Chapter 41 (Patreon)

Canvas whipped against the support poles as another gust barreled off the river. The command tent stood at the heart of a newly constructed fort, home to nearly 600 legionaries and the main force of the Landing for the campaign. A summer storm loomed on the horizon.

Hale snatched the edge of the basin map before it could lift. The leather felt gritty under his palm, charcoal dust working into the creases of his skin. A lantern swung above the trestle table, light gliding across stones that anchored the map's corners.

Outside the tent, men dragged bundled javelins across stone. A tatanka bawled somewhere close enough to shake the ground through the soles of his boots.

Lord Dalen stood opposite, cloak flung back, hand resting on his sword pommel. He'd listened to the camp longer than to Hale.

"We know the village in this area, but you’ll need to scout and find it," Dalen said. He tapped the forest line with two thick fingers, indicating where to begin.

Hale rubbed the charcoal mark away with his thumb.

“I’ll dispatch a section of scouts when we stage here to clear the dens,” he said, straightening as he spoke. “Speed will be important once we start the actual attack.” The tent flap snapped open, making the lamp shudder.

Garrick strode through and let the canvas drop behind. Sweat streaked pale lines through the dust on his face. He gripped his bow, every inch a man of the wilds.

“We got the order.” Garrick entered quickly.

Hale straightened.

Across the table, Dalen met his eyes. A long second passed while the spear rack outside clattered as someone bumped it in a hurry.

“Well,” Dalen rolled one shoulder like he meant to shake the stiffness out of it, “let’s get to it, Captain.”

He shifted closer to Hale, extended his hand, and shook Hale’s quickly. “My team and I stand ready to support you. The Thresher King was spotted moving south an hour ago. If you move quickly before this storm rolls in, you can cross now.”

He lowered his voice, a grim note entering. "If the Thresher King sees you crossing, we will all die."

Hale nodded once and turned toward the tent wall.

A line of runners stood there holding tablets and helmets hooked over their waist. One had already stepped forward in preparation. Another bounced on his toes as he might launch through the canvas.

“Give the order. Sound the horns for immediate march. I want the cohort on the far bank before the sun sets.”

The first runner shot through the flap before Hale finished, sprinting to the horns. The second jammed his helmet down over tangled hair and dashed after, while the third darted toward the command teams.

The horns sounded.

Low and drawn out, the note rolled through the camp like a hurled weight. Men froze mid-task. A pot clattered near the cookfires. Another horn replied from across camp. Signals jumped from post to post until the whole camp breathed in unison.

Dalen moved beside Hale, both facing the shivering tent wall as the outside noise gathered.

Boots struck the ground in a gathering rhythm as optios and centurions began to assert order.

Dalen approached Hale from behind, hesitating. "When Lord Harold sent that letter, and you all first approached from the woodline—" Dalen walked even with Hale and looked him in the eye. "I was scared, but...the part that scared me was that I was more relieved." He shook his head slightly, appearing momentarily lost in thought. "Back then, we believed the village would fall. Supplies were nearly gone, and half my men could barely stand guard through the night. Every time the alert went out, I thought it was the end. When you and Lord Harold came, it felt like I could finally breathe. You and Lord Harold saved me. Saved us. Thank you. We will do our part."

Hale looked Dalen in the eye as Dalen spoke. Now, Lord Dalen walked with his shoulders square, his armour and weapons sitting comfortably on him. Dalen’s frame had filled out in the months since Hale and his group had been gone. Command hadn’t come easily to Dalen, but it was something he was learning.

Helmet in hand, Hale glanced up as Dalen spoke.

“You’re a good man. You held your ground. We only helped you get moving.”

Dalen gave a rough snort.

“Held it with teeth and prayers. Those kobolds had us penned like livestock.”

Garrick leaned against the center pole, his arms folded, a boot hooked around a coil of rope.

“Damn right they did. You lot looked ready to start gnawing on each other by the time we showed up.”

Dalen’s mouth twitched as he turned from Garrick back to Hale.

“One comment, though. I hope you’ve chosen a better envoy for the people you plan to conquer this time.”

Hale paused as he was putting his helmet on, while Dalen’s brows rose.

“Sarah. She’s a storm in boots. I still have people asking if she's coming back. For such a beautiful young woman…she can be so scary.”

Garrick lost whatever composure he had left and bent forward laughing, one hand braced on his knee.

Hale shot him a look that promised future suffering.

“Keep it up. You can handle negotiations next.”

Hale turned back to Dalen and settled his helmet onto his head.

“We brought a better envoy. The team that got out of Arjun’s made it here. They’ll help manage the civilians.”

Pure relief rolled across Dalen’s face before he could stop it. Garrick saw it and nearly doubled over.

“Eight weeks. Eight weeks trying to teach that girl to think before making a move.”

Hale grabbed his spear and gave Garrick’s shoulder a sharp shove.

“Fix yourself,” he said. “And get out there.”

He extended his forearm toward Dalen.

“Take care of yourself. We’ll need your convoys moving steadily once we cross. And tell Ellis good work on this bridge.”

“You’ll have them.” Dalen clasped his arm hard.

Hale ducked through the flap and stepped into a wall of sound.

“Hail, Captain!”

The shout rolled across the forming cohort as shields locked into place on their backs and horn calls stitched the lines together. Dust lifted under marching feet. Somewhere, a tatanka kicked over a crate, and a quartermaster started swearing. Hale watched as one of the knights helped a younger soldier strap his shield to his back, then turned as someone approached.

Tribune Tran approached from the flank with a knot of assistants trailing behind him, each carrying stakes, folded canvas, or armfuls of gear.

“Captain too grand to strike his own tent now,” Tran called.

Hale slowed just enough to glare.

“Does rank mean nothing in this camp?” he muttered.

Behind him, Garrick stepped out of the tent, still grinning. He bumped Tran’s fist in passing and threw him a quick wink before breaking into a jog toward the outer pickets.

Tran watched him go, then turned to his own people.

“All right. Down it comes. Gather the captain’s luxuries before he starts to feel bad about it.”

Canvas lines snapped free. Poles toppled in a practiced sequence. Hale pressed forward toward the gathering cohort, jaw set.

“Insubordinate and churlish,” he muttered. “Every last one of you.”

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Ropes groaned as Dalen’s crew tightened tie downs on the anchored bridge. Thick poles were driven into the bank to secure the far end. Mud clung to their boots; someone slipped, grabbed a stake, and kept hauling as the current rushed faster and choppier beneath the gray sky.

The cohort stood formed behind them.

Shields braced against knees. Javelins filled quivers on people's backs. Officers wove through the ranks, closing gaps, correcting posture, slapping a man’s arm down when it drifted from formation.

Parker walked the front of the line with his helmet tucked beneath one arm.

“You’re dressing ranks for a fight, not a parade,” he snapped at one optio. “Tighten the interval. If they can’t support each other properly, it’s your head I’m taking.”

The optio shoved two soldiers outward with muttered curses and a quick nod of thanks.

Farther down, Parker kicked the heel of a legionary whose shield hung crooked.

“Square it,” he said. “That’s gonna be a pain on the march.”

The man fixed the strap without complaint.

At the river’s edge, Hale stood beside Dalen, watching the final lashings come free.

“Ready!” one of Dalen’s men called. Hale gave a short nod, and Dalen lifted his arm.

“Release!”

The retaining ropes snapped loose.

For a breath, the bridge floated where it lay, then the current caught the far end and swung it out in a slow, grinding arc. Timbers bumped together. Cross-braces groaned. Men along the near bank fed out guide lines hand over hand, boots braced in the mud.

“Hold tension,” Dalen shouted. “Don’t let it spin!”

The floating span drifted deeper into the river, veering until it lined up with the current. Sections tightened as they reached the angle, while others, riding the bridge, tossed anchors as it aligned.

Across the water, figures began to prepare. A century from Dalen’s Hold.

They splashed into the shallows with their weapons sheathed, and they caught the lines thrown to them. Hands pulled. Shoulders strained. The bridge inched toward them through the choppy blue water.

“Anchor posts!” someone yelled.

Mallets rose and fell. Wood rang under iron heads. The far end lurched, settled, then held. The anchors in the middle kept the bridge from bowing out under the current.

A cheer rolled through the waiting cohort as the bridge was deployed.

Parker wiped the slow rain from his brow and strode toward Hale and Garrick.

“Well,” Parker eyed the swaying planks, “Never seen a bridge done that way, but it seems like it's steady.”

Garrick spat into the mud and gave a thin grin.

“I was worried,” he admitted. “Didn’t fancy swimming another river, floating my kit.”

Hale glanced once more at the anchored span, measuring the pull of the current against the tensioned ropes.

Dalen caught his eye from the bank and gave a sharp signal.

Hale nodded.

“Scouts first.”

Garrick clapped Parker’s forearm hard.

“See you on the other side.”

The scouts already stationed near the front surged forward.

Mana flared along their limbs in brief, cold bursts as they sprinted across the bridge, heightening their reflexes and sharpening their focus for the crossing. Each surge let them bound farther, helping them keep their balance even as the swaying planks shifted underfoot. But Hale saw the strain already etching lines on their faces; mana made the impossible look effortless, but it always took its due, and these men were no knights. Twenty of them ran haphazardly across the bridge, occasionally jumping as the bridge moved with the river. Bows were strung and ready before they reached midspan, arrows nocked as they vanished into the shadows under the woodline on the far bank.

Hale watched until the last of them disappeared into the reeds. “Garrick always manages to make it look good,” Parker said. “Makes me jealous.”

Hale grunted, “First cohort!” he called.

A horn note cut through the wind.

Ranks tightened. Shields came up onto their backs in one smooth motion. The lead century stepped forward and onto the bridge, pace steady, cadence locked as if the river itself marched with them.

Behind them, the knights formed. They stood in a haphazard formation, their irregular weapons at the ready. They prepared to follow the first century, and the rest of the cohort stood behind them.

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