023 C.E Yateph District

Several months had passed since the Northern seige. Pareth, King of the South had invaded the whole region, his troop setting camp around all the Northern sects, including Yateph, to ensure there were no intrusions. There weren't. None at all, till he had conquered and overthrown the East. He established his district, Goyl, as the official leading division, five months in total.

It had been a bloody battle. An endemic had broken out in Yateph, the farmers had entered numerous disputes, and even the soldiers had began to quarrel. Only one message had come into Yateph at the time, and it had been from the commanding General of Pareth's troop. He had requested a month's worth of food supply, and the service of their women. Again, in addition to the disease and disputes, several of Yateph's men were killed for protesting at the walls.

Until the five months were over, GOZ, King of Yateph and Commander-in-Chief of his hosts, hadn't spoken a word to his troops, or even to the Generals and Barons. He laid in his chamber, night and day or stood on his castle top watching the smoke that went up from the city- and mourning.

Six miles from his castle stood the worn walls of the fourth army camp. It housed twelve thousand soldiers, a scarce number of miners, carpenters, and hidden prostitutes, and was headed by General Mishar.

The headquarter of the base was stood at it's center, housing Mishar who overlooked the activities of the base to no fault. He had a visitor. A grim looking man who was stood by the thatched window, a goblet in hand with the third pour of wine. He had been exchanging looks with one of the patrol soldiers, but he hadn't been paying attention to the man, instead, he had been paying attention to his grief.

He had arrived the camp wrapped in sack under splattering rain. A cloth over his head to shield him from the rain and the questioning looks of the soldiers. He had come to hide him from grief and scandal. Garath. Deputy commander-in-chief of Yateph. Just two weeks ago, his brother, Jek had been conned and killed by a harlot, daughter of the peasant farmer, Mao. Words had gone out like smoke within Garath's division, and even in all Yateph that the Deputy's brother had been slain by a mere prostitute.

It had reminded the people, and himself especially, of his incompetence. With each passing day, he bore the bitterness of failure, failure to his troop, to Goz, and to Yateph. He had been hiding from his camp for weeks, and thankfully, he hadn't gotten any message- none until this morning. He had been thinking, and drinking. The soldier by the gate would catch his eyes now and again, but Garath didn't mind. His heart was lost in sorrow. Mishar had then come in to pass regard before setting off into the city and had found him pensive.

"Sir," Mishar called.

Garath did not turn. He took a sip of his wine.

"Call me Garath," he said.

Mishar moved uneasily, eyes following the Deputy's gaze.

"But- you're the Deputy."

"And you're my friend," Garath said.

Mishar took a mild pause and resumed.

"Garath..."

Garath sipped.

"You cannot keep hiding." The General said, solemnly. Garath had been his acquintance from old times while they were still ordinary soldiers. He'd known him to be a fierce man and not one that would run or hide.

"I am not hiding. I am mourning, this is mourning." Garath said.

Mishar stared. He took a step forward, and a breath.

"You're brave," he heard himself say. "You teach us in the way of leaders and instruct us in skill. You are deputy commander-in-chief of the hosts of Yateph, a leader of many troops."

Garath paused, then he finally nodded to the patrol soldier and returned his gaze to the goblet. He shook the wine and reminded himself what it tasted like- sorrow. He dropped the goblet on the wide table by him.

"When you stand at war front with a bow, or khopesh, or sword. What do you do?" He said and for the first time, looked up at Mishar. A pale man, neatly clad in hose and gartel. His eyes reminded Garath of the blackness of the double tunnel he used to train in with his father as a child. A little pained smile lopped at his lips.

"You fight," he said briefly. "You have a strategy," he paused, his gaze resting back on the goblet, he pushed it mildly.

"In a moment, as your enemy advances towards you, you catch his weakness. You can see he's only a farmer, or a raw recruit, he's limping, staggering or left with only an arrow." Garath met Mishar's eyes. "You fight," he said.

Mishar nodded slightly, and Garath got the message. He continued, with a broad smile now.

"When you stand at Mishar's window in Alath, a goblet in hand, soldiers in sight, archers and swordmen- not of your division, but they know you, they know Jek, they know Yateph's state." Garath took a long pause, his smile metamorphosing into shadows.

"You remember your great loss," he whispered. "You remember your failure to Yateph and the death of your brother, you mourn. You don't have a strategy."

"Deputy..."

"I cannot face Yateph." He turned from the window, painfully, boring a depth in Mishar with his gaze.

" You said to us; when your sword falls at the battle front, do not take a moment to look at it, keep your bow at bay, take up your dagger and advance. The great wars are coming and you'll command us to victory, we will fight again Deputy."

A sound of commotion suddenly came from outside the house, the doors shook violently and one of the guards staggered in.

Mishar turned to face the soldier who had a billhook clutched greedily to his side. When the soldier met Garath's blank stare, he looked to his nose.

"Ireh?" Mishar said.

"Forgive me General, but a man is here to see the Deputy."

"A man?" Mishar said. He met Garath's eyes and they held the gaze for a moment.

"He claims to be from Chazin," Ireh said.

"The Baron?" Garath offered quizzically. He hadn't spoken to the man in years. Garath did not particularly enjoy the man's company, he was a round man, self absorbed, seething always with greed and gluttony.

"Lord Azur," Ireh said.

Garath looked at Mishar and shook his head. Mishar shook his in response.

"Let him," Mishar mouthed.

Ireh nodded and left. Garath, seething, paraded the room back and forth.

"How did they find me?"

"You're the Deputy," Mishar said once. He grabbed a dagger that sat on the table and made for the door. Garath watched him.

"What..."

The messenger came right in as Mishar got to the door. Mishar grabbed him by the cloak and pinned him to the wall, dagger raised to his face.

"Why are you here?"

The messenger gave off a pained long laugh, then shivering with both hands high, broke into tears. Garath examined him; untidy, chubby.

"The Baron sent me, I swear to you."

"How did you find the Deputy? Speak!"

"Mishar?" Garath called. "Let him go."

Mishar hesitated for a moment, pushed him further against the wall then dropped him.

"You have five minutes."

The messenger looked around the room and when his eyes settled on Garath, he started a slow laugh.

"Sorry about your brother..."

Mishar grabbed him once again.

"Let him go." Garath yelled.

Mishar eyed the man and pushed him into the wall.

"Speak."

"Alright, alright." The messenger stood and pulled out a parchment from his cloak. "The Baron sent me, Baron of Chazin. My Lord, the Baron, has instructed me to read this parchment to your hearing..." The man paused, peaked at Mishar and added, "he sends his condolences."

"Now, I'll read: Since our Lord, the King has neither responded to my.. our numerous messages, that of my unit and others in the past four months, I have decided to come to you Deputy."

The messenger paused and cleared his throat, then rubbed his belly.

"Pertaining my unit, there has been a total of five hundred deaths, and two hundred inflicted with the disease. The state of the unit is critical and will require an immediate deployment of three thousand- four! Four thousand carts of food, fine linen and jewelry, and wine..." The messenger looked up, eyed both Garath and Mishar.

Squinting at the parchment, he added,

"Pertaining my messenger, the one standing before you, reward him with a hundred baskets of purple, and err...a wife." He looked up slowly. "That'll be all for now."

"Let me have the parchment," Mishar said.

The man flinched. Squinting again at the parchment, he added;

"No one may request to peak at or touch the parchment except the messenger."

Garath retired on the table, facing the window again.

"Good," Mishar said. "You may leave now. Call me Ireh."

The man laughed. "What? Okay."

He left the room and in a short time, Ireh returned.

"Lock him up," Mishar ordered.

When Ireh left, Mishar faced Garath who had resumed his wine.

"Do you surely consider me a friend?"

Garath turned to face him, holding his gaze for a moment before looking away.

"I consider you a brother."

"Then I ask you one thing."

Garath waited, staring, he slowed his breath, held the goblet to his mouth.

"Go to the King."