Two hours had passed since King Thorold departed, and once more, Alaric found himself standing upon the wall over the gate, gazing outward at Merrick’s infantry and the camp they were actively building. He scratched an itch on his cheek, feeling the growth of stubble and the tension of the moment, the stress of what he was about to attempt. He placed both hands on the barricade. The texture of the rough wood beneath his fingers was almost grounding.
As the warmth of the day increased, Merrick’s two companies had begun settling in, building out a fortified camp. They had unloaded their wagons and mules and erected tents in neat, orderly rows, then begun working on their defenses in an almost leisurely manner, as if they did not have a care in the world. Alaric could see the men moving purposefully, their armor glinting in the sunlight as they worked under the hot and unforgiving sun that with every passing moment was rising higher in the sky.
He estimated that Duncan was correct. Merrick had close to six hundred men between his two companies. He noted with a strategist’s eye how, after the king departed, Merrick had not left his infantry split evenly between the two gates of the fort, where one group could easily become overwhelmed should Alaric choose to sortie from behind his walls.
Instead, Merrick concentrated his men on the north side of Alaric’s fort, just opposite the gate. Here, his two companies worked together to raise defensive walls and dig a bourgeoning trench. On the south side, Merrick left only two men, both with horses. They undoubtedly had a horn too, with which to raise the alarm should the need arise.
“He’s no fool,” Alaric said, his voice carrying a note of grudging respect. “But he’s always been a little lazy.”
“What?” Rikka asked, looking over with a furrowed brow. The sunlight glistened off her black hair, which was tied into a single braid that dropped down her back. She wore comfortable leather riding pants and a dark blue tunic. There was also a short sword belted at her side. She had joined him a short while before but had not said anything until now.
“Merrick,” Alaric repeated, his gaze still fixed on the enemy’s camp. “He may not be that bright overall and no master tactician by any stretch, but he is no fool. He would not have lasted in the Crusade were he one. He dragged his feet in building his defenses, but he intentionally concentrated his men so I would be forced to attack him if I come out from behind these walls.”
“And if you did not attack him? What if you just march out of here and ignore Merrick and his men? You have the larger force. What would he do?”
“He would follow and strike at the rear of our column, harry us every step of the way. I expect those are his orders.” His tone was calm, with a steely edge to it. “He would make himself a nuisance to the point where I would be forced to face him. Defeating that man in battle would take time, prove costly, and delay us from marching. Thorold’s and Merrick’s strategy is clear. If we leave these walls, we must deal with him first before moving to the aid of the king.” Alaric tapped the barricade. “But Thorold made a mistake, and it will cost him, not only men, but maybe even everything.”
“And what is that?” Rikka asked. “What mistake did the king of Averndale make?”
Alaric waved at the enemy camp. “He should have left more with Merrick, a stronger force. Had he done so, I might have been compelled to sit tight and do nothing. It is clear Thorold doesn’t know our true strength, that they did not get an accurate accounting. Or perhaps Thorold doubted the reports he received.”
“How can you be certain?”
“I can’t; it merely feels right. I am guessing, but maybe, based upon the size of this fort we hold, Thorold simply made an assumption as to our numbers. I just don’t know for sure what his reasoning is. Either way, that was his mistake. But it is an understandable one. This fort is on the smaller side, but that was dictated by the original walls of the castle over which we built. I’ve had to cram my people inside as a result.”
Alaric glanced over his shoulder. Behind them, in the fort proper and out of view of the enemy, his men were busy assembling, readying themselves for battle. There was no clatter of armor, let alone shouted commands—just a purposeful, subdued energy as his men quietly prepared under the watchful gazes of their officers and sergeants.
Alaric noted with satisfaction that two of his companies, Jaxen’s and Materin’s, were already in formation and ready to move through the gate, their ranks straight and ordered. The others were hastily falling in.
His horse, Maggie, along with those of Rikka, Thorne, Ezran, and Kiera, were saddled and waiting just a few steps down from the wall. Sensing the tension in the air, the horses pawed the ground. Alaric felt a mounting pressure to move, to march, knowing his king would soon be in need of his help. Yet it wasn’t time to open the gate and march forth—not yet. Something still needed to happen, and when it did, Alaric would be ready.
Materin’s bowmen, numbering one hundred eighty, were the nearest to the north gate. His men stood in formation, their bows strung and ready, several arrows in hand. Like the rest of his infantry, they wore their marching packs, which included two days’ precooked rations along with three canteens filled to the brim with water. However, unlike the rest, each bowmen had additional bundles of arrows strapped to their packs. Materin had informed Alaric each man was carrying at least a hundred twenty arrows. One of the wagons was bringing even more.
Merrick was soon about to get the surprise of his life.
Alaric observed them with a critical eye, knowing they would be the first to march through the gate and out into the open before the enemy. He doubted Merrick had very many bowmen himself, a weakness Alaric would ruthlessly exploit.
Almost everything within the fort had been packed and loaded. Only the tents, some of the food, and much of the water supply, barrels and such, would be left behind, for he did not have room in his limited supply train. The bulk of his supply and transport was miles away and to the south. Tonight, when darkness fell, his men would be sleeping on their arms—that was, if they lived to sunset.
At some point in the coming days, Alaric understood he’d have to send a part back for all that was being left behind. That would take time. He’d only do that after the coming battle with Thorold was resolved. The few wagons he had on hand were hitched, their draft horses and mules ready to haul their heavy loads onward.
“My lord.” Duncan came hurrying up, his face flushed with urgency. “The signal’s been given.”
“Are you certain?” Alaric asked, turning to face his bannerman. He took a step closer.
“Aye,” Duncan confirmed, his voice steady despite his clear excitement. “I saw it myself. A single rider about a half mile off to the south with a torch. He waved it about some. We gave the answering signal, and he rode off.”
“And Jasper’s men?” Alaric asked eagerly. He had sent two of Jasper’s best rangers out of the camp. Their mission had been to sneak up on the two men watching the south gate, the ones with the horses.
“They’ve already acted,” Duncan said, “and were able to bring both men down without a problem. They won’t be sounding the alarm anytime soon.”
“Excellent.” Alaric rubbed his hands together.
“I take it the time has come,” Rikka said.
“Yes.” Alaric turned to the officer standing by, just down below him. The man was speaking with a sergeant, one of Materin’s men, and pointing at a pile of stacked planks.
Alaric’s voice cut through the air with authority. “Lieutenant, kindly open the gate!”
“Aye, sir.” The officer turned and raised his voice some. “Open the gate. Hustle now!”
A team of men, who had been waiting for just such an order, rushed to the locking bar. All were bowmen. Their weapons and packs had been set aside and out of the way.
“Together now—lift,” the sergeant ordered, joining them. “LIFT.”
Grunting with effort, muscles straining under the weight, the team lifted the heavy wooden bar out of place and carried it aside. They set it down with an audible thud. Other men moved forward and began to open the gate, which creaked loudly in protest, the hinges and wood groaning with the movement.
“Run out the planks,” the lieutenant ordered before the gate had been fully opened.
Carrying long planks, a team of men began rushing through the widening gap as the gate was manhandled open. Working rapidly, they began laying the planks across the trench, forming a crude bridge, over which Alaric’s army would march. From the direction of the enemy’s camp came a shout, sharp and urgent. It drew Alaric’s attention.
The men working on constructing the walls and trench ceased their work, turning to stare in confusion and then clear alarm at what was occurring. Another shout followed, this one an order that set them into frantic motion. Tools were dropped and forgotten as they scrambled out of the trench, up the walls, and into their camp, where they began arming themselves. Even from a distance, the clamor of hurried preparations and shouts drifted back to Alaric.
“Captain Materin,” Alaric called, looking back around.
“My lord?” Materin asked, staring up at Alaric, who was still standing atop the gate.
“Captain, take your men out of the fort and form for an attack upon the enemy camp,” Alaric ordered. “You know what to do.”
“Aye, my lord, I do, and we’ll do our job,” Materin replied with a nod of determination. “Won’t we, boys?”
Materin’s company gave a hearty cheer.
“Here we go, boys. Company, forward march!”
Materin’s men, with the captain at the front of the column, ground forward, their boots striking in unison as they tightened up their formation and marched through the gate. Officers and sergeants in the other companies that were yet to be fully formed began shouting commands, their voices urgent and insistent. There was a resulting mad dash as the last of the soldiers hurried to fall into formation.
After Materin’s boys, Jaxen’s company was next, already poised and ready to step off. Jaxen looked up at Alaric, his youthful face set with grim determination. His would be one of the first in when it came to an assault upon the enemy’s camp. Alaric nodded, a silent affirmation of trust and confidence.
“Company, forward… march,” Jaxen commanded, his voice strong and clear. He led his company, their steps grinding and crunching in unison. Alaric watched them go, a sense of pride swelling within. Jaxen had grown under his and Grayson’s mentorship, and now he led his men with the confidence of a seasoned officer.
Duncan was looking on as well, his expression a mask of self-control.
The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.
“He will be fine,” Alaric said.
Duncan shook himself and looked over at Alaric. “I know, my lord. I know it.”
“Good that you do,” Alaric said. “I will join you after I deal with Merrick. Better get moving.”
“Yes, my lord.” Duncan began working his way down the slope to his waiting horse. He mounted up and rode out of the fort. Alaric continued to watch as one company after another began to march, each moving with purpose and cohesion. Ready to face the challenges ahead, they moved out of the camp, a steady stream of disciplined and well-ordered soldiers.
Finally, only the militia and supply train remained. The wagons, laden with consumables and equipment, stood ready, the mules harnessed and waiting patiently. Alaric looked over at Rikka. She was staring at him. Her eyes were deep. There was something within them that made him feel somewhat uncomfortable, uneasy.
“What?” he asked. “What is wrong?”
“Mark my words,” Rikka breathed. “One day, you will be emperor, founder of the Second Ordinate. That will happen one day soon. God has told me so.”
That was not the response Alaric expected. He felt the hair on the back of his neck stand on end and an icy chill shoot down his spine. Despite the sun, the day seemed to grow colder, as if it had clouded over. A tightening gripped his heart.
He did not want an empire.
“Wants have nothing to do with it,” Rikka said, as if she could read his mind. “Not now, not anymore.”
“It is time to get moving,” Alaric said and started down the reverse slope of the wall toward his waiting horse. She followed closely behind.
At the base of the wall, Alaric took the reins from Ezran. With a swift, practiced motion, he pulled himself up and into the saddle and settled himself comfortably. Then, nudging his horse as he pulled her around, he was moving out of the fort, the familiar rhythm of his horse’s gait steadying his thoughts for what was to come, the coming confrontation with Merrick. In the last few days, he’d grown attached to her.
Passing through the gate, Alaric surveyed the scene immediately before him. His bowmen had advanced to within thirty yards of Merrick’s camp, arranging themselves into a loose, block-like formation that allowed each man space to release arrows as efficiently as possible. Before each, the bowmen had planted their arrows in the ground. These were within easy reach to facilitate a rapid fire upon the enemy.
Jaxen had positioned his infantry on Materin’s left, their formation tight and clearly ready to advance upon the enemy, to make an assault. To Materin’s right, Lee’s company mirrored the formation. Jes had not deployed; as ordered, his company had instead turned west in a column of three and was marching off, their mission clear. Leading the march, Duncan had gone with them. Following was Keskow’s company and then Rikard’s.
The wagons, creaking and rattling, began to emerge from the camp, the teams of horses pulling them forward. They carried his army’s lifeblood, at least for the next day or so.
Alaric trotted up to the gap between Materin’s and Jaxen’s companies and rode through to the front rank then just beyond, where he pulled Maggie to a halt. Rikka followed close behind, along with Ezran, Thorne, and Kiera.
Alaric found Merrick’s men formed up behind their half-built turf wall, shields in hand, their expressions a mix of determination and apprehension. Merrick himself stood atop the wall, almost directly opposite Alaric, his posture rigid. Alaric noted with satisfaction that he saw no archers among the enemy, a glaring oversight. It was clear in a moment that Merrick had no intention of coming out from behind his walls. With the amount of force Alaric presented, he found that hardly surprising.
“He looks pissed,” Ezran said quietly from behind.
“Really pissed,” Thorne agreed, amusement in his tone.
“Alaric,” Merrick greeted, his tone lacking warmth. “I sent a rider to Thorold the moment those gates opened.”
“He won’t make it,” Alaric said, confidence filling his tone. “I have men waiting between him and you. Also, I regret to inform you your two sentries on the other side of the fort have been eliminated. I had them killed a few moments ago, before the gate opened.”
Merrick’s expression tightened. “It seems we are destined to fight, then.”
“That is your choice, and yours alone,” Alaric replied evenly, his voice raised and carrying across the field, so that all of the men manning the wall facing him could hear.
“My choice?” Merrick echoed, a hint of incredulity in his tone.
“I have no quarrel with you or your boys. In fact, I am inclined to allow you to march away.”
Merrick’s eyes narrowed, his face hardening. “That won’t be happening.”
A tense silence fell over the two groups after that statement. The unfinished wall and trench stood as a divider between them, and it wasn’t much of one at that.
There was a sudden shout from the camp, sharp and urgent. A man on the wall, to the right, began pointing. “My lord, cavalry! Enemy cavalry on the field!”
Merrick’s gaze snapped around, his eyes widening with alarm. Alaric resisted a smile. As instructed, Keever had come. The cavalry wing was spread out in a battle line, the formation precise, ordered, and menacing. A half mile away, they were moving forward at a canter across an old pasture. Almost directly in the middle of the line, Keever rode at the front, leading his horse soldiers. The sound of the cavalry hooves was a low, ominous rumble, a harbinger of the force they brought to bear. From a distance, his mounted soldiers appeared quite professional and well trained. In reality, most weren’t even competent riders.
When they were five hundred yards from the camp, a horn blew, and the line came to a halt. The sudden stillness after the rumble of hooves was almost eerie.
Alaric returned his gaze to Merrick, who was staring at the cavalry with frustration etched on his face. Alaric could almost read the other’s thoughts as he turned his gaze toward Alaric’s companies that were marching off to the west, studying them and then those arrayed before his camp.
The walls and trench of Merrick’s camp were only partially completed, a hasty and inadequate defense against the force leveled before him. He was badly outnumbered, especially with a powerful force of cavalry on the field, and that did not count Materin’s boys.
Alaric could sense the unease amongst Merrick’s men. They shifted about nervously, talked amongst themselves in low tones. The cavalry was a clear psychological blow, for it rendered any movement and maneuver beyond their camp utterly moot. They were trapped and at Alaric’s mercy. More importantly, they knew it.
Merrick’s jaw clenched, his eyes darting between his own incomplete defenses, the poised cavalry, and the men marching. Then his gaze fell upon Materin’s bowmen, and shaking his head, he let go a heavy breath. Alaric saw the calculations running through his opponent’s mind, the realization that his position was increasingly untenable.
“Still confident you can hold your ground?” Alaric called out, cutting through the tension. The question hung in the air, a challenge and an offer wrapped up in one.
Merrick’s face twisted with anger and frustration. As if in pain, he gritted and bared his teeth. His men, sensing their leader’s turmoil, looked to him for direction, eyes filled with plain uncertainty and mounting fear.
“I will make this plain,” Alaric said, drawing Merrick’s attention and speaking with a voice that brooked no argument. “I will be marching from this place. You will make no move to hinder my movement, and you will not follow. You will march away and not raise your sword against me or my kingdom again. In return, I won’t kill you and your men. Swear to Eldanar on this, and we shall part—as friends. Refuse me, and I will order Captain Materin here to give you several volleys, thinning your numbers and more than evening the odds before I order my infantry to assault your position. As with Thorold’s son, Arno, and his foraging group, I will not be taking prisoners if it comes to that.” Alaric paused, for this statement caused a real stir amongst Merrick’s men. “Then I shall march on and not look back, nor bury the dead. I will let the carrion eaters feed upon your corpses.”
The lines of stress and anger carved themselves deeper into Merrick’s features. He knew the threat was real. But more importantly, he understood Alaric was a man of his word.
“You know me,” Alaric continued, reinforcing his point, his tone implacable as solid granite. “You’ve seen me on the field of battle. Test me not.”
Merrick’s eyes flicked between Alaric, the cavalry, and his own men. The muttering amongst his ranks grew louder, a sure sign of their growing fear and doubt, not to mention a crumbling of resolve. Merrick’s men were losing all appetite for a fight, the looming presence of Alaric’s forces sapping their will to resist.
“You will really let us go?” Merrick asked, his gaze going to the cavalry. “You will not have your cavalry run us down once we leave the protection of these walls? I find that difficult to believe.”
“Upon my honor, I swear it so by Eldanar. Agree to my terms and I shall let you—all of you—go.”
His gaze going to Alaric and then his men, Merrick hesitated. He slapped his thigh. An officer next to Merrick said something in a low tone. Merrick looked over at the man and gave a nod, then replied. The officer said something more.
“Very well,” Merrick said heavily, turning back to Alaric, “you win, old boy. I accept your terms.”
“Swear it,” Alaric commanded, his gaze unwavering and his tone rock-hard. “Swear it to our god. I want to hear the words.”
“By Eldanar,” Merrick said, his voice steady but resigned, “I will not seek battle with you or your kingdom again and neither will those in my service. I shall take my men from this place and march away after you have gone. I will not follow.” Merrick glanced down for a long moment. When he looked back up, Alaric could read the pain in the other’s eyes. It was almost physical. “Good enough or do you want a blood oath?”
Alaric felt a moment of triumph. He could demand more from Merrick, treasure, their weapons, but that would be ungracious. He had humiliated him enough this day. “That is good enough for me.”
Merrick’s shoulders slumped slightly, the implications of what he’d just agreed to clearly pressing down upon him.
“Very good.” Alaric inclined his head, his voice calm and composed. “I would not have enjoyed ending your personal story this day. Once we march from this place, you may go.” He paused, glancing back at the fort. The supply train was still emerging, the wagons creaking and grumbling as they moved slowly forward. The militia would come last. “Do you have any questions?”
“No,” Merrick said.
Turning in the saddle and looking first to his left and then right, Alaric raised his voice. “Captains Jaxen, Lee, and Materin, as soon as the supply train and militia have fully exited the fort, form your companies for column of march. Fall in behind them.”
“As you command, my lord,” Materin replied with a crisp salute.
“Aye, my lord,” Jaxen responded.
“Yes, my lord,” Lee said.
“I told Thorold he should not bypass you,” Merrick said, drawing Alaric’s attention once more. “I made a point of informing him just how dangerous you are—the most venomous of snakes when it comes to battle. He did not listen to me, for I am just a mercenary, and he wants to use you, and badly too.” Merrick ran his gaze over Alaric’s little army. “I think he will soon pay for that mistake, for you have far more men at your command than we thought.” Merrick paused. “Well played.”
Alaric inclined his head, a gesture of respect. “Until we meet again.”
Merrick nodded but said nothing further, his silence saying everything. Alaric could read the frustration etched into every line of Merrick’s face. The man’s demeanor spoke to the thoroughness of the outmaneuvering, the humiliation of his surrender. More importantly, Alaric knew that he had preserved his own strength and saved time, avoiding a costly fight here. Merrick’s capitulation allowed him to move on swiftly and lend aid to his king.
Alaric wheeled his horse around and began riding toward Keever, who was still positioned just before his line of cavalry. Rikka stayed behind, while Ezran and Thorne followed closely, galloping after Alaric.
“Good timing,” Alaric said as he pulled up to a halt before Keever.
“Thank you, my lord,” Keever replied with a respectful nod. “I aim to please.”
Alaric gave a chuckle as he glanced back at Merrick’s camp.
“I have men shadowing the enemy,” Keever continued. “As you suspected, they marched onward to intercept our king’s army at the river crossing. The rearguard is likely six miles away by now. They left no one else behind but this bunch here”—Keever gestured toward Merrick’s camp—“not even scouts, if you can believe that. I made sure before I sent the signal. Oh, and Thorold’s army is marching light, without a train. Lieutenant Ganister caught one of their scouts, screening their army’s movement as it marched, and had him questioned. He told us their supply was left behind, along with a small force at Cret’s Crossing, maybe fifteen hundred strong.”
“Excellent news all around.” Alaric glanced back at Merrick, who was still standing upon the half-built wall, watching with a resigned expression. “Lord Merrick gave his parole. He will march on and not trouble us. I expect him to honor his word. Remain here for an hour after we have passed from sight. That should give us time enough to get up the road and make any pursuit a long and fruitless affair. Once the hour is up, you are free to catch up.”
“Yes, my lord,” Keever said. “I will leave a couple of men behind to watch them as well and make sure this Lord Merrick doesn’t change his mind. With some good fortune, he will simply march off and trouble us no more.”
“That is my hope and expectation as well,” Alaric said, then wheeled his horse around. He noticed the rest of the supply train, along with the militia, had emerged from the camp and was moving west. With them were the two bolt throwers he’d ordered constructed. Each was being towed behind a wagon. Already, Materin’s company was in a column and following. Jaxen and Lee were reforming their men, shifting from a line of battle to a column of march.
Alaric nudged Maggie into a trot. “Keever, I will see you on the road,” he called over his shoulder.
“Aye, my lord. You will.”
Alaric gave his horse another nudge of his heels, urging Maggie into a solid trot. Within moments, he was back and riding by Jaxen and Lee’s men, who had fully reformed but had yet to step off. Rikka had already ridden on ahead with Kiera.
“Company—forward march!” Jaxen roared, his voice carrying over the ranks. As if on parade, his men stepped off in unison.
Alaric eyed Merrick as he rode by, noting the frustration still etched on the man’s face.
“Thorold is a wily bastard,” Merrick called out. “He is just as dangerous as you. Expect him to have tricks up his sleeve. Watch yourself, old boy.”
“Always,” Alaric called back, his tone steady as he caught up to Materin’s men then rapidly overtook them. The bowmen gave him a cheer. He raised his fist up into the air. The men cheered even louder at that.
Alaric put Merrick from his thoughts, his mind already focusing on the hours ahead. At the end of this march, a battle waited.
What would he find when he arrived?