It was the second day of the march, and they were almost on the earldom of Kanar’s border. Leading his horse by the reins, Alaric walked at the head of the column. He glanced up, squinting against the blinding light of the sun. It was overly hot. Sweat trickled down his face, tracing lines through the dust that clung stubbornly to his skin.
His helmet, tied securely to the saddle, glinted in the sunlight as Maggie, her head down, trod dutifully after him. Alaric judged it to be just past midday. The heat was oppressive and relentless, and worse, it was quite humid and sticky. But it was not the hottest he’d known. At times in the holy land, the sun and sand seemed to bake a man in his armor.
At his side, also leading his horse, walked Jaxen. Sweat streamed down the officer’s flushed face, but his posture was determined, and he was fit, young, and capable. It was his company’s turn to lead the march, the First Dekar Heavy Infantry. Alaric had decided to march with them and their captain. He took turns with every unit and formation. That way, he got to know the men and they him. The soldiers of Jaxen’s company, clad in their chainmail armor, moved in loose ranks behind them both, their boots crunching rhythmically against the dry, cracked roadbed, already in poor shape before they set foot along it. It was a sound to which Alaric was well accustomed. There was much talking, joking, and the occasional bark of laughter. The men were in good spirits.
He much preferred leading the march, where the choking dust was the least suffocating. He had always disliked being in the rear or somewhere within the main body. In dry weather, even on the best of roads, an army kicked up a tremendous amount of dust. For miles away, the cloud generated by a march could be seen.
The dust got in the eyes, mouth, lungs, ears—everywhere. It caused a man to cough and sneeze until the throat and nose were painfully sore. For days after, one would be hacking it up or snorting the dust out, attempting to rid oneself of it. Alaric could almost still taste the grit from the Cardinal King’s last campaign and feel the blistering summer heat. The memory alone made him grimace. It was for that reason he rotated the order of march each day, to share the misery. The intention was to give each company a chance to lead.
Alaric glanced up at the sky. Though it was quite humid, thankfully, it did not appear like rain was on the wind. In wet weather, mud was the problem. Armies quickly churned most roads, especially like the one they were moving along, to a thick morass, a mess that sometimes became several feet deep. It stuck to everything, making boots heavier than they should be, a real struggle just to move forward, one step at a time. Wagons, carts, and even horses and mules became mired in the sucking mud, stuck fast, sometimes requiring teams of men to help free them.
Using his forearm, Alaric wiped sweat from his brow. The surrounding landscape through which they were marching was typical of late spring, with vibrant and wild green fields stretching out to either side of the road, dotted with wildflowers that swayed gently in the breeze. It was the heat and humidity that seemed uncommon, especially at this time of year, for it had come early. The occasional stand of trees they passed through provided some shade, their leaves rustling softly when the wind gusted. Birds flitted about and chirped intermittently, their songs a distant counterpoint to the steady crunch of boots and the heavy jingle of armor.
Alaric did not much mind marching. It was exercise. He needed to stay fit, in shape, and this was one way to do that. Besides, Maggie needed a break. Her head was bowed, the heat having taken a toll on her.
Alaric guided her well around a large pothole big and deep enough to fit a wagon. His road crews had not gotten here yet, to this part of Dekar. He made a mental note to write to Grayson to speed that up, especially if additional supplies and reinforcements were needed at some point. A better maintained road would help speed their arrival to his army.
“It is quite hot out,” Jaxen said, wiping sweat from his brow with a small towel. “I’ve always disliked the heat. Have I told you that, my lord?”
“Let me guess, you prefer the cold,” Alaric said. “Winter?”
“I do. I enjoy the snow.”
Alaric looked over. “Have you marched in it? Have you marched to war in snow?”
Alaric already knew the answer he would receive, for Jaxen had yet to go to war. He’d been in small fights, but nothing substantial.
“No, my lord,” Jaxen said. “I would not want to try either.”
Alaric gave a light chuckle. “There’s a reason why campaigning stops when winter arrives.”
“I know it, my lord,” Jaxen said.
“In this heat, we’re exerting ourselves and wearing armor. That makes it worse, the march more difficult than it should. In the holy land, in the middle of the summer months, it gets to the point where you feel you’re about to melt or be cooked alive. The sun overhead becomes unbearable. There are times of year where the armies only move at night, by the light of the moon, for it is unsafe to do so during the day. You would lose too many men, too many horses and mules.”
Jaxen appeared skeptical. Then his expression changed to one of curiosity and longing. “I would have liked to have gone on Crusade, to see the holy lands. My father said I was too young to go.”
“You don’t want that,” Alaric said. “Divinara is not what you think, and neither was the Crusade. I certainly wasn’t expecting what I found.”
“How so?” Jaxen asked.
“It is not the promised land that people dream of, not the perfect place brimming with milk and honey, overflowing with the mana of God. After my blinders fell away, I thought the place cursed.”
“Cursed?” Jaxen seemed surprised by that.
“It is terribly dry, hot, and very unsanitary. The people who reside there are a disagreeable lot and not to be trusted. Food is scarce. Sometimes water is fought over. The strong survive and the weak succumb.”
Jaxen led his horse around a small but deep pothole that ran on his side of the road as he glanced back over at Alaric. He did not say anything, but Alaric could read the doubt in his eyes.
“It is a dangerous land,” Alaric continued, his voice becoming grave. “You don’t know who to trust. One day, without warning, a friend could turn enemy and try to stick a knife in your back. It happened to me on more than one occasion.”
Jaxen’s eyes widened at that.
“The general population is untrustworthy,” Alaric added, “and will steal without a moment’s thought and with little compunction. There are rules, societal norms, of course, but those are easily broken and often ignored when convenient, especially when it comes to food and water.”
Jaxen frowned, maneuvering himself and his horse carefully around yet another pothole, which riddled this portion of the road. Old wagon tracks and cart grooves cut right through the pothole.
“I find that difficult to imagine,” Jaxen admitted, expression a mixture of skepticism and curiosity. The captain’s face was flushed and covered in dirt and sweat. Like everyone else, he was miserable and dirty.
Alaric let go a breath, scanning the horizon, as if seeing the distant, troubled land of Divinara. He’d had this problem before, telling those who’d not been there what it was actually like, how things worked in the holy lands. He’d encountered disbelief and outright skepticism. They held preconceived notions. Alaric found it frustrating. Then again, he reminded himself, before he left, he’d had those same ideas.
“It’s hard to describe unless you’ve been there. The heat and dust get into everything, even when you are not marching. You are always cleaning your gear and yourself, bathing when able. There’s a constant sense of tension hovering about you, of waiting for the next betrayal, the next threat to materialize… what the enemy is doing. It’s a land where trust is a luxury you can rarely afford.”
Farther out from the road, the wild fields were bordered by a scattering of trees. Insects buzzed lazily about, adding to the chorus of the countryside, while the crunch of boots and the clinking and chinking of armor continued to provide a steady, rhythmic background to their conversation. Alaric waved at a persistent fly hovering by his right ear, doing little good, for the buzzing continued.
“It is true,” Ezran said from behind. Like Alaric, he and Thorne were leading their horses. They were staying close, shadowing him. Jaxen glanced back at the former ash man, curiosity flickering in his eyes.
“Be thankful you were brought up in these lands,” Thorne added, his voice carrying a note of caution, not to mention warning. “In Divinara, you always had to keep one eye open at night and, when out and about, look over your shoulder for trouble. There were cutpurses and worse all around, waiting for a moment of weakness to pounce. It was especially bad for unwary foreigners, for those who came with eyes wide, expecting faith and miracles and kindness around every corner.”
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“I see,” Jaxen said, though his voice lacked the conviction of belief.
“No, you don’t,” Thorne said, shaking his head. “You can’t truly understand unless you’ve been there and lived it.”
“Like you have,” Jaxen said.
“That’s right,” Thorne replied. “I have lived it, as has Ezran and your lord.”
Tiring of the conversation, Alaric found himself focusing more on the terrain. They fell silent as the road worked its way up and crested a moderate-sized hill. Jaxen had clearly been given something to think about, for he did not speak. Reaching the top of the hill, Alaric saw thick forest ahead. That told him they were less than a mile from Kanar’s border.
Eyeing the forest, he savored a moment of vast relief. Upon entering it, they would be in the shade and mostly out of the sun. With Jaxen at his side, he began starting down the reverse side of the hill, leading the column, which snaked behind them.
They had passed through a small village five miles back, its inhabitants wary but respectful, bowing to their lord as the column marched through. Alaric had noted the lack of enthusiastic welcome. It meant the villagers still felt somewhat unsafe, not enough to run and hide, but just to be cautious. Maybe, Alaric considered, though Kanar was friendly, it was time to establish a permanent fort, place a garrison near the village and station a company there. That would instill a sense of security amongst the villagers and those who lived nearby. In addition to that, it would also bring in funds to the village, as his soldiers would spend their pay there, buying food and drink. That would help the village grow and prosper.
Alaric had noted there was plenty of water in these parts. They had already crossed more than a dozen rivers and streams. Perhaps it was also time to develop this area, to sell and lease land grants, especially near the few villages out this way. There was fertile-looking land to either side of the road, and he noted the potential for growth. His strategy had been to focus on other parts of Dekar first, developing the infrastructure there, where the population was already strong and able to support more rapid expansion. However, this region, with its abundant water sources and good soil, seemed ripe for cultivation and settlement.
Improving the road and adding a few hundred farmers would help begin to push back the wilderness, to tame the region. Like elsewhere, the rich grasslands and forests could be transformed into productive farmland. Alaric imagined neat rows of crops replacing the wild grasses and small hamlets rising where there was now only open or forested land, wilderness.
It was something to think on, to consider. As the column moved steadily toward Kanar’s border and the forest, Alaric made a mental note to write Grayson at his next opportunity. The potential was undeniable, and with careful planning, this mostly uninhabited stretch could become a thriving part of his domain.
Motion ahead drew Alaric’s attention. A rider was trotting toward them, one of his mounted horse soldiers. The man was not in a rush. That told Alaric whatever news he brought wasn’t urgent. He relaxed a little. They closed the distance rapidly. The soldier on the horse pulled his mount up and saluted before wheeling her around and falling in alongside Alaric, who had not stopped.
“Report,” Alaric ordered, his tone commanding. He had spoken to the man once before but could not recall his name. He was one of Ganister’s troopers.
“My lord,” the trooper said, his voice steady. “The border with Kanar is just ahead. Jasper reports the way is safe. His rangers found no one lying in wait. Lord Ulden is just over the bridge and border. He offers his cord… cordirial… cordial compliments and is looking forward to greeting you.”
Alaric nodded thoughtfully as he absorbed what he’d just been told. He had sent word ahead that he was coming with his army at the king’s summons. Consequently, he expected some sort of welcoming committee from Kanar. The news was reassuring, indicating their arrival was anticipated and that the border crossing would be smooth and without trouble. Alaric had expected no issues, for Ulden’s father, the Earl of Kanar, was a friend.
“Anything else to report?” Alaric inquired, his eyes fixing on the trooper.
“No, my lord,” the trooper replied. “That is all. My corporal sent me back. He and the advance party have continued farther up the road and are now well past Lord Ulden and his party.”
“Thank you. You may return to your corporal,” Alaric said. “Carry on, soldier.”
The trooper saluted again, then nudged his horse back into a trot. Horse and rider rapidly pulled away from Alaric and the column. Ahead, the forest closed in on the road, the tall trees forming a natural barrier as the road disappeared in shadow around a bend. Within a short time, the scout had entered the forest and passed from view.
After a few hundred heartbeats, Jaxen broke the silence. “Well, that is encouraging.”
“It is,” Alaric agreed.
The dense forest ahead signaled a transition, the looming trees casting long shadows over the road. As they steadily drew closer and then entered, the air became much cooler, the oppressive heat of the day fading with every step, a direct result of the canopy overhead. The road, though still dusty, uneven, and poorly maintained, felt different as they neared the border, as if heralding a significant change to come.
“There.” Jaxen pointed.
Alaric looked and saw a bridge ahead, no more than two hundred yards away. It was a wooden span, narrow but just wide enough for a wagon, and arched slightly at the center. Just beyond it, on the other side of the small river, waited a party of ten horsemen.
Alaric stopped and walked around the side of his horse. Taking the reins firmly in hand, he pulled himself up into the saddle, the leather creaking under his weight. Thorne and Ezran did the same, their movements fluid and practiced.
“Jaxen, keep the men marching,” Alaric ordered, his voice firm as he readied himself. “We don’t stop, even for the welcoming party, understand? I won’t have the entire column backing up, starting and stopping.”
“Yes, my lord,” Jaxen said. “I will keep the column marching.”
“Very good.” Alaric nudged his heels into the flanks of Maggie, propelling the animal into a light canter. Thorne and Ezran matched his pace, their horses moving in unison behind him. The thud of hooves seemed to echo against the trees as they approached the bridge. Then they were riding over it, the structure creaking and groaning slightly under the weight of the horses. The river over which the bridge arched was small, dark, and fast-moving.
Ulden raised a hand in greeting as Alaric made his way over to the other side of the river. His group of cavalrymen waited off to the side of the road. They sat astride their mounts, their eyes fixed on the approaching trio. Alaric brought Maggie to a halt before Ulden.
“Lord Ulden,” Alaric greeted, “permission to bring Dekar’s finest into Kanar.”
“As long as you promise not to raze, rape, and pillage Kanar, you have both my father’s and my permission to cross the border.”
Alaric barked out a laugh. “We will behave ourselves. Have no doubt, my officers will see to that.”
Grinning, Ulden moved his horse forward and up to Alaric’s side. He reached out a hand, which Alaric took. Ulden’s hand was firm and hard. “Welcome to Kanar, my lord.”
“Thank you.”
“Oh… a few weeks back, your man, Grayson, sent word about the assassins, the attempt upon your life by the Black Hand,” Ulden said.
“What of them?” Alaric asked, going cold despite the heat of the day.
“I had my men on the lookout for those with tattoos on their palms or wearing gloves. Last week, we caught two of them trying to pass themselves off as traders. They were moving through our lands, heading toward yours.”
“What did you do with them?” Alaric asked.
“They refused to be taken,” Ulden said with a shrug.
“They died well,” Ezran said. “Is that what you are saying, my lord?”
“Yes,” Ulden said, glancing at the ash man, “and took three of my men with them. Their blades were poisoned… nasty bastards.”
Glancing back at Ezran, Alaric gave an unhappy nod. Sunara had sent more assassins. Alaric must remain on guard, watchful, for another attempt on his life was likely.
“I am sorry for the loss of your men,” Alaric said.
“The assassins got what they deserved, nothing more, nothing less,” Ulden said. “I don’t like assassins.”
“Neither do I,” Alaric said.
“Will you do me the honor of joining me tonight for a feast in your honor?” Ulden said, his voice becoming warm. “Would you give me and my mother a chance to offer Kanar’s hospitality in my father’s absence?”
“That would be most welcome,” Alaric replied. This he understood was unavoidable and was only to be expected, a social courtesy. It would require having to catch up with his army come the morning, for Alaric would not stop the march until the sun set. He was late to the war and would push his men as hard as he could to make up lost time.
In Alaric’s absence, Duncan would see the army settled in for the night. Krin Hall, the Earl of Kanar’s keep, was only a handful of miles distant.
“Since you are greeting me, I take it your father marched, then?”
“Aye, my lord,” Ulden said as the head of Jaxen’s company reached the bridge and began to march over it, the wood thundering with the massed sound of so many feet. “Almost a week and a half ago. Honestly, I was wondering what was keeping you.”
“Word from the king never came,” Alaric said, a hint of frustration in his voice. “For some reason, the original messenger did not make it to me.”
“That is unfortunate,” Ulden said as he eyed the approaching men, the vanguard of Alaric’s army. Jaxen saluted and the men gave a cheer as they stepped from the bridge onto Kanar’s land and continued marching past, grinding their way down the road and into Kanar. “How many are you sending off to war?”
“Six full companies,” Alaric answered, “along with militia, my bannermen, and their men-at-arms, about fifteen hundred men all told.”
Ulden did a double take and gave a low whistle. “That many? Truly?”
“How many did your father take?”
“Just two light companies, maybe three hundred men all told.”
Alaric gave a nod. Kanar, smaller than Dekar, was less populated and not as wealthy. But Ulden’s father, Braekor, was known for being a fighter.
“Your father’s men are respected for their spirit and fight. What Kanar lacks in numbers, you make up for in grit and determination.”
Ulden grinned, a hint of pride in his eyes. “Aye, we do.” The young man’s gaze shifted to Alaric’s soldiers marching past. “But it’s still good to have strong allies, especially in times like these.”
“Any news on the war?” Alaric asked.
“None of any consequence.” Ulden shook his head. “Though I would expect some soon, word of a skirmish or two, maybe even a battle.” He glanced at the sky. “Damned hot out, even here in the shade. I have some chilled wine waiting back at the keep. Shall we ride, then? We can talk more along the way and exchange news.”
Alaric gave a nod, then looked over at the column that continued to march by. “I assume Rikka and a personal guard are welcome?”
“Of course, my lord,” Ulden said. “My mother can’t wait to see Rikka again. Like you, she adores her.”
Alaric turned in the saddle. “Thorne, round up an honor guard, two squads from Jaxen’s company, and send someone back down the column to notify Rikka that we are waiting on her. As soon as she and Kiera join us, we will set off for Lord Braekor’s keep.”
“Aye, my lord.” Thorne wheeled his horse away to carry out his orders, galloping off to catch up with Jaxen.
With the column marching by, Alaric watched his soldiers. He felt an intense stab of frustration as he thought on the news Ulden passed along. The Black Hand were like rats. Where you saw one, there were more hiding just out of view.