“I’ve checked the other gate, my lord,” Duncan said, having returned to Alaric at a jog. He was slightly winded from his run. “With this group here”—Duncan waved out beyond the gate that faced north, where Alaric was standing—“there only look to be six hundred total, another three hundred watching the southern gate.”
Alaric gave an unhappy nod as his gaze swept once more over the enemy infantry standing five hundred yards from the north gate, just milling about. They had clearly been allowed to fall out of formation and weren’t doing a whole lot. With them was a series of wagons and mules carrying their gear.
The sun had just begun to rise, casting long shadows across the landscape. The air was still crisp and cool, with the faint scent of dew lingering, but Alaric could feel the heat beginning to increase, especially in the armor he had put on a short time before.
Where was the bulk of the enemy army?
They certainly weren’t here.
Rubbing his jaw, Alaric considered the situation. With the arrival of this force of infantry, an uneasy feeling had begun to gnaw at him, growing stronger with each passing moment. If they weren’t here, that meant they were elsewhere.
“Thorold has marched on the king’s army,” Duncan surmised, his brow furrowing with concern. “That has to be what has happened.”
“I believe so,” Alaric said. He let go a heavy breath. “Marching upon this fort was a ruse to suck our king’s army out and into the open. Thorold must have spies in Roderick’s camp.”
“In his own camp, he may also have turned Roderick’s spies,” Duncan said sourly, “fed them information that he was going to hit us with everything he had.”
“That is one possibility.” Alaric was silent for a long moment, considering the matter. “Or someone who is working with Thorold, someone close to the king, convinced Roderick to take such a risk.”
“It really doesn’t matter at this point. Either way, our king has been outfoxed. He sought to surprise Thorold, but he is the one in for a shock.”
Alaric could not disagree with that.
“Look.” Duncan pointed abruptly, his gaze sharpening. He was indicating a spot beyond the enemy infantry. Off in the distance and coming over a small rise, a party of riders appeared, perhaps twenty strong. They were galloping forward with determined speed. A large banner was held by one of the horsemen. As the party drew nearer, Alaric saw it bore the emblem of a red raven perched atop a black tower. The man riding at the forefront wore armor that gleamed brilliantly under the morning sunlight, catching and reflecting it in dazzling silver flashes. Alaric suspected he knew the identity of this rider.
The party of horsemen stopped at the infantry, and the man leading them spoke briefly to someone who was clearly an officer, for the man’s armor appeared to be a cut above the rest. The officer gestured at the fort, replying. Then the lead rider in the silver armor nudged his horse forward several paces before pulling his mount up to a halt. He regarded the fort for several heartbeats. Turning in the saddle, he looked back and issued what was clearly an order.
Alaric glanced to Duncan, who gave a shrug. At the moment, there were only a handful of men manning the walls of the fort. The remainder of Alaric’s small army was sleeping, catching what rest they could. They needed it after all the work they’d done. As a result, the walls seemed almost bare.
A rider broke off from the group and trotted toward the fort. The rider’s approach was measured, deliberate, aiming directly for the gate, over which Alaric and Duncan stood. He pulled his horse to a stop within calling distance.
“What do you want?” Duncan asked, before the man could say anything.
“I would speak with the man in command of this fort,” the rider replied, his tone equally resolute. “Lord Alaric of Dekar.”
Duncan glanced over at Alaric in question.
How had the enemy known who commanded here? That question was clearly on both their minds.
“You are speaking to him,” Duncan said after a moment’s pause, with a hand indicating Alaric. “Here stands the Earl of Dekar.”
The rider inclined his head slightly in a gesture of respect toward Alaric.
“King Thorold wishes to converse with you, my lord,” the man said. “By Eldanar’s name and those of the other gods, he will guarantee your safety during these talks, if you would do him the honor of guaranteeing his. You may come armed, but there shall be no violence. Those are the only terms.”
Alaric looked past the messenger, at the man in the shining silver armor, studying him from a distance. Thorold was more than two hundred yards away, his features nearly indistinguishable in the morning light. Yet it was clear Averndale’s king had come to speak with him. Duncan gave a low whistle, the sound almost lost in the stillness of the morning.
“I will not surrender this fort,” Alaric declared, his voice carrying the weight of his resolve as he looked back to the messenger. “If that is what your king desires, he is wasting his time.”
“He does not ask that of you, not yet,” the man called back, his voice steady. “He wishes just to talk. That is all—halfway between your fort and our men. You may bring one guard to satisfy honor, as will he—nothing more, nothing less.”
Alaric’s mind raced as he considered the offer. A parley could be a trap, but it could also be an opportunity to learn something valuable, actionable. He glanced at Duncan.
“See any problems with me going out there and speaking to Thorold?”
“Yes,” Duncan admitted as he let go a breath. “But I think you should still go, see what the bastard has to say.”
“Very well,” Alaric said at last, shifting his attention to the messenger. He raised his voice, “I shall speak with your king. On Eldanar’s name, there shall be no violence started on my behalf. Good enough?”
“Thank you, my lord.” The rider nodded in acknowledgment and turned his horse, trotting back the way he’d come.
“Do you wish to delay some?” Duncan asked.
“If Thorold has sent his army on to attack our king, I see no reason to drag things out. Open the gate and run planks over the trench. Let’s get this over and done with.”
“Yes, my lord,” Duncan said, moving swiftly down the wall. “Open the gate! Run out the planks.”
Men rushed forward to the locking bar, lifting the heavy piece of wood off and away as several others worked to open the gates. The sound of poorly oiled metal filled the air as the hinges began to move.
Alaric looked over at Thorne and Ezran, who were both standing at the wall. Rikka had just arrived, along with Kiera. She appeared tired, weary, and spent.
“King Thorold?” Rikka asked, glancing out at the infantry beyond the gate.
“He wishes to speak with me,” Alaric said.
Rikka’s gaze traveled out into the field. “The wizard is not with him. You need not worry about that.”
“How can you tell?” Alaric asked. “How do you know he is not out there?”
“Were another magic user close, holding on to vast amounts of power, I would be able to sense his presence, his proximity to me.” Her eyes scanned the horizon. “He would stand out like a bonfire on a dark night. Like Thorold’s army, the wizard is not here.”
“Right.” Alaric glanced out at his enemy. It was time to go and get the parley done. “Ezran, you are with me.”
The former ash man gave a solemn nod. Alaric turned his gaze back to Rikka. Her eyes were grave, forbidding, and cold. She had been meditating and preparing her spells all night. This was the first he’d seen her this morning. She gave him a small nod as the gate creaked open wider, the sound resonating like a groan from the depths of the ground.
Alaric made his way down the back side of the wall as a team of men rushed forward through the now open gate, laying a series of wooden planks across the trench. The men worked quickly, their movements precise and coordinated, creating a makeshift bridge over the defensive obstacle.
As he and Ezran approached the gate, Alaric could feel the weight of the moment pressing down on him. The morning sun continued to rise, casting long shadows that seemed to stretch endlessly across the terrain outside the fort, echoing the uncertainty of what lay ahead. Duncan stood by the gate, his expression resolute. Thorne came to stand beside Alaric’s bannerman.
“I will have a team ready in the event of trouble,” Duncan said, his tone filled with resolve, “to rush to your aid, my lord.”
“And I will be with them,” Thorne affirmed.
Instead of replying, Alaric nodded absently, his eyes fixed on the figure across the way. King Thorold had dismounted and was now walking across the open field toward the fort, his regal and entitled bearing evident in every step. Another man followed close on his heels, the officer the king had spoken with when he first arrived. Alaric started forward, passing under the gate and making his way over the planks, which thunked hollowly. Ezran was close behind, his movements silent and assured.
Stepping out into no-man’s-land, Alaric walked toward Thorold, who had already reached the midway point and stopped. As he moved, he kept an eye on the ground for the trouser pits his men had dug and concealed just beyond the trench.
“Do you want him dead?” Ezran asked quietly as they walked through the grass, which hissed with every step. His voice was calm, almost casual, but there was a deadly edge to it. “I can try with my knife, a toss.”
“No,” Alaric said firmly, his gaze locked on Thorold. “I gave my word for an honorable parley and swore upon it.”
“I did not swear upon it,” Ezran said coldly.
“You are still in my service and bound to me. There will be no breaking of the terms of the parley on our part. Now is not the time for killing, only talking.”
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“And if he has other ideas?”
“That, then, is a different matter.”
As they drew closer, Alaric could see the lines of age and experience etched into Thorold’s face. He stopped a few paces from his enemy, the silence between them laden with unspoken words. He could hear his own heartbeat, hear it in his ears, a steady drum in the quiet of the morning.
This was a man who had seen much and endured even more. The king’s eyes met his with a mixture of curiosity and respect. From Alaric’s perspective, King Thorold stood as a formidable adversary. Tall and imposing, his presence commanded attention. Clad in silver inlaid armor that gleamed brilliantly under the afternoon sun, Thorold’s powerful stature was not just physical, but bore the weight of his reputation—both as a seasoned warrior and a leader whose voice could reputedly sway and unify the toughest of warbands.
His hair, peppered gray at the temples, and his hard, experienced eyes hinted at significant time spent in the field, past campaigns, many battles fought and won. He had carved himself a reputation. His eyes, sharp and assessing, flickered across Alaric and Ezran.
Thorold’s demeanor was calm, like the ancient oaks of his homeland, embodying the resilience and strength that had held his kingdom together against numerous threats. As Alaric studied his enemy, he came to the conclusion King Thorold Ironheart was not just an adversary, but a mirror to his own soul, reflecting back his own strengths, experience, and the inevitable challenges of leadership.
He found that somewhat unsettling.
Here, Alaric thought, unlike Roderick, is a king, a leader of men.
The other man with the king broke the silence. “Alaric. Good to see you again.”
Shifting his gaze, Alaric blinked in surprise. He knew this man.
“Merrick?”
“When I heard it was you holding this fort,” Merrick said, a grin spreading across his handsome face, “I could not believe it.”
“I thought you were dead,” Alaric said, his voice tinged with astonishment. “At least I’d heard that, and recently too, in Hawkani, when the city fell. I was told you were killed.”
“I heard that as well. I am pleased to report rumors of my demise were exaggerated,” Merrick replied with a wry smile and a shrug of his armored shoulders. “They got my castellan, not me. When I heard what was coming, I caught the last ship out, and not a moment too soon. The city fell hours later.” Merrick paused and gestured at Ezran, his expression turning serious, while looking at Thorold. “That ash man, your majesty, is his personal assassin, one of a small group that surround and protect him. They call them his Shadow Guard. They are very dangerous.”
Alaric glanced at Ezran, who stood impassively by his side. The former ash man’s face was unreadable, his dark eyes betraying nothing as he looked between Merrick and Thorold. Alaric could almost feel the desire from Ezran to draw and throw his dagger.
The king eyed Ezran for a long moment, his gaze piercing and contemplative, before turning his attention back to Alaric. “Merrick says you are a fighter,” Thorold spoke, his voice deep and hard like the rumble of distant thunder. “That you are a man to be respected and feared. I have heard the same.”
Alaric met the king’s gaze unflinchingly. “People say many things of me.”
The king smirked at that, clearly amused. His gaze shifted to the fort, taking in its defenses with a critical eye. “You have built a formidable position here. My scouts the day before reported your walls to be lower, the trench to be not as wide. Were I to assault this position, I would undoubtedly lose many men.”
“Then don’t make the attempt,” Alaric said, his voice steady and unyielding. “Save yourself the trouble.”
“I do not intend to test your walls, not today at any rate.” Thorold waved a dismissive hand, then gestured to the west. “My army marches to meet your king’s. I will defeat him in battle and, for the moment, simply bypass you.”
Alaric had feared as much.
“I will say this plainly. Your king is weak, no more than an inexperienced youth, with little if any backbone,” Thorold said, his voice laced with disdain. “Like a prized steer, he is led about by his nose. He does whatever his dukes tell him to do, particularly by that snake Laval. He is incapable of making a decision on his own.”
Again, Alaric said nothing, his expression inscrutable.
“Why continue to serve him?” Thorold asked, his tone probing. “Why pay homage to a man who is not worthy of your respect?”
“He is my king,” Alaric said simply, the conviction in his voice unwavering.
“You could serve me,” Thorold suggested, eyes narrowing slightly as he studied Alaric’s reaction, “someone who will respect your efforts and capability, not to mention competence, someone who rewards success.”
Alaric found himself thoroughly surprised by the offer. It was something he had not expected. He struggled to keep his composure as he stood before his enemy.
“Join me, and you can keep Dekar. I may even add to your lands, perhaps give you Laval’s too, if that is what you want. I understand you and he have had your differences. I need someone like you, a fighter, a man of action and experience, a leader I can rely upon.”
“You have Merrick,” Alaric pointed out, his gaze shifting to the man he had once called an ally, even if it had been grudging on the other’s part.
The king glanced over at Merrick and snorted. “He is a mercenary, a man I hired because he had men, experienced fighters I needed for this war, to add to my already considerable strength. He’s only in it for the money, what I pay him and the loot he and his own can steal from the dead.”
Merrick gave a simple shrug. “I am what I am.”
“I need men who are leaders, who others willingly follow, who can make their lands prosperous and peaceful, who enforce my law, my word, my peace.” The king gestured at the fort. “I need men who understand war and make the enemy bleed, men of initiative, who will be loyal to me and help me make Averndale strong, powerful, the envy of the north.”
The weight of the king’s words pressed down on Alaric. The offer was a chance to secure his land and protect his people without the uncertainty of continued conflict. It was tempting. Still, Alaric could not believe what the king was asking of him.
“If I switch sides, you will always have your doubts about me. There is no getting around that.”
“Maybe,” the king admitted, his gaze unwavering. “We will have years to work that out, plenty of time for you to prove your loyalty and earn my trust. That said, I have heard of all you have done since your return. Within Kevahn, I have eyes everywhere, have had them for years.”
Alaric did not reply to that.
“You have constructed new roads and rebuilt old ones,” Thorold said. “You have offered land grants for service and for sale to attract people to settle, and they have come in droves. To increase your commerce and tax base, you’ve even built a port where none existed before and seek to expand upon it.”
Still, Alaric did not reply.
“I am impressed by what you have done since your return. You took an impoverished earldom, one rife with trouble, and made it strong again. You have raised a small army. How many did you bring with you to this war? Six hundred men? Eight hundred?”
Again, Alaric did not answer. He resisted the urge to glance back at his fort. Thorold’s intelligence might just be lacking when it came to Alaric’s actual strength, what he had on hand.
“Even now, you have a fleet that is preying upon my shipping. Yes, I know of your friend Bramwell.” The king gave a grimace, one that was almost painful. “I lost two ships in the last week to him, and just outside one of my harbors too… within sight of the town. If you take up my offer, you will need to call off your pet pirates. Besides, I could use them. I could use you.”
Bramwell certainly had not wasted any time. Resisting a smile, Alaric gave a shrug.
“I recognize strength when I see it,” the king added. “I would have you at my side. And yes, I know you attacked and destroyed one of my foraging groups.”
“Your son died in that fight,” Alaric admitted. He wanted to see how the king would react to that news. Would he take back his offer?
“I know,” Thorold said. “Survivors made it back to me, reported what happened, that you surprised the camp at dawn and slaughtered all you could. One man even saw my son fall in battle.”
“And that doesn’t bother you?” Alaric asked.
“Of course it bothers me. I hate losing trained men, especially cavalry. Do you know how expensive horse soldiers are to maintain, not to mention train?”
“I do,” Alaric said. “What about your son?”
“What about him?” Thorold countered. “Though he was difficult to love, a brute and a bully, Arno was still my child. At the same time, without realizing it, you did me a favor.”
“How?” Alaric asked.
“Arno is my third born. He resents his older brothers and was plotting to overthrow me, not to mention murder them. I was preparing to move against him and have him executed. That was, if he survived this war.”
“You wanted him dead? Your own son?”
“I needed him dead,” Thorold said. “If I had done it, the act would inevitably cause trouble with his mother, my wife. I don’t need that. In truth, you have saved me the headache. He died bravely in battle and that is the story his mother will hear and accept, not his incompetence and overconfidence. By not looking to his defense, he deserved what happened. So, as I said, you did me a favor and now I will do one for you. I will give you the chance to live, to serve me and continue to strengthen your lands, to grow your holdings. You need not fight for the losing side.”
Alaric regarded Averndale’s king. Here was a man to follow, one who understood strength, power, and how to rule. Thorold’s offer was more than just an alliance; it was an acknowledgment of Alaric’s capabilities and potential, something that was sorely lacking within his own kingdom.
But as the allure of power and recognition tugged at him, Alaric’s mind drifted to the devastation Thorold had wrought upon the countryside of Urburn, what his soldiers had done. He recalled the charred remains of villages, the fields laid to waste, the dead civilians, and the haunting cries of the innocents who had suffered by this king’s orders. The ruin and despair Thorold brought upon the helpless could not be forgotten, nor forgiven.
“No,” Alaric said simply, his voice steady and resolute. “I do not think I will take you up on your offer to switch sides.”
The king’s expression shifted, a mix of disappointment and respect flickering across his face. He nodded slowly, as if acknowledging the strength it took to refuse such an offer. The king shifted the stance of his feet. His face hardened slightly. At the same time, it was clear he was not accustomed to people telling him no.
“Truth be told, I would have been disappointed had you accepted so readily,” the king said. “Still, I will not take that as your final answer.”
“That is my final answer,” Alaric said, his voice firm and unyielding. “There will be none other. I am sworn—oathbound to Roderick.”
“For now,” the king replied. “I am leaving a force to keep you hemmed in here, trapped within this fort, Merrick and his company. Your king has foolishly brought his army back across the Sken. I thought I had taught him a lesson already, one that would force him to the negotiation table, where he would give me lands, treasure to call off the war—but now, I will go and crush him completely. When I am done, the strength of Kevahn will be no more. All that will be left will be… you. When I am finished and your king dead, I will return and extend the same offer. At that point, you will not be switching sides. You will be free of your oath to the king to defend Kevahn and free to swear loyalty to me. Simply, you will have no other choice.”
Alaric remained silent, his expression unchanged. The king’s words were like a dark cloud, casting a shadow over the already tense atmosphere.
“Think on it. Consider my offer carefully.” Thorold turned, cloak swirling, and began to walk back the way he had come. He stopped after a few feet and looked back, his eyes cold and determined. “Deny me, cross me, and I will kill you and destroy all you have built. I will wreck Dekar and burn your lands just as I have Urburn’s. He received a similar offer and rebuked me. Do not make the mistake he did.” With that, Thorold continued toward his horse and escort.
“He seems rather serious,” Ezran commented, irony lacing his tone.
Alaric glanced sourly at the former ash man.
“He will do as he says,” Merrick said, his voice carrying a note of warning. “I would listen to him, old friend.”
“We were never friends,” Alaric replied, his tone edged with cold finality.
“No,” Merrick conceded, “we were not. But—we weren’t enemies either.”
“That is true,” Alaric acknowledged, a hint of grudging respect in his voice. “Though I suppose we are now.”
“It need not be that way. I will be watching you for a day or two, with the companies I’ve brought,” Merrick said, gesturing at the infantry. “I will remain until this business is done with and Thorold destroys your king’s army. Think long and hard on what has been offered. As you’ve likely seen in Urburn, he is not the sort of man to take refusal well.”
“I understand,” Alaric said.
“If you want to talk, I will be camped here. We can have a drink if you like, but don’t come out of that fort with your soldiers and make me an enemy. Despite our past differences, I do not wish you dead.”
Merrick walked off after the king. Alaric watched as Thorold reached his horse and pulled himself into the saddle. With a shout of an order from an officer, the king and his retinue rode away, leaving a cloud of dust in their wake. Still, Alaric did not move from the spot where he stood. The morning breeze gusted, rustling the grass around them.
The reality of the situation settled heavily on him. Thorold’s threat was clear, and Merrick’s warning echoed in his mind. He knew this king was not one to make empty promises, and the danger of refusing him was quite real. Yet Alaric’s resolve remained firm. He had already made his choice.
He stood there, his responsibilities pressing down on him, but his spirit remained unyielding. The sun had climbed higher, casting a harsh light on the land. The heat was growing by the moment. It would be yet another hot and unforgiving day.
“You are going to attack Merrick’s men, aren’t you?” Ezran said, eyes narrowing with understanding. “You will break out and go to the aid of Roderick, yes?”
“That’s right,” Alaric replied, voice filled with determination. “I will be doing just that.” He began walking back toward his fort, his steps purposeful in the swishing grass. He had things to do. “Before this is all over, I suspect I may even have to personally kill King Thorold.”