The day was a bright one, fortunately, with only a hint of a chill on the wind. It wasn’t quite enough to penetrate the armored surcoat that Matt was wearing, but he could still feel it in his fingers and face. Nelson seemed unbothered by it, plodding on along with the rest of the column as the army he commanded marched out through the city gates.
His mount’s apparent lack of alarm was actually fairly amazing, given that a pack of Wargs surrounded it. Matt tried his hardest to follow Nelson’s example as they rode together into the autumn morning, leaving the safety and dangers of Redspire behind. He refused to glance back, though he was almost certain he could feel Tek’s eyes on him as the gates swung shut behind the last of his soldiers.
Captain Snolt rode next to him, still grumbling and grousing at anything within eyesight. The Warg the captain rode was covered in battle scars visible even through its thick grey pelt. At the very least, it didn’t seem interested in eating Nelson, or the warbuck’s rider, but Matt still occasionally caught it glancing his way. More than once, he had to remind himself that he was making the best of a bad situation. It didn’t make those fangs look any friendlier.
As the morning rolled on, the countryside surrounding the city gave way to forested hills. The road they followed wove between the rises, following some ancient path that grain carts and cattle had beaten into the hard-packed earth over the centuries. Trees still dressed in their brilliant colors flanked the road, occasionally letting a leaf or two fall to join their slippery brethren already in the mud.
The army seemed to make good time, to Matt’s inexperienced eye, and he occasionally consulted a crude map he had sketched out on a fragment of parchment. The first day would not be the worst one, but he had a schedule to keep, and it would be best not to arrive too late or too early for what needed to be done.
When he checked that map for the second or third time, Captain Snolt glanced up at him from his Warg. “You needn’t worry, your Highness. We’re going to reach the fort as soon as we are able. Some delays are natural, but you shouldn’t fear us getting lost. It’s not like the road is a mystery, after all.”
Matt grinned at him, still amused by what passed for the Captain’s charm. “That’s not what I’m worried about, Captain. I just want everything to go on schedule.”
Snolt grimaced a bit, looking around at the marching soldiers and trotting Wargs. “Well, you’ve set us a hard pace, to be sure. I doubt that we could reach the fort any faster.” The Captain paused, saying the next words as if to himself. “At least, by this path, we can’t.”
Looking away, Matt pretended not to hear the remark. It was a fair comment, of course; the more traditional method of riding to Greymouth apparently cut a straighter course through the hills, following a series of border posts through the mountains until they reached the high pass where the fortress stood. Both Tek and Snolt had expected the army to follow that road, at least until Matt had insisted they follow a much different path.
The road the army was on now wove along the southern side of the River Crimson, twisting along it until it reached the small town of Engram’s Hill, then turned sharply east to rejoin the main road. It was less steep than the other path, which had been the reason Matt had told them. He’d been concerned about the supply carts he was protecting, he had said. Snolt had gently tried to persuade him otherwise, but Matt had remained firm.
Tek, on the other hand, had been suspiciously silent—and Gorfeld had told him that a messenger had snuck out of the city that same night. Headed north across the river, where Matt had half-expected them to go.
Matt pushed those thoughts aside and turned back to Snolt. “Do you think that the carts will have any trouble keeping this pace, then?”
The Goblin shook his head. “No, sire. I imagine that those aurochs could keep this up until they fall over dead, especially on this road.” He glanced back at where two of the great beasts were lumbering along, dragging the cart behind them to keep up with the soldiers. “They’re sturdy beasts, to be sure. Not much troubles them.”
“Then I envy them their lot.” Matt shrugged a little when the Captain glanced at him. He cursed himself internally for the remark, but it was hard, knowing what was coming and not being able to give any clue. The others around him had no reason to be nervous—at least none they knew about. Unfortunately, Matt was a totally different story.
The journey was blissfully free of interruptions for the rest of that first day. Matt camped along with his soldiers in more or less exactly the place where he had planned, and he experienced his first real night under the stars since he had left Wyoming. His tent at least kept out the chill, and he found a decent enough spot that didn’t have too many tree roots. As king, he didn’t even have to keep watch, which was nice.
Nonetheless, he’d spent half the night tossing and turning, and he was in what his mother would have called a sorry state by the time morning came. As he buckled on his armor, he made sure to tighten everything securely. It was today, he knew, if it would happen at all. If not, perhaps so much the better.
Then he remembered the look in Tek’s eyes and shook himself. Optimism was not a luxury he could afford, not now. Not today.
When he left his tent, Captain Snolt was waiting for him. The Goblin braced to attention. “Sire, the sentries reported no activity last night.”
It was another pointed reminder that the Captain had not appreciated having to order his men to keep the watch in the first place. Obviously, he felt they were in friendly territory, and that Matt was being overly paranoid. The attitude was probably a good sign that Snolt had been on garrison duty a little too long. Matt simply nodded. “Excellent. The scouts are ready to move ahead of our path?”
The Captain nodded, his face still sour. “Yes, sir. They will be reporting back every hour or so.”
“Good.” Matt nodded again. Then he pointed at the nearby trees. “Before we leave this morning, I want some of our troops to cut down as many branches as they can and stack them on top of the supply carts. Load each one up with at least two or three branches before we leave.”
Snolt paused. He looked a little exasperated. “Sire?”
Matt didn’t give him time to protest. “After that, I want to make sure that everyone has their armor and weapons ready. Everyone in their armor, everyone with weapons to hand. Do you understand, Captain?”
Something about his voice must have given away a sign of the tension Matt was feeling, because this time the Captain stopped cold. He studied Matt a moment before responding. “Yes, sire.”
He waited to make sure that there weren’t any other objections or complaints. Then he nodded. “Get moving, Captain, and make sure that the men are ready. You’re dismissed.”
Captain Snolt rode alongside him for the rest of the morning. The Goblin was still grumbling and grouchy, but not nearly as much now. Matt caught Snolt watching him, occasionally, as if was wary now. He hoped that it just meant he was worried, not unreliable.
Some of the soldiers were singing as they marched, some song about battles long past and glories still remembered. Matt thought he could hear Nikles and some of his group among them, but he tried to focus on what he needed to do instead.
About midday, he caught sight of a peculiar hill in the distance. It was covered in the charred remnants of some ancient magical war, with the top reduced to glass and obsidian. His mouth went dry, and he consulted his map one last time. They were there.
He kept his hands as steady as they could be on the reins. A significant part of him wanted to yank on the reins, either to speed up or to turn back the way he’d come. Neither was a real option, though, so despite his nerves, Matt forced himself to stay steady and wait. The army continued to march up until the point where it was even with the burnt hill.
The bare stone was rising off the south of the road when Matt turned to Captain Snolt and spoke firmly. “Call a halt. We’ll rest here for fifteen minutes, and we’ll continue on from here.”
Snolt jumped a little in his saddle, and his Warg growled a little. The Goblin bent slightly to scratch it back into complacency, and then turned to look at Matt. Whatever the Captain saw, he nodded without complaint. “Yes, sire.”
A moment later, he was yelling for the troops to stop. The signalers trumpeted the order up the line, and the soldiers’ songs fell to pieces as they moved off to the side of the road. Matt waited until the carts rolled to a stop as well and looked to Snolt again. “Call the other Captains. I want to speak with them in less than five minutes.”
Snolt nodded again, and as he rode off, Matt directed Nelson towards an isolated spot in the treeline. He didn’t want to be too close to the rest of the army, and he also didn’t want to be too far from the road. Things were going to need to be done quickly now.
It took only a handful of minutes for the Captains to gather. Snolt had to have told them something, because all five officers looked uncertain. Matt mentally reviewed their names as they approached. Karve and Teplas led the Third and the Eighth Spears; both Orcs looked like they had spent plenty of time on the front lines, with the scars to prove it. The Imp Captains, Creps and Bort, were less heavily scarred, but the Footmen of the Fourth and Tenth were crossbowmen. They likely stayed as far from the melee as anyone on the battlefield. Last came Snolt, who was still mounted on his old, war-scarred Warg, his eyes still wary.
Matt waited until all five had joined him next to Nelson, with Snolt swinging down from the saddle. “Thank you for coming. First, I want to have your men take the branches they cut this morning and tie them to the backs of the supply carts. The ends of the branches need to drag in the dirt behind the carts as they move.”
All five officers exchanged odd looks. Karve spoke up, his words careful. “That will kick up a lot of dust, sire. The men won’t appreciate having to breathe it in as they walk.”
“They won’t have to, because the supply carts are going to be moving on without us.” The five captains all blinked in surprise, exchanging another alarmed look. Snolt was the only exception; he was still staring at Matt, as if he was watching his own doom approach. “We’ll rendezvous with them in two days if we can. More likely, they are going to need to proceed to Greymouth on their own, and we’ll catch up with them after.”
“After…what, sire?” Bort’s cautious question would have been a clear sign of concern if he hadn’t already been showing obvious worry on his face.
Matt smiled, hoping it was a reassuring expression. “Less than three miles from here is the River Crimson. It’s probably about a thirty-minute walk, wouldn’t you say?”
“Aye, sire.” Creps was looking a little more like Snolt now, who seemed to take every word as a confirmation of trouble ahead. “Though we’ve been close to the river the whole march. Why do you mention it now?”
“Because here there happens to be a ford across the river. A rare spot, but one that is fairly well known.” Matt shrugged slightly. “There was some talk of putting a bridge over it once, but it never went anywhere. The reason was because—”
“Only the Frost Elves would use it.” Snolt’s face had gone grey now, and his hands clenched tight. “They only rarely came to reinforce the fort, so it wasn’t necessary.”
“Not for reinforcement, no. But if you knew the ford was there, and wanted to bring an army over the river and ambush a group on the road…” Matt let their imaginations fill in the rest, and then made as if he was tightening a strap on his armor. “As we speak, I believe that we have an army slightly larger than our own starting to cross the ford. It will take them some time, since they have to be careful crossing the water, but once they are across, they are going to try to hunt us down and kill us. Even if they don’t succeed, they’ll be in a fairly good position to cut off supplies to Greymouth and help starve the fort into submission.”
“Itrelia.” Teplas growled the name, and spat on the ground. “She’s working with the Noble Races after all, then.”
“Definitely. She might not be here, but she will want me dead and the enemy across the mountains to help her secure the throne.” He looked among them, feeling tense. If any of the captains were in on the plot, now would be the time for them to strike.
Instead of an attack, however, he saw a mixture of numb acceptance and growing fear. Not a great sign, but better than treachery. At least, he hoped it was.
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“For that reason, I want the men to rest, to get into formation, and to move north. We can be at the ford within a half hour, even moving quietly.”
“It might be too late to stop them from crossing, sire.” Karve’s face was a serious one. The Orc was already looking around at the trees on the other side of the road, as if he expected the Frost Elves to appear out of the woods at any moment. “It may be best to withdraw along the road.”
Matt grinned. “No. Not after I spent all this effort to draw them out!” The captains looked back at him, and he chuckled a bit. “I wouldn’t have wanted to prevent them from crossing anyways. If you stop an army at a bridge or a ford, they might fight you for a while, but in the end, they’ll just find another way to cross and hit you from behind. No, better that we wait until they are halfway across…”
Understanding dawned in their eyes. Snolt was looking at him with something approaching astonishment now, and the others seemed to relax slightly. At the very least, they didn’t look like they were ready to drop their weapons and run. Matt would just need to hope that they would stay that way when the time came.
“Now, get those branches tied to the carts and the wagons on their way. Once they move off, we’ll march north. I want the men ready, well rested, and quiet. Anyone who gives us away before I sound the attack is going to wish the Elves got them. Am I clear?” The captains nodded, and Matt drew in a deep breath. “Then let’s move. We have no time to waste.”
Less than half an hour later, Matt was watching through a thin bit of brush as an army came for his head.
They weren’t coming very quickly, not yet at least, but it was clear they were serious about it. He recognized the flags of at least six banners worth of troops. Two of them belonged to the Winterknights, Itrelia’s elite warriors. They rode smaller, more graceful versions of Nelson, called icestags, apparently. Each one wore solid black plate armor that looked strong enough to stop a rifle shot. The rest were made up of the lighter forces that Gorfeld had told him were the bulk of the Frost Elf militia. Lightly armed, they were meant to use their longbows to ambush and harass from afar, though they carried short spears and thin shields for closer ranged combat.
Fortunately, not all of those banners were across the river quite yet. One of the Winterknight banners had already finished crossing, along with two of the skirmisher banners. The ford was full of Elven riders and footmen still struggling through the hip-deep water of the River Crimson, while there were at least two more banners of skirmishers still waiting for their chance to brave the water. Those who had actually reached the near bank were still shaking water from their boots and grimacing from the occasional gust of autumnal chill. Apparently, even a Frost Elf could feel the bite of hypothermia. None of them appeared to be aware of any danger to them at all.
It was, quite possibly, the most beautiful thing Matt had ever seen.
All around him, the Wargs of the First were gathered under the fading autumn foliage. They were sheltered from the Elves by the undergrowth, and for once the Wargs were silent. The beasts were panting lightly, and some of them shifted in eagerness to be at their business, but the Goblins were keeping their mounts in check. Captain Snolt stood next to him, clearly anxious to begin, if only to end the waiting.
Off to the right, the Eighth Spears and Fourth Footmen were creeping through the brush as close as they dared to the ford. The Third Spears and Tenth Footmen had already settled into a small dip in the terrain off to the left, ready to begin the attack the moment he gave the signal. Every moment he waited, there was a larger possibility that someone would discover them and that his plans would come to nothing. Anything could give the game away. An Elven scout could rush into the woods and cry out, or some lucky skirmisher could glance at the trees at just the right time. For all he knew, some Imp was about to ruin more than a week of careful deception and planning by accidentally firing his crossbow into the sky.
At the same time, the moment he gave the order to charge, Matt would be walking into a war.
He’d never fought, aside from that rainy night back on Earth. His father had gone hunting with him, but this was going to be different. People were going to die, a lot of people, and one of them could very well be him. Being a king wasn’t some kind of miraculous forcefield that was going to turn aside spearpoints or arrows. If anything, riding into battle on a giant moose-stag hybrid was going to make him even more of a target.
Yet it wasn’t even the danger that was giving him pause. When he’d killed the Red Sorceress, he’d just been reacting. It had been as much instinct and accident more than anything else. This time, it was going to be murder. The formal, justified kind, but murder all the same. Blood was going to stain him, going forward. There was no way around it.
“Sire.” Snolt’s voice was low, but worry was clear in the whisper. “The right has given their signal. We’re ready.”
Matt nodded, but he didn’t say anything. He watched, waiting as another Winterknight moved forward through the ford. The rider struggled slightly as their mount’s hoof slipped on a submerged stone. For a moment, the Elf fought with their reins as their icestag regained their balance, and then forged ahead, nearing the shore.
As that rider splashed free of the water, Matt raised his mace. Around him, he felt Wargs and Goblins alike tense. He looked around, making eye contact with the signaler. The Goblin raised a horn to his lips and then paused.
The moment seemed to stretch out for an infinity.
Then Matt swept his mace forward, feeling the weight shift in his hands. The trumpet blared to life in three clear notes. By the time the third note sounded, Matt had already urged Nelson forward, and the snarling voices of a hundred Wargs rumbled to life behind him.
He’d wanted to start the attack at a full charge, but Snolt and the other Captains had stopped him from making that mistake. Charge too early, they had said, and the men would reach the battle already tired. So he brought Nelson up to a trot, watching the enemy as they reacted to the sudden appearance of his forces. It was agonizing, watching them scramble to prepare themselves while the distance shrank, but it couldn’t be helped. His infantry was going to take even longer to get into position, which was something he didn’t especially want to think about yet.
It took well over half a minute to trot across the open ground, a time that felt like it lasted much, much longer. He gripped the handle of his mace and watched the enemy. The Winterknights were trying to form up, pushing their way through the milling mass of infantry. It wasn’t going well; Elven skirmishers were trying to form ranks as well, trying to decide whether to take up their spears or start firing arrows. Some of them settled on the latter, and he saw projectiles rise in fitful bursts from their ranks.
His fingers tightened on the reins as the first shafts started to fall among his troops. None of them appeared to hit anything that he could see, though one of the Wargs yipped in surprise behind him. At the same time, he heard the slap of dozens of crossbows in response as his Footmen responded. Bolts fell in a lethal rain, knocking dozens of Elves from their feet and sowing even more chaos among their ranks. At least one Elven banner began to fall as the skirmisher holding it was wounded, but another Elf leapt over to grab it before it hit the ground.
Matt kept moving forward, his eyes still on the Elves ahead. The ones still in the ford were trying to move faster to join their companions already on the shore. He saw a Winterknight spur their icestag forward. They made it a handful of bounding leaps through the water before their footing betrayed them; he saw them go down and the water close over them. Matt yanked his eyes back to where the enemy was now falling into ranks, getting ready to receive the charge. The distance had fallen, and a glance to the left told him that Snolt was looking to him for the next order.
It was time.
Matt gestured forward with his mace again, with the enemy seeming terribly close. He could see the horrified looks on their faces as the trumpeter blew another three clear notes, and he spurred Nelson forward. The warbuck abruptly sprang into a gallop, his thundering hooves eating up the remaining distance at a terrifying pace. Wargs went from a lope to a sprint around him, their rising growls and pants competing with the rushing wind and the hammering of Matt’s own heart.
The moments seemed to sharpen, growing crystal clear. He saw the Elves in front of him bracing themselves, their spears rising in a feeble attempt to keep his cavalry back. An arrow whistled by him, close enough he could hear the shaft go by. A Winterknight was yelling, his voice a brutal bellow above the other shouts and screams. Snolt was yelling too, but Matt couldn’t understand him. Those spears were coming up so fast, and—
Impact. Nelson bowed his head just enough to bring his antlers to bear and smashed an Elf backwards and down. A second Elf was hit by Nelson’s shoulder and spun away into the ranks like a broken toy. Matt leaned down and swung his mace down and to the right, and a third Elf took the hit and fell. All around him, Wargs were leaping into the ranks of the enemy, teeth seeking throats as the Goblins on their backs swung broad-bladed sabers.
Matt kept swinging as well, urging Nelson forward into the mass of enemies. Elves seemed to be everywhere, stabbing up at him or at Nelson, falling back as antlers, hooves, or mace swings fended them off. A spear stabbed at him and struck one of the metal plates sewn into his surcoat; he hit the skirmisher in the shoulder with his mace, and the Elf went down hard. A Winterknight tried to push close to him, his cold, double-edged blade swinging wildly, but a Warg leaped on him and dragged him from his icestag.
An arrow clipped his helmet, ringing it like a bell. Matt clutched at his head for a moment, and a screaming Elf tried to stab Nelson in the throat. The warbuck bellowed and batted the spear aside with his antlers. He saw the Elf go down under Nelson’s hooves and deflected yet another spear looking to disembowel him. Where were the infantry? How long had it been?
The Elves were pressing in around him, their sheer numbers preventing Nelson from making any more headway. The Wargs were still with him; a desperate glance backward told him that Snolt was fighting to catch up, his Warg snarling and snapping while the Captain cut and stabbed. He couldn’t see the Spears beyond that, though he thought he could hear another combined snap of dozens of crossbows. There was a sudden, terrifying worry that the bolts would come down around him, this time, and he started to pull Nelson back.
At that moment, a sudden burning cold struck him halfway up his left shoulder. He shouted in pain and dismay as he felt the ethereal ice stab at him, and he looked back to see another Winterknight pushing close through the crowd. The Elf was wearing full plate armor and carried a large broadsword that looked like it would be capable of cutting straight through any surcoat. Magic trailed from the Elf’s left hand, and Matt could hear wild laughter as the rider came at him.
He leaned back and struck at him, trying not to let the left side swing unbalance him. The Winterknight blocked the blow, and for a moment, their weapons locked together. Matt kept pressing hard, knowing that if he let the rider free his sword, the Elf would have little trouble beating him a duel. Nelson and the icestag jockeyed for position, dancing and shoving at each other as their riders fought for dominance.
Whistling crossbow bolts fell again, but this time they fell further back, nearer to where Elves were still struggling out of the water. Matt heard more screams, and when he glanced in that direction, the Winterknight twisted his sword and tried to thrust it into Matt’s chest. Matt leaned to the side and grabbed at the blade, latching his gauntlet around the sword near the hilt. Then he brought his mace down as hard as he could on the Elf’s head.
The Winterknight toppled from his icestag, leaving Matt still holding the sword. He tossed it aside, breathing hard, and swung at another skirmisher leaping in from the side. His arms burned, and his breathing was coming in sharp, desperate gasps. Where were the Spears? How much longer did he need to—
He heard the double blast of a trumpet off to the left, followed by another to his right. He felt the press of Elves around him shift, as if they were trying to turn and get ready for something. Panic was spreading among the faces around him, and their stabbing, darting spears turned aside. He felt a wild, wide grin grow as his heart pounded in his chest.
The shock of the infantry charge was clear all around him, followed quickly by a second one. It rippled through the ranks of the Elves, and suddenly, the enemy was pressing in again. This time, it was in milling panic, not fighting spirit. They started to fall back, letting the Wargs push in more easily. Captain Snolt was suddenly by his side, his face covered in blood and snarling. “Stay back, sire! Stay back!”
Matt nearly spurred Nelson forward again in pure spite, but the ache in his shoulder gave him pause. Wargs flowed around him, pulling down Elves and icestags alike. He saw the Orcs pushing in too, their spears stabbing and pushing in from both sides. It wouldn’t be long now. The shock of the charges, the unexpected casualties, the river at their back—it all had to take a toll. Standing on his stirrups, he could see the rear ranks of the Elves were standing at the water’s edge already, unable to retreat much further without being swept into the river.
Then finally, all at once, the enemy broke. Some of them turned and fled, pushing through their companions in an attempt to escape. Others threw down their spears and went to their knees, crying out for mercy. Those few who were still fighting found themselves abruptly cut off and alone, islands of resistance in an ocean of routing men.
“Give quarter! Take them prisoner!” He shouted as hard as he could above the clamor, hoping that he could be heard and would be obeyed. With their blood up, who knew if his soldiers would restrain themselves, especially if he had taken many casualties. Yet his plans needed captives, and if he didn’t have any… “Give quarter!”
He could sense his soldiers pause, and either discipline or his orders seemed to win out. Orcs reached out to pull Elves from their knees and shove them backward through the ranks, where they were out of the way. Goblins pulled hard on reins, keeping their mounts from continuing to rip throats and tear limbs. Winterknights were pulled from their icestags, their fine broadswords dropping to the dirt while their less exhausted companions ran for the ford.
Not that flight was a wise course. The river was as much an enemy as his soldiers were. More than one Elf misjudged the position of the ford, falling into the water of the river itself and vanishing beneath the flow. Others pushed and shoved their fellows, occasionally dooming more of them to the water. Those who tried to be more careful found that the crossbows were still working; more crossbow bolts fell among them, striking some down and sending the rest fleeing in even greater panic. Matt guessed that maybe one in five reached the other side.
Yet the majority of them seemed too tired to even try. Matt watched in triumph as well over a hundred Frost Elves surrendered, with at least four banner flags among them. Even if some had escaped, Itrelia’s little army had been crippled, and their morale fatally broken. The two banners across the river were already withdrawing, running before the remnants of their friends even reached them. He wondered if they would even recover before they reached Itrelia’s homeland.
Captain Snolt loped up to him on his Warg, still bloodstained and fierce. The Goblin was panting almost as hard as his mount, but he grinned at Matt with a startling display of good humor. “They’re done, sire. It’s over, and the day is yours. What are your orders?”
Matt pulled himself together. He gripped his mace harder, hoping that it hid how his hand was shaking. Was that just adrenaline or fear? “Get the wounded seen to. Ours first, but theirs as well. I want the prisoners disarmed and marching for the road as soon as the men are ready.” He looked over to the left and grinned a little as he saw a cluster of supply carts. Itrelia’s men had brought their own fodder. He’d see it put to good use. “Bring those carts, as well. We’ll have use for them.”
The Captain nodded and then looked at him expectantly. Matt sighed. “Tell them all they’ve done well. We’ve won!” He shouted the last, raising his mace. It hopefully didn’t shake at all. “Extra rations for everyone tonight! Thanks to our friends, we can certainly afford it!” Tired laughter echoed from all around, and Matt went on in a voice all could hear. “All of you have earned a reward once I return to Redspire. Your valor today will not be forgotten! For Redspire! For the Kingdom!”
Snolt joined him, his voice rising as well. “For the Kingdom of Iron!”
A victorious roar rose around him, and Matt found himself joining in. It had been a very good day.
A very good start.