Garinor woke up feeling perplexed. He had been running away from people, trying to keep them from killing him, knowing that the prince was behind the attacks. And after the events leading him into camp, he was now lying soundly in the prince’s own tent, his life protected by the very man who had supposedly orchestrated his capture and death.
But maybe something else was going on that Garinor didn’t understand. He sat up and rubbed his temples, trying to keep his mind clear. He wanted to believe he was safe, but in his heart he wasn’t so sure. There had to be some reason why the prince had welcomed him the way he had.
The prince’s chamberlain, Heroth, came into the tent with a demand for Garinor to awaken. He brought with him a tray of victuals that Garinor devoured, washing it down with stream water in a large tankard.
“We march this morning,” commented Heroth. “In pursuit of those we met in battle yesterday. You will join the march.” The tone in his voice made Garinor understand that it was a demand and not a request or a question. He nodded, and after he was finished eating he left the tent.
The camp was abuzz with activity. Tents were being rolled into manageable sizes and set in readied piles for the march. The large cauldrons in which stew had been made were set upon a short wagon with railings designed solely for carrying them. A few other objects were placed up the wheeled platform, but not many. A second wagon nearby was loaded to the brim with supplies as well, and its commander protected it like it was his child.
There were many injured men in the camp, and those who were too damaged to travel were left behind with two able-bodied persons to tend to them until they either died or healed. Only three tents were left with them, which meant that sleeping quarters would be cramped. Garinor supposed it made sense, especially since all the others needed shelter as well. He also felt it would be stringent motivation for those within the tent to find ways to mend speedily.
The last major object to be packed was the prince’s luxurious tent. An army of people took it down, taking care not to let any of the fabric strike the ground, as if doing so would make it burst into flames. They held corners outstretched and walked forward, bringing the opposite ends together, then folding in the perpendicular direction by pacing out the other way. Little by little the tent was packed down to a small rectangular package tied to a separate sack that carried the iron bars that supported it. The prince’s tent was placed into the largest cauldron on the wagon, where it would be protected from dust on the road.
Soon after, they left the camp and went in pursuit of the brigands who had fought with them the previous day. Garinor wasn’t kept under lock and key, but he also felt he was being watched in order to make sure he didn’t desert them. He couldn’t blame the watchful eyes, for he could have been a spy ready to run off and report to the other band of fighters.
Travel was slow and without mirth. Some people talked in low voices, but mostly the soldiers kept to themselves, hoisting their own packs or tents as they went. A few scouts ran off to their individual duties and foragers combed the landscape, but otherwise it was a straightforward hike.
The one person Garinor barely saw at all, though, was the prince. He rode a horse near the front of the line, his back was always to the rest of them, and he rarely spoke to anyone other than his chamberlain or captain, though it was clear that the captain of the patrol was only one by name, for when the prince disagreed with a course of action, it was the prince’s will that was obeyed.
This became more apparent as the morning wore on. The gray clouds in the sky opened wide and dropped rain upon them sporadically throughout the day. The captain wanted to call a halt so they could find or make shelter and so the carts would not get stuck in mud. But the prince wouldn’t hear of it. If they were slowed by the rain, so would be their enemies, and because the prince’s men were seasoned warriors, they would be able to overtake the rabble force.
So it was they trudged along in the rain. Everything they wore and carried took on water so it was uncomfortable to move around. Leather armor squelched in the rain and booted feet slopped down in the muddy road. After a while, the captain’s prediction came true. One cart’s wheels became lodged in the muddy path. They were ordered to pull the cart out of the quagmire, but the cauldrons had taken on water and the added weight made moving the wagon an impossible feat. No one wanted to point out that the prince’s tent was in one of those cauldrons.
After an hour of fruitless struggle, the prince conceded to move the main troop off the road and set up camp. It was a messy affair, but the rain cooperated a little by stopping briefly before coming down in full force again. The prince’s silk tent was thoroughly soaked through and the delicate fibers looked horrendous and ugly. It didn’t take long for the prince to commandeer someone else’s tent for the duration of the day.
Garinor tried to help with the daily life of the camp, but his efforts were greeted with suspicion. They didn’t trust the boy and though the prince had declared his life would be protected, they wondered as to why. Even Garinor wondered why. He kept his eyes open for signs of the prince, curious when he would be asked to sit and discuss his presence.
The meeting did not take place until the end of the day. By then, the prince had given up on the weather and committed to staying there through the night, but he had an eager light in his eyes that said he would push them all hard the next day as soon as it was light enough to see by. Evening was upon them and food was being prepared. Only then did the prince’s chamberlain seek Garinor out and escort him to the prince’s absconded tent.