by Emmet Moss
“Yes, sir,” they all replied in unison.
“Good,” Captain Silveron replied with a nod. “We are working on a joint venture with the Falconers. Captain Sledge will provide a squad of thirty riders who will head out at deepest night and attempt to disrupt the enemy’s southern supply lines. This mission is nothing but a ruse; a feint designed to distract. Understood?” The officers agreed, and Sergeant Shade, after a signal from the Captain, moved forward.
“The Eagle Runners will use this diversion to strike the catapults. We’ll use oil and any other supplies we can collect. We plan to slip over our walls near mid of night. That should leave us plenty of time to infiltrate their weak perimeter and blend into that mess they call a camp.”
“Uniforms and equipment, sir?” Alec asked.
“You’ll each be assigned a partner for this mission,” Orn stepped forward, tossing a large bundle of clothes upon the table. “Each pairing will be wearing a tabard that matches a company from Lord Yarr’s levies.”
“But there’s seven of us, Orn…” Rayn stated nervously.
“I travel alone,” the lanky veteran replied with a menacing snarl.
“Orn has other objectives and may need his space,” Sergeant Shade added hastily. “The rest of us have only one goal — the catapults. You will have torches in your packs, but otherwise wear only what you would while walking among the Fey.”
“It is imperative that no alarm sound before the Falconers exit the city and ride for the rear of the army. Anything that brings attention to the center of that camp will compromise the entire plan. I don’t need heroes out there, I need survivors.” Captain Silveron added with authority. “I’ll leave the minor details to Sergeant Shade, but I wish you all well. Safe journey to you, always,” he finished.
That simple phrase had become something of a company watchword. The Captain had often spoken these words before sending men into battle, or on the eve of a siege much like this one. Company lore believed it to be an ancient blessing that the kings of old imparted upon their warriors, but Bider shied away from accepting too many of these veteran tales. Regardless of its roots, the young soldier always felt comforted by the saying. Standing with his companions, he answered his commander proudly, “Safe journey to you, always.”
Ethan Shade was the first man to slide noiselessly over the edge of the rampart. Without hesitation, the nimble officer launched himself over the crenel and down the thick rope, sliding quickly to the base of the wall, his hands burning from the friction. One by one, the remaining six soldiers followed their commander.
Hitting the ground with a soft thump, Bider joined the sergeant and whispered luck to the other members of the sortie. Crouching low, the deft scout watched as the company broke into pairs and headed off into the night.
Pausing to adjust his tabard and cloak, Sergeant Shade motioned him forward. They wore light blue and red tabards, matching a southern company named the Corsairs who were camped on the far side of the assembled host. Both men knew it would be best to avoid a chance encounter with a member of that group and so chose their route accordingly.
It took longer than planned to carefully cover the distance between the city wall and the first set of perimeter guards. Pulling dark cloaks tightly around their bodies, the two Fey’Derin slipped through the lines without notice. The captain had predicted as much, Bider mused, following his companion past two guards sitting quietly by a small cooking fire. No one in the camp expected a surprise attack from anyone stationed safely behind the strong walls of Garchester.
The men in the camp were organized, yet extremely complacent. As Ethan and Bider made progress towards their goal, they no longer attempted to remain unseen. In fact, in order to blend in, they paused at several campfires and chatted quietly with men who were trying to keep warm. On one occasion, Sergeant Shade surprised Bider by offering one group of soldiers a taste of spirits from a small, black flask pulled from within the folds of his cloak.
And so, as the night slowly slipped by, the two Fey’Derin crossed into the inner camp, where the now silent war engines were amassed. Unlike the outer perimeter, the inner camp was heavily guarded, and twice they were challenged by alert guards who declared the area off limits.
Frustrated by their inability to gain access beyond the final sentries, Sergeant Shade signaled to Bider, and they took a seat beside the nearest canvas tent. Gentle snores could be heard, and the officer shook his head. “I hope the others have fared better. I can only assume that the center of camp is the most difficult in which to gain entry, or else the others may be in serious trouble,” Ethan whispered.
“The western catapult range seemed almost deserted, sir. If anyone can find a way into that compound, it will be Alec,” Bider replied.
“That bastard can bluff his way through anything,” Ethan answered. “He’ll have those sentries running with their tails between their legs before he’s done.”
“But it doesn’t change our own predicament,” turning an eye to the sky, Bider looked concerned. “I judge we have very little time before the Falconers sortie. We need to be ready.”
“I have an idea, but it will involve some stealth, and more than a little bit of luck,” the officer suggested. “If you’re up for it.”
“That I am, Sergeant, just tell me what to do.”
A short time later, Bider confidently approached a third set of sentries. It was a pairing the two Fey’Derin had avoided up to that point. The scout’s cloak was thrown back over his shoulders, his company tabard easily distinguished, even in the dim light of the torches perched nearby.
“What can we do for you, soldier?” asked the first guard, a tall thick man with a large broadsword strapped across his shoulders.
“I have received a summons by my sergeant to attend to him here. I believe he needs my help with some supplies for our catapults on the western line,” Bider replied without hesitation.
“I’m not sure we have anyone from your company here, friend,” the same man replied cautiously. “Company and name?”
“I fight for the Corsairs and Sergeant Shade is my squad leader.”
On cue, from the darkness behind the two men, a tall figure suddenly appeared. Pointing behind the sentry, Bider smiled. “Why here he comes.”
“Blasted recruits are all the same!” Sergeant Shade howled. “You send a summons an hour ago, and yet still the young pups don’t arrive! And where is Drew? I specifically requested that ox of a boy, not some half-pint like you.”
Bider did his best to look terrified. “My apologies, Sergeant, I was just following orders… I was told we only needed a few tools to work on our catapults.”
As Ethan continued to berate Bider, the two sentries stared on in disbelief. The Fey’Derin sergeant reached forward and pulled Bider after him and into the compound. Neither of the guards were anxious to step forward, and they seemed more concerned that the officer’s rage was focused on his young charge and not directed at them. Within a few moments, the two Fey’Derin disappeared from view.
Ethan and Bider breathed deep sighs of relief as they passed outside the final sentry’s line of sight. Whispering a few words of good fortune to each other, they split up and advanced stealthily towards the large shadowy outlines of the catapults.
Kneeling beside a large tent, Bider gently placed his pack on the ground and carefully slid out several oil soaked torches and a small cask. Assessing his surroundings, the young scout judged it best to soak the furthest two catapults first and then carefully make his way back to the supply tent he was now crouched beside.
Moving adeptly through the shadows, he approached each siege weapon and carefully doused the heavy wooden crossbeams with oil. Once the preparations were complete, he would strike up a torch and light each catapult as he raced along the edge of the compound. He hoped that the Falconers sortie would confuse the enemy long enough for each blaze to fully
ignite, as well as allowing for his hasty escape. Captain Silveron’s planned chaos meant that timing would be critical.
Fearing he had only moments to spare, Bider slipped into the supply tent. He could hear the mumbled conversation of a few enemy soldiers perhaps fifty paces beyond the next tent. As his eyes adjusted to the darkened space, he gasped as he noticed what lay in front of him. Cask after cask of lantern oil and other stored fuels were stacked within the tent.
Quietly breaking open two barrels, he poured the oil out towards the tent flaps and carefully continued the flammable trail back to his original hiding spot. Barely holding back his excitement, he bounced lightly on the balls of his feet. Glancing at the sky repeatedly, he knew that time was short. All was ready, and he was prepared to dash towards his first target. He had only to wait for the signal.
It seemed an eternity to Bider before the first screams and shouts of alarm carried through the night from the rear of the camp. Men were yelling orders and sleeping soldiers struggled to their feet, their bedrolls quickly forgotten. Lighting his small torch, he sprinted forward. Following his planned route, and touching off the fires much quicker than even he thought possible, he returned to his hiding place.
In that short amount of time, he watched as not only his catapults lit up the night sky, but several others on each side of the camp burst into flames. A small fireball shot skyward to the west, and Bider guessed that Alec of Derry was the likely catalyst behind such a blast. Turning quickly to his remaining task, he crouched low and dropped his torch directly on the thick trail of liquid that led into the supply tent. Turning his back to the trail of fire, he tore off towards the edge of the camp, the thought of escape now foremost in his mind.
Without warning, an enormous blast of hot air propelled him forward. Bider looked down only to realize that he was flying rapidly through the air, tumbling like a falling leaf in an explosion of his own making. As the ground rushed up to meet him, the Fey’Derin scout was plunged into darkness.
The War of Iron saw the keeps of the Iron Shield nearly beaten into submission by an overwhelming number of goblin soldiers. Briefly united under a single banner, the goblin armies of the Wilds numbered in the tens of thousands.
—Trent Gorian Histories, Vol. XII
Chapter X
The Wilds, Northern Wilderness
The Wilds are filled with mystery, cold beauty, and danger. It is a land that refuses to be tamed by the toil of men. The very trees and earth rebel against any sign of encroaching civilization. It is a land of wild beauty, a reminder of the way things once were, and perhaps always meant to be. Its dense forests, rocky landscape, and many rivers, have rarely encountered the footsteps of humankind. No man-made trails exist beyond the sparse dirt pathways located on the border and under the protection of the fortresses of the Iron Shield.
Game is plentiful and varied, with creatures rare in the south living within range of many of the borderland keeps. Deer and elk roam freely in the fields, yet darker creatures, shadowy shapes in the night, dominate the thoughts of the families that live nearby. When one speaks of the Wilds, it is to speak of the unknown.
Although few men have ever lived long in this uncharted wilderness, one race moves freely about this untamed land. Goblins of the north, bitter enemies of the men of the Iron Shield, call the Wilds their home. They are a thick-bodied race, tribal in nature, with dark green skin and a savage lust for violence. They are fierce in battle, and even more dangerous than a ravenous pack of wolves when threatened. Most wear animal pelts and bone necklaces, and their close-cropped, dirty white hair is strangely luminescent. So little is known about their culture and race that many men, especially the nobles of the Northern Council and the Protectorate, refuse to deem them civilized. Yet it is the men of the borderland patrols that often raid and burn entire villages belonging to these tribes. The long-held belief that the goblins are a dangerous threat and need to be quelled holds true, even to this day.
Leoric D’Athgaran didn’t care what others thought of the goblins, he had only his own beliefs — he hated them. The borderman had seen first-hand the savagery they had exhibited time and time again in battle. He had confronted them on multiple occasions, coming perilously close to their tattooed and painted faces that unleashed inhuman screams. He had been witness to their grisly ritual of beheading, watching them don the bleached skulls as trophies. He had seen them in action, and he loathed them; but truly he knew that deep within himself, he feared them.
Such thoughts ran through Leoric’s mind as he mounted a dark grey horse, gently guiding the beast into line. He was patiently waiting for the Marshal to arrive and lead them out into the wilderness. Looking around at the gathered men, Leoric could easily discern all those who had already experienced a patrol.
An excitement surged along the entire line, but the veterans were far more subdued. Many of them sat quietly on their steeds, serious expressions locked on their worn faces. They, as well as Leoric, knew the gravity of the situation. These men had fought the savages of the north and knew all too well the dangers ahead. An experienced warrior of the Iron Shield knew better than to underestimate a goblin war party.
The newest arrivals, on the other hand, could barely contain their enthusiasm. Most chatted incessantly, or checked and rechecked their weapons for the tenth time that morning. They would become harder men after meeting their adversaries. And if they did not, it would mean their death.
With the light of dawn behind them, the armed procession of two hundred men set forth. Marshal Aram commanded to start, but the patrol planned to split up once the forest border was reached. Both groups followed a single winding trail that carried them closed to the edge of the Wilds.
The three day journey would culminate with their joint arrival at Sharpe’s Point. The famous battlefield, where Arion Sharpe had defended a small hilltop camp against a horde of goblins, was shunned by the barbaric creatures. The Marshal often told tales of that heroic defense, being an young officer at the time. He reminded his men that the goblins could not contain their fear of defeat, hence why they avoided the legendary battle site.
Leoric thought differently. Why, if you were a goblin, would you return to well-defended natural terrain when you could choose an attacking point more to your liking? Such had been the case, the borderman reminded himself, when Pont’s company had been ambushed en route to that very same location. There were enough men slain on that day to serve as a grave reminder of the unforgiving nature within the creatures of the Wilds.
That first day, Leoric rode as a member of the rear guard, his broad shouldered friend, Angvald, walking briskly at his side. He had quickly learned that the men of Kaleen frowned upon the steeds of the east. As far as Angvald’s people were concerned, a warrior fought with the ground firmly beneath his feet. And so the foreigner was content to walk alongside the riders, debating politics and philosophy endlessly with the men of the company. Compared to the last fortnight spent alone and miserable atop the towers of Darkenedge, Leoric welcomed the conversation and good-natured ribbing that resulted from a few heated discussions.
At the end of the first day, Captain Napat broke from the main column and headed southeast with half the command. The Marshal remained with Leoric and his companions, turning slightly to the north, and leaving the trodden path that served as a final indicator of the world of men. Without the guiding trail, the main patrol made slower progress, but they steadily continued their journey deeper into the forest.
Rising at first light the following day, Leoric joined Sergeant Alleran near the front of the column. The sergeant elected to send scouts out to the north and the east. The Marshal was adamant that they not be the victims of an ambush. Not an experienced tracker, Leoric reluctantly dismounted and followed a small group of men into the woods.
Believing in every soldier’s right to explore all disciplines of combat, the companies of the Iron Shield
excelled in training their men to the paramount of their abilities. Strengths and weaknesses in various skills were noted by the officers of the border keeps. Yet each man was trained in all areas of battle doctrine; including everything from unarmed combat, to tracking, to wilderness survival. And so, although not thrilled at the prospect of creeping quietly through the snow-covered woods, Leoric was aware of what needed to be accomplished.
By mid-morning he joined his sergeant atop a loose outcropping of bare rock overlooking a deep valley. Accepting a piece of trail bread from the officer, he gratefully slumped down into a sitting position. A strong biting wind blew at this height, and Sergeant Alleran raised his hand as Leoric was about to speak. A curious expression crossed the veteran’s features, and a sudden frown washed over his worn countenance.
Confused, Leoric sidled forward and looked to the valley below for a clue to the sergeant’s concern. For long moments the two men were frozen like statues, their bodies taut and facing north.
Far off in the distance there drifted a sound above the wind, faint and yet distinct. It was a cacophony of noise that any of the border soldiers would recognize even in their sleep, so often had they been subjected to it. It was the clamor of a training yard with its ringing clash of steel weapons, and the abrupt cries of warriors engaged in their drills. Sergeant Alleran recognized the sound as well, and his face was grim. The patrols had failed to report evidence of any war camps or cohesive army units in the area. Leoric deduced that the existence of such a training facility could only mean one thing — the goblins were preparing for war.
The sergeant motioned him forward as he quietly slipped his mace out of the belt loop where it hung. Leoric had a sudden feeling that eyes were watching them as they continued to creep forward over the rock. The sounds continued to carry alarmingly over the trees and small cliffs of the Wilds. It took the men until late morning before they topped the final rise that garnered them a clear view of their objective.
