The rain lasted another few hours, pattering down across the roofs of Bridgeton in a steady barrage of water. His troops took shelter in the fort, or among the houses of the serfs-turned-freeholders in town. Though the townsfolk had remained wary at first, their fears had were turning to optimism as they spoke with the soldiers. As Matt walked the walls, some of them were even starting to cheer at him. They probably wouldn’t have been quite as enthusiastic if they had known that he had made their town the front line and chokepoint against the Alliance for most of the southern border of the Kingdom.

Fortunately, he was fairly confident that he’d be able to free them from the siege, at least. He’d seen the camps of the banners outside starting to drain away as he watched. More and more of the bandits were deserting, wandering away from the lines they had drawn up outside the town.

Those that remained seemed to be preparing to defend their lines from attack, but they didn’t look like the sort of fighters that could stand up to heavy combat. They seemed far closer to the undisciplined militia that the Irregulars had been at the Battle of Folly’s End, where regular troops had slaughtered them easily. Most of them looked like they were armed with spears and bows and not much else; the most fortunate among them had simple light armor and no shields. If he hit them hard enough, their morale might break and allow him to drive them from the field without too many casualties.

Yet not all of them were leaving, and he found himself questioning why. They had to know that the people who were supposedly going to pay them had just been decimated. Even if they didn’t know that the crossings at Brensville and Coorsford had been cut off, they had to realize that they were on the losing side of the war at this point. Why were they still risking themselves to continue the siege against an army that could undoubtedly crush them?

Matt paused along the wall and looked out at the bandits again, this time examining them more closely. The majority of their camp had been set up in a small grove of trees, a few hundred meters from the walls of the town. Most of their tents and supply carts were concealed beneath the branches of the trees there, even though they weren’t especially at risk of attack. Unlike the Dwarves, they didn’t seem to have been trying to assault the walls recently; it was likely that they had just been intercepting every cart headed to the town, making sure no food or weapons could reach the defenders while they waited outside the walls. There were no trenches dug or siege equipment being built. Were they just planning on continuing to wait until the next Alliance army came?

Or had one already made it to them?

He felt his eyes narrow as he looked out at the camp. It was possible that the Knights had already arrived, but how would they have managed it without anyone from the town seeing? Could the Pinions have used magic somehow to make it work? Melren had mentioned that the Knights of the Raven used them for ambushes. Could that be their specialty, the ability to reach a position without being seen? Or was he simply getting overly paranoid, and the bandits were just chasing some sunk cost fallacy into a foolish decision to hold their ground?

Matt thought it over for a few more minutes before he forced himself to continue along the walls. If the Knights were already out there, then he would face a much harder fight than he had wanted to deal with, but his mission was still going to be the same. He couldn’t hold Bridgeton without a clear supply line to the rest of the Kingdom, and holding Bridgeton would allow him to have a single place to fortify against whatever army the Alliance sent this way in the future.

All of which meant that, Knights or no Knights, he had another battle ahead of him before the day was done.

The rain lessened around halfway through the afternoon. All of the troops began getting ready as soon as the drops fell more slowly, coming back together in their ranks and restocking their ammunition. Bridgeton didn’t have an unlimited supply of crossbow bolts, but what they had the Footmen doled out among themselves in preparation for the coming fight.

Matt was waiting in the middle of the column as the gates opened. There was still a little rain coming down, but it was more of a drizzle at this point. Water still covered the cobblestones, and he could feel Nelson’s hooves slipping as the warbuck shifted under his weight. He spent a moment patting the mount’s flank, trying to soothe him back to a steady calm before the charges ahead.

Matt’s plan for the coming battle was more or less straightforward. It started with the idea that the bandits weren’t likely to stand up to a full cavalry charge; even if they managed to get their shots off from the bows they carried, and even if they set up something approaching a wall of spears, they weren’t well trained enough or disciplined enough to hold steady in the face of a pack of snarling Wargs. For that reason, he had his cavalry out front this time, ready to charge out ahead of his infantry.

Of course, he also needed to worry about the Knights, if they were hiding behind those rapidly thinning lines of bandits. There had been at least six banners in Brensville, but it could have been more. The Knights of the Raven didn’t have an infinite supply of soldiers, but they obviously had enough to pour that much of an army into the war here. He didn’t know how many of each, but there would be both Murdersworn and Pinions waiting.

The bandits had lined up, somewhat suspiciously, with their center directly in front of the grove where their camp was located. If the Knights were there, they’d be hiding in the trees, which meant that he was going to need to anticipate the sudden appearance of hundreds of heavily armored infantry and incredibly accurate archers there. Neither was a good thing to charge with a pack of Wargs. He’d have to rely on his other banners to challenge those enemies, if they were there at all.

Which meant that as soon as the bandits were scattered, he’d pull back his cavalry and close in on the supposedly hidden heavy infantry. They were probably going to charge out of the woods in an attempt to catch him, which meant their formation would be broken, just like it had been with the Dwarves. The Spears and Footmen could then close on them from all sides and finish things without risking the Wargs.

His troops moved forward and then spread out along the walls. The Royal First was on the left flank, followed by the Third Spears and the Eighth Foot. On the right, the Headhunters were in front, with the Seventh Spears and Ninth Foot behind. In the center, Matt was riding along with the Sixth and Seventh Warg Riders. The First, Second, and Sixteenth Spears followed behind, along with the Fourth and Tenth Foot. Behind all of them, acting as the reserve, were the Irregulars, their mismatched armor and weapons making them seem like more of a mob than a military formation.

He saw the bandits hurriedly forming themselves into lines to face him. Their line seemed evenly matched at first glance; there were two banners of bandits in the center, right, and left. A closer look showed that the two banners on the flanks had been riddled by desertions. They seemed to only have half the number of warriors, and they seemed far more uncertain than the ones waiting in the center.

Matt waited until his troops had lined up and brought their ranks into order. Once they had all prepared themselves, he gestured for the signaler to sound out the advance. His banners began their short march across the fields to where the enemy was standing.

It seemed like it was taking forever to cross that distance. Matt almost felt like he could see every puddle of mud and every bulge of rock between his troops and his enemies. The pain in his head had eased to a dull ache, but it still pulsed as Nelson stepped along with the Wargs around him. He lifted his mace and balanced it in his hand, trying to reassure himself that it wouldn’t fly out of his grip during the charge.

Ahead of him, he saw the bandits start to pull back arrows to fire. He tensed, knowing that there was still enough distance that very few of those shots would be accurate. It was still a little unpleasant to see the flight of arrows rise into the sky, and he allowed the signaller to call for the cavalry to advance more quickly, just to dodge the worst of it. Behind him, the Spears were raising their shields, while the Foot began to load their crossbows.

Arrows came sleeting down, but most of them fell short. Those that didn’t still seemed to be off the mark, as if the bandits hadn’t quite figured out the range yet. A handful of the Wargs and their riders shouted or yelped as they took wounds, but no one fell. Not yet, at least.

Ahead, he could see the archers beginning to load again. Some of them were moving with the speed born of panic; others seemed more deliberate, as if they were trying to stretch out the moment. Matt waited until the bows turned skyward again before gesturing to the signaler yet again. The horn sounded, and the Wargs around him broke into a loping gallop that ate up the distance much faster.

This time the arrows fell well behind the Riders, the shafts by and large missing their targets. Bandits were throwing down their bows now, scrambling to get into formation with their spears and other weapons. Others were still stepping back, trying to nock another arrow and stay off the front lines. Their captains were shouting, their words high and fearful, which only seemed to provoke more of the chaos in their ranks.

He heard the slap of crossbows behind him, and a handful of heartbeats later, the bandits screamed as bolts struck from the sky. Their already thin ranks were punched full of holes as the dead and wounded fell away, and the ragged gaps in their line seemed to call out for the cavalry to break through them completely.

Matt’s world narrowed slightly as the Riders rushed in. He saw with even greater clarity how foolish it was for the bandits to still be here. There were almost as many Wargs as there were bandits now; the impact of the initial charge alone would devastate them. The Knights had to be waiting just beyond the trees, ready to attack. Why hadn’t they struck yet? Was there some other part to the trap that he hadn’t seen?

A moment later, he was forced to shove those thoughts aside as the Riders struck the bandits with all the force of a chainsaw meeting tree bark. Wargs slammed into and through the bandits’ line, their Riders cutting through enemies with broad sweeps of their swords. The bandits’ battleline crumpled under the force of the charge; on both flanks, it seemed like the remaining bandits were simply buried under the snarling, slashing wave that struck them.

Then, just as the momentum of the Riders’ charge slowed to a near halt, warcries burst from hundreds of throats and the Knights made their appearance.

Matt almost relaxed as the Knights burst into view, but then he realized that the enemy had given up even the appearance of trying to win the battle. Hundreds of arrows flew out of the grove, but none of them were aimed at the flanks. Almost every single one was targeted directly at him and his lifeguards, and the two banners of Murdersworn that came howling out in their wake had formed into a massive wedge aimed straight at him.

The arrows hit first, knocking Goblins from saddles and killing Wargs mid-leap. Balred had been muttering something under his breath, but even as the air stirred around the lifeguard, some of the arrows cut through and wounded his protectors. Three of them went down, and when the others closed ranks around him, there were several now sporting arrows that stood out from their wounds like flagpoles.

For a moment, Matt thought he had somehow been miraculously spared. Then Nelson brayed, and he realized that the warbuck had been hit at least twice. His faithful mount staggered, and Matt felt both rage and terror sweep through him. He was thrown from the saddle a moment later when the great beast went down.

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He pulled himself to his feet just in time to see his own orders doom him. Just as Matt had planned, the Riders turned to scatter and leave the rest of the battle to his other troops. They pulled back from both the flanks and the center, making way for the Spears and Footmen to close in.

They also just happened to be abandoning him, dismounted and unable to retreat, as the Knights closed in on him in a screaming wave, with only his remaining lifeguards as a help.

Matt swore to himself as he came back to his feet, watching his own soldiers obediently flee the field, and realizing that in just a few more moments, he was going to be knee-deep in Knights that were after his blood.

He looked up to see Balred reaching out a hand to him. Matt reached out to take it. Losing Nelson might hurt, but it would be better than getting himself killed for no reason. Besides, maybe the screaming maniacs already closing on his position wouldn’t finish off the warbuck if he wasn’t near Matt.

Then a second flight of arrows rained down, and Balred fell off his own mount with a grunt. There was an arrow in the Orc’s side, and he was having trouble standing back up. Matt cursed as a few more of his guards went down and turned to see the first of the Murdersworn rushing towards him, their weapons held high.

It was difficult to describe a Murdersworn to someone who hadn’t come into contact with one. They were armored from head to toe, and stood higher than a normal person, even by a Knight’s standards. Their black cape fluttered in the heavy, damp air, and each step was taken with a preternatural grace that seemed at odds with the gigantic sword they held in their hands.

Matt saw three of them coming for him and knew there was no way he was going to be able to stand up to them in a straight up fight. Knights had a tendency to be stronger, faster, and tougher than any being had a right to be, and these were the elite among their order. He doubted they would even have to pause as they killed him.

Yet he wasn’t about to back down, not now. If they killed him now, he’d die on his feet. Matt set himself for the first blow and raised his mace high.

He was still waiting for it when one of his remaining lifeguards dove into the way, his own sword writhing with flames. Matt recognized him as Soltoth, a Red Moon Orc who’d watched his back for weeks now. The man caught the first Knight’s blade and melted partway through it. Then he reversed his strike to carve through the charging Knight’s chestplate.

The Knight died, but before he fell, the nearest two of his companions struck at Soltoth, cutting him down almost immediately. One of them went down a second later as Mulwan shot her in the face; the arrow slipped in through an eyeslit, and the Knight dropped their sword as they fell. The other started to rush forward, only for the ground under their feet to erupt in flames, knocking them back into the ranks of their still-charging brethren.

Snapping out of his disbelief, Matt reached for his own magic. There would be no use using the mud traps here; the enemy was already too close and had too much stability compared to cavalry. Instead, he used his burrowing spell and lashed out. His magic tore a gouge through the sodden earth, breaking the charge and knocking Knights to their knees in the newly created ditch.

Yet not all of them fell, and Matt lashed out again, this time carving a deep trench around his desperate lifeguards. Too many of the Knights leapt into the air at just the right time to avoid being caught by the spray of soil; others simply ran down the slippery walls and towards his guards. Balred was on his feet now, a sword in his hand, and some of the other lifeguards were rising to take on the oncoming Murdersworn as they emerged from the trench.

Another two of his guards fell, and their small circle constricted a little further. Matt saw a knot of Knights forcing their way forward and thought he recognized someone. They were staring at him in that same fixated way the Knight princess had. It had to be the commander. If he could kill them…

He reached for his magic one more time, hoping that the lifeguards could hold for just a few more moments. This time, he started his burrow far below the soil, almost a dozen meters down. The force of the magic built as the resistance to its movement grew, but he pushed against it all the same. Beneath him, the tunnel grew and swelled. Matt saw the ground start to distort just ahead of him, where Balred and another lifeguard, a Coldhearth Orc named Freland, were holding back a trio of Murdersworn. “Balred, Freland, out of the way! Now!”

Freland speared a Knight through the knee, and then jumped aside. Balred, still stumbling from his wound, staggered back, and then fell as the Knight facing him knocked him over. Then those Knights were shoved aside as the commander and his own bodyguard pushed through the melee to reach Matt at last.

He couldn’t see the Knight’s face under his helm, but Matt could still somehow sense the burning hatred and victorious snarl hiding beneath the visor. The Murdersworn all stepped forward as one, their blades rising to strike Matt down and end the war in a single stroke.

Then the tunnel he’d been digging abruptly reached its end. Rain-sodden dirt fountained into the air in an explosion of soil, engulfing the group of Knights in a blast that physically lifted them into the air. Earth sprayed across the entire area, knocking over Knights and lifeguards with equal force; even Matt stumbled back and away from the spot.

Yet as the dirt and sod rained back down from the spot, it left behind a hole, one that was nearly thirty meters deep and four meters across. It wasn’t a clean tunnel, of course; there were plenty of rocks and other debris that had refused to be moved by Matt’s magic. Even with his power, there were limits to what he could convince the ground to do.

Yet none of that mattered as the Knight commander and his bodyguard vanished into the newly formed pit. They went screaming down the hole. Moments later, a series of crunches drifted back out of it, even as the sides of the pit crumbled back down into it.

“Burial and execution in one go.” Matt staggered back to his feet, his mace still clutched in one hand. Then he froze.

A hand had caught the edge of his pit. As Matt watched in horror, the enemy commander slowly started to pull themselves out of the hole with one hand. It was an impossible feat of strength, one that should have been doomed. Yet here the royal was, still snarling at him with a massive, frost-rimed sword in his other hand.

Matt snapped out of his daze and rushed forward, his mace raised above his head. He brought it down with every ounce of his strength, aiming for the Knight’s head.

The Knight responded by raising his sword, and the weapons met with a terrible clash. His mace shattered instantly, spraying the both of them with sharpened fragments of metal. Matt winced, and the Knight roared in victory as he swiped at Matt.

Matt tried to pull back, but he didn’t move fast enough. The sword drew a line of pain and fire down his cheek before it gouged a burning furrow of agony in his arm. Matt shouted in pain as the Knight brought the sword up to swing again. Had the jack of plates he wore done anything to stop the blade?

He leaned in, the bright and sharpened remains of his mace in his hand, and stabbed the Knight with it in the hand. Matt was close enough that he heard the Knight snarl in pain; he thought he saw their eyes widen behind the visor as their grip on the edge of the pit slipped.

Matt leaned back and booted the Knight right in the chest. The Knight’s hand slid from the ground, and the man went screaming back into the pit to join his friends. His enraged howl cut off with a brutal impact. Staggering back from the pit, Matt tossed aside his broken weapon and spread his unwounded arm, willing the rest of the Knights to back away. “Who’s next?”

The rest of the Murdersworn seemed to hesitate, and Matt used their reluctance to start his next tunnel. He’d open a thousand of the things if it meant he could get his lifeguards out of the situation. Where were the rest of his troops? They had to—

His thoughts cut off as a shock rippled through the ranks of the Murdersworn. Some of them were turning towards their flanks; Matt could see the banners of the Warg Riders from the First and Seventh Riders there, already pushing in from the sides. The Royal First and Fourth Headhunters had disappeared into the grove, where there was still fighting going on, and when he glanced behind him, the Spears were already charging across the fields.

When he looked back, the Murdersworn were already pulling back. With their commander dead and facing nearly twice their numbers, they weren’t nearly as keen on the plan to sacrifice all their lives just to kill him. Matt grinned crookedly. Somehow, he’d survived. By the skin of his teeth, but it was over. He’d lived through another battle again.

Now all he had to do was get ready for the next one.

Matt watched from the tower as the last of the Knights were marched north in chains. Most of the surviving Knights had surrendered once his banners had closed in around them; those who hadn’t were now buried on the Alliance side of the river, in a kind of warning for the next army that was probably already on its way.

“Congratulations on your victory, sire.”

He looked to the side to find that Tanniven was standing a short distance away from him on the wall. The Voice of the Sortenmoors was apparently being treated with the same courtesy that the Voices back in Redspire had been given, which was both a good thing and a bad one. Good, because it showed that even in such dire straits, Matt’s lifeguards were abiding by the traditions of the Kingdom. Bad, because the last thing that Matt needed was to deal with politics at the moment.

Of the thirty-two lifeguards that Matt had brought with him, eight were dead, and another five were wounded badly. Most of the remaining nineteen carried some form of wound from the brief battle, though they weren’t nearly as serious. Nelson still lived, but the warbuck had been weak as the soldiers had led him back to the stables. The healers were watching over him almost as closely as they were Matt. All because Matt had overestimated his own abilities and orders, and led them too close to the enemy.

The streets of Bridgeton were still alight with celebration over the victory, and Matt had already heard whispers about the battle in the streets. Many were considering him a hero for risking himself, though others questioned why he had bothered. If he had the Counselor’s advice to guide him, why would he have gotten so many of his loyal followers wounded or killed?

It wasn’t the most pleasant of questions, but it was no worse than what his own conscience was asking of him. He should have known not to expose his troops so obviously. True, he’d expected the Knights to spread out their attack more, but he still should have anticipated the fact that the Oath would compel the commander to focus only on him.

Tanniven was still waiting for him to respond, and Matt grimaced. “It doesn’t feel much like a victory, Voice. Not when we lost so many.”

The Elf blinked. “I had wondered why you were not joining in the feasts. Some had mentioned that the loss of your people seems to affect you far more than a normal monarch. I had hardly believed it, to be honest, but it does confirm my trust in you.”

Matt glanced at Tanniven, feeling a rush of bitter amusement. “I’m happy you are not disappointed in me, Voice.”

“Oh, I doubt you could ever do that, sire. After all, you’ve granted me my freedom. How could I begrudge you that?”

Tanniven seemed so serious that Matt struggled not to laugh. “I did ask you to risk your life for the next two years in return. Some might consider that unfair.”

“Then they would be fools, sire.” Tanniven shook his head. “A serf risks their life every time their master frowns. What is a bit more danger if it promises me a world where I am free?”

Matt felt his lips twist in an unwilling smile. He turned back to watch the disappearing column of prisoners. “You’re sure your volunteers can see them to Redspire?”

The Voice nodded. “Yes, sire. They are disarmed and their morale is broken.” Tanniven laughed. “Truth be told, I think they might find the Tower of Blood a safe haven compared to fighting you again.”

He grunted. “It’s called the Tower of Penance now. Just so you know.”

Tanniven blinked. A slow smile spread across his lips. “Another change. I see. I will strive to remember it.”

They spent a few more moments in silence on the wall. Matt felt the cuts on his cheek and arm itch a little. The healer had been hard pressed to work on him, but they had assured him the wounds were clean and free of infection. Unfortunately, he’d need to let them heal the natural way, while others who had suffered worse got magical attention. It was only fair. They had been wounded because of his pride, after all.

Tired of chasing that particular thought around his head, Matt looked at Tanniven again. The Elf was staring out over the town, a small smile still on his lips. “Where did you come from, Tanniven? It seems odd that an Elf is so… enthusiastic about the Kingdom and its promises.”

Tanniven shrugged. “My parents were taken during a raid in the Alterian Princedom by the Hard Scythe Orcs. They became serfs there, before I was born. The Kingdom, as you call it, is all I’ve ever known.”

The Elf laughed again. “I was never what you would call an ideal servant. By the time your proclamation arrived, my lord had already put me with a group of other convicts that he intended to work to death. Instead, he shoved a knife into each of our hands and sent us south to the Sortenmoors. He told us to either win our freedom or die as failures, but that we should never return.”

A more serious expression came across his face. “Most of the others are dead now. I think Mar’teth is still alive, but it has been weeks since I’ve heard from him. Still, they fell in a good cause. It is better than what most of us could have hoped for until you came.”

Matt glanced at him. “So I take it you are not intending to cause just as much trouble for me, then?”

Tanniven arched an eyebrow at him. “Oh, I wouldn’t say that. My native stubbornness is probably too well entrenched to just give up and become agreeable now.” He shrugged. “All the same, I will try to keep my mischief to a minimum. After all, I’ve heard that those who cross you tend to come to bad ends.”

Matt snorted. He looked back out over the wall, where the retreating column of prisoners had disappeared out of sight behind a nearby hill. “There are worse reputations to have, I suppose.”

“Yes. Yes, there are.”