Amidst the dew-coated undergrowth near the edge of the tree line, Alaric took a knee next to Jaxen. The first faint rays of dawn had begun to color the sky, and just barely at that. Alaric pushed aside a bush. A sea of stumps spread out before him, and beyond that was the enemy’s camp, down the bottom of the slope, maybe a hundred fifty yards away.
They were perched atop a small hill. Below them, wrapped tightly in the cloak of pre-dawn darkness, the enemy slept, unaware of the hammer about to drop, the storm Alaric intended to release.
Five yards into the forest behind them and out of view, a line—Jaxen’s company, formed into two ranks—was moving into position. The air, cool and crisp, carried the scent of damp foliage and the distant, faint tang of smoldering campfires, along with the stench of human waste, the enemy’s latrines.
The encampment was near silent. Nothing stirred but the occasional gust of wind. Swirls of mist, born from the waters of the lake, danced around countless tents, which seemed to have been pitched in a haphazard manner. Enemy banners, marked with the emblem of a red raven perched atop a black tower, stirred languidly in the gentle morning breeze. Alaric recognized the pennant of Averndale, Thorold’s mark.
His eyes traced the contours of the land and the layout of the camp, committing every detail to memory, at least what he could make out under the dim light. Each breath he took seemed laden with the weight of what was about to happen, along with a stirring anxiousness. Beside him, Jaxen remained a silent presence, his young face set in grim determination.
Behind them both, the two lines finished their movement and settled down to wait, every single man taking a knee. The noise they had generated, which seemed quite loud but actually wasn’t all that noisy, rapidly subsided. Shrouded by the cloak of early morning darkness and hidden amongst the trees, this portion of Alaric’s army was invisible to those below.
Studying the enemy camp, he noted the placement of the guards—those he could see, too few and scattered widely about. Even from a distance, they appeared bored and disinterested. Several had even grouped together near a low-burning fire and were talking casually amongst themselves, an egregious breach of discipline, one Alaric would never have tolerated. But he’d take every advantage his enemy gave him, and laxness was one such advantage.
With each passing moment, as the sky lightened further, everything was becoming clearer, more defined. Alaric’s choice to join this wing of the attack, the one on the west side of camp, was deliberate. Having come down over the ridge, they were positioned where it would be the easiest and fastest to move into jump-off positions.
This was no arbitrary decision; should they be discovered as they moved into position and the enemy raise the alarm, this side of the assault force would immediately go over to the attack and strike at the camp alone, doing its best to create as much confusion and chaos as possible.
Waiting to attack after an alarm was raised, when all three wings would be in position and ready, simply was not an option, at least in Alaric’s eyes. He could not allow the enemy to become organized, for doing so would increase his casualties, not to mention give the enemy a credible chance to defend and throw him back. He needed to be here, where his leadership and decision-making could directly influence the outcome of the fight to come, especially if it began early.
Duncan commanded the northern line, while Keever had the eastern force. It would take time for both men to get the forces under their control into position and ready for jump-off, hence the reason he and Jaxen were now waiting. The lake bordered the southern side of the camp, effectively blocking that avenue.
If everything worked as planned, Alaric would soon have the enemy boxed in neatly and be able to strike simultaneously from three directions at once, complicating any scratch defense his enemy could manage to throw together. The tension he felt was immense, for things rarely, if ever, went to plan. It took all of his effort to remain calm, for he knew not only was Jaxen watching him, but so too were the men behind. They had to see him as confident and in control.
From Jaxen’s men, the silence was occasionally broken by a stray noise—a light cough, sneeze or the shuffle of a foot, the snapping of a branch—prompting a sharp hiss of rebuke from an officer or sergeant. After each, the silence would return, seemingly deeper and more profound than before.
Alaric felt this tension not just around him, but within, vibrating through his being. Every sense was heightened, every nerve taut with the readiness for the coming battle. He scanned the setting before him, his ears tuned to the slightest deviation from the natural sounds on the air.
As the light grew and time continued to slide by, Alaric studied the camp closer, his gaze lingering over the layout. Peering through the diminishing gloom, his eyes narrowed as he assessed the scene with a seasoned eye.
It was as Jasper had said.
There was not a defensive trench or wall about the entire camp. Beyond the sprawling sea of tents and the latrines, on the far side of the camp, near the forest’s edge, stood the horse and wagon park. At least two hundred strong, the horses were picketed and organized into three neat lines. Like the men in the camp, they were oblivious to the impending danger.
Next to the horses were dozens of parked wagons, along with several lines of picketed mules and oxen. Many of the wagons were loaded with what Alaric assumed to be food stores and looted goods, their contents obscured under heavy tarps to shield them from the elements. Piles of crates and various other items lay stacked neatly and shrouded in the near darkness, their contents a mystery, yet undoubtedly part of the substantial loot accumulated by this force.
A cold fury settled over Alaric as he studied the loot. His thoughts flashed to the numerous farms razed to the ground, buildings reduced to nothing more than charred skeletons or ash, the crops burned, lives destroyed. He recalled the bodies, the innocent lives snuffed out in violence, including the children.
The grim realization that this very force before him was responsible for that devastation hardened his resolve. His heart grew even firmer with the weight of justice, the heavy hammer he wielded and was about to deliver. Alaric’s jaw set firmly. Today, the enemy would pay for their crimes. He would make sure of it.
“We’ve caught them completely by surprise,” Jaxen breathed out quietly to Alaric.
Alaric, feeling a surge of fierce exhilaration that mixed with the rage, nodded in agreement. “We have caught them flat-footed.”
Movement and rustling to the left caused both Jaxen and Alaric to turn. Hunched over, Captain Lee was making his way down the line of Jaxen’s men. Lee was a solid and powerful man, with muscular arms, standing just over five feet. His short-cropped red hair was mostly hidden underneath his helmet. The captain commanded one of Alaric’s infantry companies, the Second Dekar. Spotting Alaric, Lee angled his course and made his way over. He knelt.
“My lord,” Lee said as he glanced down at the sleeping camp. “My men are in position on the left.”
Alaric looked but could not see through the foliage and dim light beyond a few yards.
“We are in direct contact with Jaxen’s line,” Lee continued. “My boys are ready.”
“Very good, Captain,” Alaric said. “Once Jaxen’s line moves, that will be your cue to go forward, understand? You don’t move until he does.”
“Aye, my lord,” Lee said and turned his gaze again toward the camp. A hungry grin spread across his face. “They have no idea what’s about to hit them.”
“No, they don’t,” Alaric agreed. “Now, kindly return to your men. Be ready.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Lee stood and, still hunched over, made his way back from whence he’d come. Alaric liked Lee. The man was in his late twenties. He was a veteran of the Crusade and a former mercenary. He was experienced and hard-working, not to mention seasoned.
Alaric had offered him not only a salary to command the Second Dekar, but land, several hundred acres, in return for his service. Lee had taken him up on the offer, and for the first time in the man’s life, he’d put down roots. He was competent and cool-headed, something Alaric looked for in his officers. With a wife back home and a baby on the way, he had something to fight for beyond simple pay.
Jaxen shifted slightly, his armor chinking as he repositioned. “How long do you think it will take Keever to get into position?” His voice betrayed a hint of nerves, a natural response given the stakes and what was about to happen.
“Hopefully, not too terribly long,” Alaric reassured him, his tone steady. “He has the longest way to go. As soon as he’s ready, he will kick off the attack. That is our signal and Duncan’s to go forward.”
He had repeated what Jaxen already knew, not out of redundancy, but to reinforce the plan. There was comfort through familiarity, especially when it came to battle. Alaric was acutely aware of the calming effect that clear expectations could have, especially on younger and inexperienced officers like Jaxen.
Alaric stifled a yawn. The march over the ridge had been less arduous than anticipated, but the cloying fatigue was undeniable. With little sleep, Alaric felt it in his legs, heavy and spent from the relentless push through the night, made worse after a long day’s march. He knew his men were feeling it as well. They had been trained hard and would soon do what he needed them to do.
Glancing behind him, Alaric saw Ezran and Thorne, their expressions grim under the dim light. Jasper and two of his rangers were guiding Duncan and Keever’s forces into position. He glanced up at the sky, which was growing brighter rapidly. With every passing heartbeat the risk of discovery increased. Though he hated waiting, Alaric understood it would not be long now.
He stared at the ground for a long moment, considering his plan. He had set everything in motion and was now mostly helpless to change anything. Once the attack kicked off, his bannermen and captains would be running the show. Alaric would have limited control. That knowledge was something that had taken him years to come to grips with, and even now, he found himself struggling. The urge to micromanage was powerful, but given the plan of attack, that would be incredibly difficult.
In an attempt to calm his nerves, Alaric took in a deep breath of the cool, crisp air and let it out through his nose. He sucked in another and let it out slowly. Up to this point, he’d done all he could. It was time to attend to spiritual matters, his soul.
“Lord above and beyond.” Alaric lowered his head as he drew another deep, steadying breath. “Eldanar, hear my plea. I seek your favor for myself and my men. Grant us victory this day that we may continue to uphold the glory of your name. Let your wisdom guide my actions, your strength fortify our arms and harden our hearts. Spare the lives of my brave soldiers, lessen the widow’s weep and the orphan’s cry, as only you, in your boundless grace, can. And should the threads of fate decree my end, I commend my spirit into your keeping. In your name, I pray.”
“Amen,” Jaxen and Thorne said almost simultaneously. Ezran uttered nothing. That was hardly unexpected.
Alaric’s gaze settled on Jaxen. He had intentionally kept the man with him and not sent him with his father. “This will be your first real fight in command of your company. If it comes to a stand-up fight, line against battle line, it will be chaotic and confusing. Keep your head. Try to bring organization to the madness and direct your men where you feel appropriate, where they will do the most good. When in doubt, make a decision. Any decision, even a poor one, is better than no decision when it comes to a fight, understand?”
Jaxen, clearly feeling the weight of Alaric’s expectations and the enormity of the responsibility before him, nodded firmly.
“I do, my lord,” he replied, his voice steady, despite the underlying nerves he was clearly working to hide. “I will not let you down. My men will not either.”
Alaric clapped Jaxen on the shoulder. “I expect not.”
The early morning was shattered by a distant shout, slicing through the calm with startling abruptness. Alaric automatically tensed. Around him, every man stiffened, sparking a chain reaction of heightened alertness.
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The shout, though unclear and indistinct, rang through the air again. It didn’t carry the tone of an alarm, but rather something else—something imminent, an order. Alaric’s eyes darted toward the tree line to the east, where the darkness itself seemed to stir and shift. His pulse quickened as he discerned movement and peered closer: It was Keever and his men, rapidly becoming visible as they advanced in a disciplined line two ranks deep.
Keever had more than two full companies at his command. Emerging from the protective shroud of the forest, they reached the horses, mules, and wagons. Two enemy sentries, taking in the infantry advancing toward them, ran toward the camp, crying out in alarm. A moment later, Keever’s orderly lines dissolved as the men started working their way through and around the picketed horses, mules, oxen, and parked wagons, along with the piles of stacked goods.
Then came another shout, this one distinct and forceful, erupting from the north.
“Forward!” The command cut through the air, decisive and clear. Alaric turned his gaze toward the source of the sound. It was Duncan, leading his men out and into the open, as they too emerged from the cover of trees, lining up along the only road leading out of the camp. Both wings of Alaric’s attack—Keever’s and Duncan’s—looked powerful and strong.
The sudden blare of a horn ripped from the enemy camp, its desperate call a clear signal for the men to arm themselves and defend their position. But Alaric knew it was already too late. They would not have sufficient time to organize.
“My lord,” Jaxen said, urgency threading his voice, “do I have your permission to give the order to advance?”
Alaric’s instinct was to grant him permission. His head began to nod, but the horn’s cry came again—a plaintive echo piercing the growing clamor down below. It gave him pause and a thought struck him, an idea. His gaze swept over the camp again. Men were tumbling and spilling from their tents in disarray, their shouts, alarmed cries, and screams mingling with the crack of orders from officers and sergeants.
“My lord?”
“Not yet,” Alaric finally said, his voice firm, holding up his hand. This was not the moment for haste. The chaos amongst the enemy would only continue to mount with every passing moment.
“But that wasn’t the plan,” Jaxen said.
“I am changing the plan,” Alaric said gruffly. “We hold for a few more moments.”
Alaric waited on the hill, observing the attack unfolding below. An enemy soldier, standing firm before the force advancing from the direction of the road, raised his sword and attacked Duncan’s line. His weapon was swiftly parried by a shield and knocked aside.
So powerful was the attack and block that the solid, resonant thunk reached Alaric from almost a quarter of a mile away. A moment later, the attacker was cut down by multiple blades, his life extinguished in an instant. Without hesitating, let alone stopping, Duncan’s line advanced over the fallen body like an unstoppable force.
Another man threw up his hands before the advancing force. He sank to his knees, waving his hands in the air. Duncan’s line ground onward and up to the surrendering man. One of Alaric’s soldiers stabbed out, taking the man in the collar, driving him backward and to the ground. The line never stopped as they marched over him, pressing deeper into the camp.
Men with bows, from Materin’s bow company, the Fifth Dekar Light Infantry, had been positioned just behind Duncan’s battle line. At an order, the bowmen stopped. With arrows nocked, they raised their bows skyward as Duncan’s men continued to press forward, entering and then passing the first few lines of tents and pushing into the enemy encampment. A chaotic skirmish rapidly ensued there as stragglers emerged from tents and found themselves immediately confronted by Alaric’s men.
Another order was snapped from an officer or sergeant with the bowmen. A wave of nearly one hundred arrows shot up into the sky in a wave of death. Alaric watched as the arrows rose up over the camp before falling in a deadly rain, hammering downward. Screams of pain rang out. Another volley was rapidly sent, raining down again over the enemy. There were more screams and cries of panic.
A few enemy warriors facing Duncan’s men, desperate and defiant, lashed out against the oncoming tide of soldiers, who had not stopped but continued onward, driving into the camp. Their efforts at defense were futile and disorganized, as many more of their fellows fled and stumbled through their own camp in panic, seeking flight rather than resistance.
“But why?” Jaxen asked, his voice tinged with frustration. “Why not follow the plan and go over to the attack with the other two wings? We have them boxed in. By all rights, we have them where we want them.”
“We do.” Alaric, calm and commanding, pointed toward the escalating melee below, along with the growing panic. “There are now only two escape routes,” he explained in a level tone. “The lake and…”
“This hill,” Jaxen completed the thought, his understanding dawning. “They are going to come our way, funneled here by my father and Keever.”
“That’s right,” Alaric affirmed, a strategic glint in his eyes. “They will come here, seeking to flee. And when they do, we will show them how futile their situation truly is… that there is no escape, no hope. When we emerge, our presence will be a blow that should increase the panic even further and break any semblance of morale, any chance at an organized resistance. The more panicked they are, the easier this will go for us.”
Jaxen nodded. “I understand, my lord.”
Keever’s force had made it through the wagons and lines of picketed horses. The bannerman had stopped his advance and was actively reforming his lines. At the same time, he extended his line to cover a wider frontal area, doing away with the second rank. Alaric understood he was going to try to keep as many of the enemy as possible from slipping around him when he pressed deeper into the camp.
With Keever’s force, was the rest of the Fifth, Materin’s bow company, another hundred bowmen. While Keever repositioned his men and made ready to advance, these began raining arrows over the enemy camp.
As the chaos below continued to swell, Alaric’s eyes returned to Duncan as he shoved his way forcefully into the camp proper. Enemy officers and sergeants could be seen and heard desperately trying to organize their troops, to rally them to the defense. The air was now thick with the sounds of battle—the harsh clash of swords, the solid thunk of shields, and the harrowing screams of the injured and the dying—all echoing across the field and up to them on the hill.
“The fools,” Alaric muttered under his breath, his voice a low hiss tinged with both contempt and a recognition of just what he was managing to pull off—complete and utter surprise, the destruction of a powerful component of the enemy’s army. “The bloody fools. They felt so secure, they didn’t even bother to build defenses, and now they are paying for that lack of foresight.”
“I learned that lesson long ago, from you, my lord.”
Alaric glanced over.
“Against Malvanis and his men,” Jaxen added.
Alaric’s thoughts briefly shifted to Laval’s son—a ghost from the past. He’d not thought on Malvanis in weeks. The robust defenses he had commanded to be erected around their own marching camp had indeed saved them from what could have been a devastating defeat by a superior force. Pulling back from that memory to the present, he turned to Jaxen, his gaze intense and instructive.
“When in the field, never take for granted your security,” Alaric imparted sternly, the lessons of his own experiences echoing through his words. “Always be paranoid, for the enemy has a say in every fight and every move you make. It is best to be overly prepared than get caught surprised and flat-footed like we have done to them.” Alaric gestured at the enemy. “Understand me?”
“Yes, my lord,” Jaxen responded with a nod before his gaze shifted back down the hill. He sucked in a breath and pointed. “They are beginning to head this way.”
Alaric’s eyes narrowed as he returned his attention to the fight and observed the nearest, a disheveled group of twenty men. A handful were armed, but most were not. All were barefoot, and a couple were lacking clothing entirely. They were just starting to climb the hill.
Below, the chaos intensified—Keever had resumed his advance into the heart of the camp, like Duncan, forcefully shoving his way forward, driving the enemy before him. With each wing, the bowmen moved with the infantry, occasionally pausing to loose a volley of arrows onto the enemy.
A tent caught fire, its flames violently consuming the weatherproofed canvas in a rush. As if that were the signal, Alaric rose to his feet. Beside him, Jaxen also stood. Behind them and through his peripheral vision, a ripple of motion and sound followed as the two lines of soldiers, anticipating the order to come, came to their feet.
“Captain Jaxen, you are to take your company down and into the camp. You may give the order to advance.”
“Draw swords,” Jaxen ordered, his tone hard, voice harsh. The men yanked their own swords out in a massed hiss. The captain looked behind him, scrutinizing his line as he pulled out his own blade and held it high, waving it about for the men to see. He looked first to the left, studying his company and the formed ranks, then to the right. Apparently satisfied with all he saw, he faced forward and pointed the blade toward the camp. “Advance!”
Jaxen’s line of soldiers stepped off and moved as one. As the battle line ground forward and the men stepped past him with disciplined precision, Alaric, standing his ground, turned his attention back down the slope of the hill.
More than a hundred enemy soldiers were desperately and frantically scrambling up the hill, the nearest almost on him. Suddenly becoming aware of Jaxen’s advancing line, almost as one, they paused their ascent, staring upward, many with their mouths falling agape. Their expressions of horror were plain.
Alaric, witnessing this, felt a deep, fierce sense of satisfaction swell within him. This was the sweet moment when training, proper planning, and organization met opportunity, and fear struck at the heart of the enemy, one who had been utterly ruthless against the defenseless.
These men had been wantonly raping and pillaging the countryside. They had sown terror, fear, and death. They had been the only strength and power around, until now—until this very moment.
“Know fear,” he said to himself. “Know death.”
Alaric had instructed all of his officers at the beginning of the assault to take no prisoners. They were to employ the maximum violence to increase the confusion and panic of the enemy, the fear. Though, after all Alaric’s men had seen over the last four days, he knew he need not have bothered. The men were already in a murderous mood, and it was now coming out. The enemy would suffer for what they had done to the people of Urburn.
Jaxen’s men continued to advance on those who’d been climbing the hill and seeking escape, closing the distance rapidly as they marched downhill. The enemy turned and ran, back the way they had come, toward the camp. There was only one escape route left for them now—the lake.
“How many of the enemy can swim?” Alaric asked himself.
“We are about to find out,” Ezran commented wryly.
“My lord,” Thorne said, “do you plan on engaging with the enemy?”
Alaric looked over. “You mean in personal combat?”
“I do,” Thorne said.
Alaric turned his gaze back to the growing chaos in the enemy’s camp and began to walk down the hill, his gaze fixed on the battlefield that spread out before him. Jaxen’s line had already advanced fifteen yards ahead and was making its way aggressively down the hill.
“No,” Alaric said after a moment, “I do not believe that will be needed today. Though the killing is far from done, this battle has already been won.”
“Good,” Thorne said, the relief evident in his tone, “because your job is leading.”
Alaric glanced over at Thorne and found himself frowning.
“It also makes our job of keeping you alive easier,” Ezran added.
The air was filled with a great shout from Keever’s direction as the bannerman unleashed his men. Breaking ranks, they charged with a fierce intensity, a murderous rage and zeal, overwhelming any enemy who had chosen to resist with sheer force.
Moments later, a tremendous roar erupted from Duncan’s men. It was a sound filled with fury and battle-lust, resonating deeply across the encampment as they too broke ranks and tore into the confused and disorganized enemy with a seemingly unstoppable force, cutting down and killing all they could catch.
Alaric shifted his gaze back to Jaxen’s company. They were still advancing in their long block-like formation. To the left was Lee’s company, marching forward alongside Jaxen’s. Alaric felt his heart swell with pride, for here was Dekar, his small army being thrown into battle for the first time. The sight of it, the emotion, moved him greatly, almost to tears.
“Well, that is one,” remarked Ezran, pointing toward the lake.
Following Ezran’s gesture, Alaric’s eyes landed on a man hastily wading into the lake. Naked from the chest down and unarmed, he took several frantic steps forward, the water quickly rising to his waist, before diving in and swimming with desperate strokes for the far side. Another man followed, and then several more, dozens, all plunging into the cold embrace of the water, splashing wildly in their panic to escape the advancing doom that had hammered down upon the camp.
Alaric thought it a good-sized lake. The distance to the far shore was nearly half a mile. How many could swim that far? How many would tire, exhaust themselves with the effort, and drown?
Another tent caught fire, the flames shooting into the air, the canvas burning furiously. A third followed. The fires added a surreal glow to the scene. The cries of fear, the clash of steel, the screams, and the crackling of fire created a cacophony that underscored the brutal poetry of battle.
“Why is there always fire?” Thorne asked as he moved to Alaric’s right. Ezran was on his left. Thorne’s gaze was on the nearest burning tent more than fifty yards away.
“Because, in war, there is always fire.” Ezran’s tone was matter-of-fact, his words a simple truth spoken with the clarity of experience. “Just as there is always death.”
Alaric glanced over at the ash man. Though delivered with a hint of jest mixed with irony, the statement rang true in the grim landscape of war. Alaric understood too well the inevitability of fire. It was an element as destructive as it was symbolic, cleansing yet catastrophic. Whether a town or village was seized, the presence of fire was almost a certainty—if something could burn, it generally would, and destruction followed, as did death. Both frequently came hand in hand.
“Charge them! Kill them all!” As Jaxen’s thunderous command rang out, his men responded with a deafening shout, their voices blending into a singular roar of determination. The ranks broke, including those of Lee’s company, with explosive force. The men, released, surged toward the enemy.
Alaric’s gaze was inexorably drawn back to the lake, where even more were fleeing, diving into its cold depths in a desperate bid for escape. Alaric’s eyes narrowed as he considered their fate—how many would elude capture and escape? How many would drown? The lake was not just a boundary; it had become a final hope for those fleeing the growing slaughter.
Stopping, Alaric’s attention was captured by the grim sight of an enemy soldier lying on the ground a few feet before him. Having taken a savage thrust to the stomach and a vicious slash across the throat, he had been cut down by Jaxen’s men as they rushed forward. Lying awkwardly like a child’s ragdoll that had been tossed aside, his half-naked, barefoot form spoke to the brutality of what Alaric had unleashed.
The soldier was young, likely not even into his twenties yet, a life, like so many others, cut abruptly short. A discarded sword lay by his side, and his eyes were frozen open in death, the terror of his final moments captured plainly in his gaze. Blood continued to seep and ooze from his wounds, darkening the dirt around him.
Despite his aspirations to put the killing aside and focus his efforts on Dekar, war had come once more to his doorstep. Over the years, Alaric had become good at leading men into battle. That, and killing his enemies.
“I am committed,” Alaric murmured, acceptance hardening within. He turned his gaze back to the ongoing slaughter, his expression one of grim determination. Before it was all over, he would show the enemy the true face of war, the brutality of it… something Alaric knew only too well. “You asked for a war, I will give you a war.”