Entry from the journal of Arduros


My thoughts have been troubled recently. My ponderings bring no answers: why do they hate us so much? We truly have done nothing to them. Of all the nations we have encountered, they may be the only ones who have no old grudges to settle. Even though our neighbors are united behind us in this fight, each one of us has tried to destroy each other one more than one occasion in the last centuries.

I feel the fool for not having any insight into this, and perhaps I am. I am reminded of Arthepes:
 
  There is no wisdom in what, for it can seen with the eye
  Nor in how, for knowledge does not wisdom make
  
  Wisdom lies only in the why
  
  Fools oft pass the first as the last for the sake of pride
  But the greater fools still extoll knowledge, but believe wisdom itself fake
  Even death cannot save us from these, wretches who corrupt even after they have died.

(It occurs to me that I hated that poem in school. I am unsure whether Professor Benthal would be happy that his memorization exercises had an effect, or despairing that I have forgotten most philosophy not set to verse.)

Still, perhaps it troubles me because, for how little we know about them or their society, I feel that after fighting so long with my opposite number, I should understand them. And yet, if I am being candid, I know that I do not understand him, let alone their entire culture. (if it even is a "him". We know that they only send men to fight as soldiers, but we don't know if they allow women to serve as officers. Damned masks.).

And yet,their hate is real. Only last week, one of them attacked across the Ashlands. Not as a scout, spy or saboteur, but as an ordinary soldier. By the time he reach the No 15 supply depot, he was on the verge of death from dehydration, and suffering from acute Grey Lung. A patrol found him endeavoring to shoot them down, yet too weak to pull the trigger of his musket with both hands. All he carried was his musket, some orders, and one of those idols depicting some sort of deer farmer. The orders merely instructed him to kill as many of us as he could.

The camp doctor took pity on him in his condition and, despite the mortal damage that he been done to the deer's lungs, decided to treat him and ease the suffering of his final days. The reports say the doctor spoke to him like any other patient once he awoke, even though he could not raise his voice through his ash-ravaged throat. The doctor died showing that very kindness, in the terrible fashion of having his jugular opened by the deer's teeth. When the aide found him, the deer was lapping up the doctor's blood like a thing possessed.

Just what could inspire such hate? To not only willing embrace a senseless death, but to kill one showing you kindness? The soldiers are thoroughly terrified of the blood-lapping, but I for one suspect it was a mere show, designed to invoke just such terror. We shall never know for certain, for the depot commander executed the wretch within the hour.

I remain haunted by these thoughts, but I do not feel that I have enough knowledge to discover the why of it. I shall have to content myself with studiously avoiding mistaking the how with the why for the time being.

This is not my only vexation, however. Alethoneh continues to punish the officer who dared befriend his King, by entrusting his youngest daughter to my care. He spoke much of how her spirit was that of a caged cat, and of how the life of noble seemed ready to destroy her. Left mostly unspoken was the implication that if it failed to destroy her, she would inevitable destroy nobility itself in retaliation.

It seems he intends to deal with this by making a general of her. And, not coincidentally, making his problem my problem. Despite her age, he has instructed me to train her in the ways of war. I cannot fairly judge the wisdom of this, but there are worse fates for the fourth-born child of a King.

My old friend seemed drawn with worry as I have never seen him before, even in the grimmest of war councils. But it is a different sort of worry, I think. Something deeper. He spoke much of his family, yet very little of Crown Prince Elthenel. The absence spoke nonetheless. I shall endeavor to keep him in my prayers, as my friend as well as my King.

Princess Lrenshidel behaves as though she has never spent a day in the royal court. Thankfully, her father was there to deal with her startling a sentry in a costume forming the silhouette of a deer (how she assembled it from scraps in the time we were talking is a mystery to me). Fortunately for her sake, this far behind the lines, the sentries are somewhat lax in their marksmanship (I shall quietly see to it that this is remedied, once some time has passed). More fortunately, between her father's stern lecture and the bullet leaving a divot in her fur, she has not been so foolish since.

Not to say that she has not been foolish. The girl insists on being referred to strictly as "Lren" in violation of all custom, and attempted to issue her first Royal Orders before the King's carriage had departed. She was quite put out at being informed that he had issued her the rank of untrained recruit in all military matters, until such a time as I see to promote her.

For all her constant pranking of the men, I must admit that she shows surprising discipline when it suits her. She seems fixated on the Riders' swords, and after being informed that by the Tradition set by King Nilom II, not even the King may wield such a sword unless he has passed the Trials, she grimly took the wooden training sword I offered her and set into practicing with a passion. An excess of passion perhaps, but she does have some natural talent with arms.

Unfortunately dwarfed by her enthusiasm, but the wounds are mostly superficial, and mostly on hapless bystanders rather the her Royal Personage (My orders to train her are serious, but I doubt the King will be pleased if his daughter returns home looking like Lt. Col. Wothyin.) I must say, her effect on morale has been positive. In a base where few have seen battle and most work is much the same as would be found in a shipping company, it is usually difficult to convince the men to take their arms training seriously. However, "You fight like a little girl" is immensely more effective at encouraging soldiers who can see that they are in real danger of being surpassed in skill at arms by a very real little girl.