Vibrant pink and orange rays splattered across the hillside as the warband began moving out after saying a blessing over their own fallen. They built a cairn into the boulders used to ambush their foes, and left their five dead behind with all of the silver and steel gathered from their enemies. Durakel spoke a few words over the crypt, praying that Perani would guide the souls of his men across the Umor river into the afterlife.
The solemn line of warriors wound its way back towards Oakfield, skirting the town and trekking back over the hilly region bordering the West River. Only a handful of miles passed before the exhausted column stalled after their commander called a cease. He led them a few dozen paces into the tree line before gesturing at a small knoll occupied by a few boulders and the broad black oaks that spawned the nearby village.
No tents sprung up as the warband sought to minimize their visibility, and Durakel established a trio of watches for the evening, taking over the quartermaster’s duties from a still recovering Bagrad. He had Relad dispense rations for the night and organized the bed rolls so that the watches could rise together without disturbing the rest of the troop. Crumbling into his bedroll, he wished for a cask of his father’s ale, but settled for staring out at the emerging stars. His unblinking gaze faltered as Rogden plopped into a roll next to him, meeting Durakel’s eyes with pale grief stricken ones.
Durakel bit his lip and murmured an apology for the fallen guardsman. A trickle of tears dripped onto Rogden’s bedroll as he nodded.
“He was my first guard. I didn’t see the blow coming, but he … he dove behind me to take it.”
The warlord reached a hand across his bedroll and grabbed his friend’s shaking one.
“We’ll never forget his sacrifice. You are a good man or else he wouldn’t have given his life for yours. He knew you would do the same.”
Rogden nodded, bleary eyes closing as he blinked away the last of his tears. They fell asleep and woke up a few hours later to the first watch shaking their shoulders. Durakel unclasped his hand from Rogden’s and creaked to his feet, accepting the coffee mug from the watchman set to take his break. He took a few swigs of the bitter and now cold drink, hopping from foot to foot to force his brain to arise.
He patrolled the camp a few times, spotting where the rest of the second watch would take their stance and put his back to a tree. Setting his gaze to the tree line in the direction of Eaglecreek, he shook his hands every few minutes to keep his blood pumping and eyes open. A few muttered curses exploded from his mouth as he heard a crunching leaf to his right, earning him several glances as he shook his head and glared at Kinsa. She squatted down next to him, placing her back to the trunk and her shoulder against his.
“For silver and glory.”
Chewing his lip, he nodded his head at her remark, “Aye, throwing a first punch in the hopes of avoiding taking one can be worth a damn.”
She adjusted her position against the oak tree, turning to face him. Staring ahead, Durakel continued to fidget his hands, blinking against the night sky.
“You think they won’t punch back?” she whispered.
Durakel released a heavy sigh, turning to face her as well. He considered the question for a long while, fighting off sleep as Kinsa continued to make herself comfortable.
Dejected, he answered, “I suppose we’ll have to prevent that from happening.”
Kinsa flinched awake to Durakel’s amusement, blushing as she realized her lapse of attention. His smile avoided his eyes as he pulled her to his feet and guided her back over to the fitful sleep of the rest of the warband. Finding his bedroll, he snorted as she fell asleep on the spot. Durakel followed his nose over to the near empty pot of coffee on the now dead embers and filled a handful of mugs before making the rounds to shake awake the next batch of sleepy watchmen. An empty bed roll beckoned him and he used the last of his momentary wakefulness to drag it in between Kinsa and Rogden.
The morning dawned with an unprecedented silence, missing Bagrad’s bluster and cheer and coffee to rouse the troops. He sat listless; his injuries had recovered but his energy had not. Agarn explained to Durakel that his healing exhausts the body’s natural energy to replenish vigor. Moving out, the troops plodded back to Westhill, reversing their steps from the last several days.
An uneasy silence gripped the warband, most of them having killed their first man in the violent skirmishes. Durakel and Rogden strode at the front of the column, rotating between hours of silence and short conversations.
“Was this worth a half dozen lives?” Rogden asked as the troop reached their rest for the night.
Durakel didn’t answer, directing the men around him to set up camp and a watch for the night as he chewed through Rogden’s question. After helping erect the tents, he sat down away from the campfire to answer his friend.
“I think throwing the first punch so you don’t have to catch the first sword can be a good way to save lives.”
His lieutenants clapped him on the shoulders and agreed. Durakel grabbed Rogden’s hand and squeezed, meeting the younger man’s gaze.
“I’m sorry for your loss. His life wasn’t meaningless. Don’t let his loss hide the bigger picture.”
Rogden held the gesture and sighed, fighting to keep his composure, and strode over to collapse into his bedroll. The remaining trio sat in silence for a few moments, watching the warband seek their beds on the earlier side and begin to settle in.
Standing up, Durakel left to claim his own spot, and Relad called after him, “Lord, he’ll come around. He hasn’t lost anyone before. He’ll start seeing you’re trying to keep him from losing another.”
Meandering steps brought Durakel to place his roll down next to Kinsa and as he nestled into the blankets, he caught sight of her watching him. His brow furrowed and his unblinking gaze caused the archer to smirk at him. A hand snuck out of Durakel’s blankets and beckoned the woman over. She inched down the top of her covers to show what she worse underneath and laughed into her pillow as Durakel stammered and blushed.
He reached further across and grabbed her bedroll, dragging it across the grass towards him before opening his covers to allow her in. They lay face to face, Durakel watching with heavy breaths as she entangled herself with him.
Resting on his chest, Kinsa’s hands drifted across Durakel’s torso, ruffling his hair. He held her tight, though his eyes lost their luster.
“Do you want to talk about it?” she looked up to ask him.
“I thought it was honor and glory, not fire and blood.”
Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.
“Sometimes those are the same things,” she replied as he kissed her.
Cloudy skies and a heavy rainfall splattered the troops as they woke too early for proper cheer. Kinsa lay already awake due to masculine sensibilities and rushed to get dressed before the warband noticed her proximity to Durakel. Her cousin stood bedecked in a thick, dark, brown travel robe scowling at the sky and muttering under his breath, with the faintest light emerging from his collar. She snuck behind him and pulled his messy robe straighter so that his tattoos remained hidden.
Having dodged retribution for the last two days, the hustling troop let down their speed as they felt the noose slip from around their necks. Jokes began to sputter out again as the men processed the bloodshed they had escaped from. Already they began exacerbating their parts in the ambushes and dozens of conflicting stories started spreading about the roles in stamping out the enemy.
Durakel gave over leading the party home to Relad and Shegara and drifted among his troops, thanking them for defending Ironhill and praising them for their role in ensuring the glory of their clans. He came to Murago, apologizing for not having sought him out before. The cousins spoke at length, sharing stories about growing up, and their first hunts, and discussing the growing feud between Ironhill and West River.
As they reached camp for the night, only a short march outside of Murago’s farm, Durakel’s cousin grew more serious.
“You said you’d bring them all home.”
Abashed, Durakel hung his head and covered his mouth. He ran his hands through his beard as their warriors set up camp.
Murago continued, “I knew you believed that. I shouldn’t have believed you, but I did. I can’t forget that. I can forgive you, but it’s going to be a while. I’m not a warrior. I’m not responsible for defending Ironhill. I definitely should have been responsible enough not to send Varag into a war he had no business being in. He’s his da’s only son, for fuck’s sake.”
Tears slipped down Durakel’s face as he listened to his cousin. He bowed his head and nodded along, chewing his lip as he listened.
“I did believe it. I should have had more men and a better plan. For that I’m sorry. His name will be honored in the temple and his family will be paid well.”
“I believe that. I’m glad you came home safe and I’m glad I went with you and and I’m sorry for your losses. I just . . . just can’t escape being haunted by mine,” Murago replied before he trudged over to a log away from the fire and sat.
Durakel watched his cousin slip away and remained outside of the firelight for a while until Rogden came to drag his friend back to sit among the rest of the men.
“Being with them and raising their spirits is going to raise yours.”
The young warlord nodded at Rogden and hugged the man before standing up next to the fire. A hush spread among the warriors, several light hearted conversations dying as they watched their leader survey the group.
“This week’s losses and bloodshed will not be forgotten. The warriors who fell will always be remembered among Ironhill’s bravest. Their sacrifice will ensure the safety of their families long after we too are gone. And tomorrow, we land at Westhill!”
Cheers slipped out of the group as their minds turned towards home and comfortable bedding.
“Tomorrow we feast! We celebrate our victory and we raise a keg or two to the memory of our brothers that died for us. Here’s to Ironhill! And here’s to Varag! Burk! Menahg! Jahmed! And Wickong!”
Dispersing, the warband broke up and headed for their beds, the first watch gathering their rations of coffee, and the rest of the band settling down in eagerness for the next day’s feast. Durakel claimed a spot farther from the fire than he would have liked, but Kinsa tracked him down to ameliorate the chilly night.
The next morning, the warband needed no impetus to travel fast, every member fantasizing out loud about what they wished the feast would hold. Descriptions of roasted boars and ripe cherry pies turned almost suggestive as the men vowed to never eat hard travel rations again. Some of the veterans of the band laughed in the back as they listened to the vitriol spewed over a mere week stuck eating the same thing.
As the sun began dropping beyond the hills giving the region its name, the band drew within eyeshot of Murago’s stead. Durakel led the men in a war whoop before issuing a challenge to see who could make it to the fence the fastest. They all tore off, the sellsword Leganad outpacing them all and waiting with a smirk as the rest of the group arrived. Durakel raised Leganad’s hand in the air and declared him master of the feast, getting the first taste of every cut of meat and every barrel of ale. He then tracked down a grumpy Bagrad.
“All you have to do is send Shegara and one or two others into town. Have them buy whatever you need and then you can crawl into bed and sleep for a week.”
Durakel lingered at the farmstead long enough to open the first keg and pull a cow off the fire pit, circling the group to thank every warrior. Finishing his round, he signaled Shegara to whistle, silencing the festivities for a moment.
“I am headed to Ironhill now to gather enough silver to double your payment.”
It took several minutes for the crowd to quiet enough for him to continue.
“Tomorrow we will feast again and we will celebrate this moment in Ironhill’s history. For tonight, be at peace. Eat and drink and enjoy one another. To Ospra for bringing us home safe and to West River for sending us weak men that fell to our blades!”
The warband erupted in adulation and began chanting Durakel’s name. He rolled his eyes as Kinsa made a face at him, dodging the crowd and sliding out of the back door of the farmstead with Rogden and his surviving housecarl.
Light from a full moon shone down on the trio as they climbed the path up to Ironhill, enjoying the crisp night air and the silence.
Almost to the city, Rogden broke the tranquility to ask Durakel why he didn’t want to enjoy the feast.
“I needed a night to mourn. Celebration is for tomorrow.”
Rogden grabbed his hand and squeezed, echoing the sentiment.
“Plus, I’ve heard your father has quite the drink stashed away for a celebration.”
Barking a short laugh, Rogden shook his head in response as his bodyguard and Durakel began walking faster.
They arrived at the Ironhill gates to a pair of crossed halberds as a greeting. It took a few moments by the torch light for the guards to recognize the young lords they had stopped and they stumbled over their words for a moment before they signaled to the top of the gatehouse to raise the portcullis.
It took a half hour for the group to wind their way up the hill to the district containing all the keeps of the more prominent clans. Again, they were stopped outside of Rogden’s hall by a pair of guards before the young lord flashed his signet ring. One of the houscarl’s eyes flashed and he rushed the returning warriors into the hall before dashing out of the expansive room and into the courtyard behind. He returned after a few minutes and escorted them across the courtyard and into the hall carved into the side of the hill.
Gurunder sat inside of his study, sipping on a fragrant tea, as the returned lords trudged into the room. He stood up, raising his mug, and congratulated the young men.
“Ha ha! Well done, boys. Ospra surely lent you her strength in dismantling the bastards. How many did your warband slay?”
Scratching his beard, Durakel’s bleary eyes studied the piping hot tea for a moment before answering, “Almost three score, I’d reckon.”
Gurunder allowed a rare moment of surprise to usurp his usual stoicism as he muttered an expletive.
“Color me impressed, lad. Killing thrice your own number is quite the feat.”
Durakel shifted in his seat, grimacing as he remembered the ambushes and gruesome rock traps his men set to prepare for the enemy attackers, “Aye, though I can’t claim honor quite like that. We used ambushes and rolling boulders to disrupt them.”
A few moments passed as Gurunder swirled the tea in his mug, inhaling the fumes and watching the tired youths, and then took a few sips before leaning forward and setting the mug down.
“You mean to say you took advantage of your resources and made smart tactical decisions to engage a larger force to spare your mens’ lives? Sounds like the most honorable choice you could’ve made.”
Dwelling on the older man’s words, Durakel listened to the rest of Gurunder’s update on the situation.
“My scouts have yet to see anyone else cross the river. I take it the bastards are quite afraid your death party is still camped out ready for them. They haven’t even managed to catch a single scout slipping across yet.”
Caught up on one of the words the older lord had spoken, Durakel cocked his head to the said and asked, “Yet?”
Gurunder chuckled, “Well of course they’re going to cross the river eventually. They’re going to have to avenge their losses. And we’ll be ready for them.”