Kell.
Tocoto arrived in the backwater of Kell with sixty-five men. The Survivors of Ossmat, he called them, although in truth he was the only one who qualified for that title. These were nearly barbarians, with no discipline, armed with a hodgepodge of weaponry and armor ranging from 'rather fierce' to 'embarrassingly inept,' who shuffled clumsily along the road in a disorderly mob. He'd been lucky to get them, though. Together they'd left Ossmat with no trouble, following the command he'd received to rally in Kell. Hoping all the while for the glorious command to return in strength to his city where they could throw off the Daimonic invaders.
Today a messenger came, bearing reports. Grim news, the man said. The Lord of Verdomite, the Duke of Lake Salaman, and two knights had been captured by the Netherworld. The Grehkian Legion and allies from Sint had fought a great battle, mustering well over a thousand men at arms, and lost. In Ossmat.
They'd fought a battle in Ossmat. His own commander led Old Grehk's forces. In Ossmat, where he'd just been. While he had been following his own orders to rally in Kell. In Kell.
The parchment report crumpled in his hand. He gritted his teeth.
Slowly he commanded his breath to slow down.
"Captain Ernst!" he shouted angrily. The most reasonable thing to do in this unreasonable situation was to train this heap of vermin into something resembling a fit military unit. "Ernst, let's train this heap of-"
Suddenly it dawned on him. Ernst was dead. He had no captain. Some of the men nearby were looking at him oddly.
Gods, he thought. Am I losing my mind?
