On the March — Song of Arventis, Part Four
Conscripted by the Dellish Army, Arventis Finds Himself Marching with the Enemy
Link back to Part Three | Link back to Part Two | Link back to Part One
Draped in a green tunic stitched with the blazing sun of Dellin, Arventis stewed on how much he hated this country. He’d been robbed blind by its silver-weavers, starved near death by its forests, and now conscripted by its army. He marched, brow furrowed, eyes cast down, and cursed his luck.
Of course, the war band’s chief hadn’t believed Arventis had had a writ of exemption — payment for performing at the Duke of Parlani’s daughter’s wedding — when Arventis tried to talk his way out of conscription.
“Let’s see it, then,” the chief said.
“I’d show it to you gladly, but alas… it was eaten by a pig.” Rather than evoke an ounce of sympathy from any among the crowd gathered to see the new recruit, the statement caused waves of laughter to roll through the ranks. Arventis sighed, hope at regaining the prestige he knew but a month before flying farther away from him with each laugh from the soldiers. He remembered the applause and admiration lavished on him in grand halls, now replaced with jeers and a spear.
“Let’s hear a song, then,” the chief had said, waving his hands in a mock magnanimity. “If you’re the famous Arventis, we all shall weep, and send you on your merry way.”
He sang. But, he sang lacking a lute to accompany him, starved, dehydrated, and raw. His voice sounded like hog shit. To his ear, at least.
“A passable talent,” the chief nodded when Arventis finished. “But I ain’t weeping, and you ain’t Arventis.”
So he was shod in boots and draped in a stained padded gambeson, which smelled like somebody had died in it. They gave him a spear, and he ate a meal, slept on rough ground (thankfully by a warm fire), and in the morning, was set to marching. His anxiety deepened. He hadn’t held a weapon since childhood. Even then, playing with his father’s sword hardly qualified him for soldiering. He would have to find a means of escape as soon as possible, well before any chance of fighting.
“Better keep up, bard,” snarled the Chief’s Hand from atop his horse. “Ain’t room for slackers, here.” Arventis bit back a retort, knowing his wit would find less favor here than it might in the comfortable halls of nobility. Instead, he faced forward and focused on the rhythmic thump of his boots on the road.
The only upside, besides food and a warm place to sleep — and admittedly, the boots were pretty comfortable, and he had garnered some compliments from his singing that bolstered his weary soul — the only upside, aside from these, was that they marched north, toward Bergot, and out of fucking Dellin.
If you stuck around this long, hopefully you enjoyed the story and didn’t simply finish it out of spite. And if you liked it, do my ego a favor and throw some claps, maybe a response, or a follow my way.
Arventis has a long journey ahead of him. I can promise music (on the page), violence (on the page), and disease (on the page, as well as in my own body on occasion). New chapter every Thursday.
