Placing his hands upon the barricade his men had constructed at the top of the wall, Alaric gazed out at the terrain beyond the fortified position he’d taken for his army. Under the early afternoon sun, rolling farmlands stretched for as far as the eye could see to the north. The fields, vibrant with the colors of ripening crops, now lay abandoned and untended.
A smudge on the horizon to the east was the forest from which they had emerged two days ago. Alaric’s current position was within a four-hour march of River Road and the Sken. The hill upon which he had built his fort had been too good a defensive feature to pass up; otherwise, he would have positioned himself closer to the river.
The hill was broad at the top, the tallest feature around, the slope on all sides a gentle grade. A castle once stood upon this very spot. Over years of neglect, likely numbering in centuries, the walls had long since crumbled to shadows of their former selves, piles of overgrown rubble. The keep was now nothing more than a heap of stone out of which vegetation grew wildly.
Alaric’s men had used the outline of the walls, which were still several feet high, to build new ones, piling dirt up over the collapsed stone. In two days, they had effectively buried the old outer walls, constructing the new ones made of packed-down dirt. The outer side was steep, the inner an easy sloping grade from which to move up to the fighting platform at the top.
A wide trench had been dug, its walls steep and sharp. It was an obstacle that any attacking enemy would need to overcome just to get at them. The space between the trench and the wall would become a killing ground. A line of sharpened stakes would greet anyone managing to pull themselves out of the trench. This was a new feature to Alaric’s defensive plans, something he’d read concerning imperial defenses and forts in one of the books in his library. It was but one more obstacle to force the enemy to overcome.
All told, his defensive fort was formidable. It wasn’t perfect, but it’d give anyone with half a brain second thoughts on assaulting his position.
There had even been an old stone well, choked with centuries of dirt and debris. He had men actively working to dig it out, and they were almost done. A half hour before, he’d been told the bottom of the well was already filling with water.
That was an encouraging sign.
Not only was Alaric watching the enemy, he had scouts out, actively searching for a crossing, a way to get over to the other side of the Sken. Yesterday, he’d ridden over to the river for a look himself. The Sken was wide and fast-moving, from bank to bank, more than a quarter mile of open water, a serious barrier.
So far, his men had not found any way, other than to swim or build a raft to get to the other side. His scouting parties reported every single boat and ferry along the river were gone or had deliberately been sunk. He assumed this was the work of his king’s forces, a deliberate move to slow the enemy’s advance and force a confrontation on less favorable terms or at least to delay one.
He had verified that the enemy was no more than ten miles away, an uncomfortably close distance. Thorold had camped his army within sight of Cret’s Crossing and had not moved. So large was the enemy army, their fires were a distant glow on the night horizon.
Almost since the moment they arrived and began constructing a defense, mounted enemy scouts had been seen surveying his position. There was no doubt in his mind the enemy knew he was here. Alaric had responded by pushing his own cavalry out, in an attempt to shove the enemy scouts back, though ultimately a futile effort. There had been a couple of sharp clashes between his cavalry and theirs, skirmishes that left both sides wary and bloodied, yet offered no clear advantage.
The burden of command was a lonely one, and as he looked over the landscape spread out before him, he felt the weight of his men’s lives resting in his hands. Alaric’s thoughts were a whirlwind of strategy, concern, and outright worry. Each decision he made could mean the difference between victory and defeat, life and death.
The enemy’s strength was somewhere around eight to ten thousand, a daunting figure that gnawed at Alaric’s thoughts and exacerbated his worries. What was abundantly clear was he was badly outnumbered. The sheer size of the opposing force made him feel deeply uncomfortable. He considered falling back, putting distance between him and this army, for the enemy could easily turn upon him. However, he had sent a team of messengers over the river, swimmers, and received a reply that he was to remain in position until the king and his advisors could come up with a plan. That order had come yesterday.
“Perhaps that was a mistake,” Alaric said to himself. “I should have found a way over to the other side first, before sending a messenger to the king.”
Alaric’s instincts were screaming at him to put more distance between himself and Thorold’s army, and yet he had not moved. He was still waiting on additional orders from his own king, who was somewhere on the other side of the river, relatively safe and presumably at Cret’s Crossing.
This only added to his anxiety. Every passing moment left him more isolated, more exposed to attack. The discomfort with his current position, especially after being here for two days, was a constant companion, and an annoying one at that. If the enemy turned his way, despite his fortifications, he would have to act quickly, to make a decision as to the path to take. The fortifications he’d constructed provided some measure of security, but against such a large and overwhelming force, they were little more than a temporary bulwark at best.
That said, he was prepared at a moment’s notice to march away, making for River Road and then south. If it came to that, he would do his best to keep his distance from the enemy, preserving his small army for a more advantageous engagement and use.
He had already sent much of the supply train ten miles to the south, out of the way of the enemy’s reach. This decision, though necessary, left his men on hand with only the bare essentials. Supplies were being carefully rationed, and the lack of abundance added to the tension within the camp.
Every passing hour was a test of his resolve and his ability to lead. He walked the camp frequently, putting on an act as he spoke with his men, doing his best to appear confident and in control. They trusted him and he them. He could not afford to allow them to see beyond the mask he put up.
Alaric thumped the top of the barricade lightly with a fist. The farmland that spread out around his fort was thoroughly abandoned. Once thriving with the activity of farmers tending to their crops, now it lay desolate and eerily silent, an empty and ghostly land. The people had either fled in terror or been murdered by the enemy when they had swept through, razing, pillaging, and looting everything in sight. Burnt remnants of homes and barns dotted the landscape.
To the west was an apple orchard. The enemy had chopped the trees down. Alaric felt a strong sense of sadness at all the death and destruction he’d witnessed over the last few days. The faces of the innocent haunted his thoughts, their suffering and loss a constant reminder of the horrors of war. Families were torn apart, children orphaned, and entire communities, villages, wiped out. The intense sorrow of it all pressed heavily on his heart. Not even his victory over the enemy foraging force could make up for what had already been done.
War was terrible.
War was something he loathed with all his being, yet he was good at it, better than most. This grim talent for strategy and combat had, in the holy land, earned him respect and fear in equal measure, but not here, in Kevahn, not yet…
“What are you thinking?”
Alaric turned to find Rikka had approached him, climbing the wall unheard, her presence a sudden, quiet comfort amidst the turmoil of his thoughts, a balm for a tortured soul. Ezran stood a few feet back, his keen eyes always vigilant. A handful of sentries stood on the walls, watching, all out of earshot. They had moved away from him when he’d climbed up the wall, giving Alaric a measure of privacy.
Rikka stepped up next to him, her gaze following his out to the abandoned countryside.
“I was thinking it was better to be good at something than just fair,” Alaric said.
“And what is that?” Rikka asked, clearly seeking to understand the burden he carried. He knew, in her own way, she would try to lessen it, for that was her nature. “What is it you are better than fair at?”
“War.” The single word carried the weight of his conflicted feelings and troubled heart.
Rikka was quiet for a moment. “I understand. War is the business we are in, our trade.”
Alaric’s expression was a mix of gratitude and sadness. In Rikka, he found a kindred spirit, someone who understood the heavy mantle of leadership and the brutal necessity of their shared skill, killing.
They stood in silence for several passing moments, the wind whispering through the empty fields below the fort and blowing its way up to them. Alaric found a strange solace in Rikka’s presence, a fleeting peace amidst the chaos of his thoughts, concerns, and worries. The days ahead would be filled with more challenges, likely much killing, but for now, this moment of shared understanding was enough to fortify his spirit.
“In our own way, we both are warriors,” Alaric said, his voice carrying a note of recognition and respect.
“Oh yes. Long have I been a holy soldier, a warrioress, fighting in Eldanar’s name, even back during the days of the Ordinate, marching with the emperor’s armies themselves.”
“The Ordinate? You mean other luminas?” Alaric asked, his curiosity piqued.
Rikka looked at Ezran with meaning. Alaric’s personal guard, understanding the unspoken request, inclined his head and took several steps back and away, ensuring their conversation remained private. She waited a few more heartbeats, then, satisfied, looked back at Alaric.
“No,” Rikka said, shaking her head gently. “I mean me. I fought for the last two emperors, marched with their armies… my Luminary and I went to battle under the imperial banner… the one your family names their own. I was the magic that guarded against magic, that protected the soldiers of the imperial army against other magic users, their second shield. I swore an oath to fight for your family, and fight I did, almost to the very end.”
Alaric found himself speechless. He had known elves were long-lived, but here was yet another reminder of Rikka’s actual age. When he considered her longevity, the thought of it made him uncomfortable, almost deeply so. He opened his mouth to speak.
“There is no need to say anything,” Rikka said before he could utter anything. “I have lived a life that has seen much, more than most, but I am still me, the one you fell in love with, the one you share a bed with.”
She looked at him for a long moment, then turned her gaze outward beyond the wall, her eyes narrowing as if seeing something in the distance.
“I have questions,” Alaric said, his words sounding lame in his ears. But he did have questions. After all this time, she was still a mystery to him, a puzzle of which he had very few pieces.
“I am certain of that,” Rikka said heavily, glancing over at him. “Ask.”
“Where have you been since then? Since the last days of the Ordinate. In all the time that has passed, what have you been doing?”
“I’ve been here and there.”
“I mean it,” Alaric pressed. “Seriously, I knew your people were long-lived, for it says so in the tales, but you have survived many lifetimes, more than a human is ever entitled to.”
“I have. It gets—lonely.”
“I can imagine.”
“No,” Rikka said, sadness heavy in her tone, “until you have walked in my shoes, you really cannot. A long life is a curse, especially watching loved ones age before your eyes, wither, and die. I assure you, that is quite painful.”
Alaric was silent for a time. “You have loved before? You have been in love with someone else?”
“Besides you?”
Alaric gave a nod.
“I have,” Rikka admitted, the sadness in her tone increasing. “I am no babe in the woods. I suspect, by now, you know that.”
“To another man? You loved another man?”
“Yes,” Rikka breathed softly, “and before you ask, there have been elves too. Each one is now gone—lost to time’s steady march.” She sucked in a breath and let it out slowly, shuddering.
“They died and you lived,” Alaric said.
“That was their destiny. Mine was a different path to walk. Eldanar made that clear.” She looked skyward at a hawk soaring high above. “Alaric, I have witnessed the comings and goings of many—too many to recall. That is a tragedy… when memories you cherish fade from the mind.”
Alaric felt a deep sadness well up within him. He had grown to care for this woman deeply. In truth, he did not much mind that she’d loved others, for he, too, had fallen in love and lost. But her story was truly tragic.
“One day, I will be gone,” Alaric said, “and you will continue on.”
“Maybe,” Rikka said. “Maybe not. What will happen will happen… what is written is written.”
“As Eldanar desires?”
This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
Rikka faced him fully. “You asked what I have been doing since the final days of the Ordinate. I will give you your answer. For a time, I avoided others. Watching the gods punish humans and witnessing the empire fall apart before my very eyes tore my heart to pieces. In a way, it was worse than losing those I cared for, cherished, and loved. Everything I had fought for, all that I had sacrificed, was in ashes, burned by the gods themselves. So I sought the solitude of places only my people know, places humans cannot walk, paths that are forbidden. I wanted to be alone, to heal… to recover. And there I stayed for a very long time, and I mean a long time. There I rediscovered peace, a measure of happiness.”
Despite the seriousness of the conversation, Alaric felt a stab of amusement. “You became a hermit,” he said with a slight smile. “Is that what you are telling me?”
“You could look at it that way,” she replied, a flicker of amusement in her own gaze as she placed her hands upon the rough-hewn barricade. “I was healing and simply communing with my nature and Eldanar.”
The wind rustled gently around them, carrying with it the faint scent of the fields, grain, and the lingering stench of smoke from the nearest farms that had been burned to the ground. Alaric thought there was also a hint of death on the air, that sweet fragrance that stuck with one, no matter how far one traveled.
He now saw Rikka, not just as a lover and companion, but as a being who had seen the world change in ways he could scarcely imagine. Her experiences, her memories, were a tapestry woven through the centuries, filled with not only triumph, but loss and sorrow—suffering. The thought of it was not just heart-wrenching, but heartbreaking.
“And what does that entail?” Alaric asked, wanting to know more. “Communing with your nature?”
As if suddenly uncomfortable, Rikka looked away. Biting her lip, she did not speak at first. Alaric watched her, sensing the weight of whatever she was about to reveal.
“There is more to this world than you realize—things you cannot see without knowing what to search for… or where to look.”
“Like what?” Alaric said, wondering if she was speaking about magic.
“There are places that are unseen by human eyes. In these areas, the nooks, these shadowed corners of the world, other races live and thrive.”
Alaric found himself scowling. “Other races? What do you mean? What other races?”
“Elves and humans are not the only ones who inhabit our world. There are a few who hide who and what they are.”
“Like you, your people, the elves?” Alaric asked, his curiosity now tinged with a hint of unease.
“Yes, somewhat,” Rikka admitted. Her gaze was steady, the depth of her knowledge evident in her eyes. “There are others who walk this world, hidden from the common gaze. A few even live apart from it. Some do so out of necessity, others out of choice; all desire to remain unmolested and free.”
Alaric’s mind raced with possibilities. He had always known the world was vast and filled with mysteries, but this revelation hinted at secrets far beyond his wildest imagining.
“What are they like?” he asked, his voice dropping to a near whisper.
“Each is unique. Some are kind and wise. Others are wild and unpredictable. They mostly exist in places untouched by human hands, in realms of beauty, terror, and danger. To commune with my nature is to understand and connect with these hidden aspects of our world, to see beyond the veil of the ordinary, to lift that which screens all from normal sight.”
A mix of wonder and apprehension overcame Alaric. The idea of unseen races and hidden places filled him with a sense of awe, but it was also a stark reminder of how little he truly knew.
“Why hide?” he asked, seeking to understand.
“Sometimes, to be seen is to be misunderstood, feared, and hunted. Secrecy provides protection, a way to preserve what is precious and fragile, rare.”
“Some of these races are dangerous?” Alaric asked, a note of concern in his voice.
“They can be,” Rikka said, “if pushed. But mostly, they just desire to be left alone. There are dwarves, fairies, gnomes, to name a few, who live in near plain sight. Others who do not.”
Alaric had heard of those races. They belonged to ancient myths, legends, the bards’ song or odd children’s tale. He could scarcely credit that such fantastical creatures were real. Then again, he spent his days and nights with an elf, an alien being. The realization that such creatures walked the same world as he filled him with a mix of disbelief and wonder.
“Oh yes,” Rikka said, reading the skepticism in his eyes, “just like me… they are very real.”
“What about dragons?” Alaric asked, thinking of his home’s name, Dragon Bone’s Rest, and the ancient tales of the fire-breathing beasts he’d heard as a child.
Rikka hesitated, her gaze going distant, as if searching through the mists of time. “They were real…”
“Were?” Alaric pressed, leaning forward slightly.
“It is hard to explain. A dragon has not been seen on this world for an age. It is likely they are gone and have faded from us, at least on this plane. That might not be such a bad thing, for they are mean-tempered, unpredictable, and dangerous, even to their own kind. I do know they exist elsewhere, but not here, no longer. There are few left with the power to summon such a creature, and to do so might be a double-edged sword, an act of desperation.” She sucked in a breath before letting it out slowly. “Think of it like picking up a snake. No matter how careful and watchful, you might still get bitten.”
Alaric felt a pang of disappointment. Since he was a child, dragons had always fascinated him, their power and majesty the stuff of legends and tales.
“It’s difficult to believe,” he admitted softly. “All these things, existing out of sight.”
“The world is more vast and mysterious than you realize,” Rikka replied. “There are layers upon layers, magic, and life that you cannot always see with your regular eyes. But they are there just the same, shaping the world in ways both subtle and profound.”
Alaric thought for a moment. “I should have liked to see a dragon.”
Rikka looked over at him with a funny expression. “Be careful what you wish for, for I am not sure you would.”
Turning his gaze outward, Alaric pondered Rikka’s revelations. He glanced up at the sky and spotted the hawk. He tried to imagine a dragon soaring high above. What would that look like? Akin to a bird, only larger? The thought of it filled him with a tinge of longing for a world that was more magical and mysterious than he had ever believed.
“It would be something to see,” Alaric said.
“My lord,” Ezran called, drawing Alaric’s attention back to the present.
Alaric turned and saw Duncan approaching with Jasper. His heart quickened as both men jogged over and then climbed the reverse slope of the wall. Jasper was dusty and dirty from the road, looking utterly spent and exhausted, as if he hadn’t slept much in the last day, which Alaric thought very possible.
“My lord,” Jasper said, his voice filled with exhaustion as he bowed. “I have word from the king.”
“What did he have to say?” Alaric asked, urgency in his tone.
“His army is coming here. They will be crossing the river tonight, just miles from this position. Lord Laval and the king intend on surprising the enemy.”
“What?” Alaric asked, thoroughly shocked and confused. He could not believe what he was hearing. “The king is coming here, with his army?”
“Yes, my lord,” Jasper replied, “he is.”
“How will they accomplish this?” Alaric asked. “How will they get across the river?”
“They have taken and seized all the boats along the Sken for at least fifty miles in either direction,” Jasper explained. “The king intends on using several dozen to move the army across the river in the dead of night. He asks that you provide a cavalry screen to keep the enemy from seeing what is happening.”
Alaric found his surprise growing. Why would Roderick do that? His own scouts had told him the king’s army had dug in on the other side of the river, blocking access via the ford. Why give up that advantage? This made no sense to him. What opportunity did the king see that he did not?
“The king has spies in the enemy’s army. He has learned Thorold will begin marching on you just after sundown,” Jasper explained. “Since discovering you here and studying the fort you’ve built, my lord, the enemy have been building scaling ladders. They will attack come dawn tomorrow. The king orders you to hold until relieved, to hold at all costs.”
Alaric suddenly understood Thorold’s delay in moving. They were preparing the tools for assaulting his position. He glanced at Duncan. The other man looked terribly unhappy. Duncan’s face was set in a deep frown, his brow furrowed with concern. “A river crossing will not be an easy undertaking. For an army the size of the king’s, it will consume time, maybe too much to do us any good.”
Alaric nodded, understanding the gravity of the situation. The enemy would be upon them by dawn, and they would have to hold the line until the king’s forces could cross the river, form up, and march to their aid. The logistics of shifting such a large force across a wide, fast-moving river like the Sken were daunting. As Duncan had hinted, it would be a race against time, one Alaric was unsure his own king could win.
“Duke Laval seemed very sure a rapid crossing could be accomplished,” Jasper said. “He sold the king on the idea, my lord. The army was preparing to move even before I left. The idea is for the enemy to become fixed upon us here, to throw themselves against our defenses.”
“To blood the enemy,” Duncan said.
“Yes,” Jasper said. “Once assembled and out of view, the king will march his army and surprise the enemy, hitting them while they are assaulting this fort, sometime after dawn.”
“There is so much wrong with this plan,” Duncan said, frustration clear in his voice, “I cannot express it adequately.”
“Agreed,” Alaric said, looking over the camp, particularly at the newly built walls. Though his fortifications were strong and powerful, he had not meant to hold the enemy here, to stop them, yet that was what the king was now asking of him.
Alaric studied the wall upon which he stood, his gaze sweeping across the fighting platform and rough wooden barricade. The wall rose to about twelve feet in height. Ten feet beyond the wall, a trench eight feet deep and five feet wide had been dug.
Alaric’s mind raced through the potential weaknesses and strengths of their position. The walls, though sturdy, were not impenetrable and, given sufficient time, were simply not strong enough to withstand Thorold’s army. The enemy would eventually overcome them.
“What are you thinking, my lord?” Duncan asked, his eyes searching Alaric’s face.
“I am thinking we’ll need to hold this place for a spell,” Alaric said, not much liking the words as he spoke them, let alone the thought of doing what the king wanted. He had a little over twelve hundred men against nearly ten thousand of the enemy. Even with solid defenses, those were not good odds.
“But how?” Duncan asked, stepping up to the barricade and looking down into the trench that had been dug on the gentle slope of the hill. Anger had crept into the bannerman’s voice. “If the king is late or there are complications crossing, it’s our asses here on the line, not theirs. We will be the ones doing the dying, not them.”
“Our king wants us to hold out, and that is what we will do,” Alaric said firmly. The king had made the decision for him. He was oathbound, and Alaric would do his very best to carry out his orders. He placed a hand upon his sword hilt and gestured at the wall. “We are going to have to put the men back to work. I want the wall doubled in height, the fighting platform and barricade raised. If they’ve prepared scaling ladders, improving our defenses might throw off their plans some, delay their initial assault.” Alaric patted the wooden stakes that topped the outer edge of the wall. “I also want the trench deepened by five feet and widened by another five. Let’s make it as difficult as possible to cross and climb the walls, to scale them and break into our camp. More sharpened stakes are to be planted within the trench too. I want it to look like a porcupine’s back.”
“That’s a lot of work, my lord,” Duncan said, his tone filled with his concern. “We may not be finished when the enemy arrives.”
“I know,” Alaric replied, his voice steady. “But it’s what we must do. Focus on the wall first. Above everything else, I want it raised. We need every advantage we can get. If the enemy breaches our defenses, it could mean the end for us all. We need to make this place as impregnable and as difficult to overcome as possible.” He paused and glanced outward. “I also want trouser pits dug beyond the trench, out in the fields.”
“Trouser pits,” Rikka said. “What are they?”
“My lady, you dig a small hole, several inches deep,” Duncan explained, his voice carrying the weight of hard-earned knowledge, “and place a sharpened stake in it. Then you cover it over with leaves or grass. It will cripple a man or a horse who has the misfortune to step in it.”
“Ah.” Rikka nodded her understanding.
“Then there is water,” Alaric said.
“Yes, my lord,” Duncan said, turning back to Alaric. “We will have to top our water supplies off. We already have a week’s supply on hand, in barrels with capacity for at least three weeks. I will make sure that happens as well, that we get them filled. There is a stream a short way off. I don’t think the well is ready yet for use.”
“Call the officers to the headquarters tent,” he commanded, his tone brooking no delay. The wind brushed around them gently. It did little to dispel the heat of the day. “I want them to report immediately. We have a lot to do in a short time. I will speak to them personally and lay out exactly what and why we are doing it so they and the men understand.”
“Aye, my lord,” Duncan responded, bowing deeply before hurrying off, his boots kicking up dirt as he descended the reverse side of the hill with a sense of urgency.
“Is there anything else?” Alaric asked Jasper.
Jasper glanced over at Rikka. He swallowed. “While I waited to be seen, I heard the clerks talking amongst themselves. They said that King Thorold had brought a wizard with him, that the man had just arrived.”
“A wizard?” Alaric asked, looking over at Rikka. She had gone still, her face paling under the light of the day.
“What kind of wizard?” Rikka asked. “Did they say?”
“A Mirca or Mircol,” Jasper said. “Something like that. They were talking in whispers, my lady lumina, gossiping. I don’t think they realized I could hear them.”
“A Mircazcol?” Rikka asked, taking a step closer to the ranger. “Is that what they said? Tell me.”
Jasper snapped his fingers. “Yes, my lady, that was it.”
“Did the king say anything about this to you?” Rikka asked. “Did he mention the wizard, the Mircazcol?”
“No, my lady,” Jasper said, “and I did not ask. It—did not seem right.”
“What is a Mircazcol?” Alaric asked.
“A wizard who worships a dark god, one opposed to Eldanar,” Rikka said. “I had not thought there were any left.”
Ezran and Jasper shifted uncomfortably at that.
Alaric turned to Jasper, his expression softening slightly. “You look like you are about to drop. Go get some food and rest. I will likely have need of your services later, before the enemy gets here, understand?”
“Yes, my lord,” Jasper replied, a mix of exhaustion and relief in his voice. He bowed his head slightly and began making his way back down the wall.
Alaric looked to the north, in the direction the enemy would be coming. Unease gnawed at him. Like Duncan, he did not much like this plan Laval and the king had hatched. But if the enemy did come, if they attacked his defenses, he would make them pay a steep price, one drenched heavily in blood.
“I take it this wizard is dangerous?” Alaric asked without looking over.
“Yes,” Rikka said, her tone hard as cold granite, “but then, so too am I.”
Alaric nodded. “You are the magic against the magic.”
“That is correct, as it was always meant to be.”
“Good,” Alaric said. “I will let you worry about the wizard, then. I will concern myself with Thorold and his army.”
“This could be a trap,” Rikka said, her voice low and filled with concern.
Alaric took in the naked worry etched on her face. “Yes, I think that quite possible. Laval may use it as an opportunity to have me removed by the enemy. He may and likely will drag his feet in getting here, crossing the river. At the same time, an assault against this position will be costly.”
“And if the king doesn’t come?” Rikka asked, her voice tinged with apprehension.
“Then we will be in trouble.” Alaric let out a slow breath, the weight of the situation pressing heavily upon him. The king’s arrival was their lifeline, their hope for reinforcement. Without it, they were dangerously exposed.
“We holy sorceresses were bred for war, a weapon to be used to defend and help safeguard the Ordinate. The high priests meant us to stand out—to be a shining example of the gods’ greatness…” She glanced away, her expression turning somber as she bit her lip. When she looked at him, the sadness was back. It clouded her gaze. “Like you, I had once hoped to put war behind me, to place the tools of my trade aside, but that, I realized, was not to be, especially when Eldanar called me to find you, guiding my steps and yours on a path that would see us converge.”
“It seems we both have work to do,” Alaric said, his tone resigned. “Work that involves much killing.”
“Yes,” Rikka agreed, looking to the north, her eyes distant, as if seeing past the physical world. “I need to meditate, to prepare spells I have not used in an age, and call upon our lord for his guidance.” She looked back at him, her expression grave. “It is important I must not be disturbed while I work. It will take time, likely ‘til dawn, before I am ready.”
Alaric nodded, understanding the gravity of her words.
“Ezran,” he called. “Rikka has magical work to do. Stand guard over our tent and see she is not disturbed while she prepares herself for the fight to come.”
“As you command, my lord,” Ezran replied.
Rikka stepped closer and laid a hand on Alaric’s arm, her touch both a comfort and a warning. “Make those defenses as strong as you can.”
“I will,” Alaric assured her, his voice firm.
“I mean it.” Her eyes locked onto his with an intensity that brooked no argument. “The spells I will prepare are meant only to counteract and fight another magic user. I will not be much use when it comes to the enemy’s army. I will do all I can to protect you and your soldiers from the wizard.”
“I understand.”
“I hope so, for if the enemy does have a fully trained Mircazcol, I will need to use everything I have to defeat him. There will be nothing left with which to help you.” With that, she turned away and began working her way down the wall. Ezran fell in behind her.
Alaric watched for a moment, then turned his gaze once more to the north, the direction from which the enemy would come. He felt a hardening of his heart. The die had been cast. The wheels of fate were in motion, the cart rolling forward.
“Come, Thorold,” Alaric said, his voice a grim promise. “Come to me, for you will find only death.”