And they’d called him a witch; only kings and queens could summon whole wars out of nothing, with the power of draft orders and press gangs, requisitions and iron fists. These satin-frocked bastards, playing at their bloody games. All because some rotten fool had lost his head, and a crown had rolled.
“Slow, now,” Esker murmured, with a gentle pull on the reins; Zabetha, the mare under him and all the weaponry he was delivering, was the sturdiest draught horse the inn had to hand. A towering, broad beast, certainly - the only one in their stable who had any hope of carrying so much steel, so far, so fast. Serene as any angel, but. She’d never been to war. He could see her soft eyes widen and roll, ears pinned as the stink of the wounded and dead drifted from the sagging tents they passed. Shushing, softly, he gave a pat to her sweat-roughed neck, a stroke down the line of her mane. As they jogged towards the sturdier parts of the place, Esker unwound the heavy traveling - and hiding - scarf from around his head, shaking his hair out, glancing about the camp he’d been told to ride for. Far from the fighting, tail-end, as they said. There was livery and standards from all over the kingdoms, and soldiers of every caliber imaginable, milling across the trampled-down clearing, marching, limping. Losing. As far as he could see. As far as he’d heard. So the rebels hadn’t been lying about that much, certainly…
Clearing his throat, Esker let out a sharp whistle, turning heads. Not about to waste any damn time. “Evening, all. We’ve bushels of arms, here, fresh-forged at the Dark Destrier. Official order. Sharp edges. Pointy ends. Swords. Spearheads. Bolts. Where’s it all going to?”
“The front line,” Sophronia called back wryly. If there was one place pretty words had no use in, it was in war, especially when she was covered in more blood than she cared for — some her own, but mostly her opponents’. She shifted slightly atop her own steed — a magnificent black destrier, a birthday present from her brother two summers ago. Duchess, she’d named her, mostly to spite a distant aunt of theirs who’d scoffed at Dominic’s gift, never mind the fact that it’d been a request from the princess herself.
“There’s a few stations for supplies further along. I’ll lead the way.” Beneath her, Duchess whickered softly as Sophronia rubbed at her neck in — encouragement? Affection? “Mind the chaos while you follow. Wouldn’t want to see your beauty there get hurt.” She gestured to Esker’s draught horse, gaze softening in appreciation. “She’s a sight for sore eyes. What’s her name?”













