Alaric slumped onto a battered stool he had scrounged from the enemy’s command tent, likely a clerk’s. The tent was just a few yards behind him. Clutching a wooden mug of dark wine, his hand trembled slightly, betraying his exhaustion, the lingering vestiges of the stress of the fight—the risk he’d taken. Fatigue was a heavy and weighted cloak that had been draped around his shoulders.
The day had dawned with a brutal sun and rapidly became hot and uncomfortable as it rose into the sky. Relentless and scorching, it now hung almost directly overhead, baking the land and everything beneath its gaze. The last few days had been cooler, but that now seemed done and gone.
Summer had clearly arrived, and in full force too.
Only a few yards away, the lake glistened, its peaceful surface dancing with sparkles of light, a contrast to the grim and death-filled scene surrounding him. His men moved through the enemy camp with a mechanical efficiency. As victors, the spoils were theirs by right, but the job before them was grim. The dead, friend and foe alike, were being stripped of valuables—swords, shields, armor, and even the smallest of coins that might line a dead man’s purse.
Weapons and armaments of various makes were being brought together and placed in various piles. They would be cataloged by sergeants, officers, and Alaric’s clerks, packed up and prepared for transport. Ultimately, the weapons and armor would help Grayson grow the army Alaric commanded be raised.
Everything of value was being accounted for, including leftover and surplus supplies—food, medicine, even the enemy’s tents were to be dismantled. When Alaric marched from this spot, nothing of value would be left behind.
The fatigue among his men was strong. As they shuffled through their tasks, their movements were slow, their shoulders slumped under the weight of exhaustion. Even the usual banter was suppressed. Their faces—streaked with dirt, grime, dried blood, and sweat—bore expressions of sheer weariness.
Each step was laborious, every task a monumental effort. Alaric watched them, feeling a kinship in their tiredness, a silent acknowledgment of the victory and the toll it had exacted from them all. He had toured the camp several times, speaking with the men and officers, making himself seen. Despite the general exhaustion hanging over everyone, spirits were high.
After all, they had won.
Bringing the wine to his lips, Alaric took a tentative sip, savoring the unexpected quality of the vintage. A small barrel, a prize from the personal tent of the enemy commander, had been declared his own—the fruits of victory. As the rich notes of the wine lingered on his palate, his gaze wandered over the aftermath, the sea of disaster and victory that stretched out around him.
Strewn across the landscape lay bodies and equipment—collapsed tents, pieces of armor, shields, spears, a discarded boot, pots, pans, canteens, and weapons—a strange and grim mosaic. Nearby, Ezran and Thorne stood guard, their presence, as usual, a steady assurance. Farther off, near the shimmering edge of the lake, a small contingent of prisoners, hands secured behind their backs, huddled together under the watchful eyes of their guards.
The sight of so few survivors spoke to what his men witnessed along the march through Urburn, their anger and vengeance visited upon the soldiers of Averndale. Alaric’s thoughts drifted to those who might have escaped, perhaps a hundred or more souls fleeing across the expansive waters of the lake to the safety of the opposite shore. The uncertainty gnawed at him, a lingering question mark at the end of an otherwise decisive victory.
How many would make it back to King Thorold and report what happened here? How soon would that happen? A couple of days, longer, a week?
How much time did Alaric have?
“My lord,” Ezran called out, breaking Alaric’s contemplative silence as he stepped forward and gestured toward the road and the front of the camp. A group of cavalry, ten of Alaric’s mounted soldiers, was arriving, coming down the road from the west. Leading the small column were Rikka and Kiera. As they entered the camp, their pace slowed, taking in the scene, the aftermath of the battle.
Rikka drew the attention of a man who had been walking and asked him something. He turned and pointed in Alaric’s direction. Peering ahead, Rikka spotted him. She said something to Lieutenant Ganister. Dutifully, he saluted, snapped a command to his men, and led them off to the side, toward the shade of the forest, where the captured horses, mules, and wagons were.
Urging her horse forward, Rikka, with Kiera following, picked her way through the sea of tents, debris, and bodies, her head swiveling this way and that as she rode. She pulled up before Alaric, dismounting with a fluid motion. Thorne stepped forward to take the reins of her horse. Without a word, he walked the horse over to a post for hitching by the command tent and secured the animal. Kiera also dismounted as Rikka ran her gaze once more around the encampment.
“Victory,” Rikka announced, her voice steady, her gaze fixed on Alaric as she approached the last few feet up to him. Kiera led her own horse over to the hitching post next to the command tent.
“This is victory,” Alaric responded with a heavy nod, his expression somber. “It was more of a slaughter than anything else, but yes, victory. I will take it.”
Rikka’s eyes ran over him, sharp and assessing, clearly studying him. “You did not fight?”
“Not this time,” Alaric replied. “It was not necessary. We caught the enemy completely by surprise. They were undone the moment we went over to the attack.”
“What will you do now?” Rikka asked as she brushed a strand of hair away from her face, gazing around at the weary men who toiled under the hot sun.
“We will camp here for the night,” Alaric said. “On such a hot day, it is too ambitious to march on and meet up with the supply train, especially after lack of sleep and a fight.” His decision was practical, born of an understanding of the limits of his men’s endurance. “I have sent orders for the train to come to us, here, for the night,” he continued, his tone firm, yet fatigued. “We will rest and push on in the morning, if practical.”
“That seems wise.” Rikka’s gaze seemed to go distant, as if she were not really seeing things. “And so, it has begun…”
Before he could respond, motion caught Alaric’s attention, drawing it away from her. Duncan was hurrying toward him, with Keever at his side. Duncan clutched a pad, along with a charcoal pencil. Keever gripped a tightly rolled scroll. Alaric took another sip of his wine. Letting go a breath, he straightened up.
“My lord,” Duncan greeted with a nod. His eyes briefly flicked to Rikka, whom he addressed with a respectful, “My lady lumina.”
Keever said nothing, but his expression was a hard one. They had news. That much was clear.
“What did you learn?” Alaric’s voice cut straight to the matter.
“We questioned the senior surviving officer, as you requested,” Keever began.
“Marcus Tyabni,” Alaric said, interrupting. “I believe that was his name. He surrendered because he could not swim, yes?”
“That’s right, my lord,” Keever responded.
Alaric had seen Tyabni. He was a big man, with powerful muscles and an imposing presence. With piercing eyes, black hair, and a beard, he had struck Alaric as a fighter, and yet the man had surrendered and not gone down with a sword in his hand.
“Did he freely talk?” Alaric asked.
“No, my lord,” Keever said. “He tried to hold out, but we broke him in the end.”
“Those were the screams I heard?” Alaric asked.
Keever gave a nod. “Him and another officer. Neither survived our questioning.”
“What did they tell you?”
“A great deal, actually. The main body of the enemy army is twenty miles to the north and west of our position. They are moving along a series of roads toward Cret’s Crossing.” Keever glanced over at Duncan.
That piece of intelligence sharpened Alaric’s focus. The strategic implications were clear and pressing. “So, the enemy is ahead of us. They will reach the crossing first?”
“We believe so, my lord,” Duncan said.
Keever knelt and unrolled the scroll on the ground. Using small stones he picked up at Alaric’s feet, he placed one on each corner to hold it down. It was a detailed map of Urburn, one Alaric had not seen before. As he leaned over to inspect it, he quickly identified the familiar routes, especially the one his small army had been using before the attack, Beaver’s Run.
“We found this map in the command tent,” Keever said, having taken a knee next to it. He looked over at Alaric. “They had several, but this was the most detailed.”
Alaric gave a nod of understanding. The map looked new and barely used. It told him that the soldiers of Averndale had up-to-date information on the lay of the land. That meant King Thorold had planned well and likely sent spies into Urburn, possibly the rest of Kevahn, to make detailed charts and maps. What else had he done, preparation-wise?
“We understand the main body of the enemy is primarily on this road.” Keever’s finger traced a line on the map that marked the King’s Way, along with a couple of smaller roads running parallel to it. “The group that we ambushed here”—he pointed to another location—“was due to march to the ford at Cret’s Crossing and take all they had foraged with them in the coming days.”
“The rally point,” Alaric murmured, his mind racing as he pieced together the enemy’s movements. “They were to link up with their army there?”
“Aye, my lord. There is another foraging group, a mix of mounted and foot far to the north. They should not be a concern, at least immediately.”
“And where is Averndale’s army now?” Alaric pressed, his voice edged with urgency.
“They are reportedly right here.” Keever pressed his finger firmly against a spot on the map. “However, Tyabni told us that Thorold had a second army forming to the east and just over the border.”
Alaric leaned forward to study the map. The enemy’s main body was close, within a day’s full march, maybe longer. The scouts he’d ordered dispatched last evening had likely already found the enemy’s column and were riding back to him with word. The weight of command, the responsibility for the lives of his men, and the strategic decisions ahead coalesced into a cold knot in his stomach.
Alaric’s eyes narrowed as he studied the intricate network of roads splayed across the map. Each line, each curve, seemed to conspire against him, all others converging toward Cret’s Crossing and the King’s Way. He could see no shortcut, no way to get ahead of the enemy, even if he marched hard.
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It was logical—strategically sound—for Alaric’s king to position his forces on the other side of the crossing, compelling the enemy to engage on his terms, forcing him to cross the river. Yet Alaric found himself inadvertently on the wrong side of the Sken, separated from his own by the river and the advancing enemy forces.
“A second army?” Alaric asked, glancing over.
“Yes, my lord,” Keever said. “It is smaller and not ready to move yet. Tyabni did not have precise numbers but thought it several thousand strong.”
Alaric shifted his gaze back to the map and traced possible routes with his mind’s eye, searching for alternative crossings. Nothing stood out. There were no bridges nor any fords marked on the map, not a single one.
“There must be lesser-known paths that cross the river, other fords, ferries even,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. His position was precarious; once the enemy reached the river, they would begin searching for crossings. That only made sense to him. Why assault a fortified position when you could cross the river somewhere else and flank your enemy? Heck, Thorold might even find an isolated spot, construct boats, and ferry his army over to the other side.
Worse yet for Alaric, the risk of discovery loomed larger with each day that passed, every foot they marched toward the Sken. Survivors from the fight here, those who had escaped by swimming across the lake, were likely already working their way back to their army. Even though he’d sent out men to hunt them, some were bound to get through. Alaric clenched his jaw at the thought of it.
“Once we are discovered, they cannot ignore us,” Alaric said, his voice a low growl. “At least, I wouldn’t dare. To do so would be a grave mistake.”
Knowing time was against him added a pressing urgency to his next moves. Every decision now carried the weight of survival. And yet, with his men badly fatigued, he could not move immediately.
His men required rest.
What to do?
“Not a good place for us to be,” Keever murmured, his tone reflecting the gravity of their predicament as he looked over from the map to Alaric.
“Indeed,” Alaric acknowledged. “We will have to see if there is another way around. That said, I expect the enemy to be searching for a way to flank the king’s army, to cross the river themselves.”
“At least now that we know where the enemy roughly is, we will better be able to keep an eye upon him,” Duncan chimed in, steady and assuring. “If he turns our way with force, we should have plenty of warning and time to act.”
Alaric gave an absent nod, weighing his options. He glanced once more around the encampment they had taken, his gaze lingering on the tired faces of his men as they worked. Those nearest occasionally glanced his way, studying the group with weary and exhausted eyes before returning to their work.
He turned his gaze back to the map and looked over it for several heartbeats. The road they had been following, Beaver’s Run, took them almost all the way to the river before it met up with another road, ironically called River Road. That road ran the length of the river, moving both north and south. It traveled off the map to the south, going where he knew not.
Alaric’s gaze went to where the two roads met, south of the King’s Way by roughly ten miles, judging from the key on the map. He rubbed at his jaw. If he could reach the crossing and River Road, Alaric would have an option to move south if Thorold turned his way. But he’d have to move fast before Thorold became aware of his presence. He continued to rub his jaw, feeling the stubble upon his palm as he considered his options. Then, he made a decision.
“In the morning, we will march toward the intersection, where Beaver’s Run meets River Road. We will push hard. Duncan, I want scouts sent out ahead, to search for defensible land, good ground, someplace where we can build not only a camp, but a fortified position. If it has a source of water, even better. Also, I want another set of scouts dispatched. They are to travel south along River Road and search for a crossing over the Sken.”
“Aye, my lord,” Duncan responded. “And what if the enemy turns upon us? What’ll we do then?”
“We will cross that bridge when we come to it,” Alaric said, “not before.”
“Aye, my lord,” Duncan responded.
Alaric’s brow furrowed slightly, the next pressing concern surfacing. “Do we have a tally on our casualties, how many we lost?”
“We do,” Duncan replied grimly, glancing down at the pad he carried. His fingers traced the lines of written figures before he looked up. “Thirty-two injured, five seriously, and four dead.”
“That few?” Alaric blinked, momentarily taken aback by the numbers. He expected the butcher’s bill to be higher.
Duncan nodded, a somber yet grateful expression shaping his face. “Eldanar was clearly with us this day.”
“There can be no doubt about that,” Keever agreed.
Alaric could not help but agree. It was a small mercy in the harsh reality of war, and one he did not take lightly. The loss of his soldiers weighed heavily on him, but today, fortune—or perhaps his god—spared them the worst.
“How is the accounting of the loot going?” Alaric asked.
“It is progressing,” Duncan replied. “I have some figures, but not all. I can tell you, we took nearly two hundred horses, one hundred eighty-two, to be exact.” He paused for a moment, letting the significance of the number sink in as he consulted his pad. “One hundred twenty-three mules, forty-five oxen, along with eighty-two wagons and carts. There are substantial food stores. Most of it is fresh and clearly foraged. We will not go hungry anytime soon.”
“We will have a comprehensive list for you to review this evening, my lord,” Keever added, “detailing all that has fallen into our hands.”
“That works.” Alaric nodded, then a thought struck him. “Spread the word amongst the ranks. Find out how many of our men can ride. We have suddenly been blessed with plenty of mounts. I would put them to use and grow my mounted wing.”
“My lord, those men will not have been trained to fight on horseback, to operate and maneuver as a unit,” Keever said. “Such things take time.”
“I know. Still, it may give us an edge in the days ahead, mobility-wise. If required, they can dismount and fight afoot as they’ve been trained.” Alaric looked from Keever to Duncan. “See that it is done immediately.”
“Very good, my lord,” Duncan responded, his voice steady and determined. “It shall be as you command.”
“Oh, there is one more thing, my lord,” Keever said as he rolled the map back up before standing straight.
“And what is that?” Alaric asked curiously.
“The general in command of this force was Lord Arno,” Keever said.
“Who is he?” Alaric was not familiar with the name.
“He is the third son of King Thorold.”
Alaric leaned back on the stool. He rubbed his jaw as he considered this new information. “You are sure he is dead?”
“We’ve identified the body,” Keever said. “Some of the prisoners confirmed it as well. He went down fighting, my lord.”
It meant Thorold, when he learned of his son’s death, had even more cause to come after Alaric now.
“Burn it,” Alaric said.
“And what of the prisoners?” Keever asked.
“How many did we take?” Alaric glanced behind him toward the lake, where the enemy were being held under guard. He drank the last of the wine and, leaning forward, set it down upon the ground by his feet.
“Fifty-one,” Duncan reported succinctly. “What would you like done with them? We could put them to work.”
“No,” he said, dismissing the idea with a stern tone and shaking his head. “They cannot be trusted and will look for any chance to make a break for it. That makes them a danger to our people guarding them.”
“Then what do you want done, my lord?” Keever pressed. “We can’t just let them go. Put them in chains and march them home? A guard will be required for that. If you are suggesting we simply kill them, well then, I am in agreement with you on this matter, especially after all they have done to the people of Urburn.”
“They are followers of Eldanar,” Duncan interjected, his voice tinged with conflict.
“With what they did here in the countryside, they clearly do not honor Eldanar, for they murdered his followers in cold blood, unarmed ones at that,” Keever countered sharply, his eyes hard. “They have earned death, even if they were just following orders.”
Alaric felt the ring on his hand warm—a sign, perhaps, of the divine presence of Eldanar or merely his anger rising as debate echoed the tumult within. There were times he did not know what the ring meant but this time, he suspected he did. He flashed back to the scenes of devastation and cruelty they encountered all along the road. He hardened his heart, the decision crystallizing amidst the moral complexities.
“Execute them,” Alaric commanded, his voice carrying the finality of a judge passing sentence. “Eldanar will weigh their souls. Carry it out immediately.”
He noticed Rikka stiffen, her eyes going hard.
Duncan’s scowl spoke to the inner turmoil that such decisions could stir among even the most seasoned of warriors and loyal men. “With this action, we are setting a bad precedent, my lord.”
“Thorold already set it for us,” Alaric said simply.
“Yes, my lord, he did.” Keever looked over at Duncan with hard eyes and held the other’s gaze for a long moment. Duncan looked down. Keever shifted his attention back to Alaric. “I will take some men and carry out this distasteful task myself, my lord.”
Alaric gave a nod of appreciation to his bannerman.
“I want basic fortifications around this camp,” Alaric commanded, his mind shifting toward the next necessary steps for securing their position. “Nothing major, a simple trench and wall, as we now know where the enemy army currently is. Also, have the bodies removed from the camp and dealt with. They are not to be thrown in the lake but buried. Once that is done, the men can stand down and rest for the night. Our supply train should begin arriving around nightfall. The militia guarding the train can stand watch tonight.”
“Yes, my lord,” Duncan responded, his voice firm as he prepared to take charge of the fortifications. “I will oversee the fortifying of the camp.”
“Very good,” Alaric said as he stood, his posture signaling the end of the discussion. His legs protested the effort. “Is there anything else?”
“No, my lord,” Duncan replied, with Keever shaking his head in agreement.
“Then I will meet with you both later tonight,” Alaric concluded. He looked over at Rikka. “Come with me, please.”
Alaric gestured for Rikka to follow. A few feet away, next to the command tent, was the enemy commander’s personal tent, the quality of which spoke to the fallen leader’s status as the king’s son. It was a fine structure, larger and more ornate than the ones used for standard campaigning, adorned with a patterned rug that added a touch of luxury to the otherwise martial surroundings. Now, with its previous occupant no longer among the living, it served as Alaric’s spoils of war and would become his own, for it was far better than what he’d been using.
Rikka matched his stride. The tent was open to the elements, its sides rolled up to reveal the interior; a desk, several stools, and a comfortably appointed cot were within. Several trunks lay open, their contents disturbed, likely rifled through by those seeking valuable or useful items in the immediate aftermath of the battle.
Stepping inside and out of the brutal heat of the sun, Alaric felt a wave of relief. His gaze was drawn to a large jar on the desk. With it sat two mugs. Curiosity piqued, he picked it up and peered inside, giving it a cautious sniff to discern its contents.
“Wine?” he inquired, looking over at Rikka and shaking the jar.
Rikka nodded. Alaric poured a generous amount of the rich, red liquid into a wooden mug and handed it to her. She accepted it, taking a sip as he poured himself some into the other mug.
“It is dangerous executing prisoners,” Rikka said, her voice tinged with caution. “Word is bound to get out if you continue such things. Future enemies might choose to fight to the death rather than surrender.”
“After all we’ve seen marching through Urburn,” Alaric replied, his voice heavy with the weight of recent memories, “I think we are past that, at least Thorold’s men.”
“Are we?” Rikka asked.
“We are. Besides, I have decided to cultivate a reputation. I began first with Laval, and now I will add to that with Thorold.” He took a sip of the wine, the rich flavor a contrast to the bitterness of his thoughts and what he’d ordered done.
“What do you mean?” Rikka’s eyes narrowed slightly, seeking clarity on his intentions.
“I have grown weary of watching the innocent suffer,” Alaric admitted, the weariness evident in his voice. He took another drink. “I am going to do what I must to end it.”
Just then, a scream rang out from the direction of the lake, piercing the air. It was quickly followed by another. Alaric did not turn to look; he didn’t need to. He was acutely aware of what was happening—a grim execution of his orders. The screaming continued, growing louder and coming from many raised voices. Those of his soldiers nearest, working to gather the discarded gear of the enemy, stopped and looked.
Rikka glanced in the direction of the screams and pursed her lips before looking back at him. Her gaze was a hard one. For several moments, she did not speak.
“You are going to end the killing by killing?”
Alaric met Rikka’s gaze, the doubt in her eyes reflecting the internal conflict he felt.
“I intend to build a reputation of being unforgiving, one that cannot be overlooked, one that will act as an example for all. I will cause others, like Laval and Thorold, to think twice before messing with Dekar, perhaps even Roderick, my king.”
“You mean with you,” Rikka corrected, as additional screams punctuated the air, a chilling background to their dialogue.
“It is the same thing,” Alaric said flatly, his tone brooking no argument as he took another sip of the wine. Dekar’s fate and his own were inextricably linked, their destinies intertwined by the choices he made as their leader. “My ancestors did not build an empire and rule it by being soft.”
“You are correct on that point,” Rikka conceded, her voice softer, more thoughtful. “But to really accomplish all that you wish, you know what you must, in the end, do, and it won’t end with Dekar.”
Alaric’s response stalled as he mulled over Rikka’s words. The screams continued for several moments. Then, there was a pause. The final, prolonged cry came a heartbeat later, cutting through the air like a knife, marking the end of the dreadful task Keever had taken on. Alaric remained steadfast, his gaze fixed on Rikka. The stillness that followed was profound.
“I am sworn to the king,” Alaric finally said, his voice firm.
“You are also sworn to Eldanar, a higher power, and you know what he wants of you.”
“I do,” Alaric admitted, again feeling like he was being driven toward a greater destiny. “At least, I suspect I do. And as I’ve said before, I do not want it, not for myself.” He glanced at Rikka’s growing belly and shook his head. “And certainly not for my children.”
“It doesn’t matter what you want.”
Alaric raised his mug and took a long pull, draining it. He lowered the mug and wiped his lips with the back of his arm. He eyed Rikka, admiring her beauty, her perfection. His heart just ached at the sight of her.
“I am beginning to see that.”