As the late afternoon sun dipped toward the horizon, casting long shadows across the winding forest road, Alaric, with Grayson at his side, marched. The column stretched out of view, disappearing behind them around a bend and into the dense thicket of ancient trees that made up the forest. Each step they took was accompanied by the massed crunch of boots against the rough terrain of dirt and a carpet of freshly fallen leaves.
Throughout the day, they had taken several regular brief respites to allow the men to rest their weary legs and dip into haversacks. Despite the urgency pulsing through Alaric’s veins, a driven need to reach Tyfel with the swiftest haste, he recognized the importance of ensuring his men remained in fighting form. He could not afford to meet the enemy with overly fatigued men. That, simply, would not be wise.
The air was sharply cold, each breath forming fleeting clouds of mist. Winter’s imminent arrival was undeniable, a change in season that edged ever closer with each passing moment. Memories of snow, a blanket of serene white that he hadn’t laid eyes upon in over a decade, flickered through Alaric’s mind.
He wondered what that might be like, for a child’s memory wasn’t always accurate.
Their surroundings were alive with the muted colors of late autumn, the leaves transitioning from greens to oranges, reds, and browns. The forest itself seemed to watch over them, the ancient trees’ branches swaying gently in the breeze when it gusted.
He glanced over at Grayson.
“When the snows come, how deep will it get?” Alaric recalled snow blanketing the ground and playing in it as a kid. During the heart of winter, he remembered being bored as they huddled indoors for much of it, usually around a fire, for the keep was frightfully cold. Still, he was unsure exactly what kind of impact it would have on his efforts going forward when the snows arrived. From what he knew, it would not be good. “What are your thoughts on snow?”
“It’s not that cold, if that is what you are asking.” Grayson’s gaze briefly met Alaric’s.
“It’s not,” Alaric said.
“I don’t think it will snow for some weeks yet, but I’ve been wrong before. At least we should not see significant snowfall.”
“I am thinking from a military standpoint, tactically and strategically,” Alaric clarified. “I am wondering how heavily it will affect military operations, marching, supply, and whatnot, especially if I have to create outposts, forts, and garrisons.” He scanned the path ahead, as if envisioning the army’s march through the thick cloak of winter that was to ultimately envelop the land in its firm grip.
“Ah.” Understanding dawned on Grayson. He navigated around a large pothole in the road, its true depths obscured by a layer of yellow and brown leaves. “Some winters are worse than others, the snow deeper. As you well know, Dekar usually gets several feet over the course of the entire winter. Campaigning typically stops after the first snows here in the north, in all of Kevahn, and the neighboring kingdoms. Late spring, summer, and fall are the fighting months.”
Grayson paused as he stepped over another pothole. “It is kind of like in the south when the intense heat comes in summer, in all its oppressive force, and the sands kick up. Only, the cold is worse. Any outposts and forts that are established will need to be supplied and fully stocked before the full force of winter arrives.” He looked over at Alaric again. “The snow piles up, and moving troops anywhere becomes very difficult, if not outright impossible.”
“I see.” It was as he’d figured. Winter would be a great hindrance. Alaric’s mind raced through scenarios, adjustments, and strategies as to how he would have to manage things in the winter, especially if he was to restore order to his lands.
“The snow needs to be shoveled out of the way.” Grayson gestured toward the road beneath their feet, his movements painting a picture of the logistical nightmares that winter brought. “Clearing roads like this one becomes a near impossibility. The snow can be heavy and, when it gets very cold, freezes solid. I’ve seen main roads cleared, but it takes time and a lot of manpower to get it done. Keeping them clear all winter is even more challenging.”
Alaric absorbed the gravity of Grayson’s words. “So,” he mused aloud, the strategist within piecing together the puzzle, “if it comes to a fight, and war, once the snows come, there won’t be much action. There will be no real fights for a while, at least until the warmth returns in spring and it all melts.”
After a long moment, Grayson nodded, affirming the assessment with the seriousness it warranted. “That and the ground firms up. Dekar was not at war when you were younger and there was no internal strife worth mentioning. There was no need to establish forts or outposts or, for that matter, move large bodies of troops and supply in winter. The bannermen took care of basic security. When I entered service, before you were born, it wasn’t like that. There were some troubles, problems only soldiers could solve. After the snows melt, the ground becomes the enemy as mud season arrives. As you can imagine, that brings its own complications. During both seasons, small groups of men will be able to move and operate, but nothing major happens. Armies don’t march but sit things out until it becomes practical to move.” His tone shifted, hinting at the underlying dangers beyond the tactical inconveniences. “Not only is it difficult to campaign in winter, but the cold becomes dangerous. Men can easily get frostbite, lose digits and limbs, not to mention freeze to death.”
Alaric’s thoughtful nod marked his acceptance of the new challenge that lay before him. Though he was well-versed in the arid and dry climate and trials of the far south, the north presented a somewhat unfamiliar battleground, its icy climes and treacherous landscapes demanding a different kind of understanding, one he needed to master.
This realization fully dawned on him as he navigated the uneven terrain of the road, his boots stepping over a particularly large pothole that the wagon ruts seemed to embrace and run right through. The road, a secondary artery through the heart of Dekar, was in a poor state, mirroring the broader neglect that the region had suffered.
“This is a sorry excuse for a road,” Alaric remarked unhappily as he kicked at a small stone. It went skittering ahead. The road, after all, was more than just a path; it was a lifeline, crucial for not only the flow of commerce and trade, but also the movement of his soldiers in the event of an emergency or crisis. They’d already passed places where streams had completely washed the road out. It had taken them time to cross with their supply train, more than he’d expected.
The road’s condition was a symptom of larger issues that afflicted Dekar, a land left to languish. Like everything else, it would require attending to.
“It needs some work, is all,” Grayson concurred.
“All of Dekar needs work.” Alaric’s comment hung in the air between them, heavy with implications. Grayson’s silence in response was telling, a tacit acknowledgment of the daunting task that awaited those who dared to dream of a better future for this seemingly forsaken and broken land.
As they continued their march, the road ahead veiled by a bend, a sudden gust of wind swept through the towering trees and their branches overhead, stirring them to motion. It was a wild, whispering force, one that seemed to call out to him. Alaric’s gaze lifted to the sky, noting the dark overcast clouds that had moved in throughout the day. He found himself pondering the whims of nature, wondering at what precise point the cold would tip the scales, transforming a normal rain into a blanket of snow.
In that moment, as the wind gusted and the chill bit into his exposed skin, Alaric was reminded of the fragile balance between human ambition and the indomitable will of nature. The road beneath his feet, the deteriorating state of Dekar, and the threat of a conflict with Laval—all were intertwined in a dance with the elements, one in which the coming winter would play a role, if it came to war.
“How far do you want to go this evening?” Grayson asked. “When would you like to stop to camp?”
Alaric weighed his answer with the consideration it deserved. “We can call a halt an hour before the sun sets.”
“That early? You’re thinking of a proper marching camp, complete with defensive walls, then?”
“I want to take no chances, especially with an enemy force within a day’s march. Besides, it’s been a while since we spent the time to construct a fortified encampment. Not only do I want dirt walls with a wooden barricade, but also an outer trench, complete with sharpened stakes.”
Grayson nodded. “That will require clearing a portion of the forest. Fortified camps take time, maybe two hours of work for the size force we have.”
“I know. We need to get into the habit of doing this, even small detachments that are sent out. I won’t lose men to laxness. We cannot afford to. We will make up for the loss of time by breaking camp earlier in the morning.”
Grayson’s glance drifted behind them, running down the length of the long serpent that followed in their wake, the men marching in a column of two. “The militia are having a difficult time of it, the pace we set. Last I checked, there were several dozen stragglers who had fallen out.”
“I know it,” Alaric responded, his tone a mix of resignation and empathy. “It’s only to be expected. They’re not accustomed to this sort of thing, hard marching.”
“No, they are accustomed to a far easier and sedate lifestyle.”
The militia’s struggles were a reminder of the gap between the ideal of regular trained soldiers and the reality of ordinary men called during unexpected times to serve. They were not professional soldiers, trained for the rigors of the march and battle, but rather individuals drawn from their everyday lives. It was these men, along with his own, who would be thrown into the maelstrom of what was potentially waiting down the road, likely a sharp fight with an enemy who was trained.
The sudden appearance of movement ahead caught Alaric’s attention. A figure had rounded the bend in the road and come into view. It was the first person they had seen since they’d set out that morning. As soon as he spotted the head of the column, the man broke into a jog, picking up his pace. Alaric’s hand instinctively moved in a gesture toward Grayson, drawing the other’s attention ahead and to the approaching figure.
Grayson’s eyes narrowed. “One of our close-in scouts.”
Alaric acknowledged this with a nod, expression remaining composed, yet his mind was alive with speculation. Their deployment of a light screen—scouts positioned ahead, behind, and to the sides of the marching column in the forest itself—was a tactical measure essential for safeguarding the column from the threats of ambush and surprise attacks. A marching column was vulnerable to a hostile force lurking amongst the trees. His scouts were not only the vanguard, but also his extended eyes and ears as they moved.
As Grayson and Alaric continued their measured advance with the column, Alaric wondered about the news the man brought. The scout, breathing heavily, came up and saluted.
“Fall in and report,” Alaric ordered, not stopping, continuing down the road.
The scout seamlessly fell into pace beside them, his breath still heavy from the exertion. “The bannermen, they are ahead, just around the bend at the crossroads, waiting, my lord.”
A surge of adrenaline quickened Alaric’s heartbeat. The exchange of glances with Grayson was brief but loaded with significance.
Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.
They had come.
“How many bannermen are there?” Alaric pressed, seeking specifics, needing to gauge the strength they could rely upon. “How many men did they bring?”
“All three bannermen and fifty, maybe sixty soldiers between them,” came the scout’s estimation, a figure that resonated with a mix of relief and disappointment in Alaric’s heart. The numbers were fewer than hoped for, a reminder of the limitations they faced, yet each bannerman represented a measure of support, a vital addition to their ranks.
“Very good,” Alaric responded, maintaining the composure of command despite the flicker of disappointment. “Carry on with your duty. Continue scouting ahead of the line of march.”
“Yes, my lord.” The scout gave a salute and started back the way he’d come. Watching the scout jog away, Alaric allowed himself a moment to breathe in the cold air, feeling it fill his lungs, before releasing it slowly through his nose, a physical attempt to steady the storm of thoughts and emotions the report stirred.
As they neared the bend in the road, the anticipation within him grew with each step.
“In truth, it is fifty or sixty men we did not have before,” Grayson remarked.
Alaric acknowledged this wisdom with a simple “Agreed.”
As they rounded the bend, the crossroads came into view. A hundred fifty yards ahead, campfires had been set, just off to the side of the road, with a gathering of men around them. Several figures rose to their feet as the column appeared, like a serpent, slowly revealing itself to the world.
Without speaking further, Alaric and Grayson continued their steady approach, leading the column, the distance between them and the bannermen steadily diminishing. Four figures, distinguished from the rest by their finer attire and the expensive armor they wore, stepped forward and gathered at the side of the road.
To Alaric, these men represented both the past and the future; they were the tangible connection to his father’s reign and the potential pillars of his own. They had pledged their loyalty to his house, to his father, and now, as they stood waiting, the question of their allegiance loomed large. Would they extend the same fealty to him, the same wholehearted support? Could he place his trust in them, just as his father had? Those were questions that only time would answer.
This moment of first contact was laden with the weight of history and the uncertainties of new beginnings. Alaric’s eyes studied each bannerman, searching for signs of loyalty or dissent, knowing that the true test of their allegiance would unfold in the days to come, through their actions. The trust and support he sought could not be instantly won; it would need to be earned.
As they moved closer, the air tinged with the smoky scent of the campfires, Alaric faced not just the bannermen, but the broader challenge of leadership. The coming exchange would set the tone for his relationship with these key figures, a delicate dance of diplomacy and power where every gesture, every word, would be imbued with significance and read deeply into. In this meeting, the foundations for future loyalty, for unity or division, would be laid, marking the beginning of a new chapter in the saga of his house.
As Alaric closed the last of the distance between himself and the bannermen, their gazes met his with an intensity that spoke of their scrutiny and anticipation. His steps were more than physical movements; they were the closing of a gap between past allegiances and present loyalties. Grayson mirrored Alaric’s movements, joining him. As always, his Shadow Guard was close at hand, as Ezran, Jasper, and Thorne positioned themselves off to the sides but within easy reach. Kiera and Rikka were somewhere behind in the column, riding together.
Alaric’s silence as he assessed the bannermen was a deliberate choice, his gaze lingering on each in turn, taking the measure of the men before him. The three bannermen were older, into their late forties and fifties. They exuded a seasoned hardness, their appearances marked by lives of service and the toil of combat, the responsibilities that came with running their own houses—a visual affirmation of their capability and resilience. One youth stood amongst their number, barely beyond his teens.
The man who stepped forward, clad in a heavy gray wool cloak and with a sheathed broadsword hanging at his side, assumed the role of spokesperson for the group. His gaze passed over Alaric, Grayson, and the Shadow Guard, taking them in. This was a moment of assessment, of judgment, and perhaps of recognition. The younger man’s positioning by his side, coupled with their shared features, suggested a familial bond.
This opening exchange, filled with the unvoiced questions and answers that passed between them, set the stage for what was to come. Alaric, standing before these men, represented not just his own claim, but the legacy of his house. The dynamics at play, from the visible support of his companions to the subtle positioning of the bannermen, spoke to the complexities of power, loyalty, and leadership.
“Grayson,” the man said, his voice gravelly and hard. “It has been a long time since we set eyes upon one another, old friend.”
“Duncan.” Grayson returned the acknowledgment with a measured nod, his posture relaxed yet unmistakably alert, as if prepared for any outcome this meeting might bring.
Duncan’s gaze shifted. “And you must be Lord Alaric,” he said, respect and scrutiny in his tone.
Another voice cut through the air. “Returned from the Crusade to save us, no doubt.” The man’s stance and sarcastic tone set him apart from the others. He stood tall, a presence to reckon with, his arms muscular, chest barrel-like. His armor, though bearing the marks of time and use, hugged his form with the ease of a second skin, its scars, nicks, and dents telling tales of survival and extensive use. The cord grip of his sword, frayed from years of faithful service, hinted at a warrior who valued the essence of the blade over its aesthetics. His face, etched with the hard lines of a life carved out on battlefields, remained unyielding under Alaric’s scrutinizing gaze.
“I am Alaric,” came the reply, simple, yet imbued with the unshakeable foundation of his claim.
“Come here to lord over us?” the same man challenged, his demeanor unflinching, as if daring Alaric to prove his worth beyond the title and birthright.
“I am your rightful lord,” Alaric stated, his voice a calm assertion, “earl of these lands. I will tolerate none other.”
“We don’t know you,” Duncan said. “You have been gone for many years, too many possibly.”
“That was not my choice.” Alaric was keenly aware that the respect and trust of these men would not be easily won. In this world of strife, nothing of value could be expected without effort and proof of worth.
“And yet you summon us like dogs,” the other man retorted. “Threaten us to attend you.”
Undeterred, Alaric closed the distance between them, each step measured and deliberate. Grayson moved with him, as did his Shadow Guard.
“What is your name?” Alaric asked.
“Keever,” came the answer from Grayson, as if the name itself was a piece of the intricate puzzle unfolding between them.
Alaric’s gaze then shifted to the third man, seeking to untangle the web of identities and allegiances. “You must be Jourgan,” he surmised, receiving a simple affirmation in response. Turning to the younger man, he pieced another name to the mosaic of faces. “And you are Duncan’s son.”
“I am Jaxen, my lord,” the younger man said, “and you are correct.”
Acknowledging Jaxen with a nod, Alaric addressed the underlying currents of dissent. “I summoned you the way I did because you did not come when my mother called.”
“We had our own problems,” Keever stated.
“And now, I am yours, if you choose to make it so,” Alaric informed them. This admission stirred a visible discomfort among the four men, a physical manifestation of the internal conflict each faced—a choice between skepticism born of past disappointments and the potential for a renewed allegiance. They shared glances amongst themselves and shifted their feet in clear discomfort. “I will not have bannermen who refuse to support me when I call for aid,” Alaric continued, his words setting the terms of loyalty and mutual support, the cornerstone of his rule.
“And what about when we call for help?” Keever’s question sliced through the tension, bringing to the surface the raw wounds of neglect. “None came when I called, when I begged for assistance. My man was turned away from your keep. Your mother would not even see him.”
“I cannot change what has happened in the past,” Alaric admitted, refusing to offer empty apologies for actions beyond his control. “Yet I can promise I will come when you call and will do so in strength.”
“Will you?” Keever pressed, his skepticism plain.
Alaric stiffened. He was beginning to not like this man.
“He will,” Grayson affirmed. “You have my word upon that, and if you decide to doubt me, then by my honor, I shall be forced to challenge you to a duel.”
“I don’t need Grayson to uphold my honor,” Alaric said firmly. He looked directly at Keever, then shifted his gaze to the other two, looking at each in turn. “If you feel the need to challenge anyone, I will take up that gauntlet. You will be crossing swords with me, and we will settle matters as our ancestors of old did—with blood.”
Jourgan cleared his throat and glanced over at Duncan.
“I don’t believe that will be necessary,” Duncan said, drawing Alaric’s gaze as he sank to a knee. His son dropped to a knee a heartbeat later. “I will support you, my lord, if you will accept me as your bannerman. I have brought myself and my son. Sadly, that is all we could spare. I left two men, both disabled veterans, looking after my family and”—he paused and looked up—“Grayson’s family. They took shelter with us after the troubles began. We are kin, after all, and family looks after its own.” Duncan glanced back at his son with this last bit.
Alaric, observing the subtle shift in the air, could almost feel the weight lifting from Grayson’s shoulders as the man let out a slight breath of relief. The captain’s shoulders slumped slightly. Alaric well knew what was running through Grayson’s mind. His family was safe.
Alaric regarded Duncan. They were but two men. Yet, in the echo of Grayson’s earlier sentiment, these two represented an increase to their ranks—a sign of growing support that, while modest, marked the beginning of Alaric’s gathering strength. Two more was better than none, especially when every sword mattered.
“Rise, Sir Duncan. I will accept you into my service as a vassal and bannerman.” Alaric’s words, firm and decisive, were more than a mere acceptance; they were an affirmation of the bond between lord and vassal, a renewal of ancient ties that wove the fabric of their society.
As Duncan and his son stood, his response was immediate and unwavering. “Our swords are yours to command, my lord.”
This solemn oath, simple yet profound, encapsulated the essence of fealty. It was a commitment that went beyond mere words, embodying a readiness to stand in battle, to support their lord at all costs. Their swords, and by extension, their lives, were now intertwined with Alaric’s cause.
“My sword is yours as well, my lord,” Jourgan said, taking a knee. “That is, if you will accept me. I brought twenty-one men, my lord, and I will hold you to your word as you will hold me to mine.”
“That is only to be expected.” Alaric nodded, pleased so far. “Rise, Sir Jourgan.”
Jourgan stood, and then looked over at Keever. “It is time to take a side. You are the wealthiest of us knights and the strongest, with the number of men-at-arms at your disposal. Sitting on the fence is no longer an option.”
Keever’s eyes bored into Jourgan’s with an intensity that bored through the chilly air. It was a look fraught with unspoken words and history, including a bitter anger, one Alaric understood was directed at his own house. That was partly Masterson and Laval’s work. After a long moment, Keever broke the gaze, slowly turning toward Alaric. His expression softened ever so slightly, but his eyes remained pools of hardened resolve and heat.
“I was raised up to a knight by your grandfather,” Keever declared. “I will support you, just as I supported him, if only in his honor.”
“Then bend the knee,” Grayson commanded. “Show the proper respect for your lord.”
These words seemed to strike Keever like a physical blow, his pride visibly bristling at the demand. Yet, almost as if propelled by a sheer force of will and bound by the invisible chains of duty and tradition, he begrudgingly complied. With a grimace, Keever slowly went down on one knee, bowing his head in a gesture of submission that appeared foreign to his nature. It was clear to Alaric that not only was Keever a proud man, but also a difficult one.
“My lord,” Keever intoned, the words bitter on his tongue, “I have brought thirty-five men. My sword and theirs are yours to command.”
Alaric, for his part, regarded the kneeling bannerman with a mixture of caution and newly kindled respect. In this man was a complex weave of loyalty, pride, and an unwavering sense of duty. He could either become a staunch pillar of support or a formidable obstacle, perhaps even an immovable object should he choose to be, one that might stand in Alaric’s way. He hesitated, letting the silence stretch between them, a reminder of the delicate balance of power and fealty that defined their world.
“Rise, Sir Keever,” Alaric finally said, his voice steady and commanding, yet not without a hint of respect for the man before him. “I accept your service to me and my house.” Alaric knew that Keever’s allegiance, while now sworn, would require more than mere words to fully secure. This man, with his fierce loyalty and proud spirit, would indeed bear watching.
As the tension of the moment began to dissipate, Alaric once more became aware of their surroundings. The steady rhythm of the column marching past served as a backdrop to the scene—the sound of armor and weapons chinking and clanking, feet grinding and crunching the dirt and leaves.
Those men standing by the roadside and campfires, loyal followers of Alaric’s newly sworn bannermen, had been spectators to the solemn exchange of oaths. When Keever finally stood, a renewed sense of allegiance rent the air. Their pent-up breaths were released in a robust cheer, a collective expression of approval and solidarity. Alaric glanced around, assessing those men.
It was a beginning.
The sound of hooves clopping against the hard ground pulled Alaric’s attention away from the men. He turned to see Kiera and Rikka making their way toward them. The latter had her long black hair tied back into a single braid and had donned a simple gray dress that Missa had found for her. The dress, though plain, could not dim the radiant beauty Rikka possessed. In the subdued light of the gray day, she stood out against the drabness. To Alaric, she appeared incredibly beautiful, so much so it almost took his breath away. Kiera was clad in her plate armor. Her bearing, as formidable as the steel she wore, was a declaration of her readiness to fight.
“We bring women to war now?” Keever groused. “This is something new to me.”
Alaric held back a laugh. He looked forward to the day Keever got to witness Kiera and Rikka in battle. “Now, gentlemen, form your men up. We are pressed for time and have a long way to march. Once your men are in column and marching, I will explain where we are going, what we are going to do, and why.”