guard at the fortress, of Pritoky
“I stand the wall and I keep my mouth shut. I survived the skirmishes when better men did not.”
Things Benesh had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Tuesday after St Gregory, at Vespers
The wind off the road is a knife today. Stood on the wall from first light till now, freezing my knees off while those pups snored in the straw. I would trade a month's pay for a fire that actually warmed a man's bones.
Nota scribaeThe man paced heavily while speaking, spitting once into the yard.
the third Sunday in Lent, at Terce
Vashek will not stop whining. Always at my elbow, begging for things he has not earned. I told him a closed mouth catches no flies and keeps the provost away, but he is too soft to understand.
the eve of Palm Sunday, at None
I saw Maresh swaggering by the armoury. He wears Lawrence's hunting dagger on his belt as if it belongs to him. He says he lost the one I lent him in the brush. A kurva lie. It is Lawrence's blade, and Maresh is a thief.
I told you, I lost it skinning that hare. This dagger I bought from a peddler.
You lost your nerve, that is what you lost. And Lawrence paid for it.
Nota scribaeHe clenched his fists so hard I thought he would strike the table.
the second day of Easter week, at Prime
Captain Bright demands more musters. He marches us up and down the yard like we are wooden toys. A proud young noble who thinks war is a parade. He should have seen the skirmishers in the woods last autumn.
Discipline keeps a man alive, Benesh. The Hungarians do not care if you are tired.
He is right. If Vitek had better men beside him, he would be eating bread today.
the feast of St Mark, at Compline
I sharpened my blade until it gleamed in the moonlight. I cannot sleep. If I close my eyes, I see the trees, and the Cuman arrows, and Lawrence bleeding in the dirt. I am the only one who remembers, and I am entirely alone.
Put the whetstone away and drink some ale, Benesh. The dead are dead.
Nota scribaeDictated very quietly.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
It is cold. I wrote to my mother Drahomira about the frost, if any man is riding north.
Quiet, lad. We all feel the wind.