At the end of the drawbridge, Alaric came to a halt. Dawn was fast approaching, lighting the sky in vibrant hues, but the sun had yet to crest the horizon. A clinging morning mist blanketed the ground and curled over the moat’s stagnant and still waters. Dozens of hissing and sputtering torches provided additional light. The air was cool, bordering on crisp, and carried the fresh, damp scent of the early morning.

Beside him stood Grayson, as well as Torrin, who had hobbled out of the keep with a staff despite his lingering weakness. The knight’s steps were uncertain, shaky. The shadow of frailty was evident in his slow movements, the strained tension, and sheen of sweat on his face. In Alaric’s eyes, his full recovery was doubtful. Yet Torrin’s resilience and spirit was admirable.

Before them, the road that led to Dark Forge and beyond stretched out, flanked by dew-laden grass and the waking calls of birds. Here, having already broken camp, Alaric’s rapidly assembling army prepared themselves to march. Six companies, his best, totaling nearly twelve hundred regulars and an additional four hundred militia, were forming into a column of march, the clatter and murmur of their preparations breaking the morning’s quiet. Another five hundred men-at-arms from his bannermen were also present.

Including the cavalry contingent under the command of Lieutenant Ganister, he was marching with nearly twenty-one hundred fifty men. It was a sizable force, a small army, especially considering that most of the rest of the earldoms of Kevahn would barely be able to muster a single company each, if that.

Out of view, just past the town and down the road, was a vehicle park with the supply train, more than a hundred wagons and carts laden with vital supplies: tents, spare equipment, weapons and food stores, animal feed. Added to the train were over two hundred mules, which would bear even more provisions for his small army.

Included were two of the new artillery pieces he’d ordered constructed, bolt throwers that Grayson managed to have built. Though he’d not seen them operate, Grayson had told him each was quite promising with a range of over four hundred yards, being pinpoint-accurate at near two hundred yards. The crews who had been assigned were still learning how to effectively operate both machines, but Grayson had high hopes for them and intended on making more, along with some experimentation.

Alaric surveyed the scene, gaze sweeping over the nearest men. He estimated the length of the column that would soon begin grinding forward, from beginning to end, would likely stretch for over ten miles—a formidable serpent of flesh and steel representing his resolve, his power.

Off to the left of the drawbridge, separated from the foot soldiers, was his cavalry escort. This group was made up of twenty guards, all seasoned riders. Among them stood Ezran and Thorne, both dismounted and poised with the quiet and patient tension of experienced warriors. Nearby, Rikka and Kiera were also present. Kiera was busy securing a travel bag to her horse. Alaric’s eyes briefly met Rikka’s, and he fought the urge to scowl.

Despite attempts to dissuade her, due to her condition, she had been adamant about joining the march, going to war with him. Her determination was as unwavering as it was frustrating. No argument or plea made an impact, and now here she stood, hair in a single braid and clad in her riding leathers, her presence speaking to her stubborn and unbending nature. Alaric respected her courage, yet the protective stir of worry within him was difficult to suppress.

He drew a deep breath of the brisk morning air, feeling it invigorate his senses as he exhaled slowly through his nose. His hands moved with practiced ease to retrieve his riding gloves from where they had been securely tucked into his armor harness. He began to pull them on, one after the other, the leather conforming snugly to his hands.

Around him, the air was punctuated with the commands of officers and sergeants orchestrating the troops into a disciplined marching column. The cacophony of shouts, the clinking and chinking of armor, and the shuffling of boots stirred memories within him. For a fleeting moment, Alaric’s thoughts drifted back to his early days during the Crusade under the banner of the Cardinal King. Those were ones of fervor and chaos, of a youthful spirit embroiled in the raw clamor and chaos of war, where everyday rules fell by the wayside, as did common decency and honor.

But that was firmly behind him.

Now, as he faced the march to war once more, a different kind of resolve filled him. The road ahead was shrouded in uncertainty. He knew little of what waited beyond the horizon, but of one thing he was certain: Danger was an inevitable companion. Whether that came from the enemy or his own king and fellow nobles, Alaric did not know. But he’d face it, no matter what quarter it came from.

“I wish I was coming with you,” Grayson said, his voice tinged with a trace of melancholy, the sentiment almost spilling forth from his sturdy frame.

“Aye,” Alaric said, a moment of silent understanding passing between them. “I wish you were as well, but I need you here more.”

“I understand, my lord,” Grayson replied, his nod resolute as he clasped his hands behind his back, embodying the loyalty and duty that had always marked his service. “I will look after your house, people, and lands, especially your mother.”

“I will help as well, my lord,” chimed in Torrin, his voice weaker but filled with determination. The knight stood with the aid of the rough-hewn staff, leaning heavily upon it, his posture betraying the toll of his recent trials. His neck where he’d taken the arrow was heavily bandaged.

Alaric turned his attention to Torrin, noting the sincerity in his worn features. “I am sure Grayson will welcome your counsel. But focus on getting healthy first.”

“As you command, my lord,” Torrin replied, inclining his head slightly.

Alaric’s gaze drifted and caught sight of his mother standing under the darkened arch of the gatehouse, next to a hissing torch. Her figure was a contrast against the stone, which in the early morning gloom appeared almost pitch-black. He walked back to her, his steps slow, almost reluctant.

She moved forward, approaching the last few feet with open arms, enveloping him in a warm embrace that smelled faintly of lavender and home. Surprisingly, when she pulled away, torchlight reflected in the tears glistening in her eyes—a rare display of vulnerability from the matriarch of their house.

She quickly dabbed at the tears with a delicate handkerchief, her other hand lingering on his arm, her touch conveying a world of unspoken fears and hopes for his safety. The moment, tender and poignant, underscored the weight of the impending separation as the reality of war loomed over them both.

“Come back to me,” she said softly, her voice thick with emotion, eyes searching his for assurance. “I can’t bear to be alone… not again.”

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

“I will return,” Alaric affirmed, his tone steady, imbued with a confident resolve. His gaze momentarily shifted to where Grayson stood at the end of the drawbridge, conversing with Torrin. The distance made their words inaudible, but the seriousness of their exchange was evident even from afar. “I trust Grayson.”

“I do as well,” Elara responded, her voice holding a note of reservation. “But he is not family.”

“He is to me,” Alaric countered gently, his eyes returning to meet his mother’s. “I left orders for him to include you in the managing of our lands and holdings. He is to seek your blessing with major decisions. Go easy on him. Try not to cause him too many headaches.”

“I can do that,” Elara replied, a flicker of determination lighting up her features. She understood the weight of the responsibilities being placed upon her shoulders, not just as a mother, but as a custodian of their ancestral lands.

“Good,” Alaric said, satisfied. “I do not have an idea on how long this campaign will take. I expect regular updates from you both.” His voice carried the unspoken worries of a son and a lord entrusting his home to the capable hands of those he counted on the most in his absence.

“Go now, my son,” Elara urged, her voice adopting a firmer timbre. “Worry not about Dekar. We will manage her in your absence. Focus on the job before you and aim for a speedy return.”

“Very well, Mother.” Alaric’s response was gentle, the warmth of his affection evident as he leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek. He gave her one more hug. “I love you.”

“I love you as well, my son.” Her words, laden with emotion, followed him as he stepped back, their bond a strong tether amid the brewing storm of war.

Alaric’s gaze then shifted to Hamlin, who stood a few paces behind Elara. The old arms master, a constant figure in their lives, met Alaric’s look with an unwavering gaze.

“Take care of her for me,” Alaric instructed.

“On my life,” Hamlin vowed, his response a solemn oath that resonated with loyalty and dedication. “I will not allow what happened before to occur again. I swear to that, my lord.”

Alaric acknowledged this promise with a curt nod, a gesture filled with gratitude. He then turned, his cloak swirling slightly as he made his way back to Grayson and Torrin, who turned at his approach.

“Do you have any last questions?” Alaric inquired.

“No, my lord,” Grayson replied, his demeanor serious and focused. Beside him, Torrin gave a slight shake of his head, signaling he, too, had no queries. He and Grayson had spent several hours together the previous evening going over everything that either of them could think of that might pop up. Though he was still conflicted about leaving, Alaric felt reasonably good that Dekar was in capable hands.

“Then, gentlemen, I leave Dekar in your care.” Alaric extended his hand toward Grayson, who took it and shook warmly. He then offered and took Torrin’s hand as well, the other man’s grip alarmingly weak to the point of feebleness.

“Go with God,” Torrin imparted, his voice carrying a solemn wish for divine protection.

Alaric nodded, acknowledging the old knight’s blessing, and began to make his way toward his escort and his waiting mount.

“My lord,” Lieutenant Ganister greeted as he approached. The cavalry officer stood tall, his demeanor crisp as he saluted Alaric. He gestured to the left, where a horse was being held by a trooper. “We’ve saddled your horse. She awaits you.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant,” Alaric replied, stepping over to take the reins from the trooper. Maggie, his mount for this campaign, was not Fire, but she was a fine horse in her own right. Grayson had presented her to him as a gift when he’d returned to the keep, mere hours ago. All signs indicated she would serve him well on the journey ahead, for she was powerfully built, a horse bred for war. Still, he felt Fire’s loss keenly. He would miss that horse.

A few feet away, Rikka stood holding the reins of her own horse, her gaze fixed on Alaric. Her expression was a mask of control, betraying nothing of her thoughts. Next to her, a cavalry trooper had a large furled banner in hand. The banner was wrapped in canvas and tied tightly with rope. Alaric felt himself scowl as he looked upon it, for he instantly knew what it was, what it represented. In fact, he’d left orders for it to remain behind. His gaze shifted to Rikka and understood she had countermanded that order.

“Mount up,” Ganister ordered his men, and the air became filled with the heavy jingle of armor, the clinking of metal, and the sounds of horses snorting, whinnying, and stamping their feet.

Glancing unhappily once more at the banner, Alaric turned to Maggie and firmly put it from his mind as he climbed up into his saddle and settled himself comfortably. Rikka and Kiera mirrored his actions, mounting their horses with practiced ease.

Lieutenant Ganister’s voice cut through the ambient noise of the assembling troops, “Are you ready to proceed, my lord?”

“Aye, Lieutenant, I am.” Alaric gently nudged his horse forward into a slow walk, Maggie’s steps sure and steady as he started to advance along the forming column of men.

Rikka nudged her own horse to close the gap, pulling alongside Alaric. He glanced at her. While part of him wished she’d remained behind for the safety of both her and their unborn child, another part was genuinely relieved by Rikka’s presence. Her companionship had become something he relied upon, a near constant. To embark on such a journey without her by his side was something he found disheartening to even consider. The men had even accepted Rikka. As a lumina, they viewed her with a sense of awe and a direct mark of God’s favor.

Behind them, Kiera, Ezran, and Thorne took up position, effectively bringing up the rear.

“Fall in behind the earl, column of two,” Ganister commanded crisply. His order was promptly executed. Alaric’s escort fell into a disciplined trot behind him, working to catch up. Ganister slowed his mount into a walk, matching Alaric’s pace. His troopers did the same. Alaric glanced back and saw the trooper with the furled banner riding just behind Ganister.

“Your doing,” Alaric said, as more a statement than a question to Rikka.

“Yes,” Rikka said simply. “I made sure it came along.”

Alaric faced forward as they began passing by the men, most of whom were still forming into a column of four for the march. A spontaneous cheer erupted from the men they were passing. Alaric responded by raising a gloved hand, and the response was an even louder cheer, the sound rolling through the ranks like a wave as they continued forward, moving toward the vanguard of the column, which had likely stepped off and already begun the march. His soldiers were in high spirits, their morale buoyed by what they saw as an adventure about to begin. Only, Alaric well understood war was no adventure. It was a nightmare filled with killing, suffering, and blood.

Whoever killed better usually won.

As he continued his progress, Alaric passed by Eld, who was standing with his contingent of men-at-arms. One of Eld’s men held the reins of the knight’s horse. Eld noticed Alaric approaching and, with a swift motion, raised his armored hand in a hearty greeting.

“Good morning, my lord,” Eld called out over the din of the assembling troops. “A fine day to march off to war, I think.”

“It is,” Alaric agreed. At his words, the nearest men erupted into cheers once more, their enthusiasm undimmed by the long march and hard day ahead.

Then they were passing Keever and Duncan, along with their men-at-arms. Already mounted, Jourgan was a few feet ahead. For this campaign, Duncan would be Alaric’s second in command.

“Good morning to you, my lord,” Duncan greeted.

“Gentlemen,” Alaric greeted as he passed.

As the cheers continued to ring out, Alaric’s thoughts drifted to past campaigns. He could not recall a time, apart from the initial departure for the Crusade, when his men had displayed such buoyant spirits. They had left home then with hearts full of zeal, but the harsh and unforgiving realities of the holy land had quickly dampened their ardor, including Alaric’s, souring the mood as the grim nature of the job ahead took hold.

Today, however, the air was different. It was filled with a sense of purpose and an undercurrent of unity. They were marching to defend and save their kingdom, to protect Dekar and, by extension, their families. The men seemed to carry not only their arms and armor, but also a collective hope that their cause was just and their leadership strong, trusted.

“You were born for this.” Rikka’s words cut through the clamor of cheers, carrying a weight that made Alaric momentarily pause in his thoughts. He turned to her, Rikka’s expression intense, eyes alight. “You are now riding down the path of destiny. God has told me so.”

Alaric felt sour. The idea of destiny had always been a double-edged sword for him. Though he believed in his god, he did not believe in destiny or prophecy. He never had. Alaric preferred to think he set his own path through life. Rikka’s confidence in the prophecy added layers to his already complex feelings about the coming campaign.

“That’s right,” she said, noting his contemplative look. “The time, as was prophesized, is fast approaching.”