Legacy's Edge

“Duncan.” Alaric’s voice carried the weight of command as he turned to the man standing beside him. His eyes swept across their encampment, a makeshift fortress of hastily constructed defenses nestled amidst the untamed wilderness. The sun was just up and moving higher, the sky brightening rapidly with its climb.

The enemy had arrived and were in the process of deploying around the camp, sealing them off. In short, they were encircled. There was no longer any getting out, no avenue of escape. But that was not Alaric’s plan and certainly not his goal. He wanted the enemy to come to them, to throw themselves against his defenses. He badly wanted to destroy this enemy force and, given the chance, would do just that.

“My lord?” Duncan asked.

“You will lead our defense on the right flank, the east wall,” Alaric declared, pointing in that direction.

“Aye, my lord. You can count upon me.”

“Jourgan, you are to secure the rear, the west wall. Keever, the south is yours. As for myself, I shall stand firm in the north.”

Gathered around him, his bannermen looked on with somber and exceptionally grim expressions. Before any fight, no one was ever themselves or ready for what was to come, the violence, the maiming and killing. Emotion was always strong—unease, fear, worry—as were thoughts of one’s mortality, faith, and the hereafter. There was no avoiding it, no helping it, and no alleviating such feelings, at least not easily. Keeping control of it all was what separated a man of action from one who was not, one who gibbered in fear.

His bannermen were looking not just grim, but unhappy and, Alaric conceded, they had a right to be. The enemy had gotten the jump on them and, more importantly, surprised him. Alaric knew in the future that could not happen, not again, for it could easily prove fatal. He would have to be more vigilant.

“I wish you had kept Grayson and his troops within the safety of our camp, my lord,” Keever lamented, a note of frustration in his tone. He gestured toward the north, the direction from whence the enemy had come. “We have good defensive walls that will take serious effort to overcome, and we have the advantage of interior lines to shift reserves about as needed. By sending Grayson off with a hundred of your finest, you’ve thinned our numbers considerably, made the job of holding this camp much more difficult.”

Alaric’s gaze shifted to Keever, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly as he regarded the other man. It was rare for anyone to question his decisions, yet the critique was not without merit. By dispatching a portion of their number, Grayson and his contingent, beyond the confines of their encampment, Alaric had reduced their defensive capability and capacity. As Keever had said, he made it more difficult to hold the camp.

Instead of commanding a force of over three hundred strong, his defenders now numbered slightly over two hundred. Each man was tasked with defending a small stretch of wall. Their numbers had been so thinned that barely forty warriors could be spared for each wall, not accounting for the reserves he allocated for breaches in the line.

“Grayson knows what he’s doing,” Alaric countered firmly, betraying none of the uncertainty that the shadow of impending conflict often brought. It was critically important he remain in control of the situation, for he was their leader. They would look to him for strength in the coming hours. He could not afford to have that undermined.

He gestured broadly toward one of the walls. “We are at a disadvantage here, yes. The enemy is out there, surrounding us, boxing us in. If I had kept Grayson here, we would be without options, avenues of maneuver. I saw an opportunity and took it. With a force in the field and the way the enemy are currently deploying—that indicates they don’t know about Grayson. It gives us a real chance to pull off a surprise, a serious upset on the gaming table, shocking our enemy to their core.”

“And if this gamble doesn’t pay off?” Jourgan asked.

“We worry about holding the walls of the camp,” Alaric said, understanding he had to stamp out this kind of talk, for if given leeway, it would continue. “That, gentlemen, is our only concern. When Grayson hits—and trust that he will; we just need to give him time—we will go over the wall and take the fight to the enemy, hammering them straight in the teeth. They will not be expecting that.”

“And when will he strike?” Keever interjected, his tone laced with skepticism, a mirror to the tension that gripped them all. “What if he gets lost out there and turned around, like our scouts did in the night?”

Grayson was on his own and effectively out of communication and contact. “He will attack when he’s ready and not before. Our job will be to hold at all costs until then, and I seriously doubt he will get lost. Let me worry about Grayson. You worry about the walls you’ve been charged with holding.”

“I don’t like it,” Keever confessed, his unease clear, a sentiment likely shared by the other two, though they didn’t show it overly much.

Alaric was starting to become irritated. He did not need this headache right now, this division or questioning of his tactics. He hardened his tone so his bannermen could not mistake his meaning. “The die is cast, and we are bound to the path I’ve chosen. I’ve committed us to this course of action, and that is the end of the discussion. Our focus must be singular: defense, until Grayson strikes. Then, we go over to the attack.”

“We will hold, my lord,” Duncan declared firmly, carrying a blend of assurance and resolve. He cast a significant glance toward Keever, cutting off any potential rebuttal with a stern look.

“We will do it,” Jourgan echoed. “There is simply no other option but to hold and force them back.”

Alaric’s gaze swept over the encampment, where his men stood vigilant, shields in hand and swords sheathed, ready to hastily move up to the defensive walls and behind the crude wooden barricade that had been constructed the night before. Only the sentries stood above and in view of the enemy. The air was thick with anticipation. He could feel it as the sergeants and corporals moved amongst the men working to soothe and cool nerves.

Alaric considered what he had on hand, reviewing his options. Beyond the reserve of fifty men at his command, he counted twenty bowmen amongst his forces. They’d already been given their orders, and once the fighting began, they would move to the walls. The value of skilled archers was clear to him, and Alaric felt they had too few.

“In the future, we need more bowmen,” he mused to himself. Skilled men with bows could turn the tide of a battle, their arrows sowing discord and confusion, wrecking organization, not to mention thinning enemy ranks from a distance before the main lines even engaged one another.

Alaric made a mental note, when there was time, to prioritize the recruitment and training of such men. The effectiveness of archers in altering a battlefield’s dynamics was undeniable. He had no idea how many bowmen the enemy had on hand and hoped it was not a goodly number, for they could make him pay dearly for holding this camp. For now, though, Alaric would make do with what they had on hand.

“Hello in there!” The call, unexpected and commanding attention, cut through the tension that hung like a thick fog over the encampment. It beckoned their attention toward the north wall, momentarily diverting their focus from the grim contemplations of the impending attack. “I would speak with your leader.”

With a measured glance exchanged among his bannermen, Alaric took the initiative, his steps deliberate as he navigated through the painfully thin ranks of his men. These warriors, poised for battle with shields ready and swords resting in their sheaths, parted to allow him and his bannermen passage.

Ascending the reverse slope of the berm, Alaric climbed to the top and stopped at the barricade of tree trunks. An enemy line was arrayed before the north wall, much thicker than his own. Alaric scanned until his gaze fell upon the figures of two men standing a mere ten yards beyond the protective trench and ahead of the assault force. Alaric moved over so he was facing them more directly.

One of the two was a young man in his early twenties, accompanied by an older counterpart, who stood at his side. Both were armored, their attire a blend of practicality and status, with brown leather pants and helmets complementing their chest armor. The younger man, in particular, caught Alaric’s eye. Fair of face and handsome, his armor so polished it gleamed under the newly risen sun, a display of wealth and care that spoke of noble birth, a pampered upbringing. He held his horse-plumed helmet casually under one arm, and his long, brown hair was neatly tied back into a single braid. Yet it was the smile, near perfect with overly white teeth, self-assured and bordering on arrogant, that solidified Alaric’s immediate distaste for him.

Alaric glanced back at Jasper, who stood a few feet back and off to the side, bow in hand, staring outward at the enemy. Ezran and Thorne were with him. Alaric considered asking Jasper to cut down this arrogant bastard, then changed his mind. He needed to buy time for Grayson. He also needed the enemy to strike first and keep attacking. Killing their leader might see the opposite reaction. They might actually go home.

“Malvanis,” Duncan murmured with a hint of disdain, clearly recognizing the young nobleman. The name alone was enough to elicit a collective unease amongst Alaric’s bannermen.

“Who?” Alaric inquired, his gaze shifting to Duncan for clarification as he surveyed the scene before him.

“Laval’s eldest son,” Duncan returned. “He’s a spoiled little shit, no better than his father, but much less bright and capable.”

“He is at that,” Jourgan chimed in, echoing the sentiment. “He is also a bully, a thug accustomed to getting his way.”

Keever remained quiet, his expression souring further into a deep scowl. His discomfort was tangible, manifesting not in words, but in the restless shifting of his stance and the almost hateful glare he directed not just toward Malvanis, but also toward the enemy infantry arrayed into a battle line behind Laval’s son.

Alaric’s attention briefly returned to the enemy ranks to his front, noting the neat line they had formed up into and estimating it to be at least seventy-five strong. Their attire and armament were of a simpler make than that of his own men’s: plain leather chest protection, mostly for warmth, paired with crude, inexpensive helmets and shields. A quick glance toward the other sections of the camp confirmed a similar deployment of enemy forces and dress—light infantry poised and ready for the attack, to be thrown against his defenses.

Despite the clear difference in equipment, Alaric could not help but weigh the strategic implications of what he was up against. His own men, clad in the more durable and expensive chainmail, offered a distinct advantage in terms of protection and combat effectiveness. His bannermen’s men-at-arms and the local militia, though equipped in a manner more akin to the enemy, still benefitted from the defensive positioning provided by Alaric, placing them behind a trench and the walls, along with the barricade.

“Say there, is that you, Duncan?” Malvanis called out. “What are you doing in there?”

“Supporting my lord,” Duncan’s voice carried back firmly, a declaration of his allegiance that needed no further elaboration.

Malvanis’s gaze swept over the group assembled atop the wall. However, his attention fixed upon Alaric, a mix of curiosity and calculation evident in his eyes, even from a distance. “I know all of you, Jourgan, and Keever, but I do not know you, sir,” he said, pointing directly at Alaric.

“I am lord and earl of these lands, and you are trespassing,” Alaric stated resolutely, leaving no room for ambiguity about the stakes at hand.

“Am I?” Malvanis responded, feigning surprise and innocence. “I had not realized that.” He paused. “And that would make you Alaric, then. I had heard you’d returned from Crusade. Bad timing for you, if I might say so.”

“You will turn your men around and leave my lands,” Alaric commanded, his gaze flickering down into the trench before the wall. The previous night’s labor, under his direct supervision, had seen the placement of sharpened stakes within the trench. Alaric had insisted upon it, a direct result of hard experience, campaigning in the holy land, and the paranoia he had acquired over the years when it came to moving through hostile lands. Though the number of stakes was modest, they were there nonetheless, and the enemy would have to deal with them when they assaulted his camp.

A fleeting impulse to smile at the thought of the enemy assaulting his position crossed his mind, but he suppressed it. Instead, he focused on the immediate challenge, provoking Malvanis into initiating an immediate attack. When he did, Alaric would begin thinning the enemy’s numbers.

“Is that all?” Malvanis asked. “Do you have any more demands of me?”

“No, not really. You will turn tail and leave my lands posthaste,” Alaric reiterated. This time, he smiled broadly. “Tuck your tail between your legs and go home to your daddy. Tell him a man of strength rules these lands, one he should fear.”

A grumble of approval ran through the men behind Alaric. He surveyed his men, running his gaze across the ranks, ready to move up and onto the wall.

“Turn tail?” Malvanis echoed, his voice laced with disbelief. “Surely you can’t be serious?”

Alaric’s response was unwavering, his tone cold as steel. “Leave, or I’ll kill every single one of you I can get my hands on. I will murder you all stone dead.” His rage swelled as he gazed out at Laval’s son. Before him was one of the men directly responsible for the sorry state of his lands, the suffering his people had endured. It was even likely that Malvanis and the officer with him had personally directed those efforts, the raping, pillaging, and killing, not to mention directly participating. He made a point of looking directly at Laval’s son and pointed with a finger. “If I get my hands on you, Malvanis, you’ll personally wish I hadn’t. That is a promise.”

Malvanis, momentarily taken aback by the bold threat, turned to consult with the older man beside him. They spoke in low tones. This officer—clearly the commander of Malvanis’s infantry—shared a brief, significant look with the young noble, gave a nod, gestured at the camp, and spoke some more. Alaric could not hear what was said. He got the feeling the officer was assuring Malvanis that they could take the camp from Alaric.

“We can expect no mercy from them,” Duncan said. “They are here to seize Dekar.”

“I agree,” Alaric said.

“You are outnumbered and outmatched, sir,” Malvanis retorted after he had finished speaking with the officer. “But—perhaps you mistake our intentions. We do not invade your lands but are here to restore order to Dekar.”

“You expect me to believe that bullshit?” Alaric spat back. “Try selling it to someone else and see if they buy it.”

“We can work together. My father wishes to return peace to this land.”

“That is why I am here,” Alaric countered, asserting his authority over his domain. “I had heard there were bandits operating out of Tyfel. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you? Wait,”—Alaric gestured at Malvanis’s men—“these are the bandits, aren’t they? These are the pieces of shit that have been terrorizing Dekar.”

“Tyfel, you say?” Malvanis asked, looking over at the officer with him. After a moment, the man simply shrugged. “I am afraid we don’t know anything about that.”

“This road only goes to one place, Tyfel, and that’s where you’re marching from,” Duncan said.

“As I said, we know nothing about such things,” Malvanis said. “Perhaps we can assist you in pacifying your lands.”

“That will be the day,” Jourgan grumbled.

Alaric raised his voice and gestured at Malvanis’s line of soldiers. “Your men are going to find terrorizing regular people, civilians, is very different than tangling with my trained and experienced soldiers, my veterans of the Crusade. On that, you have my word.” Alaric paused, then turned and shouted for all he was worth, “Man the walls!”

All around the camp, with armor chinking heavily, his men rushed up the reverse side of the berm to their positions on the wall, their shields held at the ready. Alaric imagined it looked impressive from the enemy’s perspective. In fact, he hoped it had, for he wanted them to doubt what they were about to undertake.

The officer at Malvanis’s side whispered something to him, prompting another series of words between the two. When they finished, Malvanis turned back to Alaric. He pointed at the ground. “We are here to stay. Dekar will be ours before the sun sets.”

“Tell me, why are we even talking, then? Why are you wasting my time? Your daddy clearly sent you to do a man’s job. As you will soon find out, he should have come himself, but I am sure he doesn’t have the balls.”

This blunt taunt elicited a ripple of laughter from the nearest of Alaric’s men, a sound that carried defiance and camaraderie in the face of conflict.

Malvanis’s reaction was instantaneous, a volcanic eruption, as his composure shattered with offense. His eyes, alight with indignation and rage, swept across the defenders manning the walls. “You bastard! No one talks to me or my family that way. We will see how smug you are after I am done with you and this little fort you’ve built. Today, we take no prisoners. We are going to kill every last one of you. On that, you have my personal word.”

There was a deep unhappy grumbling at that last bit from Alaric’s men. Malvanis could not have provided better motivation had he tried, for the man had just made plain what he’d do, and Alaric knew his men would fight harder for it, sell themselves dearly.

“Like your father, I don’t think you have the balls,” Alaric shot back, the dismissiveness in his voice stark as he turned his back on Malvanis, a final gesture of contempt. He rapidly descended the berm and stepped out of view, his bannermen following closely. He stopped a few paces down from the wall when he was completely out of sight of the enemy.

“You are mine, Alaric,” Malvanis shouted in rage. “Do you hear me? You are mine, you bastard!”

“I think you pissed him off,” Jourgan said.

“That was the plan,” Alaric said calmly, though his rage still burned within his breast, fiery and hot. He intended to punish Malvanis and the men with him for all they had done.

“We are going to have a fight here soon enough,” Duncan remarked with a note of certainty. “He will lose face if he backs down, and he can’t have that. His father will surely punish him.”

“The moment they crossed the border, a fight was inevitable, whether at Tyfel or here,” Alaric responded. The die had been cast, and the time for words had passed. “Now, gentlemen, to your posts. Call for aid if you need it, but only if they make it up over the wall and are threatening to break into the camp proper.”

As the bannermen dispersed, moving off to take up their positions, Alaric’s attention was momentarily diverted. His eyes found Rikka, standing a short distance away, a figure of quiet strength. Bathed in sunlight, she looked otherworldly, intoxicating. Beside her was Kiera, both women talking amongst themselves.

Alaric’s presence drew their attention as he moved toward them, his approach prompting Rikka to meet his gaze. The air between them was charged with unspoken words, a recognition of the stakes they faced—not just the impending battle, but the secrets that lay beneath the surface and hidden away.

“Do not ask me to use my magic in this fight,” Rikka said before he could speak.

“Why?” Alaric asked, wondering what was wrong.

“The more energy I use, the more I cast, the longer it takes me to restore, to replace that which I have spent. In the last few days, I have used it to kill, and that takes time to replenish. I have a reserve, and spells I would prefer to save, but I do not wish to tap into that, not yet, not now. I use too much, and it may be months before I can cast another spell, be useful when the need is great.”

“Then do not use your magic. I will solve this fight the old-fashioned way, with sword and shield.”

“If the situation is dire and there is no other option,” Rikka said, “I shall join the battle, but be warned, if it comes to that, what I have left is mainly nasty and powerful. It is not lightly used. Think of it as—a last resort, one I will use to protect you and you alone.”

A massed shout came outside the walls of the camp, an ominous precursor to the storm of battle about to break. This thunderous shout pulled Alaric’s focus sharply back to the immediacy of the looming conflict, to the north wall and his men manning it.

“My lord,” Kiera began, drawing his attention. Her glance briefly met Rikka’s, a silent exchange laden with shared understanding, before finding Alaric once more. “There is something we must discuss. It is important.”

“Speak,” Alaric said.

“I cannot fight at your side today. I—I now have a more important obligation, one I must honor above all else.”

Alaric eyed her, understanding dawning as he looked between the two women. He had been expecting this conversation for some weeks. That it came now, on the eve of a fight, was a little concerning, but still not unexpected. Had it been Rikka’s declaration of not using her magic? Had that been the catalyst for Kiera to finally make her move with him, to make her decision to move on? It did not matter, not now. “You are released from my service, then.”

“What?” The surprise in Kiera’s voice mirrored the shock in her gaze, along with some hurt. She had clearly expected him to argue, to protest. She opened her mouth to speak. Alaric held up a hand, forestalling her.

“I am not upset, let alone disappointed. You have served me with honor, done more than I could ever ask as part of my Shadow Guard.” His gaze went to Rikka and lingered there. He looked back upon Kiera. “But a lumina needs her Luminary. You are her protector, her guardian, one of the last Luminaries around, the shield upon which the enemy’s sword will break. That is the way of things, or at least the way they were during the last days of the Ordinate.”

The enemy’s fervor mounted outside the camp again as yet another shout rent the air, this one louder than the last. They were clearly working themselves up to a fevered pitch, a mounting storm about to break.

“Thank you, my lord,” Kiera responded, her voice a mere whisper. There were tears in her eyes. Alaric took them to be tears of relief.

“Besides, you’re not going anywhere, and Rikka has become—” Alaric stopped himself. What had Rikka become to him? He thought of the nights spent together, the touch of her skin against his when they lay next to one another, the warmth she generated, the smell of her hair, her very presence—the void that had been filled in his life, a companion who asked so little in return but who had given herself unreservedly. He did not fully know her, not yet, but it all somehow just felt correct… right, as if they had always been meant for one another. “Rikka has become dear to my heart. I would feel better with you watching over her, shadowing her, as you dogged my steps for all those years.”

Rikka’s gaze had locked with his, eyes watering and becoming glossy at his words. She gave him a slight nod of approval and thanks.

“You knew from the beginning?” Kiera accused, more as a statement than a question. “You knew this would happen!”

“When I saw you both repeatedly deck-side on Magerie, I suppose I did,” Alaric confirmed, acknowledging the depth of his understanding of the growing bond between Kiera and Rikka—a lumina and her Luminary, a connection profound and essential. The old tales and histories spoke of such things. And looking at them, it felt right, correct. His ring had even begun to warm. “Or at least I suspected it would end up being so, that you two would become bonded in purpose and mission before our god. It is as it was meant to be. That’s how I see things.”

“Yes,” Rikka agreed fervently. “It is.”

Alaric turned away as another shout from the enemy roared over them. He felt himself scowl and decided it was time to return the favor.

“What are we going to do, boys?” Alaric called out, shouting loudly, rallying his men with a leader’s resolve. “I want to hear it! What are we going to do?”

“Kill!” came the massed and expected response. The sound of the shout thundered on the air. It warmed his heart.

“I can’t hear you!” Alaric shouted back. “What are we going to do?”

“Kill, kill, kill!” came the roar. “Kill… kill… KILL!”

Satisfied, Alaric bowed his head. It was time to commend his soul into his god’s keeping. “Lord above and beyond, on this day of battle, we seek your favor, your blessing. Grant us the strength to vanquish the foes who stand before us. Watch over your brave warriors and spare them from the clutches of death and serious injury. May our victory be a testament to your glory. In your sacred name, I place my soul, trust, and hope, and those of my men.”

“Amen,” Rikka said quietly.

Alaric opened his eyes and looked at her. Her eyes were pools of deep emotion. Her gaze captivated his, locking him in place, freezing him in that moment. The world around them seemed to come to a complete stop. It was as if she were enchanting his soul. After a moment, he physically shook himself free, breaking the spell. He set his jaw as he regarded her. “Our conversation from earlier is far from done.”

“I know it,” Rikka said with a hint of sadness. “I know it only too well. It is inevitable.”

“Then you will tell me everything?”

“I will,” Rikka said, the sadness in her eyes growing. “Though in doing so, it may see the breaking of my heart.”

A horn shattered the air. This was followed by another tremendous shout from the enemy.

“Here they come!”