And so they marched. Only the outriders carried torches, the rest of the column rode in darkness, dour and silent. An hour had passed with nary a word spoken, the distance between them and the camp becoming larger with every moment. They were three miles away for now. As for Daria, she hoped for closer to thirty miles before dawn. It would be hard, on horses and men, but any hope they had of fulfilling their task lay in being as far from any possible response force as was feasible. Deep down she was afraid, not of death, but of failure. Afraid of being wrong. If she was wrong, then she was leading what was left of her command into the jaws of death for no reason. She would have left those who were too weak to move at the less than tender mercies of the Allied troops for nothing. She doubted herself, a gnawing feeling in her gut that left nothing but questions. And fear.<br/><br/>A lancer she didn't know by name called the mile, her voice softly echoed down the line, putting them further from any possible retribution. It was only a small comfort to her unquiet mind. The distance seemed like nothing. She glanced back at the sprawling expanse of the camp behind them, spread out like a small city. It still seemed so close, like she could reach out and touch it with her gloved hand. Almost definitely close enough for them to still be seen if the light worked well for a keen eyed observer.<br/><br/>As the minutes passed she grew more and more confused. Surely they must have noticed something? The unconscious guards, the ripped tent cloth, the muddied patch of floor where the struggle happened? Then why was there no alarm? Someone must have kept it quiet. It couldn't be Benthey, she was too aggressive. The whole camp would be in uproar if she had found it. Perhaps the one-eyed Haman, the stoic giant of a man. He seemed to have the cautious temprament of a career soldier from what she had seen of him. Either way, every moment they had was a blessing.<br/><br/>The prisoner was behind her on one of the spare horses, flanked by two guards and tied to both them and their steeds. He wasn't awake... yet. That was expected to change very soon. When he did, the plan was to be honest. He had no reason to trust her. None at all. He had every reason to despise her. She would have to work hard to get him to listen.<br/><br/><div><hr style="height:2px; width:100%; border:0; color: white;background:white;"/></div><br/><br/>Another hour passed. Four more miles had gone, eaten up by the steel shod hooves of three hundred odd riders. The prisoner had groaned a half hour ago.Daria had executed a quick saddle change with one of the guards, who now rode Stepper a few yards away while she had a front row seat to the awakening of Prince-Commander Barth. He finally stirred properly, reaching up with his hands to pull at the sack over his head, only to find they were bound to the saddle he sat on as securely as he was to her. Rather poetic that. Something about sitting on one's hands occurred to her, but she held her tongue by some miracle. She engaged her warmest smile before remembering that he couldn't see it. Oh well.<br/><br/>"Ah, Prince Barth, you're awake. Good."<span style="font-style: italic">Finally.</span><br/><br/>"Perhaps you are wondering why you are here? Well, allow me to explain..."<br/><br/>The words tumbled out, sometimes in a rush, sometimes measured, but they came. She was unused to explaining herself to anyone, but this was an exceptional circumstance. Maybe he would come around. Probably not, but you never know your luck.