“War is a woeful trade where the balance is paid in loss.” Sposh

Marken sat heavily on the wall beside Besh and tried to catch his breath. While attention was on the new alien, the Emissaries quietly stood and walked south. Holding up a hand for time, Marken gulped air. Sposh looked uncertainly at the new arrival who tried to compose himself, and curiously at the calm features on his friend's smooth face. Sposh could not wait.

Sposh asked Marken, “Are you also abandoned?”

“What?” asked Marken, suddenly confused.

Besh said, “The Spearhead just left.”

Marken asked, “They left? Was Faith onboard?”

Sposh stood to face the aliens directly. He said to Marken, “No. Not at all. The Queen kidnapped your friend, and holds her in camp.”

“I must save her,” said Marken, rising to his feet.

Besh pulled the man back to the wall. “First,” said Besh, “you need to rest. Second, we need a plan. It all seems vaguely familiar, but the north and the south are at war. I'll let Sposh explain.”

Four alien eyes trained themselves on Sposh, putting him on the spot. Sposh took a step back, removed his helmet, and held it under his arm. He looked between Besh and Marken, uncomfortable under the expectant gaze of aliens. He cleared his throat.

“Well,” began Sposh. “Men and women fight, each for dominance.” He turned to face south and decided to keep his explanation rudimentary. He turned back and continued. “South of us is a valley. Brohm forces are arrayed north, facing the Shashian forces arrayed south. The camps of the Pope and the Queen are both on the west end of their front lines. Catapults will go first to thin the ranks. Medics will rush in to remove the fallen.” Sposh paced as he tried to explain the basics. “Spearmen will replace the catapults with the bowmen just behind them. Both lines will advance and wait.”

“Wait for what?” asked Besh.

Sposh answered, “They wait for the Emissaries to deliver the insults.”

“Wait,” said Marken. “What? Insults?”

Sposh nodded and continued, “The Pope and Queen will exchange insults through their emissaries. A panel of Generals will judge which side has the best insult. There will be four Generals from each side, with an independent Widgin in case of a tie. The winner gets to advance and send the first volley.”

“How civilized,” said Besh.

Marken shook his head in rejection of the facts. “Where's Faith?” he asked. “Is my love in danger?”

Sposh answered, “My best guess is that she's in the Queen's camp. My sister-in-law is the Grand Stewardess, and her camp will be just south of the Queen. I fear my wife is also there.”

Marken jumped to his feet. “Let's go,” he said. “We have women to save.”

Besh touched Marken's arm and said, “Slow down, you two. We need a plan.”

Marken sat on the wall. Besh gave a pat to the wall beside him, and Sposh sat. Between the three of them was a sullen silence so intense that a rumbling noise could be heard coming from the north. A wind carried dust before the approach of a small convoy. Besh stood to look; Sposh and Marken followed him to their feet. Three Trimbol-drawn carts approached with hired Polops in attendance. The Drafter walked in front, hailing.

“Ho!' called the Drafter. “Laggards and lazybones. Why the delay?” He stood before the motley crew with a professional smile on his furry face. “When war brews, the brew rolls. I carry ale to the front lines. Would you three be thirsty?”

Sposh stepped forward with an evident eagerness in the pressing of his palms together. “Yes. Please,” he said. “Please and thank you.”

Drafter placed a kind hand on a needy shoulder. “Come,” he said to Sposh. “Look at this.” Turning with Sposh, Drafter commanded his Polops, “Throw back the tarp.”

The cart was filled with upright barrels. Sposh, Besh, and Marken gathered close. Drafter fairly beamed as eyes widened. Each barrel had on top of it a weighty chunk of white ice. The group exchanged glances and smiles, the broadest being the proud smile of the Drafter.

“I spared no expense,” said Drafter. “Real ice from the north.”

Besh said, “Well, I'm impressed.”

Drafter happily commanded his Polops, “Quick. Move that ice and open the barrel. You. Get mugs and ladles. My friends thirst.”

Sposh rubbed his palms together in vigorous anticipation. Mugs were quickly filled and passed around. After drinking from pales, the mug seemed small to Besh. He took it nonetheless; who was he to complain? Marken finished his drink in one gulp and nodded in appreciation.

“It's good,” said Marken. “You have my eternal gratitude.”

“Here,” said the Drafter. “Have another.”

Besh, handing in his mug for a refill, said, “It's good that you came. I feared for Sposh.”

The Drafter smiled merrily. With a twinkle in his eye, Besh placed a hand on the shoulder of his diminutive friend, who nodded vigorously and chugged the last of his ale in anticipation of a refill. The Drafter made sure all were refreshed before packing up and rolling south. He spoke in parting as he followed his carts.

Waving, the Drafter called, “Find me in your need.”

Sposh was the last to sit. He had waved until the Drafter was out of sight. He turned to the aliens, still smiling, and sat. He said, “I would feel much better if the Drafter was Pope.”

Besh smiled at his friend and replied, “Ale on the house.”

Marken placed a hand on the arm of Besh, drawing his attention. “Do we have a plan?” he asked. “My heart burns with desperate love.”

Besh sighed. “Yes,” he said. “A plan.” He turned with Marken to look at Sposh.

Marken said to Sposh, “Your woman is there. You must know how I feel.”

“I do,” said Sposh. “I miss my Chic.” He stood with helmet in hand and paced with the stride of a budding orator. He turned and said, “How cruel. How thoughtless to set husbands against wives. I love Chic. I don't want to fight her.”

Besh interrupted, “You're the expert here. Tell us what we need to know.”

Sposh blinked, attempting to focus his thoughts. “Right,” he said. “We need to sneak into the Queen's Quarter.”

Besh asked, “But, how do we get past the Pope's soldiers?”

“Through them, around them, I don't care,” said Marken. “Just show me the way to my Faith.”

“And to my Chic,” said Sposh, donning his helmet with determination. “There are high hills to the west. We'll have the cover of trees.”

Marken jumped to his feet, and said with zeal, “Now, you're talking.”

Sposh and Marken marched south with burning determination. Besh rose and followed. It was something like a plan; not complete, but a beginning. Besh walked with a smile on his face for his friends. They loved, and nothing would sway them. What could stand between them and the objects of their desire?

“By the way,” said Marken to Sposh, “Nice helmet.”

Sposh replied, “It would take an alien to appreciate such a thing. I'm ashamed to have it on my head.”

“No. No,” said Marken. “It speaks of eternal manhood. It speaks of the chains we proudly wear.”

“Chains?” asked Sposh.

“Yes,” said Marken. “The chains of love, for are not we men the slaves of love? Ever enamored. A flower in thrall to the sun of beauty, to the moon of passion. A beast breathing fire, stamping the ground, ready to charge. As men, you and I, we steel our nerves and prepare our souls for the perils of war. All for love, my friend. All for love.”

Gentle hills with waving grass became scruffy rolling heights with trees visible to the south. Besh had walked behind, amused to hear his friends speak of love. Twice, he had loved, and twice, he had lost, but he was not sad. Should love come his way once more, he would reach out and draw it in. Beyond that, he could not speak of passions or chains. Life neither gave nor took. It laid all before you, and choice was a matter of trial and error.

Sposh had conversed with Marken of love, and war, then, Sposh said, “War is a woeful trade where the balance is paid in loss.” He stopped and looked behind himself as if he only then remembered Besh. He beckoned with a hand. Lowering his voice, he said to Besh and Marken, “Once among the trees, we'll turn east. We must be quiet, in case there are scouts. If all is clear, we can lay atop the bluff with a good view of the flat.”

On their bellies, Besh, Marken, and Sposh parted the Sideoats Grama to peer down at the valley below. It was broad and flat and stretched into the haze of a distant horizon. It was a good view of the battle lines north and south. The camps of the Pope and the Queen were heavily fortified; the line of soldiers stretched far and away. Trimbols tramped the bare ground and raised a dust as catapults were moved into position.

“It'll be difficult getting into the Queen's camp,” said Besh.

Sposh looked around Marken to answer. “We'll enter behind the Queen's quarter, in the steward's camp.”

Besh said, “Still, you'll stand out with that thing on your head.”

Marken asked Sposh, “Might we jack some uniforms, you know, to blend in?”

Sposh answered, “Even in their colors, we're still men, and you're still aliens.”

Besh rolled away from the edge of the bluff. He sat cross-legged and pulled his colorful bag from his shoulder. He said to no one in particular, “I guess it's up to me.”

Sposh and Marken sat close and watched as Besh massaged the colorful spots on his small shoulder bag. He rubbed the spots in circular motions, then pulled the mouth of the bag unbelievably wide. When Besh inserted his arm past the elbow, Sposh gaped and covered his mouth with a hand. Besh made eye contact as he searched the interior of his bag. He was giving away a secret he'd rather not, but it was an emergency. He finally pulled his hand from the bag and laid nothing in his lap.

Confused, Sposh and Marken watched as Besh unfolded nothing. Confusion turned to astonishment as something appeared magically in his hands. It was invisible on the outside and visible on the inside. Besh raised his hands and shook out a long conceal cloak. Looking into wide eyes, Besh answered before the question could be asked.

“They're military conceal cloaks,” said Besh. “They're really easy to lose, and I only have three of them, so pay attention.” He displayed the interior of the cloak as he explained. “The arm loops are under the shoulders? There are also buttons inside. The hand and finger loops are here and here for closing the cloak around you, so, arms and hands in at all times. If you drop it, you might never find it.”

Besh passed the first cloak to Sposh, who stood and put it on. He pulled the cloak over his head, and brought the front together. His face and legs were still visible. Besh passed the second cloak to Marken, who stood and threw it around his shoulders, inserted his arms, and began buttoning the front. Besh returned his bag to his shoulder, crossing the strap over his head. Then he stood and donned the third cloak, making short work of it. Heads could be seen but nothing else.

“Mine's a little long,” said Sposh.

Marken replied, “Or, you're a little short.”

Sposh answered, “Well, that's a particularly alien point of view.”

Besh said, “They're big enough for two. We can sneak in unseen, and sneak your women out unseen. Are we ready?”

Sposh, Besh, and Marken walked south through the trees, leaving a bronze helmet in the grass. Three heads bobbed on a breeze. Sposh looked up at Besh, awe in his eyes. “You're a wonder,” said Sposh.

Besh looked down with a smile, and said, “I come prepared.”

An hour of walking brought them to the low wooded hills above the Queen's Quarter. Behind the fortifications, brightly colored soldiers ran about in last-minute preparations. Their movements had the precision of rigorous training. High canopied seating had been erected for the Queen's review. Generals, in overlarge hats, gathered in the central tent.

Sposh said in a hushed voice, “We'll go south to the steward's camp.”

Besh and Marken followed the wagging finger Sposh extended past his cloak. They paused at the bottom of the hill. They felt secure in their cloaks as they positioned themselves behind bushes. Just ahead of them were piled crates, beyond which was the hectic scramble of stewards. On the breeze was an aroma of sizzling meat; Marken's belly rumbled.

“Don't give us away,” whispered Sposh, peeking from his cloak.

Marken replied in an apologetic whisper, “I'm hungry.”

Besh whispered, “Cloaks will only get us so far. We should be quiet and patient. Above all, we must remain together as we search. This is a good spot. Let's return here in case of trouble.”

The search party fell silent as stewards led harnessed males to the crates and prodded them into lifting. One of the females said, “Turn. Walk.”

As the males carried away the crate, the other female asked, “Is this meat?”

“Yes,” replied the former. “The Generals demand more, and the cooks are harried.”

Marken whispered, “I can't believe food was so close.”

Sposh said to Marken, “Pull it together, soldier.”

Marken replied, “Soldier of love.”

Besh said, “That big tent must be the kitchen. There will be traffic between the tent and the crates. We should find another way in.”

“Follow me,” said Sposh.

Sposh led Besh and Marken to the rear of the camp. They carefully tip-toed past a large covered cage and came to the harbor rows south of the encampment. The rows of tents were laid out south to north in straight lines. The spacing was tight and stewards walked freely between them. Even cloaked, sneaking into an active camp would be difficult. As they crouched in the open, unseen, Sposh whispered to Besh.

“What do we do?” asked Sposh.

Besh answered, “I was kind of hoping you would know.”

Marken said in flat determination, “We march in and get our ladies.”

Three stewards went by at a lively pace headed for the latrine tents south of the camp. Besh, Sposh, and Marken fell back to the tree line. Besh said, “That was close.”

Marken said, “What good are cloaks if they can trip over us?”

Besh said, “Tell us, Sposh. Would the person in charge have a bigger tent?”

Sposh answered, “Holly is the Grand Stewardess. Her tent would be bigger. If we can find Holly's tent, perhaps Chic will be with her.”

Besh said, “We should go back up the hill and take a better look.”

“Wait,” said Sposh. “They're cooking. Soon, the stewards will gather to eat. We can look then.”

Besh asked, “What if Holly and Chic are in the mess with the rest?”

Marken said, “We're invisible. We capture Holly and make her lead us to Faith.”

“And Chic,” said Sposh.

Besh said, “Before we throw ourselves into the enemy's hand, let's go back up the hill. Sposh can point out the big tent, and we can choose the best end of the camp to enter. We need to be smart about this. I'm on your side. I'm here to help, but we need to think with our heads, not our helmets.”

Marken said, “Sir, you humble me.”