Legacy's Edge

As Alaric ate the last of his salted pork ration, he took a moment to allow the cool water from his canteen to wash it down. It was the beginning of the second day of their march and his leg muscles were stiff and sore from the prior day’s exertions. The air, crisp from the night’s embrace, carried the scent of dirt and the sour tang of rotting leaves, mingling with the smoky remnants of campfires. Alaric could also smell the foul stench from the latrines, which were on the other side of the camp.

It was still dark out and the forest was just starting to wake up, the birds calling to one another, but the encampment had been rousted more than a half hour before. Having eaten, all around, men were breaking down tents, packing up gear and equipment, and rolling blankets.

Though the sky was still dark, it was beginning to lighten a tad. The sun was likely about an hour, maybe a little longer, from peeking above the horizon and painting the sky in hues of orange and pink, setting the fallen dew-speckled leaves lying on the ground aglow and beginning to push back the night’s chill.

Before eating, Alaric had restarted his campfire. Almost sullenly, as if it did not wish to wake, the fire was now low-burning, shedding barely a modicum of warmth. It was generating more smoke than anything else. That did not bother Alaric much, for once the march resumed, he knew he would warm up soon enough.

Around him, the temporary camp of canvas and rope had come to life amidst the rustle of fabric and the soft clinks and chinks of metal, the jawing of the men filling the air. There were coughs, barks of laughter, curses, and the shouts of sergeants trying to bring order to the chaos. Despite the early hour, there was a sense of efficiency amongst them as the men prepared to continue their march.

Within the brief span of half an hour, Alaric estimated that the entire column would once again be formed up on the road that ran alongside the camp and prepared to begin threading their way through the forest, a moving serpent of leather, steel, determination, and most importantly, Alaric’s will.

Today’s march would be harder as they pushed on the last leg toward Tyfel and hitting the enemy. There would be fewer stops and breaks. Speed would be the watchword of the day—speed and haste.

He took the opportunity to stretch, attempting to chase away the stiffness that the unforgiving, hard ground had bestowed upon him—that, and the exertions from the previous day’s march. Rolling his neck, he felt a little better. Marching long distances while wearing armor was not the easiest of things. It took a toll upon the body, particularly the back and legs, not to mention the neck.

Behind him, Rikka emerged from their two-person tent. She looked up at the sky and then around at the forest outside the camp. She breathed in deeply and let it out slowly, as if being near the forest or just the act of camping recharged her being. Spotting him, she flashed a tired, slight smile and sat upon a log that had been placed before the fire as a seat. As if greeting her, the flame picked up a little, but not much. The fire was still putting out more smoke than anything else. As the breeze gusted, the smoke moved in her direction. She leaned away from it until the gust of wind subsided and the smoke moved away.

The night had offered little in the way of warmth as they slept on the ground, their only respite being the thick blankets they had shared and the natural heat emanating from Rikka’s body. She was like a furnace in the chill of the night. He had never felt anything like it. When he’d mentioned it to her, she had seemed surprised, as if it were perfectly normal. Last night, as the temperature dropped, Alaric had not complained, not in the slightest.

“What?” Rikka’s voice was tinged with fatigue. She’d caught him staring. Her appearance, though slightly disheveled, was captivating nonetheless. Strands of her dark hair twirled in the gentle morning breeze, framing her face in a wild, untamed manner.

“I was just enjoying the view.”

“Is that all?”

“I’ve never campaigned with a woman before,” Alaric admitted, his voice touched with bemusement. “I am finding it has its advantages, especially at night.”

“I am rather enjoying it myself,” Rikka confessed, tone infused with a warmth that pushed back the morning chill. “As long as you don’t get distracted from your duty and what really matters.”

He closed the distance between them, drawn by an invisible thread of companionship and something else that was growing within him, which he was hesitant to admit, even to himself. The world around them seemed to momentarily halt as he focused his entire attention upon her. Nearby, Ezran stood guard, his gaze watchful. Throughout the night, one of his Shadow Guard had stood sentry at all times.

“Why me?” Alaric asked plainly. “Why did you choose me?”

“We have already covered this, and you know well enough why.” She let go a breath and patted the log beside her. “Come, sit with me, at least for a moment—until duty calls you away.”

Figuring he had some time before Grayson came for him, Alaric obliged, settling onto the log next to her. Leaning into him, she placed her head against his shoulder, her body nestled closely against his. They sat there for a long moment, neither saying a thing. Though he was quite content, he suddenly felt a nagging sense of frustration about their relationship. The feeling had been growing by the day.

“Where are you from?” Alaric’s inquiry, while gentle, carried a need to understand the origins of this enigmatic woman. She had unexpectedly become an integral part of his life, and in such a short span too. She’d ensnared him, almost as thoroughly as a spider does a fly caught in its web. Alaric wasn’t a babe in the woods either. He’d had plenty of other women in his time, but none had gotten to him like Rikka.

Her voice was a soft murmur against the backdrop of the camp. “I already told you, I was drawn to find you. You may not have realized it, but you too were driven to find me. We were brought together for a purpose. Such is the way of our god, destiny.”

“Okay, but from where? Where are you from? Who is your family, your mother and father? Do you have any sisters or brothers? I would know these things about you,” Alaric pressed.

Rikka took her head from his shoulder and sat up straight. The air between them, a heartbeat ago filled with the warmth of their closeness, now held a tension. Her eyes were deep and mysterious as she looked at him, and in them, Alaric saw hesitation and something that almost looked like fear.

“No,” Rikka said firmly.

“What do you mean, no?”

“You do not want to know these things. You would think less of me.” She averted her eyes to the fire. “I think less of me.”

“I would not think less of you,” Alaric countered firmly, turning to face her fully. His gaze sought hers, an unspoken plea for trust. In his eyes, she was a mosaic of mysteries, a complex puzzle to be assembled, each piece more compelling than the last. Her cultured mannerisms, her refinement, her resilience, her inner strength—all these facets made her not just intriguing, but someone to be valued and understood on a deeper level. At least, he thought so. He reached up a hand and turned her face to look at him.

“I’m not so certain,” Rikka confessed. “Is it not enough that we were brought together for a reason, a purpose, something larger than ourselves? Why complicate things when everything is good between us? You like me well enough and I you, more than you can possibly imagine. I ask you, is that not enough?”

“Don’t you see? That is why I wish—I need to know more,” Alaric said. His words were not just a request, but a vow of sorts, a promise to venture beyond the surface of their acquaintance into the depths of understanding and acceptance and possibly more. In his earnestness, there lay an offer of a sanctuary, a space where secrets could be shared without fear of censure or repercussion, where the past did not dictate the worth of one’s character. If only she would trust him. If only she could see that.

“And if I was from the streets?” Rikka asked, her eyes alight with a defiant intensity. “Were you to learn I was born a commoner, a whore, or a thief, a murderer perhaps, a sinner, what then? Would I be more unattractive to your eyes, unpalatable, unacceptable in your presence?”

Alaric was taken aback, grappling with the hypotheticals she presented. The very notion seemed incongruous with the woman he had come to know and was beginning to care for deeply.

Indeed, she was a lumina, a wielder of holy magic, marked by their god for a higher purpose, one of the few, a chosen soul. Could his god have blessed someone so low? Would Eldanar have entrusted such a sacred gift to someone from the streets, someone society deemed unworthy, an untouchable? Or worse, someone from a profession that was considered sinful and wretched?

“Well?” she asked. “What would you do then? Cast me from your bed, your life? And if I carry your child, as Eldanar intends, what then? How will you see me? How will you view your child?”

“I am not sure,” Alaric confessed, his honesty speaking to the complexity of his feelings and beliefs. The admission was difficult, laying bare his own uncertainties and prejudices. He had always assumed that he’d end up with a wife from the nobility, someone from his own station, likely an arranged marriage between houses. That had always been the only choice available, someone his mother and father deemed worthy. But now, he was the earl and, though he had not met the man yet, accountable only to a king and his god.

“So, why test that? Why test our relationship with such unwelcome truths, a reality you are unprepared to deal with?” Rikka countered, her question enveloping the heart of the matter. It was a reminder of the precariousness of his understanding of her. “Leave things well enough alone, my Alaric.” She touched his chest armor. “I know who I am, my own worth. Our god knows too and has judged me acceptable for you. Leave it at that—please.”

“If we are to be together,” Alaric reasoned, “especially since you are growing in my heart, I would know you better.”

For a long moment, her eyes searched his face, then became watery as a trace of a smirk flickered, her demeanor shifting as she absorbed his words. She blinked the unshed tears away. Lowering her chin, she looked up at him with a mix of amusement and challenge. “I think you know me well enough as it is.”

“Do I?” Alaric pressed, his query more than a question—it was an entreaty, a yearning for deeper connection beyond the facades and the roles they played.

She opened her mouth to speak but was interrupted.

“Excuse me, my lord.” The voice was respectful yet insistent.

Alaric’s gaze shifted, locking onto Jaxen, who stood at a respectful distance from their campfire, next to Ezran, who was an immovable barrier barring the other’s path.

“I hope I am not interrupting?” Jaxen’s tone was laced with an undercurrent of unease. It was clear he had sensed something between him and Rikka.

Letting go a breath of resignation, Alaric stood. His eyes briefly met Rikka’s. “We will finish this one day soon.”

Almost reluctantly, she gave him a slight, sad nod.

“I can come back later,” Jaxen suggested, looking between the two of them.

“No, you’re not interrupting, not at all,” Rikka said to Jaxen. She stood. “I need to ready myself for the march.” With that, she made her retreat, ducking back into their tent and allowing the flap to fall back into place.

Ezran’s gaze flickered between Alaric and the newcomer as he sought confirmation from his lord. Alaric’s nod, subtle yet clear, was all the permission needed. The former ash man stepped aside, allowing Jaxen to proceed.

Alaric’s attention shifted to the pack that Jaxen carried. Duncan’s son set the pack down lightly on the ground at his feet.

“How can I help you?” Alaric inquired.

“I thought I might march with you today,” Jaxen suggested, his words carefully spoken to convey both a request and a deference to Alaric’s authority and right to say no. “That is, if you don’t mind, my lord.”

Realization dawned upon Alaric; Duncan’s hand might be at play here. The bannermen didn’t know him, not yet, and it was likely that Jaxen’s father wanted his son to ingratiate himself with their new lord, to learn more about him and gain some advantage for their family, along with insight.

“Don’t you have a horse?” Alaric asked.

“I do.”

“And still, you would walk?” Alaric pressed.

“I’ve always enjoyed hiking, marching. Honestly, I am much better at walking than I am at riding. Yesterday’s long journey to meet up with you left me with plenty of saddle sores.” His words carried a hint of self-awareness and a lightness that spoke to his character—a young man comfortable in his choices and in sharing a laugh at his own expense. His cheeks colored slightly with the admission, and he shifted almost uncomfortably.

Alaric couldn’t help but respond with a bark of a laugh. Jaxen’s explanation was simple yet, Alaric thought, somewhat convincing. “I like your humor. And yes, you may march with me this day. I welcome your company.”

“Thank you, my lord,” Jaxen responded with some relief, his gratitude seeming genuine.

Alaric glanced around at his campsite. It had been set off to the side and away from most of the other tents, allowing him and Rikka a semblance of privacy, where in reality, there was none. Someone would be by shortly to break down their tent and see it packed and stowed with the supply train that was hauled by mules. He decided it was time to get moving and organized for the day. He’d wasted enough time. He picked up Oathbreaker by its scabbard. With a satisfying click, he secured the weapon to his harness, then tied the leather strap tight around his waist.

Next came his cloak, which he slung over his shoulders with an ease born of habit. It settled comfortingly around him. He observed the orchestrated chaos of the camp once more, of dismantling the tents and the preparations for departure of those nearest. The mules had been hitched with their tackle and harnesses. They were already being loaded with gear and equipment. One began braying loudly in protest.

Between his own men, the town’s militia, and his bannermen, Alaric commanded a force of more than three hundred—a formidable number by any measure. Yet within that strength lay uncertainty, a segment of his force untested in the crucible of battle. The day ahead would be a trial by fire for many of the men not of Grayson’s company, a test of their courage, steadfastness, and resolve. He’d know more about their quality after the sun set.

“You have led men into battle before?” Jaxen’s question pierced through Alaric’s contemplations. He turned, gaze lingering on Jaxen, taking in the mix of eagerness and apprehension that marked the younger man’s demeanor.

It was a look he recognized from his own reflection of years past, before the realities of war and Crusade had tempered his youthful zeal, smothered it, really. Jaxen stood on the cusp of understanding, of experiences that would indelibly mark him, as they had Alaric. Under Alaric’s gaze, the boy shifted uncomfortably.

“Have you been in a fight before? Not a rough-and-tumble scrum, boys’ stuff, but a real fight—one with swords, where the other side is trying to kill you and yours stone dead?”

Jaxen hesitated a heartbeat. “I have.” His gaze dropped to the ground beneath their feet, as if in search of the words to convey his experience properly. “This fall, my father and I came across bandits. They ambushed us and tried to kill us, to take what was ours. We got them, but not before they killed two of our number, loyal servants I had grown up with. That fight was not what I expected, what I thought killing would be like. I… I did not enjoy taking a life. I’ve thought of it often, for it was a close thing. Fate could have easily seen me and my father fodder for the worms.”

Alaric nodded, understanding the weight of Jaxen’s confession, the dissonance between expectation and reality, between the notion of valor and the visceral truth of violence and the consequences that followed, the shattering of youthful beliefs.

“Well,” Alaric said with an unhappy breath as he thought back, “my first true fight where I took another’s life was in a battle. That was certainly not what I thought it was going to be.”

Jaxen gave a nod, his gaze locked on Alaric.

“The same goes for leading men into battle,” Alaric shared, his voice carrying the burden of command, of decisions made in the heat of conflict. “Mistakes cost lives, and even when you do everything correct, people still manage to get killed. Afterwards, you have to live with that, with your choices or lack of them, and it is not a good feeling.” Alaric paused for a moment as he sucked in a breath and then immediately released it. “I think it should not be a good feeling, but a bad one—one that keeps you up at night.”

“So, you have led men in battle?” Jaxen pressed, seeking confirmation.

Was he perhaps looking for a mentor? A guide through the uncertain terrain of warfare and leadership? Alaric wasn’t certain he was ready for a student, someone to teach. On the other hand, he might need to take the kid on, especially if he hoped to grow the number of men he had under arms, to increase Dekar’s strength and military power. One company of infantry simply wasn’t going to cut it. He’d need to raise more men in defense of his holdings.

Also, as Dekar prospered, so too would Duncan’s holdings and the men who would serve his bannermen. Besides, eventually, Jaxen would succeed his father. He’d need to learn to lead, and Alaric would need effective leaders beyond Grayson. There was no doubt in his mind about that.

“Many times, I’ve led others into the fight,” Alaric affirmed, thinking back to the question on leadership, the simplicity of his response belied by the gravity of his gaze. “It is not something I enjoy doing, but I’ve gotten good at it, better than some others I’ve known.” His admission was not one of pride, but of acceptance, a recognition of the role he played and the skills honed in service of necessity and one’s duty.

Jaxen gave a grave nod. It was clear to Alaric he had impressed him, though that had not been his intention.

“Do you hope to lead men in battle one day?” Alaric turned the inquiry back on Jaxen, a question that was both a reflection and a challenge, inviting Jaxen to confront the realities behind his aspirations, whether he realized that or not. Regardless, Alaric already knew the answer he would receive. At Jaxen’s age, he would have said the same.

“I do,” Jaxen said.

“Then you have a lot to learn, more than you believe.” Alaric spoke not only of the skills and strategies that command required, but also of the burdens it imposed—the decisions that would rest on Jaxen’s shoulders, the lives that would depend on his wisdom and the courage needed to truly lead.

“My father says so too,” Jaxen conceded.

“Then your father is wise. You should listen to him.”

The moment was interrupted as Ezran called out, “My lord. Something has happened.”

Alaric’s gaze shifted to the former ash man, noticing the seriousness that marked his posture and the direction of his pointing hand. He followed Ezran’s gesture and saw Grayson approaching, the captain’s brisk pace and grim expression signaling the gravity of the situation. Something had indeed happened, and Alaric was sure whatever it was, was not good. Then Grayson was striding up to him.

“What is it?” Alaric asked, his voice steady despite the tension that the captain’s demeanor evoked within him. Alaric had long since learned to keep his head, no matter how bad things got. That was one of the things others struggled with, but not him.

“The enemy at Tyfel,” Grayson said. “They broke camp and are marching upon us.”

“What?” Alaric demanded. That suggested the enemy knew he was on the way.

“One of our advance scouts just rode in to warn us. The enemy broke camp and began marching just after midnight. A rider had come in shortly before they formed up. It seems they got word of our coming for them, that we were on the way, and decided to come bring the fight to us.”

Alaric glanced in the direction of the road. The evening before, he had received news from one of their scouts that the enemy was still at Tyfel, sitting tight and doing nothing much of anything. If they had marched just after midnight, that meant the enemy were now close at hand—that was, if they made good time of it. Alaric’s mind was awhirl. Had one of the bannermen betrayed him and sent word, warning Laval’s men? Was one or more in league with the duke? It was a troubling thought.

Alaric resisted glancing at Jaxen, who he knew was listening intently. Out of the corner of his eye, he could read the worry plastered across his youthful face. There was no proof that Alaric had been betrayed, but the thought of it nagged at him. For the moment, Alaric had to accept the oaths made were genuine. A messenger might have arrived from the town, another spy, one that had slipped around the line of march or, more likely, left before Alaric had even taken back the keep from Masterson. That he thought the more likely explanation.

“How close are they?” Alaric asked.

“The vanguard is a little more than a mile out, my lord.” Grayson’s response confirmed Alaric’s worst fears. The enemy was not just approaching; they were almost upon him, the distance a mere whisper of space that separated the calm before the storm from the chaos of battle. “Our scout was pursued by one of theirs, up and to the camp itself.”

That told him the enemy most definitely knew he was here and encamped. The immediacy of the threat left no room for doubt, hesitation, or second-guessing. Alaric found himself at the precipice of a decisive moment, one that would test the mettle of his leadership, the loyalty of his followers, and the strength of their collective resolve, not to mention the future of Dekar. With the enemy so near, each decision, each order, would be crucial in the orchestration of their defense and the outcome of the fight to come.

Alaric’s tactical mind engaged, parsing the details to find some advantage in what appeared to be a bad situation. His men were rested, a significant benefit given the unexpected advance of the enemy, who would be badly fatigued after marching all night.

The presence of the defensive walls they had erected, not to mention the trench and the surrounding forest, provided not just a physical barrier, but tactical options. The forest could prove to be especially advantageous.

“Why did the scouts not report sooner, tell us the enemy was on the march?” Alaric asked. “What kept them? Surely our scouts should have made better time, especially since they were mounted.”

“The enemy were marching along the road,” Grayson reported. “Our men were forced to take to the forest and got turned around in the darkness. They had to work their way through the trees and about the enemy before they could make their way to us. That took time.”

Rikka emerged from the tent, her expression mirroring the seriousness of their conversation. It was clear she had heard everything. She looked far from happy, worried even.

“How large is the enemy force?” Alaric asked, glancing from her back to Grayson. “Do we know?”

“At least five hundred foot, maybe slightly more,” the captain reported, a number that dwarfed Alaric’s force considerably.

“That many?” Alaric’s reaction was not just one of surprise, but of recalibration, assessing their own capabilities against the daunting size of the approaching enemy infantry.

Grayson’s nod, a silent affirmation of the challenge they faced, cemented the reality of their predicament. “The scouts seemed fairly confident in their count.”

“What will we do?” Jaxen asked. “Fall back and retreat?”

Alaric glanced over at Jaxen and felt himself frown slightly, his thoughts awhirl as he looked away, thinking furiously. This information required a reassessment of their position, a strategic pivot that would leverage their advantages—the men, the defensive fortifications, and the surrounding forest—to counter the numerical superiority of their foes.

“Well,” Alaric said, after a moment’s more thought, “it will take some time for them to come up and get on line for an attack. I see no need to budge from the camp and fall back, to give up what we have, good defensive walls with plenty of men to man them and an outer trench to boot. More importantly, the enemy are coming to us, and we will have some time to prepare.”

“Maybe a little more than a half hour before they arrive, then some more as they deploy, and yes, my lord,” Grayson agreed, “we do have some advantages.”

“We do.” Alaric thought some more, scanning the forest that surrounded their camp. He was certain they were under direct observation. “Immediately push skirmishers out and into the trees about the camp. Any scouts the enemy have out there, I want them running for their lives and doing everything but their job of watching us. It must be done quickly, understand?”

“Yes, my lord,” Grayson said. “And after that?”

“Take half of the company out and into the forest, the best of our veterans. Move to the east, work your way out around and behind the enemy. When the fighting begins, wait and then when you judge best”—Alaric brought his fist to his palm—“hit them from the rear, and hard. With any luck, you will catch them with their focus on us and unaware of your presence. I want you to come from the direction they marched, from the road. That should rob them of any feeling of safety and security from that quarter, letting them know that they’ve been cut off from possible retreat. I am hoping to generate a general panic.”

“Yes, my lord,” Grayson said eagerly.

“You mean to fight against a numerically superior force?” Jaxen asked. “One that is nearly twice our number?”

“I do, and it won’t be the first time,” Alaric said firmly and looked back at Grayson. “When they arrive, they will likely want to talk. I’ll make sure I pick a fight and fix the enemy’s attention firmly here, killing as many as I can as they throw themselves against our defenses. That should give you the time you need to loop around and behind.”

“Yes, my lord. It should.”

Alaric looked over at Jaxen. The younger man appeared worried, almost frightened. A thought struck Alaric. “Do you really want to learn how to lead?”

“I do,” Jaxen affirmed with a nod.

“Then go with Grayson. He helped teach me. Watch and learn. More importantly, listen to him.” Alaric shifted his attention to Grayson. “Keep him alive and from doing something stupid, like you did with me.”

“As you command, my lord.”

Alaric looked back at Jaxen, who suddenly seemed terribly excited by the prospect of what was to come. He had lost some of his apprehension. Alaric hardened his tone. “Do as he says, and not more, understand?”

“I do, my lord.” Jaxen bowed his head in acceptance.

“Grayson.” Alaric turned back to the captain. “We don’t have a lot of time and need to get moving. Let’s call the men to arms and put this plan into motion.”