The walls were forty feet high and its shadows had descended before its battlements. The sun shone against a peculiar face of ancient bricks and modern concrete as over and over, its layers had been replaced as time went on. It was known that the fort had not fought in a single battle but it was rather the wind and salt that had eroded its stones. As the sea lapped against its shores, weathering away the base, the fort stood tall guarding the strait which it had done so for the past eight hundred years. Although not once had it seen bloodshed, its loyalty stayed true to the kingdom it protected. Cannons poked out of its battlements facing the opposing shore and is crenels were mounted with repeating guns, turned towards the only path that led towards them. But if not for its imposing fangs that were bore before any invader, denying entry was a gate tightly shut. It had been so throughout the duration of the war unless the king, his court, his generals and admirals, willed those gates to open. Otherwise, it was not. Perhaps that year would become the fort’s greatest test. But whilst it did have the facade of a stone giant’s back, sticking out like a fool that was its head, above the entrance was a gatehouse. Two stories high, it was the tallest structure for leagues around from where the fluttering flags of a lion wielding an axe flew. As derelict as it should have been, the walls seemed heavily reinforced. If not for the raging waters, the rocky landing, and the single bridge of death that funneled down the center of every mounted gun’s line of fire, then the troops in garrison would make certain the enemy’s demise. That day, many guards patrolled. They were well-equipped compared to their allies of the continent, each manned with a rifle and a blade of their own, not to mention their weapons being standard issue too, however, they were confusingly dressed in a uniform that was awkwardly similar to their nemesis’ in color and style, in red. But their duties were not as cared for, easily lounging knowing that it was unlikely that a foe would appear. Instead of tending to what they had sworn to do, to be attentive to their work in the defense of the nation, many were found playing cards and feasting on snacks. Their officers were much alike, satisfied, without a dime of work that was needed to be done. All the while, their more vigorous comrades would patrol the walls out of a better sense of duty which their friends thought them mad for. Dressed, well-fed, equipped to capacity, there was nothing else that would require them to work for more, so despite their professional appearances, otherwise could be said about their behavior. However, that was not to say that they were all drunkards and no good soldiers. They may have entertained themselves with games and food to a capacity that was unheard of among their Aelon allies, sneaking a light drink into their parties here and there, but they maintained the quietness that befitted an army. Even their footsteps could be heard which was exactly what which alerted one soldier. He was marching along the walls beneath the gatehouse when he heard footsteps approach from afar. His first instinct was to tend to his nearest comrades but there was no one that approached him with the same intensity that the cluster of footsteps had. Then, he searched beyond the walls, and there he found the culprit.
Shocked, his face grew pale. “K-Kapidæng, de fændne! (C-Captain, the enemy!)” The young soldier, out of instinct, claimed to have seen.
His comrades were instantly alerted and in disbelief, looked over the walls for themselves. Soon, curiousness got the better of the garrison and even those who lazed questioned what they had just heard. Asking their companions who responded with the same question, they realized what was happening. It did seem like the enemy was there. Hurrying, the soldiers threw down their cards and snacks before following their officers scrambling to the battlements. Their caps were barely fitted even when their rifles were already in their hands. Gathered in a swarm to see what it really was that alerted them, the hundreds on the wall frowned and gave expressions of dubiety. Even the lieutenants did not dare act without their commander’s support.
The captain’s interest was slow and the commotion that brewed eventually moved him, however fatigued from nothing he was. Standing himself from his chair on the second storey of the gatehouse, he moved himself sluggishly into the daylight as if he had been woken from his sleep. Peering down on what had stirred his troops, his eyes widened from the unwelcome surprise. By his logic, it could not have been, and he was initially reluctant to put his men on standby, carelessly sticking their heads over the walls. But his doubts overwhelmed him.
Slamming his hand on the walls of the balcony, he yelled out for his men to heed, “Jægrene, skutten de maure! (Rifles, to the walls!)” The captain’s eyes ran along the front, making sure that his troops did as they were commanded.
Atop the battlements, squadrons of riflemen stationed themselves, positioned ready to cover their comrades, ready to defend their country. As if a switch had turned on within them, they had rallied themselves into proper formation, on standby, with the butts of their rifles by their feet. Stood at attention, they were unlike their first impressions.
Tentatively, their commander looked down, spotting the source of the commotion. “Halten! (Halt!)” He warned his guests.
It was the only word that they could understand thus far and the eighty did as they were warned. With the sun against their faces, casting a shadow behind them, they gazed upward in anticipation, when out of the vanguard, the lieutenant-elect showed himself. Of a higher rank, it was only natural for him to speak on behalf of his comrades but he had not put into account that the man may not have spoken his language.
“Hail, we are your allies.” Arminius began, confident in his speech.
The captain drew a confused frown and turned to his party beside him, wondering whether anyone was able to translate what he had just said. But they either shrugged or shook their heads, clueless, and he was forced to return without an answer. Though he was able to tell that it was Zhermannik, it was apparent that he could not speak it. In the long, awkward silence ensuing, they stared at each other for a whole minute before one that could communicate stepped forward.
Taking up the mantle of the negotiator as the leader of the band, Julien stood before his allies and the watchful eyes of his countrymen. “Weres werlettet soldadne de Endendæsk. (We are soldiers of the alliance and we have wounded.)” His accent was showing but it was recognizably Danner. “Wille hune relauben wur kæfen nebeng hune? (Will you let us by to join your struggle?)” He humbly asked for entry.
Pausing to compute what he had heard and what intentions he may have conveyed, he understood the boy perfectly well albeit he spoke in an old-fashioned sense, and relayed his thoughts aloud, “Hu klingennej Dænisk, nonde hu schpækenkan Dænisk. (You do not sound Danner, yet you speak Danner.)” The gatehouse commander wanted, perhaps, to test him, to force this supposed Danner to reveal his aim.
“Jeges Hœjtumisk. (I hailed from Tastschren.)” Julien replied without hesitation. “Jeg hæmkerennej sæd jarne inged. (It’s been years since then.)” From where he came and for how long he had been gone from home, to the common soldier, he had only told the truth thus far that explained his slightly foreign accent.
There were some who were still unconvinced, however, especially by the appearance of the entourage behind him, holding unfamiliar weapons and were mostly ununiformed. Even more suspiciously, none among them except for the corporal spoke nor understood a word of Danner.
Pointing with his head, the captain was agreeably cautious. “Frendne huisk? (Your friends?)” Both his hands were tightly gripping onto the balcony wall as uncertainty remained.
Julien looked back as if he had wanted to introduce his comrades to his countrymen, but his comrades would not have understood him anyways and he abandoned the idea of doing so. “Dejes Lekisk. (They are Lecher.)” A reply was simply returned. “Dejes bewœlen Warnæsk auf Krakau. (They serve Warneńczyk of Krakau.)” Revealing their allegiance, he hoped that it would be enough to convince the captain.
Nodding, seeming half accepting of his story, the gatehouse commander raised an eyebrow. “Warnæsk es bekenget… (We have heard of Warneńczyk…)” But it sowed further suspicion when he had noticed that crucial evidence was missing. “Aben wores hen? (But where is this man in question?)”
“De Rusisk hindrehalded wur und weres tæleder sœding. (We were ambushed and divided by the Rus on the southern border.)” Growing impatient, even for Julien, he informed the stubborn soldiers as much as he could. “Dej kan jaden wur jett. (They are approaching as we speak.)” His hand began to quiver, wondering whether they would even be let past.
The captain stepped back, aghast by the revelation, and allowed his morals to cloud this thoughts. For a moment, he wished to open the gates by his own hand for his kind at least, but when he turned around and aimed for the stairs, an aide of his stepped in front of him and held him back. Only a friend could have freely done so to another soldier of a higher rank than he was and it was exactly their friendship that begged him to halt, if it was nothing else that stopped him to hear out what his comrade had to say at least.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡQTbejNQcCJ
