Captain Marius Vojvo walked into the tavern, scanning the mass of people sitting at a myriad of tables, none of which were the same shape or size. The interior was smoky, the smell of tobacco invading his senses. He squinted, looking for his son, the dim light making it difficult to easily identify any one person. His son, Jorren, was supposed to meet him for lunch while he was still in town. He had been recalled to the capital to get his orders, rumors of war with their neighboring country, Salatia, running rampant in his circles.
Finally spotting Jorren, his back to him, Marius walked through a cloud of smoke that stung his eyes. Vojvo clapped Jorren on the shoulder before sitting at the table. They were at their favorite tavern, the Whistling Squire, which was always crowded with a plethora of patrons. This would be their last meeting before the Captain went to wherever he was ordered. Captain Vojvo was pleased Jorren had followed in his footsteps, joining the Anatalian military when he was old enough. His son had been assigned to Captain Baleran’s regiment, while Marius was leading his own battalion wherever the lord generals saw fit to place him.
“It’s good to see you, son,” Marius almost shouted to be heard over the crowd, looking over his son slowly. He looked older than the last time he had seen him, but Jorren still had his boyish smile. “Lance Corporal looks good on you.”
Jorren grinned at him, taking note of the close examination. “Would you like me to sit for a portrait, Father?”
The captain rolled his twinkling eyes. “And have to see your face every day?”
Jorren let out a barking laugh before his face lit with excitement. “Do you think there will be a war?”
Marius turned serious, the lightness of his mood evaporating. He leaned forward on the table, clasping his hands in front of him. “It is certainly a possibility.”
“All of us in the barracks hope that we go to war,” Jorren said excitedly.
“War is a very serious thing, Jorren,” Vojvo sternly scolded. “There’s no guarantee we would win.”
Jorren furrowed his brow. He looked uncomfortably at his father. “We are the best army in all of Aratia!”
“Whether we are or not, it is all dependent on who allies with us and who allies with Salatia,” Marius lectured. “If neither Frasisca nor Glessic come to our side, and Salatia convinces Radovan to join them, we have no chance of winning. Radovan has an almost endless supply of men to use for Salatian fodder.”
“Both Frasisca and Glessic hate the Salatians,” Jorren countered, his frown deepening. “Why wouldn’t they come to our aid? Salatia will have no chance against us.”
“Even if we win, there is no guarantee we make it back alive,” Vojvo reminded him. He was pleased to see some of the delight taken out of his son’s face. Vojvo had seen his fair share of bloodshed in his career and wished that his son would never have to see the horrors he had seen himself. It saddened Marius that Jorren was so excited at the prospect of fighting the Salatian soldiers.
“Where will you be if there is a war?” Jorren asked.
“I can’t be sure, but I suspect that I’ll be in the borderlands, monitoring the bridges on the Frasiscan River with Captain Limburgh and Captain Magnor, likely close to Marbon. They are an easy place to cross with how narrow the Frasisca River is there,” Marius speculated. “It would not be a dangerous assignment.”
“Good—you are not as young as you used to be,” Jorren joked, the twinkle returning to his eyes. “You can’t go around swinging your sword all day like us young folk.”
Vojvo let out a laugh, glad he had this time with his son before they would part company for an undetermined amount of time. “How is Elaine?” He wanted to change the subject.
Jorren’s face fell at the mention of the woman he had been trying to court. “She is still being evasive.”
“There are always trials at first, but if you give up in the beginning, you will never accomplish anything,” Marius told his son. It was something he always said to Jorren and what his own father had always said to him.
“I don’t even know if there is a beginning,” Jorren murmured sullenly, perking up when a serving wench arrived with the food. “I ordered before you arrived.”
Marius muttered his thanks before digging into the steaming food. “Maybe if we go to war, Elaine will have changed her mind and want a man with a pension,” he teased.
“I doubt it, Father,” Jorren countered, gulping down his ale. “She will probably have a brood of children by the time we return.”
“We shall see,” Marius tried to placate his son. “Maybe she’ll fall madly in love with you, and she’ll be begging to be Mrs. Jorren Vojvo.”
Jorren laughed at him. “What are we, women?”
Marius clasped his arm. “Not that, surely.”
Jorren mopped up the juices on his bronze plate with a heel of bread, tearing into it. “We should return before we’re missed.”
His father nodded, finishing his pint of ale in a large gulp, some of it spilling into his beard. He pulled Jorren into a tight hug. “I don’t know when I’ll see you again,” he started awkwardly. “I love you, Son.”
Jorren gave his father a boyish grin. “I love you too.” He chuckled. “I’ll see you when I see you.”
Marius watched his son walk off into the city, easily disappearing in the throng of people crowding the streets. He sighed, pushing his way through the crowd in the opposite direction, hoping that the rumors of war were not true.