Sorceress of the Second Sphere

18. Uncivil War - Peyton

Heavy steps, clouded thoughts and aching bones. The frosted shrubbery seemed to compound Peyton's misery as he looked across at the remnants of his ragtag crew pushing the spoils of the foraging sites back to Bleufontaine.

So many lost, so few remained. Several graves were dug for men whom he had considered his own, people that he had fought and bled alongside. Guilt had continuously barraged him as he pushed a corpse into the ground, their name was briefly spoken before the wet, soaked mud was splattered over them to become one with the earth.

He and a handful of men had barely survived the skirmish with the Ruvians but in reality, Peyton, and all of his men, had not been expected to survive the encounter. Instead, their rotting corpses were expecting to be looted of their weapons, their armour, their pride and their flesh while the rest of the army were bunkered down for the winter.

Peyton had always been exceptional at restraining his emotion, yet the silence that had accompanied him and his men since the skirmish had allowed him to effortlessly plunge himself deep into his thoughts.

He was angry and bitter at the man that was so eager to see his demise, and when Peyton would set foot into Bleufontaine once more, he was eager to put this considered feud to bed once and for all, even if it would cost him his life.

Perhaps he was foolish for thinking he could end Sir Cedwyn's resentment toward him, but what did he have to lose? As most of his men lay lifeless in the Ruvian mud, it felt like nothing, but as he delved more into his thoughts, he realised it was so much more than that.

The thoughts made him more bitter, angrier. He was stuck between a rock and a hard place. He had some wealth, much more than the average knight-errant, and he still had some men, but his pride and his honour were something he had in abundance, and to lose that would make him lose every fibre of his being.

He could not allow Sir Cedwyn to take it away from him.

"Milord, up ahead!"

The alarmed sound from his men brought Peyton out of his thoughts. He had been so deeply engrossed in his frustration that he had failed to see the smoke rising above the trees and across the horizon.

As he studied its origin, Peyton became even more anxious than before. The smoke was rising from Bleufontaine, and it appeared that several fires had now culminated into one huge smoke cloud.

"Harrold, hold fast, secure the caravan, I must investigate what has happened," Peyton ordered.

Harrold immediately took to Peyton's side, his grisly features not taking too kindly to the orders bestowed upon him. "Milord, shouldn't I go with a couple of the lads? What if the Ruvians attacked?"

"Then they would be foolish," Peyton replied with frustration oozing from his lips. "This is not a Ruvian attack, it would be futile for them to siege Bleufontaine in the middle of winter. Forsyth, Kippa, with me, the rest of you remain and guard the caravan."

Before Peyton looked to pick up the pace toward the turmoil, Harrold grabbed a hold of his arm. Initially, Peyton responded aggressively, but as he turned to see the concern on his man's face, he responded by simply tapping his hand. "I will be fine, Harrold."

With a quick nod, Harrold acknowledged his commander before releasing his arm. His continuous frown was not uncommon, but Peyton could see that it was far more prominent than usual. Yet it was of little consequence, Peyton would travel to Bleufontaine with or without Harrold's approval.

The closer they edged toward Bleufontaine, the clanging of metal, the shouts and screams of the wounded or dying had crescendoed intensely. The worst of the fires had appeared to settle as Peyton stood on top of the hill leading toward the bastion of the east, but plumes of smoke still edged towards the sky.