CH5.2 Blisters And Sores

Vincent didn't know a thing about leading a large group. 50 men was large to him, and it was a crazy experience. They moved as fast as their slowest members. The men were poorly provisioned, and most didn't understand that boiling water was necessary to kill harmful parasites and bacteria.

After a grueling day of marching, the volunteers made camp downwind and ahead of the horse herd's grazing path. From the moment they made camp all they had to do was wait. Vincent didn't think the men could fuck things up any more than they already had.

He was confident that after someone nearly died of dysentery from the embarrassingly mobbish march to their destination, it was all steak and collard greens. Vincent even rode out with Nightmare, killed a few deer, tied them to a sled, and pulled them back. Apparently, woodworking was one of those things super strength, and days of practice really helped.

Money answered most problems; Vincent broke down and bought some copper distillers. The mercenaries, who knew something about drinking, figured out how to use the distiller to get water quickly. The man with dysentery was still shitting himself in the newly dug latrines; the first one was too close to the tents.

After the deer were butchered, Vincent noticed people built their tents around the fire in a circle. So he grabbed the first tent he saw and yanked it down.

Hector freaked out and tried to stop him. Vincent had to show a video of how to build a Roman camp to Hector 4 times before the elf could put the idea into practice. That wasn't a dig on Hector's intelligence; after watching the video many more times, Vincent didn't know how to implement the Roman camp to so few men. But Hector knew how to get it done.

When Vincent went to bed, they had guards posted, the makings of a wall, clean water, and meat. Vincent woke up to an elf; the barbarian barely remembered screaming to get his attention. The sun had barely begun rising, and he wasn't in the best mood.

"Can you repeat that?" Vincent said.

"Lieutenant Hector requests your presence in tent row 2, across F." The man said.

He was human, built heavy, and had a big scar on his cheek. A smattering of bronze and leather armor covered the man's body, and on his hip was an old sword covered in dents. Vincent pulled out his phone and wrote a reminder on note to supply his men with better gear.

"Lead the way," Vincent said.

He pulled on his pants and slid on some crocks while following the mercenary. The men were standing at their tents instead of huddling over what Vincent assumed was a dispute over something. It was a good sign for the first full day leading the men. Any amount of discipline was a good thing.

After trampling over grass for a few minutes, he arrived at a tent guarded by four elves, with Hector standing outside.

"Sorry to interrupt your beauty sleep, sir, but we have a situation."

"Did the dysentery kill Phil already?" Vincent asked.

"Paul had the dysentery, and he's alive," Hector said.

"A nickname. It sounded better than shit britches." Vincent said.

"Captain, this is serious."

Vincent sucked in a breath before nodding. "Let me see him."

Hector opened the flat, and an elf lay on his back with his pants around his legs in bed, breathing shallowly. Vincent inspected the man and found no wounds.

"Is this a disease?" Vincent asked.

The man groaned, struggling against a rictus body.

"I can't get out of bed. I'm too sick; you will have to carry me." The man said.

The pitch was off; there wasn't any emotion behind it. At first, Vincent thought it might be an elf lord, but they didn't know about his time limit. That didn't mean this wasn't them. Vincent could see them slowing him down, so they had time to set up their propaganda if he was victorious. He only had one family, more or less under his thumb. Of course, his return would open up reasons to put the other families under his thumb.