-groomed whiskery countenance as he poured once again over a map of the surrounding geography. Minutes passed in uncomfortable silence until one of his officers standing around the overturned water drum serving as the strategy table broke the silence with her hesitant voice.
“Captain Pilkes, sir…permission to offer…”
“Yes, out with it, Sergeant,” Pilkes gruffly responded.
“Sir..”
The sturdily-built young sergeant regretted her voice choking up, showing her political inexperience in front of her fellow officers. Nevertheless, she girded her stomach and continued speaking.
“Sir, it might take us a few more days to route safe passage around the enemy encampments, but maybe we ought to listen to this knight and…”
One of the captain’s great hoary eyebrows slowly ascended as the sergeant spoke. By the time it reached its peak, the soldier rather regretted having opening her mouth at all.
Across the valley, where a lower hillock was teeming with swaths of bold red and black, the rugged commander of the Noxian troops wore a scowl identical to that on his Demacian counterpart.
“…Forget about taking Lyfhold? Are you seriously suggesting we turn tail with the enemy in our sights?”
Commander Bozson let his full, imposing figure stand wide, a spiked mailed fist opening as invitation for his second-in-command to explain his motion further. The substantially thinner man of a clearly more academic background than his commander pursed his lips, carefully considering his next choice of words.
“Turn tail? Perish the thought, commander,” the second-in-command intoned smoothly, “I only mean to suggest that this little hamlet is of minor strategic importance at best, should the terms of ceasefire with the Demacians be delayed much further. I’m sure the High Command would appreciate you _preserving _your strength for the other orders we have been tasked with…
“Spare me your rodent’s excuses.”
“Besides that, the soldiers are growing quite restless with this stalemate.”
Bozson snorted derisively, but privately recognized there was some merit to this last point. There was a saying about a Noxian with an axe to grind. He wasn’t in the habit of leaving it sharp for very long.
The reason for the stagnancy of the situation was plain for anyone to see. Smack dab between the two army camps was the village of Lyfhold. The Demacians had offered the villagers protection from Noxian encroachment on their territory. The Noxians had promised the village the generous honor of thriving under the great power of the state that was Noxus. Both offers had been declined by a stranger claiming himself to be, in his own words, an impartial party acting on behalf of the wonderful, hard-working people of Lyfhold he had just met. First by a very polite, but firm, explanation of the village’s lack of want or need for the terms offered. When that had, of course, not worked, Noxians and Demacians alike were rebuffed a fair bit more firmly by the eruption of earth and rock bodily tossing back waves of soldiers trying to traverse the narrow paths winding down into the valley. The land bore visible scars of these altercations in the form of stripes of rocky outcrops jutting out across the valley, making any organized march through the terrain exceedingly difficult.
“What news do the scouts bring of our enemies?” Commander Bozson asked at length.
“Nothing new, from what little we can see of the Demacian ranks. They are maintaining strong, rotating patrols along their side of the valley,” said his second-in-command, adding “Some of the villagers seem to be arming themselves with makeshift weaponry and keeping a sort of guard.”
“What do I care about the battle tactics of a few dozen farmers with clubs and hoes?” Bozson demanded, “What kinds of preparations is that champion of theirs making?”
The second-in-command took a deep breath, feeling the weight of his next word on his tongue.
“Tea.”
(Part 1, to be continued)
