The Captain (Battle Brothers Book 2)

The Captain Casey Hollingshead The Captain (Battle Brothers Book 2) by Casey Hollingshead Copyright © 2023 by Casey Hollingshead https://www.caseynotcasey.com/ Artwork by Goran Gligović https://www.gorangligovic.com/ Independently published. All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to real events or persons, living or dead, is coincidental. Very special thanks to, The Battle Brothers community, Jan, Paul, Christof, JC, Phil, Heron, Hannah, Mrs. G., and the family. Chapters. Chapter 1. A New Page. Chapter 2. The Shapeup Line. Chapter 3. Training Day. Chapter 4. A Good Scrap. Chapter 5. Scapegraces. Chapter 6. Hunting Kantorek. Chapter 7. Killing a King. Chapter 8. Bad People. Chapter 9. Paying Dues. Chapter 10. Survivors. Chapter 11. Trouble. Chapter 12. What Mothers Whisper Of. Chapter 13. A Miracle. Chapter 14. Findings. Chapter 15. Stalker. Chapter 16. The Hovel. Chapter 17. Mapping. Chapter 18. The Traveler. Chapter 19. The Dragonslaying Bell. Chapter 20. The Laager. Chapter 21. Incessant Inquiries. Chapter 22. Old Men, New Tricks. Chapter 23. The Concoction. Chapter 24. The Steel that Watches. Chapter 25. The Scent of Beasts. Chapter 26. Breaking Webs. Chapter 27. Changing Directions. Chapter 28. One Step at a Time. Chapter 29. The Man in Black. Chapter 30. The Steel that Wars. Chapter 31. From the Seas. Chapter 32. Searchers. Chapter 33. The Ancient Hexenjäger. Chapter 34. Masters of Domains. Chapter 35. Near Abroad. Chapter 36. Tracking a Pathfinder. Chapter 37. Lost and Found. Chapter 38. Kings of the Wilds. Chapter 39. Gluttonous Things. Chapter 40. Red on the Shore. Chapter 41. Insulting the Majesty. Chapter 42. Hargravard. Epilogue. The Last Witch Hunter. The man leapt. Beneath his feet, eyes watched. His friends captured him in dead stares. Such peaceful eyes. He desired their dark. Wanted it. Wanted the ease of it being over. All the same, he hid behind a tree for even now he could hear the beast. Eating. Ripping. Tearing. The unbearable crunching. Worst of all – it was taking its time. Holding his breath, the man crawled across the forest floor. Knees wet. Hands muddied. He found a lumberjacking axe. He carried it with him in clips and clops. Snot bubbled. Drool dangled. Tears plopped. It was quieter that way, to not wipe, to not swipe, to not run the water from his eyes. It was quieter to let the fear own him. “Where is he?” No. Friends can’t talk. Not when they’re missing all that. A bush moved. Grass softly hissed. Moss curled. Footsteps followed him. The man turned around. It was no beast. “Where is he?” The man’s eyes went wide. “Did he return to Marsburg?” The man reeled backward until he fell against a tree. “Or did he go north to the empty mountains of Sommerwein?” The man threw down his axe. He knew not what he saw. He preferred the beast. The beast he could understand. The little creature beside it, though? “I already asked your friends. So now I’m asking you.” The man screamed. He covered his face. Soft words rained upon him: “Where is he?” “Where is the hexenjäger?” “Where is Richter von Dagentear?” “Where is the one they call the Wight?” “You don’t know? That is quite alright. Never hurts to ask.” The beast growled and darkness followed and the forest quieted as it once was. Chapter 1. A New Page. “Richter!” The boy leaned up off the cot. “Yeah?” “Yeah? That’s how you answer your commander?” “Sorry sir.” “Get yer arse out of bed and meet me outside.” “Yessir.” “Whole army’s on the march and yer in here farking snoozing.” “Yessir, sorry sir.” The lord shook his head and the tent flap closed. Richter threw his legs off the cot and drove them into a pair of oversized boots and stood up. He double looped an oversized belt to cinch an oversized pair of pants and rolled the sleeves on his oversized shirt. As he hobbled about, he eyed the tent’s shifting flap. With every curling glimpse of the outside, a new soldier could be seen passing by. The army moved on a steady march, an unending rhythm of boots and armor that despite its martial intents and violent ends could lull one to sleep. He sat down on the bed, listening in awe. The plodding boots, thumping in unison, the clinking and clanking of armor and weapons, the snorting of horses, the creak of wagons. All his life, everything he knew was simply what he could see and touch. Now he was in the middle of a great machine, himself a small element spinning with its centripetal forces pulled in from all over the world. The tent flap flew wide and his commander peered in. “Yer arse has got five seconds.” “Yessir!” Richter jumped to his feet and strode outside, his clothes billowing like a sail wrapping the mast of a listless ship, his legs folding the leather of his boots as they tilted ungainly beneath him. Quietly at war with his own clothes, he stood up straight and kept his chin high for here the army marched before the skin of his nose. Like himself, the men had an aura of hurry: one long line as far as the eye could see, but with men still adjusting their helmets or girding weapons to their hips. Some ate on the wing, using cocked elbows for plates as they chewed up half-cooked breakfasts while their spears clattered overhead. If they weren’t eating, they were complaining, though these talks quieted as they neared the lords as if the noblemen were but holy tunnels into which sounds respectfully shrank. To the sides of the marching column stood the commanders on horseback. Nobles in steel plate and mail, their caparisoned mounts representing colors of powerful houses. Beside them hunkered a mob of scribbling scribes for it was surely a day meant to be heard, seen, and remembered in as much detail as could be captured. One even