The rhythmic sound of marching boots and the clinking of chainmail came to an abrupt halt. We had stopped at a very unfortunate spot—at least, for me.
We were in the middle of crossing a bridge when the order came. Beneath us flowed a river as wide as the one I had been thrown into. It looked calm and clear, but the memories it dragged back weren't. To make matters worse, the bridge was weathered and creaking under our weight. The railings were rotten, some of the ropes holding the planks had frayed loose, and the whole structure looked like it could collapse at any moment.
"Why have we stopped?" Lady Elena asked me. By then it was her hundredth question since leaving the city. To say the least, it hadn't been a quiet ride.
"I don't know," I said flatly.
Both of us were mounted, along with a few others in the rear. Most of the servants and soldiers were on foot, which gave us a clear view of the rest of the convoy ahead. At the front rode the baron and the knights, always in sight since we'd departed—until now, when they disappeared over a slight rise in the road.
Just as I realized this, the baron reappeared. But this time he was riding hard along the length of the convoy, a brilliant sword of light blazing in his hand.
"Form lines!" he bellowed. "Vanguard, form lines along the slope! Ready for battle!"
I wasn't part of the vanguard, but my heart pounded wildly as if I were. It had come so suddenly. Somewhere along the march I had grown bored enough to wish the fight would simply begin so we could get it over with. Now that it had, it felt like someone had yanked the ground from under my feet.
Orders were shouted down the column. Soldiers and mercenaries scattered in a hurry, scrambling toward the slope only fifty meters ahead. Knights dismounted to fight on foot. The baron alone held to his horse, riding further down the line—toward us. It was obvious who he was worried about.
"Elena, you will stay here! Am I understood?" the baron barked, pointing directly at his daughter. "Disobey me just once, and tomorrow you'll be on a ship bound for Castor!"
"Yes, father," Elena answered, her voice trembling. The bravado she had shown earlier—boasting that she would thrash the orcs once we saw them—was entirely gone.
The baron's eyes locked on me. "Can I entrust her to you, young master?"
"Yes, my lord…" I swallowed nervously under his stare. "I will make sure no harm comes to her."
His expression softened. "Good."
He turned back to his daughter. "Now don't you worry, Elena. This is going to be easy work. I'll be back before you know it."
"Can I kiss you?" she asked suddenly, her voice cracking as if she were about to cry.
"Later, sweetheart."
The baron gave her a smile before turning his horse around and galloping back toward the front.
By then the battle lines were fully drawn across the slope. The Castorian knights and squires held the center. The prince's garrison soldiers took the left flank. The mercenaries crowded on the right. Nearly three hundred men stood shoulder to shoulder, shields locked and spears pointed forward, banners flapping above their heads. The sight was both terrifying and exhilarating.
I could see now why some men loved war. But knowing, even slightly, what truly came after the speeches and the posturing, I couldn't envy Clifford and Edmund. I doubted anyone would be thinking about glory or honor once the bloody chaos began.
I rode with Elena down toward the riverbank, where the rear guard had hastily raised a small camp. It was mostly servants and a few guards. Our job was simple: tend to the horses and guard the supply wagons. A humbler company, but safer.
"Do you think they'll be alright?" Elena asked as I helped her down from her horse. She kept staring anxiously at the distant formation.
"They fight against the scourge with the blessing of the gods," a new voice answered before I could. "They will do fine, my lady."
It was the priest who had come with us—a tall, gaunt man with sunken eyes. He wore a long purple robe and leaned on a staff. The prince had hired him as a healer. I doubted he could mend more than minor cuts, being little more than a low-ranking cleric, but better that than nothing.
We bowed politely to him and moved off to find a place to sit and collect ourselves. A servant beckoned us over to an empty cart.
"Will they be alright, Master Devon?" Elena pressed again once we were seated. The priest's words hadn't comforted her. To be fair, the gods themselves weren't the most reliable comfort.
"I am inclined to believe—" I began, but the words stuck in my throat.
A deep, bizarre sound cut me off. It took a moment before I realized what it was: a horn, and not one of ours.
"Ready men!" I heard the baron's voice ring out over the noise. "Hold the line! Yield no ground!"
Then came the guttural chorus of the enemy. Primitive howls, whoops, and hisses rose to drown out the soldiers' shouts.
We didn't need to wonder long where they were coming from.
The baron's force held the high ground. The enemy had to climb to meet them head-on. From our low position near the river, we could see little of the orcs themselves. Even when we climbed atop the empty cart for a better view, all we caught were glimpses—an oversized head, a massive club raised above the human shield wall.
What we saw clearly instead were the spells of the noble fighters. A sword wreathed in flame. A fireball arcing down the slope. A wind charge sweeping through the front line. I even spotted what must have been Clifford's earthen wall, rising from the ground to block a charge.
But of course, the most impressive display belonged to the baron. Spears of light floated in the air, then shot downward one by one, piercing into the enemy. Blinding beams followed, exploding as they struck the slope.
The line shook under the assault but did not break. The orcs battered it, but the shield wall held, just as the baron had promised. Against a disciplined force backed by mages, the greenskins never stood a chance.
The shift was inevitable. From a stalemate of minutes came the slow, grinding push forward. The baron's men left the height and pressed down the slope.
The orcish lines were breaking.