When Wolves March

The plains of western Iskorith were wide, wind scoured, and strangely quiet.

Senjar rode at the head of his column one thousand horsemen riding light, their armor dulled with travel dust, their banners bound in leather to avoid drawing eyes from distant hills. Every hoofbeat struck the hardened dirt like a drumbeat carved by will.

He had not stopped moving since the fall of Valmere's Watch.

The black wolf of Harkoraal flew now from the towers behind them, a mark of conquest but also a challenge. The wolf did not howl for show. It bared teeth.

Rell rode beside him, armor clasped tight, his expression drawn.

"No news yet from Kaelric?"

Senjar shook his head. "Last rider said he secured the low fort near Dornhill. No resistance."

"They'll hear us before they see us," Rell said. "The longer we move without cover, the more likely the Governor strikes before we're joined."

Senjar slowed his horse slightly as a scout crested the rise ahead mud spattered, panting, eyes wide with urgency.

The man reined in hard, bowed.

"Arl," he said. "Word from west. From Garrin's spies. From the hills beyond the Tivar valley."

Senjar's jaw tightened. "Speak."

"The Governor's raised his banners. Not just his. All the barons. All the small lords. We count twenty thousand. More still coming from the inland roads."

Senjar did not flinch. "And mages?"

"Nearly twenty. Confirmed."

Rell muttered a curse.

Senjar looked westward, toward the horizon. Toward the dry plains that sloped up to the high plateau near the provincial capital. Where Harren de Voss no longer waited. He prepared.

"Send word to Varrik and Kaelric," Senjar said calmly. "They're to return. Regroup here. We move no further until we stand united."

"Yes, Arl."

"And to the tribe," he added. "We need more than messengers. We need every warrior, and smith who can walk."

Rell looked at him sharply. "You want them to come this far west?"

"I want them to see it," Senjar said. "The stone. The sky. The cost. If we die here, let it not be with half our blood sitting behind the walls of Tathar's Cross."

Rell grinned darkly. "Then I'll ride myself. Bring them."

Senjar turned toward him. "Take four riders and the fastest horses. Bring me five thousand men."

"And if they question it?"

Senjar's voice dropped. "Tell them the Governor has drawn a line. And we are the blade that crosses it."

Rell nodded and turned sharply. His horse kicked dust behind it.

The wind stirred again across the plain.

Senjar sat tall in the saddle, eyes fixed toward the ridges that marked the road to the capital.

The wolf had come west.

The sun dipped behind the western hills when Kaelric arrived.

His column entered in silence: two thousand hardened men from the southern marches, dust-veiled and steel eyed, many bearing fresh nicks in their armor. They came in staggered lines, not like a parade, but like wolves returning from a hunt.

Senjar stood at the edge of the old camp they had claimed, high enough to see three valleys in all directions. He did not step forward, did not call out. He only waited, watching the riders wind their way toward the fires.

Kaelric dismounted first. His hair was soaked from the road, face half-shadowed by dusk. He saluted without ceremony.

"We took all three hill forts," he said. "One burned. One surrendered. The last held for a night."

"Losses?"

"Minor. A dozen dead. Forty wounded. They broke before we had to dig too deep."

Senjar nodded. "And Varrik?"

"Not far behind. He'll be here by night's end."

A pause.

Kaelric lowered his voice.

"You heard the numbers?"

"I did."

"Then you know we don't win this with charges. We win it with fear."

Senjar looked at him. "Fear cuts both ways."

Kaelric gave a dry smile. "Then we sharpen it first."

Before the fire had burned to coals, Varrik arrived.

He looked older somehow. A gash stitched high across his left shoulder, a band of black cloth tied at his throat. But he stood straight, eyes calm, posture firm.

"I've brought the mages back with me," he said without waiting for invitation. "Rasa is angry she didn't get to burn more. Kirel nearly torched a barn trying to test a new trick. Corien rode ahead. He's already scouting the pass near Eastmarsh."

Senjar motioned him inside the war tent.

The war map had been laid out again, now marked with new pins. Red circles for villages still loyal to the Governor. Black flags for Harkoraal claimed land. A wide crimson arc marked the enemy army, sweeping in like a rising tide from the south and east.

Senjar sat at the head of the table.

Kaelric leaned on one side, arms crossed. Varrik stood behind the firepit. Rasa, Kirel, and Aelynne remained outside with the guards.

Garrin entered last.

"They're encamped along the eastern bank of the Tivar," he said, unrolling a scroll.

"The Governor's personal banner sits at the hill fort above Dren's Crossing. It's a natural choke."

"How long before they march?" Varrik asked.

"A week," Garrin said. "Maybe less. Their supply lines are still unstable. They wait for the full count of their forces."

"Then we strike first," Kaelric said immediately. "Not directly. We harry their food routes. Burn their grain carts. Poison the river if we must."

Varrik shook his head. "We do that, they turn on every village between here and the capital. These lords won't bleed slow. They'll torch the whole province just to deny it to us."

Senjar spoke softly. "No. We don't attack the supply lines."

Both commanders turned.

"We let them come," Senjar said. "We let them taste confidence. And then, when they stand upon the plain beneath Dren's Crossing... we break them."

Kaelric narrowed his eyes. "You want to fight a force twice our size in the open?"

"No," Senjar said. "I want them to think that's what we're doing."

He moved a small wooden token across the board one shaped like a crescent. He placed it behind the line of red.

"When Rell returns with the rest," he said, "we feint east. We make them think we're overextending. They'll rush to strike. And when they do"

"we strike their flanks," Kaelric finished.

"From the hills," Varrik added.

"And with fire," Garrin said grimly.

Senjar looked at each of them.

"This is not the Empire's army. These are nobles. Pride marchers. They've never faced a tribe that fights to survive. They think we want land. Titles. Revenge."

He leaned in.

"But we fight to finish it."

A long silence held the tent.

Then Kaelric grinned.

"I'll start digging trenches."

Varrik nodded. "I'll speak to the mages."

Senjar turned to Garrin.

"I want to know about their every move, Garrin."

"Then we prepare."

He stepped back, gaze sweeping the board once more.

"Tell the blacksmiths we need double the arrow count. I want spears cut for the horses and spare shields for the front line. Kirel gets first pick of oil barrels. Gavren when he returns will handle mana wells. Every edge. Every knife."

He paused at the edge of the tent.

"And we pray the tribe comes in time."

The rain had come that morning a hard, brief downpour that soaked the tents and left the earth soft underfoot. When it passed, the sky broke clean, blue and sharp.

Across the ridgeline near the Tivar Crossing, Harkoraal's encampment stirred like a beast rolling to its feet.

A courier galloped in from the north trail.

He leapt from his saddle, splattered in mud. His eyes locked on Kaelric, who stood beside the eastern watchpost.

"Rell has crossed the stone hills," he said. "He rides with five thousand."

Kaelric's mouth split into a wolf's grin.

Senjar was already at the ridge, watching the horizon from atop a raised embankment. His horse stood nearby, armored in light barding, black and blood red.

Beside him, Varrik surveyed the trenches dug along the slope traps laid, archers positioned behind stone bulwarks, mages embedded into forward positions.

And below them, stretching across the plain: the Governor's army.

Nearly twenty thousand strong. Rows upon rows of polished armor, fluttering banners, and shining steel helms. From this height, they looked like a flood of ants bearing swords.

Kaelric arrived, the courier behind him.

"Rell's coming," he said. "We'll have the full host before dusk."

Senjar didn't look back. "How many cavalry he's bringing?"

"Two thousand. Rest are foot and pike and archers."

"Enough."

He pointed across the field.

The enemy camp was shifting.

Banners moved. Horns blew. And from behind a long central ridge, new standards appeared white falcons, gold thorns, blue lions all the banners of the lesser barons, brought together now in a single warband.

"They think they outnumber us," Varrik said.

"They do," Kaelric muttered. 

Down below, dust began to stir. The front columns of the Governor's force were marching.

The battle had begun.