Two days later.

Volthorn had lied to Queen Adara.

He hadn’t meant to. At the time, sitting inside Saven’s mighty walls and riding the euphoria of the coronation, Volthorn had felt aglow with confidence. It was with that confidence that he had assured the queen and her counselors that he and his army could pull off the impossible.

But now, back at the front after a long week of riding, he saw things more realistically.

They were trying to pull off the impossible.

“Next,” he growled, planting his claws in the dust of the training yard.

His latest opponent advanced cautiously. An avir lad, probably no older than nineteen, his face was white under his helm with nervousness.

“You have the longer reach,” Volthorn reminded him. “Use it.”

The recent recruit leveled his blunted spear and charged. Volthorn stepped back, dancing to the side as he knocked the thrust away with his shield. Volthorn maneuvered to keep himself on the avir’s right side, where it was more difficult for the avir to turn his spear. “Come on,” Volthorn coached. “Your spear tip will reach me long before my sword reaches you. Keep thrusting.”

The avir stepped forward, spear driving toward Volthorn’s face. Volthorn brought his shield up, deflecting the blow. Stepping forward under the cover of his shield, he slammed the blunted tip of his wooden practice sword into the soldier’s leg.

“Out!” Volthorn said. “In a real fight, you’d be on the ground with a life-threatening wound.”

The avir rubbed his thigh, wincing. “How do I improve, Commander? You said to thrust, but it left me wide open.”

“Thrust, then withdraw,” said Volthorn, demonstrating with his sword. “Step forward, step back. Be ready to block the moment your attack ends. Understand?”

“Yes, Commander Skarr.”

“Good. Keep drilling.”

Volthorn turned away, removing his helmet and wiping the sweat from the scales of his face. He stepped to the side of the yard, where the captain over training waited.

The captain saluted. “Your assessment, Commander?”

“You have them on the right track,” Volthorn said. “These recruits have good hearts, all of them. A few more weeks of training, and they would become capable soldiers.”

The implication hung in the air until the training captain picked it out and voiced it aloud. “. . . But we don’t have a few more weeks, do we.”

“We have three days, at most, before we’re either on the march or in battle,” said Volthorn. He handed his training sword to an aide and retrieved his real gear, including his terramancy gems and equipment. “Practice is what they need most. Relieve the new squads of all other camp duties and double their training time. Ten hours per day.”

“I’ll see to it, Commander,” said the captain.

Volthorn left the training grounds and stepped briskly through the war camp, weaving his way through patches of tents and fleets of wagons. The air was alive with the clang of blacksmiths’ tools, the smoke of cooking fires, and the wind of griffins’ wings.

After a few minutes, his brother Kelzern jogged up to him. “There you are,” he said. “I was looking all over for you?”

“I had some time open up and thought I’d review the newest recruits,” said Volthorn. “Anything to report?”

“The garrison from Modine just arrived,” Kelzern said. “Two thousand strong. They left none behind, just as you ordered.”

“Good,” Volthorn said. “What else?”

“Afternoon flight reports came in. Calamar’s host will have advanced another ten miles down the Mera Valley today.”

Volthorn ran the number through his brain and processed the implications. The Calamarvans were just two days’ march away now. He had even less time than he had thought.

“Is that all?”

“There’s something else,” said Kelzern.

Something about Kelzern’s tone made Volthorn stop and look at him. “What is it?”

“News from one of our border patrols,” said Kelzern, looking unsettled. “They’ve been guarding an obscure pass called Wyvern Way, about fifty miles north of here. Two days ago, they detained a man trying to cross over to Calamar’s side of the pass.”

Volthorn tightened his claws around the pommel of his sword. “And?”

“He turned out to be a pyromancer. He broke free and escaped.”

Volthorn dug the claws of his foot into the ground underneath him. “Do you think it was Rendhart?” he questioned.

“Based on their description, most likely,” Kelzern said.

Volthorn’s brother knew the significance as well as Volthorn did. Kelzern had been there that same fateful day, knocked out by the assassin’s initial burst of lightning. It had taken him over a week to recover.

“I should never have reduced the border patrols,” said Volthorn, resuming his walk. “They were at half strength and in no condition to fight a skilled pyromancer.”

“But you need the troops here more,” Kelzern said. “Be fair to yourself, Volthorn. You had no idea which route Rendhart was going to take.”

Volthorn nodded reluctantly. “You’re right.” He did his best to let the matter go. For better or for worse, Rendhart was now out of Elandria’s reach.

Still, Volthorn couldn’t help but feeling like he had made a miscalculation.

* * * * *

By the time Volthorn and Kelzern reached the command tent, their brother Trazar was waiting for them, along with all four of Volthorn’s generals: Generals Orrin and Branoc, both humans; General Embertail, a red-tailed griffin; and General Snarltooth, a swifter. Each general would be commanding a different division of the army in the coming campaign.

Volthorn saluted each of his officers, exchanging greetings and pleasantries. Beneath his smile, he studied each of them carefully. Just over a week ago, he’d been their same rank. How did they feel about getting passed over, and now having to take orders from him?

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“Let’s get started,” Volthorn said. He turned to Kelzern. “Run perimeter on the tent. Don’t let anyone come within twenty paces, not staff nor messenger nor even a snippen. And especially no keen-eared swifters.”

Kelzern nodded and slipped back outside.

Volthorn turned to Trazar. “My precautions.”

His brother handed him an oddly shaped piece of green quartzite, with a wide base, a twisted stem, and a knobby top. Volthorn touched his hand to an emerald on his belt, sucking terracharge from the gem into his fingers. Then he brought his fingers into contact with the quartzite, transferring the energy into the rock. He closed his eyes, using his mind to measure the subtle throb of energy now vibrating in the rock. Good—that should last several hours.

Volthorn flexed his muscles and snapped the quartzite at its narrowest point, releasing a loud bang. In its wake, the stone began glowing with a soft green light.

His generals watched in curiosity. “Commander,” the swifter hazarded. “May I ask—”

“Quartzite beacon,” Volthorn answered. “It emits a terracharge field that interrupts other terramantic devices. That includes any listening stone that a spy may have placed in here.”

Volthorn’s brother handed him a vial of green fluid and a piece of leather incised with an intricate pattern. “This is an anti-eavesdropping rune,” Volthorn explained. “I had one of our camp aquamancers prepare it this morning. It should stop any verbomancer from using a spell to overhear us.”

Volthorn placed the piece of leather on the table, straightening its corners. Then he unstopped the vial and dripped the liquid carefully onto the rune. The droplets filled the etched lines with a slight hiss, sending up a cloud of steam smelling faintly of cloves.

“I hope it works,” Volthorn said, eyeing the empty vial. “I have no idea what’s in it, but the aquamancer assured me it was all very expensive ingredients.”

“They always say that,” General Orrin said, snorting. The others laughed.

Volthorn looked over the objects on the table. I’ve blocked any attempt to spy using terramancy and verbomancy. Aquamancy and vivamancy have no way to listen long-distance, so they pose no threat. That just leaves pyromancy. Pyromancers had incredible hearing, a side effect of their sensitivity to the slightest waves of energy. The camp is full of noise, and Kelzern is making sure no one comes near this tent. That will have to suffice.

The thought made his worries about Rendhart resurface. The man may not pose a threat for the moment. But once he resumed serving under Calamar’s banner, what then? Would he return to Elandria as a spy? Or worse—as an assassin once again?

He’d worry about that later. “Generals,” Volthorn said, planting his clawed hands on the war table, where a large map was laid out. “I assume you’ve each studied the battleplans I sent you?”

The generals each nodded.

“Good,” said Volthorn. “Forget all about them.” He watched as surprise flashed across their faces. “Those plans were only diversions. For security reasons, I’m acting under the assumption that someone in one of our many staff positions may be a spy for Calamar. Written plans are dangerous—which is why all our key strategy meetings will be strictly in person, under precautions such as I’ve taken today.”

General Branoc, his aging cavalry general, muttered something about a poor memory. Volthorn made a mental note to review everything with him a second time.

Volthorn pointed to the map in front of him. “The latest reports place Calamar’s host here, halfway down the Mera Valley. Between their vanguard, their marching columns, and their rearguard, they total fifty-five thousand troops.”

“More than we expected,” General Orrin said, rubbing his sideburns thoughtfully.

“Yes,” Volthorn admitted. “I was anticipating they’d leave more behind to garrison Meradov. Instead, they are committing everything to this campaign.”

He tapped the map where their forces were camped, where the Mera Valley emptied out onto the Arnon Plains. “But so are we. With our force from Modine that arrived today, plus two more garrisons that are arriving tomorrow, we will have twenty-five thousand fighting troops, plus about three thousand swifters and griffins.”

image [https://i.imgur.com/0YJ4CaZ.jpeg]

Map of Elandria, including army positions and territory already conquered by Calamar. Created by the author in Inkarnate.

Volthorn took a deep breath. He knew what he was about to propose would be controversial. “Because of the desperate situation, I plan to order the four battalions holding the Penandre Valley to march north to reinforce us.”

The Penandre Valley was on the south-western corner of Elandria’s territory. Besides the Mera Valley, it was the only other gap in the Rugeran Mountains, making it the only other easy route from Calamar to Elandria.

General Orrin immediately shook his head. “That valley is critical to our defense,” he said. “If we pull out those troops, we’ll have a second Calamarvan host marching unopposed right up the Angerflood.”

“From all our reports, there’s no buildup of Calamarvan troops anywhere near the Penandre,” Volthorn said. “They seem to be channeling all their resources up here. Once they get word that our forces have pulled out of the Penandre, it will be too late to mount any offensive down there before winter sets in.”

His generals mulled this over. “What about next spring?” the swifter named Snarltooth asked, sitting up on his back paws to get a better view of the map.

“I hope to win the war by then,” Volthorn said. “If not, we can reposition our forces over the winter and have the Penandre Valley guarded again by the first thaws.”

General Embertail—a sleek, red-tailed griffin—cocked her feathered head, her keen eyes roving over the map. “I don’t like it. It’s too risky.”

“War is risky,” Volthorn said. “You win by balancing risks. By increasing the slight risk of invasion on our southwest border, I decrease the massive risk that our army here will be wiped out by a force nearly twice its size. Perhaps we will need those troops there. But we know we need them here.”

He glanced over at the anti-eavesdropping rune. It was still emitting a steady supply of steam, at least for now. The aquamancer had said it should last around two hours. “We need to move on. Any last objections?”

“Have you run this by Her Majesty?” asked General Branoc.

Volthorn paused, frowning. “No,” he finally said. “It hadn’t occurred to me.”

“This is not a minor troop movement,” General Branoc said. He shifted in his seat, popping the aging joints of his back. “This needs royal approval.”

“Sending a messenger to the palace will add at least a day’s delay, if not two,” Volthorn said. “And in any case, Queen Adara is too young to understand the strategic situation.”

“With all due respect,” said General Branoc, “Her Highness is our anointed queen. She must be the one to approve a risk like this.”

Volthorn looked around. The other generals each nodded their agreement.

“Very well,” Volthorn finally said. “I will run it by Her Majesty. Any other objections?”

His generals kept silent.

“Good. Moving on.” Volthorn moved his finger across the map, tapping four rivers that cut north to south across the Arnon Plains. “These tributaries are key. They represent four lines of defense between here and Saven. As long as each river can buy us a week of time, we can survive. And I intend to make the best use of them as possible.”

image [https://i.imgur.com/aRtFvh3.png]

Volthorn plans strategy with his generals. Generated by the author via Midjourney.

For the next hour and a half, Volthorn talked his generals through the details of his strategic plan, including troop deployment, logistics, defensive positions, and battlefield tactics. They discussed supply lines, chains of command, and the best way to deploy the army’s hundred or so mancerers in battle.

Volthorn’s strategy relied on extensive coordination. The army’s infantry, numbering about twenty-four thousand avirs, humans, and korriks on foot, would be split between three divisions, commanded by General Orrin, General Snarltooth, and Volthorn himself. These divisions would be in a near constant state of retreat, keeping just out of reach of Calamar’s army as it advanced. As one division withdrew, the second would deploy behind it, ready to beat back any forays by the Calamarvan vanguard. This left the third division free to march either to the right or to the left in a series of feints meant to keep the Calamarvan host constantly vigilant about being outflanked.

As the three infantry divisions performed their dance of precision, General Branoc would lead the cavalry division—three thousand humans and avirs on horseback, with supporting units of swifters—in hit-and-run raids, meant to harass the Calamarvan flanks or interrupt their supply line. The key would be for General Branoc to stay close enough to the main army to rush to their aid in the event of a battle, and to not get himself trapped. Volthorn was not too worried: the grizzled general knew the Arnon Plains like the laces of his boots.

Key to all of this would be the reconnaissance division, commanded by General Embertail. Composed of griffin flights in the sky and swifter packs on the ground, the reconnaissance branch had a two-fold duty: first, keep tabs on the enemy’s movements, and second, prevent the enemy from scouting the Elandrians’ movement. The battle for superiority in the air and on the ground would be constant, bloody, and relentless, as griffins fought each other beak-to-claw and swifter packs hunted each other across the countryside. But the results could easily spell the triumph or ruin of the entire campaign.

Near the end of the meeting, as his generals hammered out the details of battalion reassignments, Volthorn took a step back and surveyed them all: a cadre of veteran officers, the brightest minds in Elandria’s military, discussing how to harass and defeat an army twice their size.

Who knew? They might even have a chance of pulling it off.