Legacy's Edge

A solitary arrow landed a few feet away, hammering down into the ground. Alaric barely paid it any mind. The noise of the fight was an entity in itself, a tempest of human turmoil, strife, and martial discord that rent the air, clawing painfully at the ears. Men’s voices were raised in a tumultuous cacophony of agony and aggression—screams, intermingling with raw yells, oaths, and curses flung from one warrior to another.

Metal clashed against metal; swords met in a shrill chorus of steel, while shields produced deep, resonating thunks as blows were parried. Occasionally, arrows sliced through the tension-laden atmosphere, their presence announced by hissing and buzzing—ominous harbingers of death, the pitch and timbre of their flight altering eerily with their proximity.

Amidst this maelstrom of sound and fury, Alaric moved against the backdrop of chaos. His grip was firm on the shield he bore. With measured steps, he traversed the path behind the line holding the wall, gaze sweeping the fighting before him with keen scrutiny.

This assault marked the enemy’s third attempt to overcome his defenses. The initial two attacks had been met and ultimately repelled, pushed back after a brutal and hard fight, the enemy having only tested two of the camp’s walls during those assaults.

However, this time, the enemy had launched a powerful effort against all four walls at the same time. It was a clear attempt to put as much pressure as possible everywhere all at once and limit how Alaric could deploy his reserves. Despite having marched all night and launched two prior assaults, the enemy had come on with unchecked aggression. That spoke to their quality and motivation. Though poorly equipped, they were clearly well-trained and led.

Yet Alaric remained undaunted about their prospects. Though in the prior attacks he had drawn additional strength from the two walls not under attack, the reserves under his command were still uncommitted and waited to be called to action.

The fighting along his wall was brutal, hard, unrelenting savagery as man worked to kill his fellow man. The enemy were doggedly working their way up and out of the trench, scaling the wall to strike at those holding it, a child’s game of King of the Hill, only these stakes were much higher than a bruised ego.

Over a dozen of Alaric’s men had already been wounded, some dragging themselves with the last vestiges of their strength to the aid station nestled within the camp’s heart, where Father Ava worked. Others, who were too badly injured or had not the strength, were helped and carried back by comrades.

As he walked along the wall behind his men, he kept his shield up in the direction of the enemy, in the event someone took aim at him with a bow. The line he commanded, the one holding the north wall, was a fragile barrier of flesh and steel against the enemy’s oncoming tide of rage. His men, using the crude barricade as cover, fought with a primal intensity behind it and their shields. With their swords, they thrust and jabbed at the enemy, for the closeness of the melee left little room for the wide arcs of slashing strikes.

Alaric saw an enemy combatant manage to claw his way out of the trench’s grasp, pulling himself up and over the barricade between two defenders who were engaged and could not deal with the man. He carried only a sword and was in the process of standing, when one of the corporals, moving behind the line, like Alaric, stepped forth and bashed the man directly in the face with his shield, knocking him violently into the trench. An agonized scream followed, likely the result of being impaled by one of the stakes below.

The sudden twang of a bowstring cut through the noise of battle, pulling Alaric’s attention away from the melee at the wall. Just a yard off, Jasper, who had been following, had aimed and loosed, the missile flying through the narrow space between two men to his front to strike the enemy.

Alaric’s gaze lingered on Jasper for a heartbeat, witnessing the focused calm as he rapidly nocked yet another arrow, aimed, and released. He had never met anyone better with a bow than Jasper. The man was freakishly good and rarely missed what he aimed at.

Alaric saw the arrow striking home—hitting a figure standing on the other side of the trench, likely a sergeant. The man had been encouraging his men forward, into the trench and attack. The arrow took him just above the hip and partially spun the sergeant around, sending him lurching forward. At the trench’s edge, he lost his footing and tumbled headfirst, disappearing from sight, like a shadow at dusk.

Alaric whirled as one of his men, barely a breath away, crumpled to the ground, an arrow shaft protruding grotesquely from his left eye socket. Beside him, another dropped, struck down in rapid succession, then another. An arrow thunked heavily into the top portion of Alaric’s shield, the point emerging out the back.

The breach in his line created by these losses did not go unexploited. Emboldened, three enemy combatants seized the moment, scrambling up and out of the trench, pulling themselves over the barricade and onto the wall.

“Close up the line!” Alaric shouted. He drew his sword and surged forward to directly confront this threat, this breach in his defenses. One of the men, having gotten to his feet, lunged at him with a sword. Alaric used his shield to block the attack and bat it away. He stabbed out, his blade biting into the shoulder of his enemy, the sword point punching through the leather of his tunic. It was a shallow wound, but sufficient to send his opponent reeling backward, where he tumbled over the barricade, falling back into the trench.

Alaric then turned his shield into a weapon, slamming the next man with a forceful blow that unbalanced him and sent him also tumbling into the trench. The third, a large and burly man much bigger than Alaric, gained his footing, his eyes burning with a crazed ferocity. With a guttural scream that sliced through the din, he hurled himself forward, just as Alaric began to turn and bring his shield up. It was too late, for this human projectile, driven by desperation and maddened by battle rage, tackled Alaric, taking him down to the ground.

Having lost his shield and sword, Alaric found himself in a desperate struggle, grappling as he and his adversary crashed to the ground. The fight became a maelstrom of close-quarters violence, a primal duel of flesh and fury as each man fought and battered at the other. Alaric unleashed a flurry of punches, striking the face, neck, and stomach, each blow an attempt to break free from the other’s mad clawing.

A stray fist found its mark on Alaric’s chin, a blow that sent a shockwave of disorientation coursing through him. His vision blazed with a burst of white, a momentary eclipse of his senses before determination surged within him, dragging back clarity of thought and purpose, the will to best his opponent and survive.

In that fraught instant of clarity, Alaric spotted Oathbreaker to his side. His fingers grasped the weapon’s hilt, wrapping tightly around the cord grip. He attempted to wield it, to bring it to bear and turn the tide of the struggle with a decisive stroke, but his opponent was relentless and immediately recognized the threat.

The enemy soldier, leveraging his size, position, and weight, managed to get atop and straddle Alaric, a knee coming to press down heavily on his sword arm. At the same time, he fixed one meaty hand on Alaric’s neck, leaning into it and squeezing powerfully, trying to choke the life out of him. The other hand fumbled for a dagger sheathed at his belt—a grim promise of a brutal end.

Alaric, his vision beginning to dim, struggled to breathe. Becoming desperate, he thrashed violently and managed to force the hand from his neck with a Herculean effort, batting it away, causing the other to drop, almost falling forward. Gasping for breath, Alaric propelled his helmeted head upward with all the force he could muster. The impact was powerful—a hollow thunk, followed by the sickening crunch of shattering bone as the enemy’s jaw fractured. His opponent instantly went limp, falling forward and landing heavily on Alaric as pure dead weight.

Gasping for air and with effort, Alaric heaved the incapacitated enemy off his body and struggled to his knees. The wall around him was a maelstrom of chaos, a blur of friend and foe locked in deadly scrum. He raised his head, eyes darting about, endeavoring to discern the flow of battle amidst the tumult, to distinguish between ally and adversary in the swirling chaos of the fight.

It was in this moment of disoriented vigilance that an enemy brushed past. Instinctively, Alaric reacted, his sword slicing through the air and biting into the back of the man’s calf. The blade sent his target crashing to the ground in screaming agony. He rolled down the reverse side of the wall and into camp. Almost instantly, Alaric lost sight of him.

With grim determination and groaning from discomfort, Alaric dragged himself upright, his body protesting every movement with a chorus of pain and fatigue. Then he was once more on his feet. However, his respite was short-lived; a forceful shove from a shield sent him reeling down the side of the berm, back toward the camp proper. The world tilted dangerously, yet somehow, he managed to recover his balance and remain on his feet.

There was fighting all around him. No sooner had he steadied himself than another enemy emerged from the chaos. This new opponent lunged, jabbing out, blade aimed with lethal intent, but Alaric, driven by a survivor’s resolve and years of training, parried the thrust, knocking his opponent’s blade aside. The two swords rang from the impact. Pain from the clashing of the blades radiated from his hand that held the grip of his sword.

Gritting his teeth and doing his best to ignore the discomfort, Alaric met his foe’s gaze with a feral snarl. His opponent attacked and the swords clashed again, steel on steel, a song of survival where every note represented a potential final breath and at the same time the promise of life.

Alaric threw himself into the fight, launching a series of attacks. His opponent managed to block each. Then, Alaric feinted and his opponent went for it, overextending himself. Alaric’s sword was a flash of lightning as he changed its trajectory, carving an arc that culminated in a thrust aimed at the man’s hip. His enemy, realizing the error, hastily tried to correct his block, but it was too late. The strike was precise, slashing deeply. The side of the blade dug into the hip bone, then his adversary stumbled backward, and he was swallowed by the press of bodies that churned around them in a confused melee.

A sword hammered into him from behind, slamming against the sturdy metal of his armor and sending shockwaves of pain through his back. The force of the blow propelled him a grudging step forward. As he regained his balance and started to turn to face this new threat, a raw, agonized scream pierced the tumult of battle.

There, amidst the swirling chaos of friend and foe, were Thorne and Ezran. Ezran had just taken down the man who had struck at Alaric from behind. The former ash man had already turned and engaged another enemy, batting away a sword and then stabbing deep into the other’s stomach. Thorne stood to Ezran’s left, locked in a struggle of his own with another opponent.

Alaric spotted an enemy moving past. He stabbed out, his sword sinking into the other’s side, just below the ribcage. This man dropped, then suddenly, there was not an enemy within easy reach. Alaric glanced rapidly around, trying to get a sense for the fight, to see if there was anything he could do. The breach in the wall had widened, a gaping maw that threatened to swallow them whole as the enemy surged up from the trench and over the wall, literally throwing themselves into the fight with relentless fury.

His eyes locked onto another enemy who stumbled his way, momentarily exposed with his back partially turned. With a predator’s precision, Alaric attacked, sword raised in a deadly arc. The blade descended, crashing onto the man’s shoulder and collar with a bone-jarring impact. The force of the blow drove the enemy to his knees. Alaric felt the hot spray of blood across his face and tasted copper.

Without a moment’s hesitation, he yanked his sword away and turned his attention to another enemy who had come near. Alaric’s blade found its mark once more, slicing into the man’s side just above the hip, finding the soft flesh there and cutting deep.

Then the fight was back on him as more of the enemy arrived and those on the wall around the gap were pushed back and down the reverse side of the wall, the melee of fighting once more crashing over him.

Alaric glanced back at the wall and the breach. “Commit the reserves! Commit the reserves!” His shout was swallowed up by the sound of the fight, then Alaric had no more time for thought. He jabbed at an enemy, stabbing the man in the back, and dropped him.

More, Oathbreaker whispered, an entreaty to send their souls soaring on to Eldanar. This silent invocation stirred something primal within Alaric, igniting a ferocity, a matching hunger that transcended the mere physicality of the fight. His voice joined the cacophony of the battlefield, a raw, unbridled scream that was both a war cry and a release of all the pent-up fury and frustration that coursed through him. Each enemy became not just an opponent to be vanquished, but an obstacle in his path to be overcome.

In this frenzied state, Alaric was a whirlwind of death, unwilling to yield even an inch of the ground as he stabbed, jabbed, slashed, cut. His sword, stained with the blood of his enemies, rose and fell, struck out, and jabbed, again and again. He had flashes of Thorne and Ezran at the edges of his vision, their faces set in grim determination, anchoring him to the reality of their shared struggle. Yet, predominantly, his world was filled with the faces of the enemy, each one a challenge to be met, a threat to be nullified, someone to be cut down. The faces blended together into one great blur, a tide of violence and rage that spilled out from him and onto the enemy.

There was a massed shout and a mad rush, followed by a crash he could nearly feel. The tide of battle abruptly shifted with a thunderous surge of reinforcements—the arrival of the reserve. This sudden onslaught crashed into and against the enemy with overwhelming force.

As the fresh soldiers bounded past him, Alaric found a moment’s respite, his breaths coming in heavy, ragged gasps as he surveyed the shifting battlefield. His eyes caught the figure of Keever cutting down an enemy from behind with the decisive swing of his longsword before he screamed in triumph over his kill. In that instant, surrounded by allies and buoyed by the resurgence of hope, Alaric felt the madness of the battle rage ebb and a heavy exhaustion overcome him.

“To the wall!” Keever was shouting as he fought his way forward, leading the reserves up the berm. At his side was Kiera, hacking and slashing as she fought with him. Rikka was nowhere in view. Alaric prayed she was all right. “Seal the breach!” Keever continued shouting. “Retake the wall! Shove them back and over the side!”

The reserve, under Keever’s determined lead, surged like a tide of retribution into this gap, their swords singing of vengeance as they reclaimed the contested ground, once more sealing the breach.

In the brief respite that followed the frenetic clash, Alaric allowed himself a moment, taking in the full scope of the embattled fortifications that raged around him. He noted with a grim satisfaction that, save for a critical ten-yard breach, the majority of the wall, his defenders, still stood strong and defiant against the enemy’s attempts to overcome them.

Alaric returned to the wall, climbing back up and joining Keever. Breathing heavily and catching his breath, the man was standing there with Kiera, both their swords bloodied. He gave her a nod, one that clearly conveyed his respect, and then turned to Alaric.

“That was a close thing, my lord,” Keever remarked gruffly, acknowledging the razor’s edge upon which victory and defeat had just danced. “Next time, send for help sooner.”

“There was no time for that,” Alaric explained wearily. “It happened too quickly, and I was caught up in the middle of it all.”

The call of an enemy horn punctured the soundscape of battle. Like the subsiding of a violent storm, the clamor of combat began to rapidly dissipate as the enemy started to withdraw, pulling away from the walls.

Alaric stepped up to the barricade and looked over the wall’s side, surveying the trench. It was nearly full of bodies, stacked one upon another. Behind him, there was a trail of dead and wounded where the breach had occurred, leading down and into the camp.

The horn sounded again.

“They’re pulling back,” came a shout. It was Duncan from the east wall. “They’re pulling back, boys! Good job! Good bloody job!”

“We made them pay a steep price,” Keever observed, his tone laden with satisfaction, “a very steep price.”

Alaric, following Keever’s line of sight, observed the enemy’s wounded—men maimed and some most likely crippled for life—staggering away from the wall, dragging themselves out of the trench and moving toward the safety of the trees. Alaric did not see an aid station. It was almost as if the enemy did not care for their own, for no one was moving to assist the injured.

“It’s always harder on the attacking force,” Alaric mused aloud, a statement underpinned by the cold calculus of defensive warfare. “Especially if you are assaulting a fortified position.”

“Aye,” Keever concurred, his agreement carrying the weight of experience and the tacit acknowledgment of the harsh realities of warfare. “It is. They will regroup and come at us again until either they break us, or we break them.” His words, while grim, were not defeatist, but rather a recognition of the inevitable cycle of conflict—a pause before the storm’s resurgence. “They are not going to give up this effort easily.”

Alaric could not deny that. His mind was already turning toward what was to come, to the inevitabilities that lay ahead. The enemy’s near-success in breaching their defenses was a warning. Even having inflicted heavy losses upon Laval’s men, the realization that they remained outnumbered, and the understanding that the enemy’s resolve had not been shattered but merely checked, weighed heavily on him.

With the breach that had almost undone their defense, Malvanis would undoubtedly have taken stock of how close he had come to victory. Such knowledge would only serve to fuel his determination for a renewed assault and redoubling of effort.

In this moment, as the dust of battle settled and the din of combat receded into an uneasy near silence, save for the injured who cried out and moaned and screamed their agony to the world, Alaric was acutely aware of the fleeting nature of their reprieve. He was also terribly thirsty but had nothing at hand to drink.

“Reform,” the enemy officer who had been with Malvanis before the fighting was shouting as he moved amongst his men. “Reform.” The man was thirty yards away. Alaric could not see Malvanis. He must be elsewhere, along one of the other walls. Wooden whistles began to blow, and sergeants started to pick up the call, working to reinforce it.

“Form up, boys,” the officer shouted again. “Come on, back into line.”

“Assaulting is never an easy endeavor,” Alaric remarked, the memory of battles past and the toll of the day’s fight lending gravity to his words. With Oathbreaker in hand, he gestured toward the enemy coming back into a recognizable line of battle before the north wall. “It is hard and exhausting. They’re tiring, and with each effort, we blood them greatly. Let them come again, let them throw themselves into the trench and against the wall. We just need to hold this next one.”

“We do.” Keever’s response, though terse, was imbued with the gritty realism that characterized a veteran warrior’s understanding of the situation. His sour tone belied the gravity of their situation, an acknowledgment of the daunting task that lay ahead. “My lord, with your permission, I will get back to my wall.”

Alaric gave a nod of approval. Keever moved down the wall, leaving Alaric alone. His gaze drifted toward the forest as his thoughts wandered to Grayson. He and the men the captain had taken with him had been out there for over an hour and a half, maybe two at this point. It was hard to tell how much time had passed since the assaults had begun. He glanced skyward and was surprised to see the sun had risen significantly since he’d last looked. He turned his gaze back to the forest, into the trees, searching, scanning. How long before he came? Could they hold for another assault?

They had no choice but to hold.

The frenzied shouts of the enemy officer, slicing through the tense air, captured Alaric’s attention again as he sought to organize his forces for the next assault. The man was moving along the line, shouting at stragglers, and physically forcing men back into the ranks. Alaric’s gaze, sharp and calculating, focused on the source of the commands before glancing around.

“Jasper?” Alaric called out and waved for the other’s attention. “Come over here.”

Jasper made his way to join Alaric before the defensive barricade. “My lord? How can I help?”

“How many arrows do you have left?”

Jasper’s answer was conveyed by holding up two arrows.

“See that officer?” Using a subtle gesture of his chin to avoid drawing unwanted attention, Alaric directed Jasper’s gaze toward the enemy officer, the man who had stood with Malvanis.

Jasper, understanding the significance of the target, acknowledged the challenge. “It’s a long shot, my lord, but I could hit him from here, stop him from organizing his men into an assault.”

“No,” Alaric said, dismissing the immediate elimination of the officer. “I don’t want that, not yet.”

“You want them to attack again?” Jasper asked, surprised. “That last effort nearly broke us.”

“I know it, and I do want them to attack,” Alaric confirmed. “Once it begins, take that officer out, drop him. He is the senior-most officer next to Malvanis, probably the guy who knows these soldiers the best. He should come closer once the assault begins, making your task of taking him down easier. I don’t want him around to rally his men once Grayson attacks, understand?”

“I will make my shot count, then, my lord.”

“Good man.” Alaric clapped Jasper on the shoulder and moved off, walking along the line again. The weariness amongst his soldiers was a near-physical thing. After three assaults against the north wall, his men were tiring. Several had minor wounds. Alaric had to assume that his men on the other walls were tiring as well.

“Keep your heads up, boys!” Alaric shouted. “You’ve done good. Quite good! We’ll give them more of the same and send them packing this time! These bastards aren’t anywhere near as tough as Sunara’s boys! You faced them, you can face anyone and put them in their place!”

The cheer that followed his words was more than a response; it was a reaffirmation of their collective resolve, a chorus of warriors ready to stand once again, united in purpose and will, to hold and throw back the enemy.

“What are we going to do?” Alaric shouted.

“Kill,” the unified response came.

The enemy’s horn sounded, blaring loudly, shockingly so. With a great cry, the opposing forces launched themselves forward, a wave of desperation and determination pouring forth and into the trench. Over the bodies of the fallen—the dead, the dying, and the injured who could not extricate themselves from the trench—the enemy advanced with murderous intent.

As they scrambled up the steep slope of the berm, the defenders braced, a collective tensing of bodies and spirits in anticipation of the imminent clash.

Alaric’s focus momentarily shifted to Jasper, the embodiment of calm precision and focused intent amidst coming chaos. He held his bow with an arrow nocked, tension on the string. He drew a bead, leading his target as he pulled on the string to draw more tension onto the bow. Then with a suddenness… Jasper released.

The missile found its mark—the enemy officer. So powerful was the strike that the steel tip drove through the armored breastplate with a loud crack and knocked him back and to the ground. There he writhed in agony. Two men hurried to the officer’s side and knelt to offer aid. Alaric felt a rush of triumph, for the man was badly injured and now effectively out of the fight. H

He looked back at Jasper and nodded his approval.

Having made it over the trench, all along the walls, the enemy’s assault crashed against the defense at the barricade with the force of a tempestuous storm breaking against a rocky shore. Alaric’s men holding the wall fought with all they had, keeping the enemy from making it over the barricade. Along the north wall, Alaric, carrying Oathbreaker, once more resumed his pacing behind his line to watch the fighting. He called out encouragements and issued orders as he saw fit where there was need for some adjusting.

Observing the combat, Alaric sensed a shift in the tide. It was a subtle thing, a lessening of the sound of battle that came with previous attempts to overcome the wall. There was a sense of decline in the enemy’s vigor, their energy and effort to push the assault home. Their attacks lacked the fervency of the previous ones, a sign that the relentless defense had begun to erode their resolve, a fact not lost on Alaric as he scrutinized the battlefield. His men were holding, and he suspected the enemy was finally beginning to flag. The march through the night had likely not helped. He stopped and looked at the other walls, studying the action there. As near as he could tell, it was the same story there as it was along the north wall.

He spotted idle bowmen huddled together within the safety of the camp, his mind quickly assessing their potential. They were all the reserve he had left, and not much of one. Their quivers were empty, having loosed all of their missiles, but these men were still armed with swords. He made a decision. They could contribute to the defense, not with arrows, but with steel in hand.

“Thorne,” he directed, catching the other’s attention and pointing toward the bowmen. “Go gather that lot up and have them draw swords. Divide them up evenly and send them to the walls as reinforcement. Make sure they get there too.”

“Yes, my lord,” Thorne said and moved off, jogging down the berm.

Turning back to the tumult of the fighting that was raging just feet away, Alaric’s gaze swept across the north wall with the keenness of a hawk, searching for any weakness along his line, for any advantage he might be able to exploit. He saw nothing and continued to pace.

The battle wore on. The enemy, though their efforts were increasingly flagging, continued their assault. It was a clear attempt to wear down Alaric’s defense through sheer force and numbers. He understood it could still work, but the enemy were now beginning to take heavy casualties, more with every passing moment. The power of his defense was showing.

Alaric heard alarmed shouting from behind and spun to look. On one of the other walls, the east side of the camp, a breach had been opened as two men had been cut down. Alaric’s heart chilled at the sight of the gap in his line.

Several of the enemy were pulling themselves over the barricade and up and onto the wall. One made it over the barricade, followed rapidly by another. Then, Duncan was there amongst them. He surged into the gap, a force of will and vengeance, his heavy blade rising and falling as it chopped at the enemy making their way over the wall, causing them to hesitate and even recoil. His actions preserved the integrity of the line just long enough for additional men, one of Alaric’s sergeants and a corporal, to join him. Together they began plugging the breach, throwing the enemy back and into the trench.

Alaric let go a relieved breath.

“My lord,” Jasper called, drawing Alaric’s attention. The other was pointing out and into the forest facing the north wall. “Look!”

Alaric turned, seeing nothing. Jasper pointed vigorously. He peered closer. There was movement out there. A line of men, formed into two ranks, materialized from the woodland’s depth, the shadows of the forest. Were they enemy reinforcement? By God, he hoped not! He doubted they could hold against greater numbers.

He squinted harder, struggling to better see, to make out who they were. The advancing line bore the semblance of spectral avengers, forest wraiths. Alaric felt his heart begin to beat faster, hammering in his chest as he recognized the chainmail armor and standard.

Grayson had finally arrived!

Though Alaric felt a moment of triumph, the fight could still be lost, could still turn against him, for such was the fickleness of battles. Nothing was ever certain. Everything depended upon what happened next.

He watched these new figures, who were deployed and advancing in a line of battle, for several long heartbeats. They were at least two hundred yards from the camp and closing steadily, but their presence marked a significant shift in the day’s narrative, the potential to turn things upside down for the enemy.

Malvanis’s wounded, having settled amongst the nearest trees, were the first of the enemy to notice this new development. Their attempts to sound the alarm, a desperate bid to alert their comrades to the emerging threat, were swallowed by the relentless din of combat along the camp’s walls. Their voices, strained and fading, failed to pierce the veil of noise that enveloped the battlefield, a sound that roared like a monster over the fight.

Those injured who could move tried to stagger or drag themselves out of the way of the advancing line. Those who couldn’t make the effort simply waited for the inevitable. The line advanced, grinding mercilessly over them, Grayson’s soldiers methodically stabbing down at the injured men as they passed, ending their lives and the potential threat they represented.

Grayson, leading his men from the front, was now a hundred yards out from the trench and the fighting. Alaric understood it was time to act, time to truly change the dynamic and take the initiative away from the enemy.

“Prepare to advance!” Alaric’s command thundered across the battlefield, a call that galvanized his weary but resolute defenders. “Prepare to advance!”

The effect was immediate, a shift in the atmosphere, as his men tensed, a collective inhalation of purpose and resolve. The order was picked up by Jourgan and repeated, reinforcing the directive, a wave of anticipation rolling through the ranks, invigorating the weary. Then Duncan took up the call, and finally, Keever. The fighting along the walls abruptly slacked, the noise dying down somewhat, the enemy clearly wary that the defenders were about to come out from behind their defenses. Then, from the enemy’s rear, along the north wall, a new cry emerged, a rhythmic chant that pierced the cacophony of battle with chilling precision.

“Kill… kill… kill!”

This unexpected rally, emanating from Grayson’s men behind the enemy’s lines, sowed confusion, fear, and utter shock in the hearts of their adversaries all along the north wall. Many looked around, clearly shocked at the unexpected appearance of enemy infantry behind them. It was then that Grayson’s men began to beat their swords against the insides of their shields as they steadily continued to close the distance.

They were now fifty yards out.

The thumping of sword against shield was a sound that Alaric found quite ominous, and it clearly added to the enemy’s terror, shock, and confusion at finding themselves flanked by a fresh force. Belatedly, enemy officers and sergeants started to shout orders, calling on their men to fall back, get out of the trench, and reform to face this new threat.

Alaric knew it was too little, too late.

“Advance!” Alaric shouted for all he was worth as he raised his sword high into the air, waving it around. “Advance! Push them, boys! Push them hard!”

With a collective roar, his men inside the camp and at the walls surged forward as one. They climbed over the barricade, shields battering at those enemy that had not fallen back and away from the wall, swords jabbing out and slashing down with unforgiving lethality, their movement a tidal wave of retribution and pent-up rage. The enemy faltered, caught off guard first by the appearance of Grayson’s force, and now the sudden advance, their ranks at the north wall breaking.

The enemy gave way, falling from the berm in terror, going into the trench, clearly thinking now only of escape and their own lives. In their haste to unburden themselves, many threw their shields and swords away. Alaric’s men followed with a vengeance, and he went with them.

As he climbed over the barricade, Alaric bent and scooped up a discarded shield. Then he was in the trench himself, he and his men stepping on and over the bodies of the wounded and dead as those before them fled.

There was a roaring shout from Grayson’s line as his men were released. They charged forward madly, slamming into the fleeing enemy from the opposite direction, slashing and hacking at all those who came within reach. The real killing had begun, and the enemy, caught between two forces at the north wall, fell by the dozens as they were cut down in their frenzied flight.

Alaric stuck out his leg and tripped a man who was in the process of running by him. The man went down in a tumble. Alaric stepped over and stabbed downward into the back of the man’s chest, aiming to pierce the heart. The man stiffened as the blade went in deep, easily penetrating the weak, inexpensive leather tunic and penetrating between the ribs. Then, he went limp, going still for all time. Alaric placed his boot upon the man’s back and, with a hard pull, yanked the blade free.

Behind him, a massed shout caused him to turn. The west and east walls’ assaults had given way under pressure from those who had come out from behind their defenses. The fear and confusion that had started in the north were now spreading like a plague amongst the rest of the enemy as they broke and ran for their lives to the trees, with Alaric’s men giving a heated pursuit.

From his current point of view, he could not see the south wall but had to assume the same thing was happening there as well. A sense of triumph fully overcame him, though it was not yet over and the killing far from done. He had broken the enemy decisively.

They had won.

He had won.

Alaric knew it was only a start, a beginning of reclaiming his legacy at the edge of a sword.

“Grayson,” Alaric shouted, having spotted the captain no more than twenty yards away as he cut down an enemy who had thought to stand and fight him. That had been a fatal mistake. Next to the captain was Jaxen, his sword bloodied. Alaric shouted again, “Grayson!”

“My lord?” Grayson called back, jogging over to him. Jaxen came along at his side. The young man’s face was spattered with blood and bits of gore.

“We really caught them, my lord,” Jaxen said, breathing heavily, his eyes a little crazed from the fight. “We really got them good.”

“Yes, you did,” Alaric said and turned to Grayson. “Good work!”

“Thank you, my lord. The flanking movement took longer than expected. Off the road, the forest is quite dense.”

“I understand. Listen, I want an organized pursuit. Send runners to the bannermen. Catch as many of the bastards as we can, but don’t let the men go too far into the forest, at least without the security of organized groups.”

“Aye, my lord,” Grayson said, looking around. “I will try to bring some order to this chaos.”

“Very good. Again, excellent job. Your timing was perfect.”

Grayson gave a firm nod. He looked over at Jaxen. “Come on. We have work to do.”

With that, both men moved off to carry out his orders.

Ezran had appeared by his side. Jasper was there too. Alaric scanned for any sign of danger about them, any threat lurking nearby. He was also searching for Malvanis, scanning the trees for the man. He did not see the bastard anywhere amongst the fleeing enemy. Had he run off when his men had broken? If he had, where was he likely to go?

“If you were Malvanis, where would you run to?” Alaric asked Ezran, drawing the former ash man’s attention. Before the other could reply, Alaric snapped his fingers and began heading toward the road, picking up his pace. “He’d go find a horse and then run for his father.”

The enemy would have come with an organized supply train, a lifeline for their forces carrying food rations and other essentials, like tents and tools for setting up camp. He understood all that would soon be his as the spoils of war. More importantly, there would also be horses for the officers, and they’d be kept with the train, which was likely parked along the road. If he was to find Malvanis amidst this chaos, he’d likely find him there, unless, of course, the bastard was already dead or, like his men, fleeing as fast as he could run into the heart of the forest.

As his men pursued the enemy into the trees, shouts of the hunters and cries from the hunted rang out, along with the occasional scream of agony. Entering the trees, Alaric glanced around as they moved, scanning for enemies hiding within the brush and undergrowth. He saw none. It had only been a short span of heartbeats, maybe a two hundred count, since he’d left Grayson, but no longer were any of Laval’s soldiers in view. They’d all legged it.

Upon reaching the road, as expected, they found the supply train a short way off, with many of the supplies already unloaded and stacked neatly. Five heavy wagons, still partially loaded, were pulled by draft horses. The horses had been unhitched from the wagons and were picketed off to the side of the road in a large group, along with more than three dozen mules. Hay had been thrown at their feet.

Around the wagons, a handful of Alaric’s soldiers were locked in combat with several enemy, their swords clashing in a deadly dance as they gave ground and his men pressed them. Even as he watched, one of the enemy dropped his sword and fled.

Amidst the fray, and close by, one figure stood out. A man had seized a horse from amongst several that had been picketed together, saddled it, and was in the process of climbing into the saddle. Under the light, the armor the man wore flashed, standing out from the other soldiers.

Malvanis.

The bastard was about to get away. Alaric could not, under any circumstances, allow the man to escape. “Jasper, do you have an arrow left?”

“I’ve been saving the last one, my lord,” Jasper said as he nocked and aimed carefully, drawing a bead on Laval’s son.

“I want him alive and off that horse,” Alaric said as Malvanis settled himself into the saddle and wheeled his horse around, pointing the animal’s nose down the road that led to Tyfel. “I made that man a promise and I would like to keep it.”

Jasper did not bother replying. The bowstring’s resonant twang was the only warning before the arrow sliced through the air, its flight a deadly hiss on the wind. Its mark was met with precision. The horse let out a harrowing scream of pain as the arrow burrowed into its rump. The animal reared up, its front legs pawing wildly at the air, and screamed again before bucking wildly several times.

Unprepared, Malvanis lost his hold on the reins and fell backward, off the horse. He hit the ground with a resounding thud that Alaric not only heard, but could almost feel himself. Freed from its rider and burden, the horse surrendered to its instincts and bolted, its hooves drumming a rapid retreat down the road, kicking up clods of dirt as it sped off and away.

“Good shot,” Alaric said.

“Thank you, my lord,” Jasper said.

Jogging, Alaric moved swiftly toward the fallen figure, who was rolling about on his back, even as the rest of the enemy, those who had been contesting Alaric’s men around the wagons, broke and fled, running after the horse or heading for the safety of the trees that lined the road.

Alaric found Malvanis lying upon the ground, dazed by the fall, his senses scrambled. Blood ran from his nose down the side of his cheek. Alaric placed the cold, unyielding edge of his sword point against the man’s armored chest. It was then that Malvanis’s eyes finally focused, meeting Alaric’s gaze. Shock, then fear, registered in the other man’s eyes.

With a grim smile, Alaric shifted the point of his sword, moving it from Malvanis’s chest to hover ominously at his neck, the point touching the skin and causing a bead of blood to appear.

“You, sir,” Alaric said, “are my prisoner.”