The next morning, Lesley appeared outside the walls of the outpost early. She waited for Dowager to wake and meet her, unwilling to surrender herself to anyone besides the army’s commander. Once he did show up, she allowed herself to be detained without comment, holding out her wrists while Sir Quintana bound her arms up to the elbows. An effective deterrent against the boarwoman’s obvious strength but something easily circumvented through magic.
Unfortunately, there was no way to check Lesley’s magical acumen. When they interrogated her, she said she was a pugilist with a small core and practically no experience using it. The prince had his doubts. He could believe that their society was rather ignorant, but no creature could ignore the power of magic. Every living being used it. Even insects. The boarwoman wanted him to believe that they had forsaken the use of magic when worms and ants coveted it?
When he expressed his disbelief, she explained that it was a personal choice but that didn’t soothe his doubts. She was a commander, a leader. Not just of goblins. One did not get the courage to waltz into a kingdom and negotiate with a prince from wrangling green pests. He would wager his future crown that Lesley was someone of importance amongst her original tribe.
Historically, importance was linked to magic. Even if her talent with mana was abysmal and her affinities basic, she would have been trained. If only for moments like the one she was experiencing. Containing a trained caster was infinitely more difficult than detaining someone without the ability to cast a decent spell.
Dowager assumed she was hiding her abilities. Something he understood. While they were cooperating, in a sense, they were far from allies and further from trusting one another. The best he could do was make sure capable men watched her at all times.
The good news was that she would be alone when traveling with them to the capital. Unless she was a master caster on the level of Dunwayne, she wouldn’t be able to do anything against the soldiers escorting them and Sir Quintana. If she did have that much power, she would have used that to negotiate as opposed to throwing herself on their mercy. A master caster certainly brought more value than an army of savages.
After her interrogation, Dowager accompanied her to her camp. The prince had no expectations, but the goblins still managed to betray them. He was right. All they could manage was remaining in an area, like trained dogs. There was no other semblance of order.
Most of the goblins lounged in the mud, seemingly unbothered by the wet earth and bugs buzzing over their heads. Some of them milled about, walking to different groups of the creatures with their small arms full of rocks and random assortments of greenery. Their arrival was always met by hoots and hollering. “What’s going on?” Dowager finally asked after witnessing the strange sight for the dozenth time.
“Scavenger tribe are gatherers. The weakest members go out to find food for the others,” Lesley answered after glancing in the direction of the finger he pointed at one of the groups.
“Food? Those things are carrying rocks and weeds.”
“Scavengers have strong noses when it comes to food and stronger stomachs. They can eat some rocks and anything that grows. That is food.”
“…you’re kidding.”
“It is their greatest strength. They have the most undesirable land but the largest numbers. No matter what, the Scavengers always eat.”
An enviable trait for any being. Dowager supposed that the world had given them what they needed to survive, not thrive. Pests tended to be hardy and the goblins were no exception. “I see.”
It didn’t take long for the prince to become bored with examining the camp. It was hard to maintain his focus when there was no camp to see and the goblins he was meant to be wary of were literally sleeping the day away without a care in the world. He hurried their pace and finished the tour within an hour. “What do you think, captain?”
In his absence, the captain of the outpost would take command of the army. Unlike the prince, he had managed to maintain his serious demeanor, frowning severely as they walked away from the goblins. “The goblins don’t seem like they’ll give the men any trouble. The problem is containing them all. The ground is so soft we can’t even drive a post into it and there’s no way our casters can erect walls to surround them.”
In his many dreams of his first battle, Dowager had never contemplated building a holding to detain prisoners of war. In the stories, generals captured enemy commanders and held them for ransom. They exchanged stories and witty remarks over sophisticated games and strong drinks. They became rivals, friends defined by their enmity, their many conflicts driving both higher. In the end, one died to the better man and the victor named his first son after the fallen.
The goblins were not rivals. They had nothing to offer him. Detaining them was the same as fencing in a bunch of rats to keep them from scattering. Something no military officer trained for. Yet, it had to be done. As Sir Quintana said, war was about adapting. “Any good ideas?”
“They will not go anywhere if ordered to stay,” Lesley said.
“That is not a good idea.” Dowager briefly wondered if they should even be having the conversation in front of the boarwoman but dismissed the concern. She wouldn’t be returning to her army. Prisoners couldn’t break out of dungeons even if they knew how the bars were put into place. He turned to the one most likely to have a good idea. “Sir Quintana?”
The knight huffed. “Haven’t done much fighting in the south, prince. Seems the only thing you can do is sacrifice the earth and water casters. The walls don’t have to be that tall.”
“That does seem to be the best way…”
Lesley snorted. “Question. Will you feed them? If they are not allowed to search for food, they will starve.”
Dowager felt a headache coming on as he considered it. “A group of soldiers will escort a few of them to gather food then.”
“What about water?”
“They can drink the water pulled from the mud,” Sir Quintana said before the prince could become anymore frustrated. “Besides, if they starve, they starve. All we have to do is make sure they live, not make them comfortable.”
The boarwoman made a sound of displeasure but didn’t offer any comment in rebuttal. Dowager was thankful for it. It wasn’t very princely, but he was ready to hand over the whole mess to the captain. When the time came to lead glorious charges against the enemy, he’d be the first to volunteer. Overseeing prisoner camps was a duty he’d just as gladly hand to the next man. Even the greatest generals had adjutants that handled the tedious aspects of war. As a king, delegation was an essential skill.
They returned to the outpost. Dowager met with the officers and they discussed their plans for the camp in detail, amending their plan to send reinforcements as soon as possible. At night, Lesley was loaded onto a covered carriage, the rope binding her arms replaced by manacles chained to the floor. Finally, the prince walked amongst the men, checking on their moral. None were happy but they were far from worried. Many hoped that the ceasefire would end soon, one way or the other, and they could go home.
With all matters in hand, the prince retired. For the first time, he went to bed with a smile. Tomorrow, he would be leaving the wet hellhole. Hopefully, never to return.
The next morning, Lesley appeared outside the walls of the outpost early. She waited for Dowager to wake and meet her, unwilling to surrender herself to anyone besides the army’s commander. Once he did show up, she allowed herself to be detained without comment, holding out her wrists while Sir Quintana bound her arms up to the elbows. An effective deterrent against the boarwoman’s obvious strength but something easily circumvented through magic.
Unfortunately, there was no way to check Lesley’s magical acumen. When they interrogated her, she said she was a pugilist with a small core and practically no experience using it. The prince had his doubts. He could believe that their society was rather ignorant, but no creature could ignore the power of magic. Every living being used it. Even insects. The boarwoman wanted him to believe that they had forsaken the use of magic when worms and ants coveted it?
When he expressed his disbelief, she explained that it was a personal choice but that didn’t soothe his doubts. She was a commander, a leader. Not just of goblins. One did not get the courage to waltz into a kingdom and negotiate with a prince from wrangling green pests. He would wager his future crown that Lesley was someone of importance amongst her original tribe.
Historically, importance was linked to magic. Even if her talent with mana was abysmal and her affinities basic, she would have been trained. If only for moments like the one she was experiencing. Containing a trained caster was infinitely more difficult than detaining someone without the ability to cast a decent spell.
Dowager assumed she was hiding her abilities. Something he understood. While they were cooperating, in a sense, they were far from allies and further from trusting one another. The best he could do was make sure capable men watched her at all times.
The good news was that she would be alone when traveling with them to the capital. Unless she was a master caster on the level of Dunwayne, she wouldn’t be able to do anything against the soldiers escorting them and Sir Quintana. If she did have that much power, she would have used that to negotiate as opposed to throwing herself on their mercy. A master caster certainly brought more value than an army of savages.
After her interrogation, Dowager accompanied her to her camp. The prince had no expectations, but the goblins still managed to betray them. He was right. All they could manage was remaining in an area, like trained dogs. There was no other semblance of order.
Most of the goblins lounged in the mud, seemingly unbothered by the wet earth and bugs buzzing over their heads. Some of them milled about, walking to different groups of the creatures with their small arms full of rocks and random assortments of greenery. Their arrival was always met by hoots and hollering. “What’s going on?” Dowager finally asked after witnessing the strange sight for the dozenth time.
“Scavenger tribe are gatherers. The weakest members go out to find food for the others,” Lesley answered after glancing in the direction of the finger he pointed at one of the groups.
“Food? Those things are carrying rocks and weeds.”
“Scavengers have strong noses when it comes to food and stronger stomachs. They can eat some rocks and anything that grows. That is food.”
“…you’re kidding.”
“It is their greatest strength. They have the most undesirable land but the largest numbers. No matter what, the Scavengers always eat.”
An enviable trait for any being. Dowager supposed that the world had given them what they needed to survive, not thrive. Pests tended to be hardy and the goblins were no exception. “I see.”
It didn’t take long for the prince to become bored with examining the camp. It was hard to maintain his focus when there was no camp to see and the goblins he was meant to be wary of were literally sleeping the day away without a care in the world. He hurried their pace and finished the tour within an hour. “What do you think, captain?”
In his absence, the captain of the outpost would take command of the army. Unlike the prince, he had managed to maintain his serious demeanor, frowning severely as they walked away from the goblins. “The goblins don’t seem like they’ll give the men any trouble. The problem is containing them all. The ground is so soft we can’t even drive a post into it and there’s no way our casters can erect walls to surround them.”
In his many dreams of his first battle, Dowager had never contemplated building a holding to detain prisoners of war. In the stories, generals captured enemy commanders and held them for ransom. They exchanged stories and witty remarks over sophisticated games and strong drinks. They became rivals, friends defined by their enmity, their many conflicts driving both higher. In the end, one died to the better man and the victor named his first son after the fallen.
The goblins were not rivals. They had nothing to offer him. Detaining them was the same as fencing in a bunch of rats to keep them from scattering. Something no military officer trained for. Yet, it had to be done. As Sir Quintana said, war was about adapting. “Any good ideas?”
“They will not go anywhere if ordered to stay,” Lesley said.
“That is not a good idea.” Dowager briefly wondered if they should even be having the conversation in front of the boarwoman but dismissed the concern. She wouldn’t be returning to her army. Prisoners couldn’t break out of dungeons even if they knew how the bars were put into place. He turned to the one most likely to have a good idea. “Sir Quintana?”
The knight huffed. “Haven’t done much fighting in the south, prince. Seems the only thing you can do is sacrifice the earth and water casters. The walls don’t have to be that tall.”
“That does seem to be the best way…”
Lesley snorted. “Question. Will you feed them? If they are not allowed to search for food, they will starve.”
Dowager felt a headache coming on as he considered it. “A group of soldiers will escort a few of them to gather food then.”
“What about water?”
“They can drink the water pulled from the mud,” Sir Quintana said before the prince could become anymore frustrated. “Besides, if they starve, they starve. All we have to do is make sure they live, not make them comfortable.”
The boarwoman made a sound of displeasure but didn’t offer any comment in rebuttal. Dowager was thankful for it. It wasn’t very princely, but he was ready to hand over the whole mess to the captain. When the time came to lead glorious charges against the enemy, he’d be the first to volunteer. Overseeing prisoner camps was a duty he’d just as gladly hand to the next man. Even the greatest generals had adjutants that handled the tedious aspects of war. As a king, delegation was an essential skill.
They returned to the outpost. Dowager met with the officers and they discussed their plans for the camp in detail, amending their plan to send reinforcements as soon as possible. At night, Lesley was loaded onto a covered carriage, the rope binding her arms replaced by manacles chained to the floor. Finally, the prince walked amongst the men, checking on their moral. None were happy but they were far from worried. Many hoped that the ceasefire would end soon, one way or the other, and they could go home.
With all matters in hand, the prince retired. For the first time, he went to bed with a smile. Tomorrow, he would be leaving the wet hellhole. Hopefully, never to return.
