"I am here by request of a Mister Abner. Is there any particular problem with this, sir?" The soldier standing before Mika looked the scribe up and down with bewilderment. His mouth struggled to find the words, and after only a few moments of silent lip movement did anything come out.
"What are you doing here again?"
"I have just told you that." Mika pulled from his pack a small book and writing utensil. His eyes left the Northguard soldier and began observing the scene behind him. The soldier, leaning heavy upon his spear, rolled his eyes, bewildered by the sight of the scribe.
"No, you buffoon. I mean, why did he send you here? Haven't I already gotten rid of you once? Why would you ever want to come back?" Mika smiled and placed an arm over the shoulder of the man, who eyed this with unease. The scribe turned the man around to see the current state of the inner wall of the mountain pass.
"Look here, my friend. Some two thousand outlanders lay before us. Mostly women and children, I might point out. All looking for the safety of your country. Your king's own advisor asks me, a scribe, to come and take notes of my observations, and you ask why?" The soldier pushed Mika's arm off of him, and stepped away from the man.
"And what would your observations have to say that we do not already know?" Mika gestured knowingly to the man with the writing utensil. His eyes lit up upon hearing the question.
"That, my friend, is exactly what I had asked my new master. After all, I told him, I am but one outlander myself. What could I possibly see that the others of your people have not? Then he told me, 'Mika' he says, 'there is a bold being passed about. A story about a pale man wandering the outlands, sending us refugees day in and day out. I want you to find out what all you can about him, and beyond that, I want you to see as much as you can firsthand. You're my eyes in the north, Mika.'" The scribe acted out the conversation with voices and little gestures, then shrank back to his normal manner of speaking. He saw that the soldier seemed off put rather than interested. "Well that is what he told me anyway. Now, am I allowed back into the camp or am I to tell my master that I have been turned away after making the journey back here?" The soldier rolled his eyes.
"Move on. Just, please, stop trying to peddle your damn scrolls and books to us. We already have enough to deal with here." Mika laced his thumbs through the pack's straps and hiked it up on his shoulders, then walked on briskly.
"No problem there, friend." He called over his shoulder. "Left my stock back at Willow's Nest." He melded into the campsite and vanished from the soldier's sight.
"No doubt.
—
The campsite behind the mountain pass's inner wall formed a near one mile radius. Camps divided into camps of various people groups. In some places there would be those who shared clothing styles or language styles. While in others, Mika found that the camp next to the one he sat within looked to be from a different region and history entirely. Still, they all remained packed closely. Two thousand strong and still more coming through the wall's gates by the hour.
As he made his way through the different groupings, he took note of the amount of wounded he spotted. Nearly every camp had at least one. Never a single time did he see a wound that could be attributed to accident or even animal attack. Rather, each injured or dying refugee he saw had the marks of weaponry. He knew these signs well, and always they made his heart saddened. But they were the only ones able to give him the information he looked for.
The other members of each campsite did speak of war in the outlands. Night raids by bandits, mercenaries overtaking caravans, and unmarked hordes marching upon entire cities, only to leave them as ash. Each camp told a different version of things. Some said they were from the eastern sea. Others, that they were from beyond the valley, and had somehow managed to march their armies through. Still, others suggested they had no mark or banner, and must have been some uprising of a sort. All good stories, Mika thought, but only the wounded managed to connect them all.
Each time, the other members of their camp would eagerly bring them forth, desperately wanting this northern speaker of the king, as they thought his title must be, to hear their truth. Each time, the wounded would look deep into his eyes, and with a shaking fear would speak of the pale man. Every time, Mika would write their words with rapt attention.
He never appeared in the night raids or caravan ambushes. Never to reveal himself at places without any real opposition. But from these raids the survivors would flee to the protecting walls of the great cities of the outlands, begging their royals for aid in defeating this barbaric adversary. Without fail, the armies would be sent to counter them, and without fail none would return.
For days the countryside would go silent, then in the night, they would hear it. The marching of many peoples. No drums, no shouts of war. Only that sound of thousands upon thousands of feet marching across from the horizon. The horde moved, like cattle over the plains. And, without fail, he would always be at their head. Riding a horse. Wearing only a loose shawl about his loins, and a stone sword in his arms.
The wounded could tell little more than this about their stories. All of them tended to end the same way. The overtaking of walls and the destruction of their gates. They, along with those lucky enough to move, escaped these battles and made their way to the next kingdom, and the next city. There they would spend months in peace, making new lives for themselves. Mika could only imagine their dread at hearing the marching once more.
"He will come." An old woman had lost herself after telling the tale of her family and her people's slaughter at the hands of the horde. She pointed with her now stump of an arm where a hand used to be, at Mika and those others listening. "You will see." She screamed. "Even now, as we speak, the feet march toward us. No wall. No wall will be left to keep them out of your mountain lands." She eventually had to be pulled into a tent to find soothing from her fellow campers, at which they demanded Mika to leave.
The scribe found himself sitting at a lone fire at the center of the campgrounds. He looked into the flames, their warm flickering causing his mind to become lost in thought. Each conversation brought his mood lower, and he now slumped in a gloom that matched the growing clouds overhead.
"Couldn't be just an army." He hadn't seen the man walk up and sit across from him. Mika immediately sat up straight, and attempted to show a more chipper face to the man.
"How's that?"
"No army, no matter how great, could have one each of those battles. Not without something else on their side." Mika observed the man, and observed his noble air. He sat with confidence, yet no arrogance. The great two handed sword at his side, with its jewel encrusted hilt and silver weaving in the scabbard hinted that he was no simple soldier of Northguard. Indeed, his manner of dress and grooming suggested someone of noble birth. However, the scar seen along his right jaw, and weathered features, despite not having a single gray strand within his brown hair, suggested this birth had not saved him from a life of trials.
"You must forgive me for asking, but you are not from here are you." The man across from Mika did not look up from the flames. His brow furrowed, concentrating on the theory.
"I've seen too many armies fall. Too many scrolls of history recount to us how even the greatest armies, with the most intelligent leaders at their head can stumble." Mika pulled out his book once more, keeping it low as he wrote.
"You think the horde has been through enough kingdoms to have come across their match at least once?"
"One kingdom is more than a challenge for any one army. Conquering is not a game that takes a man days to win. It is and always will be something to strive for over time. Even for a hundred thousand."
"You know much of war, sir?" At Mika's words, the man blinked, coming out of his trans. He looked up at the scribe.
"Me? More than some, less than others."
"I see your sigil on your breast." Mika pointed to the leather vest the man wore, and to the symbol of a hand, palm facing forward. "I am under the impression that you would be a knight of some great house beyond the mountains. You aren't from Tovoran at all."
"Indeed, I am not from here." The man's words came out unmoved, yet not harsh by any means. "And, yes, I was a knight before life brought me here."
"The horde?" The knight shook his head.
"No. Nothing like that. Actually, I had not heard of this horde until I came through the pass last evening. An interesting story, in my humble opinion."
"Yes, mine too." Mika chuckled. "What should I call you, sir?"
"Christopher." He reached out his hand, Mika took it with a smile.
"Pleasure to meet you Sir Christopher. I am Mika."
"The pleasure is all mine." This time it was his turn to chuckle. "And I am afraid there is no more need for sir in my title. In these lands, I am just another outlander."
"Then we have that in common." The two sat in silence for a moment, then the knight stood.
"I heard a story that some of the soldiers were cracking open a barrel near the south tower. Perhaps we should talk with them about that."
"We?" Mika scrambled to put his things back into his pack and follow the knight.
"Well, I am not much for writing, but I am just as interested in this story as you are. Plus, I have a terrible thirst." The two walked through the encampment, cutting a striking image against the inhabitants of the tents. As they drew nearer to the far south side of the wall, a horn blew at the top of the tower they made their way towards. A cry rang out to look back at the west. All heads turned.
The clouds had nearly taken over half the sky, leaving the west open and bright. Hundreds of figures were silhouetted upon the distant hilltop. Many of them on horses. Mika and Christopher squinted into the light, but could not make out who approached the camp. Then a soldier nearby spoke up for all around to hear.
"It looks like King Barak has arrived with the new recruits."