Chapter 10 A Soldier by Any Other Name #2
They crested a rise in the road, and the valley opened before them, mist curling between the trees, campfires burning like scattered embers. The sound of the marching column carried up from behind: hundreds of hooves, the clatter of armour, the living weight of all the men who trusted him.
It pressed against Clyde’s chest like a physical thing. He lifted his gaze to the horizon, to where the world grew hazy and distant, and thought, not for the first time, that his only true home was waiting beyond it.
Marreck must have felt it too. “They’d follow you anywhere, you know,” he said quietly. “You may not want to be Commander, but you are. And they trust you for it.”
Clyde looked ahead, the horizon hazed with distance. “Trust gets men killed.”
“So does doubt,” Marreck said.
The words hung there between them, simple and true.
When they reached the valley, Clyde raised a hand to signal the halt. The order rippled down the line, men dismounting, horses snorting, the first notes of camp beginning anew. Renn rode up a moment later, his face flushed with effort, and offered Clyde the day’s dispatches.
“From the scouts, sir,” he said. “They spotted movement in the eastern passes. Could be nothing, but…”
“But it never is,” Clyde finished.
Renn hesitated. “Sir—permission to speak freely?”
Clyde glanced down at him. “Granted.”
“I’ve never ridden under a Commander who looks at the map like it might bite,” Renn said, then flushed. “I mean no disrespect, sir. Just—most men your rank don’t seem to feel it.”
Clyde studied him a moment. “And what do you think that makes me?”
Renn swallowed. “Human, sir.”
Marreck chuckled under his breath. “Careful, boy. You’ll make him sentimental.”
Clyde shook his head but didn’t answer. He watched as Renn rode off to relay orders, the boy’s shoulders squared, proud.
He turned back to the horizon. The sky was dimming, the air growing colder, the scent of snow heavy on the wind. For a long moment, neither man spoke. Then Clyde exhaled slowly, watching his breath vanish into the air.
“Come on,” he said finally. “Let’s make camp before the light goes.”
Marreck nodded. “Aye, Commander.”
The word lingered this time and Clyde didn’t correct him.
He just rode on, the valley swallowing their shadows as night began to fall.
***
By nightfall, the valley camp had settled into its rhythm—the hiss of stew pots, the crackle of wet firewood, the low hum of men’s voices trying not to sound afraid. The sky was a velvet gray, the moon nothing more than a coin lost behind cloud.
Clyde sat near one of the central fires, his cloak drawn close, the heat licking faintly at his boots.
The stew in his bowl was little more than broth and root vegetables, but it was hot, and that was enough.
Marreck joined him with a wineskin and a grin that had thawed back into place over the course of the evening.
“Saints, I swear the cook hates us,” Marreck muttered, dropping onto the overturned crate beside him. “You could shoe a horse with this bread.”
Clyde tore a piece in half. “Maybe that’s the plan. Save on supplies.”
“Don’t give them ideas.” Marreck took a long drink and passed the wineskin over. “You ever notice how it’s always the same—first night in a new camp, the men try to pretend they’re home. Then by the third night, they remember they aren’t.”
Clyde took a drink before answering. The wine was sharp, sour, but it warmed him as it went down. “That’s when the singing starts.”
Marreck snorted. “Gods help us.”
For a time they ate in silence. The firelight cast long shadows across the mud, turning every movement golden at the edges. Somewhere down the row of tents, a lute began to play—soft, uncertain notes that faltered before finding their rhythm. Laughter followed.
Then voices. Familiar ones.
“Renn,” Marreck murmured, nodding toward the next fire where a cluster of younger knights sat huddled together, bowls in hand.
Clyde didn’t mean to listen. But sound carried easily in the cold, and the boy’s voice was unmistakable; bright with youth, threaded with earnestness.
“…you didn’t see him in the ring,” Renn was saying. “He barely even tried. It’s like he knew what I’d do before I did it. Like he’d already fought me a hundred times in his head.”
A ripple of laughter.
“So he beat you bloody, then?” someone teased.
Renn’s tone was quick in reply, almost defensive. “He could have, but he didn’t. He doesn’t waste effort. Even when he wins, he looks… calm. Like nothing touches him.”
Clyde’s hand stilled on his bowl.
“Calm?” another knight said. “That’s one word for it. I’ve seen him split a man from shoulder to hip and not blink.”
“That’s not it,” Renn insisted. “It’s not coldness. It’s… it’s control. Like he’s holding the whole field in his head at once. Like he could stop any of it if he wanted to.”
Marreck’s gaze flicked sideways, watching Clyde over the rim of his cup. “Didn’t know you were such a philosopher’s muse.”
“Quiet,” Clyde murmured, though his voice lacked any real command.
“Tell you what,” one of the others was saying now. “When this is over, we’ll all drink to him. To the Commander of the Western Flank—”
Renn interrupted, the words tumbling out before he seemed to think. “He hates that title. You can tell. But that’s what makes him—” he faltered, searching for the word, “—different. He doesn’t lead for glory. He just… does it because no one else will.”
There was an awkward pause, a few knowing chuckles, the scrape of spoons against bowls. But Renn’s tone had gone quiet again, softer now:
“I think he’d rather die than disappoint the men who follow him.”
Marreck exhaled slowly, leaning back on his crate. “Gods,” he muttered. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was talking about a saint.”
Clyde’s mouth tightened. “He’s talking about a fool.”
Marreck passed the wineskin again. “Then he’s in good company.”
Clyde didn’t smile. He only took another drink, the firelight glinting off the edge of his armour. The wine was nearly gone by the time the younger knights’ laughter faded into song—a rough, uneven thing that tried to sound brave.
When the voices had softened to murmurs and the fires burned low, Marreck spoke again. “He’ll break his heart on you one day.”
Clyde’s head turned. “Renn?”
“Aye. He’s young. He’ll learn that admiration cuts just as deep as a blade.”
Clyde stared into the fire. The flames twisted, orange and gold, eating through the last scraps of kindling. “He deserves better things to break it on,” he said at last.
Marreck grunted. “Don’t we all.”
They sat there until the fire sank into embers and the night folded around them. The stars, when they came, were dim and far away—cold witnesses to a world already bracing for war.
Clyde rose first, pulling his cloak tight. “Get some sleep,” he said.
Marreck nodded, though his eyes were still on the coals. “Aye, Commander,” the teasing tone returned to him.
Clyde hesitated, as if to say something more, but in the end, he only clasped Marreck’s shoulder once before walking away into the dark.