Chapter 35: Herald - 4
The rain came down hard that morning, not in gentle drops but in harsh, drumming sheets that made even the seasoned veterans curse under their breath. Mud sucked at the boots of the marching men, and the wheels of the supply wagons groaned with every inch of progress. The sky overhead was the color of iron, and the world felt just as heavy. The army was moving again, and with every step toward Virelle.
Herald trudged along in silence, wrapped in a damp cloak that did little to keep him dry. His sword felt heavier than usual, and his back ached from the weight of his pack. Beside him, Varlo coughed into his hand, his usual boisterous demeanor dimmed by fatigue and a persistent fever. On the other side, Lio trudged with his head low, the bandage on his temple bleeding through. They weren’t the same soldiers who had marched so eagerly from Thamros. Time and war had carved away the softness in them, leaving behind raw edges and quiet resolve.
Virelle was the key to the Eastern Campaign. A stronghold nestled in the heart of the valley, it was one of the last fortified cities under Tumedian control east of the Calvados border. Strategically vital, its fall would sever Tumedian supply lines and force a major retreat. The Allied command had planned this assault meticulously, but even the best plans couldn’t prepare for the terrain, the weather, or the toll the campaign had taken on the men.
Rumors had begun to spread—whispers that the Tumedians were calling in mercenary reinforcements, and that a figure known only as "The Sword of Flame" had been seen razing villages west of Virelle. The stories were vague, probably exaggerated, but the fear they sparked was very real.
They reached the foothills by midweek, setting up camp in the shadow of broken towers and moss-covered ruins—remnants of an age long passed, when this land had belonged to no empire. Commander Brenn, ever stern and unsmiling, summoned the unit leaders for briefing. Herald wasn’t among them, but he caught fragments of conversation on his way past the command tent. Phrases like "ambush routes," "narrow passes," and "fortifications lined with arbalests." The Tumedians had dug in deep, and they weren’t planning on giving Virelle up without bleeding the land dry.
That night, Herald sat with Varlo and Lio beneath the thin cover of a tarpaulin. Varlo had finally eaten something—a broth too watery to be called soup, but warm enough to ease his shivers. Lio sharpened his dagger slowly, the blade catching glints of firelight.
"I keep thinking about Nadine," Varlo said, voice barely above a whisper. "She hated the cold."
Herald looked up, unsure how to respond. Nadine had been Varlo’s older sister. She had joined the medics earlier in the campaign and died when a Tumedian scout group raided a field hospital three weeks ago. No one had spoken her name aloud since.
"She used to wrap her scarf around my neck and call me her little bear," Varlo continued. "Now I can’t even picture her face without thinking of blood."
Lio stopped sharpening. Herald placed a hand on Varlo’s shoulder.
"She wouldn’t want that," he said. "You remember the scarf. Hold onto that."
Silence followed. Heavy. Real. The kind that sits in the bones.