The wind howled. Rain pattered down and formed rivers of mud. Flashes of light alternated with rumbles that sent tremors to the barrack that had become his confinement since Frank and his men had overpowered him, mere hours after Michael and Nicolas had returned to Sundale. The beds, desk, closet, even the chair he was sitting on shook like this would be their final storm, the one storm too much, the storm that would mean the end.

But not for him. He had been born in the slums of Sundale, but in Diligence's name, he had worked too hard for too long to die in another place stinking of poverty.

The weather had changed so rapidly the soldiers had been too slow in their preparations. The cowards that hadn't run to their barrack or the mountain clefts to seek shelter were battling the unbeatable with mouldy sandbags, stuffed rags and cracked bracing boards. It was all in vain. The mountain grumbled, a rhythm of chaos. Soon water would start dripping from the walls, windows would shatter, and the mountain cells would flood.

Not a disaster. Charity's gift.

Between him and his freedom stood a soldier, the twenty-second in a string of soldiers too young to grow facial hair, let alone understand the gravity of Captain Frank's treason.

The boy appeared dauntless, the way he remained standing, stoically, unmoving, his lance straight, his head raised. His dark eyes, peering at the sky from underneath the oversized helmet, told a different story. The lightning shone. The dagger, low on his belt, glistened.

Plan A. Phase One — Engage in conversation with Target

He knocked on the window. "Come inside." He beckoned.

The boy glanced at him, not a muscle in his face changed. A split second later, thunder and lightning united in a perfect explosion. He cringed.

George continued, "I insist. No weapon will protect you from this weather."

The boy pretended not to hear him.

George waited. The rain crashed down on the boy's helmet, the raging wind beat against him sweeping leaves and sand, his stance faltering. Darkness and light alternated. Wood croaked. Just as the barrack was cracking under the weight of the storm, so would this boy.

"Captain Frank won't punish you. This is exceptional weather."

The boy's jaw tightened.

George stood up. He opened the door a chink, the wind blasting and the rain wetting his face. "Get in here."

The boy was quick to turn. He pointed his lance at him. "No, you can't do this! You can't leave." His voice trembled.

"I'm not trying to leave," he said calmly.

"Hands up!" The boy pressed the tip of the lance against his chest, the wrong side if he intended to pierce the heart. "Hands up where I can see them!"

"If I do that, the wind will rip the door from its hinges. It will fly away, knock you down. By the time you get up, I'll be long gone."

"No, you wouldn't dare. This storm would kill you."

George blinked. The boy was right where he wanted him to be. "And it won't kill you?"

"That's different. I have to guard you."

"Which you can do on the inside, with a roof over your head."

"I can't. Captain Frank—"

The thunder roiled loudly and lightning struck the mountainside with a shattering crack. Shards of rocks splintered and rained down on the base, the noise reverberating like an earthquake.

The boy whimpered.

"What's your name?" George asked.

"Lu-Luke."

"How old are you, Luke?"

"Almost twelve." Unlike other young teens boasting about their age, there was no confidence in the boy's voice. He was ashamed. And with good reason. Whitepeak was a punishment. The good alternative next to losing a hand or serving unpaid time in an army working camp.

"Too young to die in a storm. Come inside," George said.

The boy shook his head.

Plan B. Phase one — Establish rank and dominance

"Do you know who I am?"

A glance at his collar. Luke nodded, acknowledging the four sycamore leaves.

"And do you know what that means?"

The mills in the boy's head turned. His mouth moved, but words didn't come out. The storm kept raging on, splashing rain, pounding wind. Rocks tumbled down from the mountain and crashed down into the barracks.

"You know what it means," George suggested. Patience was testing him.

Luke shook his head. "It's wrong. I mustn't think—the army will think for me."

"Then the army tells you to come inside."

Finally, Luke accepted the invitation.

Return to Plan A. Phase Two — Gain Target's trust.

George moved to the bed and sat down while the boy remained standing by the door, his black hair and uniform dripping and forming a puddle beneath him. He was shivering but did his best not to let it show. A good boy, a decent soldier.

"What's your story?" George asked.

"My story?"

"You're not from Whitepeak."

"Faithmouth," Luke said.

"Captain Geralt. Did he send you here?"

Luke nodded. Not daring to look him in the eyes, he said, "Pirates came during the summer. I got scared. Now I'm here."

A runner.

"Do you miss Faithmouth?"

The boy was silent, then he said, "It's cold here."

"Yeah, 't is a lousy place." George looked up to the water dripping down from a hole not even the size of blackberry. It landed mere inches from Luke. "I neglected you for too long, took you lads for granted. The Greenlanders can sleep soundly knowing you keep the land free of magician scum. The methods your Captain uses are... outdated, inefficient. I came here to help. I can help you too."

"That's not what the men say."

"What is it they say, Luke?"

His mouth opened but made no sound, then he said, "I'm not supposed to talk to you."

The boy turned his back on him. No soldier in their mind would ever turn their back on their General, but Luke wasn't in his right mind, poisoned by stories that he was an impostor or a turncloak, that he would allow the magicians to freely roam The Greenlands. The poor sod didn't know any better. The extra sycamore leaf was worthless. Between a stranger and the head of his legion threatening to feed him to the hungry magicians, it was obvious who the boy would believe. 

Plan A. Phase Three — Distract Target and take Precautions for Plan C

George moved around in the small room, studying the ceiling. He pushed against the desk, moving it away from a threatening crack. He opened the closet, pretending to look for something but taking nothing out, then closed it. He grabbed the books from the shelf above the bed where Nicolas had slept in and wrapped the bedsheet around them, the end closest to Luke.

 In the corner of his eye, he caught the boy darting a nervous look over his shoulder. The puddle of water around his feet had turned into a pool. 

Perfect.

From his desk, George took a gulp of the foul tea that had long grown cold. Armed with nothing but the now empty cup, he approached the boy, who stiffened. He sat down on his knees in the pool and looked up, his fingers pushing the cup around until it captured most of the water.

Then he continued studying the ceiling until Luke relaxed in his presence.

Plan A. Phase Four — Surprise Attack

He grabbed the boy's waist from behind, kicked down the lance, which clattered down, then immobilised his arms and pushed. Nose first, Luke landed onto the cup and into the pool. Blood instantly mingled with water. He pinned his knee onto the boy's back and snatched the dagger from his belt. When he held the weapon at his throat, he stopped struggling.

"General?" he whimpered. "Please, I don't want to die."

Plan A. Phase Five — Negociate

"I won't kill you. I just need to get out of here."

"I can't help you. Please, I have my orders. I can't disobey. I won't." Luke began to snivel. "Never again."

"You're a good soldier, Luke. All I'm asking is not to follow me."

"No, you can't leave. I have to guard you."

Return to Plan B. Phase One. Establish rank and dominance.

"I relieve you of your duties, Luke. I'm the General—you have to obey me."

"I'm not allowed to listen to you." The boy squeezed his eyes shut and murmured, "I'm gonna die. Oh, Gods, I'm gonna die."

Outside the thunder still rumbled, steady but calming down, like a wildly beating heart finding some rest. He had no time to rest. He had to go.

Plan C. Phase One. Immobilise Target

Keeping the dagger against Luke's throat, George tugged hard at the bedsheet, the books spinning out of the blanket. He reached for the thickest book—Early Scorian History—and smashed it on the boy's head. 

The murmuring stopped.

He dropped the dagger and grabbed the bedsheet to tie one end to the leg of the bed, then wrapped the sheet around Luke's wrists before fastening the other end to his ankles. An uncomfortable position but highly effective. 

No remorse for a runner.

Return to Plan A. Phase Six — Run

When he stood up, he came face to face with an iron stirrup. A forked bolt nocked onto its string. A crossbow.

"Well, well, and what do we have here?" Frank flashed a tooth-filled grin.

Abandon Plans A to D.  Switch to Plan E. Phase One — Force a kill

"Frank," George said, "I see I have your attention."

"Come, come, this isn't about attention. We both know you wanted to use the tumult to sneak out, undetected. I have to say—you didn't strike as the kind to commit fratricide." Frank shrugged. "Then again, the mountain has driven more than one to insanity."

"The boy isn't dead."

Frank brought the crossbow down and shot Luke in the neck. "His blood is on your hands, George," he said as he knocked a second bolt down and aimed it back at him, unloaded. "Shame, he was starting to settle in."

"The boy, Wallace, but I dare you to pull the trigger right now, Frank. Do you have the guts to commit the ultimate treason, to kill your General?" George looked him straight in the eyes. "I do not fear death. You can throw my cold, hard body down a cliff on Silvermark soil for all I care. I won't drink a pint of ale less in the Heavenly Halls. But you, Frank, can you smell the rotten stench of the Seven Hells?"

Frank pulled the bolt down. He scowled but didn't shoot.

"Is it fame that you seek? A civil war? Pull the trigger, Frank. Let the God of Pride speak to you, be the man you always wanted to be."  George pressed his chest against the arrowhead. The iron trembled against the fabric. "No, you won't shoot. You want me alive, don't you? You need me."

Frank pretended to lower the crossbow, only to aim it at George's right knee. He released the bolt; the iron soared through fabric, skin, and bone. 

George sank to the floor, the pain searing through his entire leg, leaving him momentarily paralysed.

"Didn't expect that, did we now?" Frank grinned. He picked the dagger from the floor. "Let Jonathan and the army come. I will unleash the magicians and promise their freedom if they kill him. He ruined my life. I will ruin his."

Jonathan wouldn't send an army, let alone abandon Thomas to come himself. But what would Thomas do? If he feared to engage in direct combat with the Silvermarkers, he wouldn't acknowledge the possibility of internal conflict in his army. Someone had to do something. His lack of communication must have been noticed by now.

George waited for Frank to leave, then clenched his teeth as he ripped the broadheaded arrow out. He winced and slammed his eyes shut. Outside, the rain was still pattering down on the rooftop, the water leaking down the walls and flooding the floor. The thunder rolled. He crawled towards his bed and pushed himself up. He took a swig from the half-full bottle of brandy on the shelf above his head, then poured the rest over the wound. His sheet turned red as he wrapped it around the wound to staunch the bleeding.

He laid down, panting.

Plan F. Phase One — Survive

A/N Did you like the interlude? What did you think of George?