Republished because the formatting got all screwed up. -_-

This 400-word scene was something that originally belonged in Chapter 8 of The War, where the attack on Adun Cerien takes place. It was written at the same time as what I posted the next day, but it didn't move the chapter along well, and overtly drew attention to Braegon's soldiery in Fearnland, something which I decided I preferred to have leak organically into the framework of the story rather than be its own focus.

Today I was scrolling through a document looking for something else, and noticed this sitting where I had clipped it from The War. So here you are. Enjoy this mostly-canon, exclusive scene. ^.^

***

Mordred sat on the ground, his arms across his updrawn knees. He reached back idly to finger the coarse, springy underbelly of the tent.

"Soldiers are under-appreciated," mumbled Marcus, writhing mournfully on his stomach. "A march straight through the night of what must have been thirty miles, and rest that comes in the form of rocky earth that I would swear has been enchanted to hold winter's cold forever."

Golin grinned and nudged another older man beside him. "Just you wait, lad."

Marcus sent him an injured look. "My legs hurt."

Golin laughed.

Mordred flicked his eyes up in annoyance and looked away. He did not see why everyone must find Marcus' exaggerated complaints so congenial, or why Marcus himself should act so absurd. Only a part of him guessed that he was jealous of Marcus' easy friendship with all the men, wanted such acceptance himself.

He too was tired, perhaps as much as Marcus; it had been a relentless march of ten hours or more to reach the city in time. "And we did not reach it in time," he murmured, half-aloud, not quite speaking to anyone. "What now?"

Light left the propped-open tent flap for a moment as Sergeant Garin stepped in. "Rest while you can," he said, looking around on the sprawled forms, "but be ready to leave at any moment."

"Are we storming the city?" asked Marcus with a naive interest.

The sergeant snorted and moved toward the rear of the tent without answering.

"We would need ladders and catapults," said Braegon, "and we've none of that with us. They were counting on intercepting Lord Mirden before he captured Adun Cerien; besides, there was no time to gather such large and unwieldy equipment as we were leaving."

Sergeant Hawke turned and studied him sharply. "You have a shrewd way of speaking, Private King. You know something of war?"

Braegon, who had been sitting crosslegged with chin on his hands, sprang up when he was addressed. His bright dark eyes met the sergeant's forthrightly. "Aye, Sergeant. A little."

"I have seen you with the others; you follow orders like one trained long to the bark of a sergeant. But you are very young."

"Aye, Sergeant."

Mordred frowned, hearing the withdrawal in Braegon's outward acquiescence. The sergeant, too, stared hard at him and shrugged at last, retreating again to the back of the tent.

***