Entry 18

So. Things hadn't exactly gone according to plan.

A speartip pressed into the small of my back as I was "escorted" to the captain of the soldiers protecting this side of the border. It'd been pure luck that the guards decided not to kill me on the spot - for them to also lead me directly towards their commanding officer, my message's intended recipient, proved nothing short of a miracle. The spear dug deeper, urging me out of my thoughts and quicker in the direction of their encampment.

As I neared the exit out of the pass, this "encampment" seemed just a bit more fortified than that. High stone walls, a portcullis gate, and archers lined along the battlements made their outpost feel more like a fortress. At seeing the two guards guiding me at spearpoint towards the portcullis, I heard an archer atop the battlements yell something down to an unseen gatekeeper within the fort. The gate slowly began to raise up, grinding painfully the entire time. 

Rust flaked off with each ear-grating moment; for a Tritonian keep, the defenses looked to be in dire need of repair. That iron gate may have looked strong, but a few solid strikes to the rusted metal would be more than enough to shatter the metal like glass.

The screeching metal finally stopped moving, giving the guard permission to continue prodding me forth into the fort's interior courtyard. A collection of tents spread out from the gate, covering the entirety of the courtyard's left side. People wearing blood-spattered white flooded these tents, yelling back and forth over the screams and final throes of men returning from the last battle. If I were to guess, I'd say at least forty men lay dying or wounded. Double that number to account for the doctors and nurses, and around a hundred people inside the fort found themselves unable to fight. It was uncommon for a border's choke point to need more than one-fifty, at most.

How could they possible defeat those bandits when over a third of their force could barely lift a sword?

Walking onwards, the field hospital fell out of sight as we approached the fort's main hall. It was an easy assumption to make; large stone walls, tapestries with the bladed half-sun of Triton decorating the structure, and a massive wooden door. For having separated nearly a century earlier, the architecture of Bovica and Triton remained more or less the same. Some things never fade, I suppose. When we reached the entryway, one guard kept his spear firmly rested against my spine while the other knocked heavily on the hardwood. Barely a moment after, the door swung open to reveal a not-unfamiliar sight.

Soldiers lined the columns which supported the hall, wielding spears identical to those carried by the two men forcefully leading me inside. Tapestries and banners hung low from the rafters, adding splashes of uniform color to the otherwise dull interior. At the room's farthest end stood a group of armored individuals huddled over what looked to be a war table; each bearing heavy plate armor, emblazoned with the symbols of Tritonian power. The guards continued to lead me down the carpeted main hall, providing a closer look at this group.

Six men in total, with all six wearing essentially the same armor - barring any minor personal or rank-related differences. Yet, the central figure stood out. The description provided by the Confederate captain in the pass proved incredibly accurate: this man's defining features included well-worked muscles, a height to dwarf everyone else in the hall, and a warhammer that probably could have broken me into many tiny pieces. Convincing him not to crush my ribcage would be difficult; I hoped that the part about this captain being sensitive also proved correct.

"Who is this?"

One of the war table talkers had noticed our approach. The guards halted a few yards from their group, placing all attention on me as the whole room turned to stare.

The left guard responded first. "This Bovican claims to seek passage across the border. He attempted to trick us into letting him through, but Droma saw through his ruse. He fought for them at Fort Meddon."

"Why did you bring us a lying piece of Bovican scum," growled one of the armored soldiers, "instead of just butchering him where he stood?" The other leaders muttered and nodded, obviously disapproving of my previous employer.

"Because he also claimed to have a message that needed delivery." Well, at least these guards have their priorities straight: get information first, kill me after.

The man with the warhammer on his back stepped forward, silencing the murmurs and grumbled grievances of his fellow soldiers. "Who did he deliver for?"

"We aren't sure." My right guard rubbed the bridge of his nose between his fingers, apparently just realizing their failure to ask such a simple question.

The man sighed heavily, asking, "Well, did this fine gentleman happen to tell you who the message is for?"

"You, captain. He said it was for the commander, which would be you."

The captain stood stock still for a few moments, staring intently at me as I waited for my fate to be revealed. Without warning, he asked directly.

"Don't just stand there wasting my time, Bovican. What's the message?"