Chapter 42 (Patreon)

The bridge shuddered under the weight of marching boots.

Water slapped the timber floats in heavy blows that vibrated up through the planks into the men's bones. The drizzle thickened to a gray curtain, soaking leather and straining the guide ropes.

Hale stood at the near bank with Parker, watching the cohort feed itself into the crossing.

The rest of the cohort moved in disciplined blocks behind the knights, shields high and javelins angled to avoid tangling.

“Keep cadence,” Parker barked toward the bridge mouth. “You’re marching, not fleeing.”

A horn sounded across the river. Hale moved closer. The horn was short and urgent. Parker’s head snapped toward the far bank.

“That’s the signal for immediate contact.”

Movement tore from the reed beds upstream. Dark bodies crested the rise and poured down, shrieking as crude blades flashed in the gray light.

Dozens of goblins came swarming out of the woodline, then even more came after them.

Scouts had given a warning. Hale saw them burst from the woodline, breath ragged, veins pulsing with mana that shimmered along their arms and legs. The energy sharpened their speed and strength, pushing them beyond ordinary limits as they shouted for the Prime century to form.

The prime tightened into a shield line before the enemy arrived. Now they fought, with knights behind, ready to jump in.

Steel rang in wet bursts across the water. A legionary drove his shield forward and stabbed low, another stepping into the space beside him as if pulled by a rope. An optio shoved two men into better alignment with curses that carried even over the rising noise.

They were holding. But they were being worked.

“About a hundred,” Parker muttered. “Probably more in the brush.”

Hale grunted. He watched the edges instead.

Goblins never attacked cleanly. They flowed, testing flanks and forcing the line to flex. Two broke through, dragging a soldier down before the second rank cut them apart.

The rain intensified as the river's mud slicked under trampling boots. Men adjusted without thought as they fought for firm ground. They were all veterans with good drill, hard optios, and a better centurion.

Hale had the cold sense it still might not be enough. “Move them faster, get another century to turn their flank,” he said quietly.

Parker turned at once.

“Double pace!” he roared toward the waiting ranks. Then jogged to their Tribune and pointed at the ongoing fight. “Get over there and turn their flank! Watch for any other variants. The rest of the Cohort is behind you.”

The tribune saluted, and he turned to do his job as his century surged forward.

The span dipped under sudden weight. Guide ropes snapped taut. A wagon driver held his team as soldiers streamed past. Across the river, the prime gave ground a step.

The tribune and centurion forced their men forward. Goblins slashed for calves, hacking at shields wherever they found an opening.

A horn call rolled out from the scouts, indicating more were coming.  Hale felt the realization settle into him with unpleasant clarity.

No village stood here; for months, this basin lay abandoned while they built elsewhere. Without human presence, the monster dens multiplied in tangled burrows and half-collapsed hollows. Their numbers swell quickly as the strongest claim fresh territory and drive others outward. Lacking adventurers to keep the packs thin, the goblins and their kin gather in unnatural numbers, each den sending out scavengers to raid and lure more in with scraps and stories of weakness. As a consequence, they thickened like storm clouds, waiting for a crossing like this.

He had planned this march as a proving ground: to spot command flaws, engage lightly, and gauge pressure. Minimal casualties were planned ahead of his push into occupied areas. Instead, the land itself rose to meet him.

“This isn’t a prelude,” he murmured.

Parker glanced sideways.

“What?”

Hale kept his gaze fixed on the fight as another century wheeled off the bridge and slammed into position beside the Prime, driving straight into the goblin flank.

“This is a clearing campaign.”

Another reinforcement block hit midspan at the double.

On the far bank, a centurion shoved his line forward two brutal steps for air. A goblin vaulted onto his shield and clawed for his face before an optio smashed its skull with the iron boss.

Horns sounded again as Hale drew his sword.

“Once the third century is across,” he said, “we push and break them.”

Rain ran from his helmet in steady lines. The campaign had begun whether he had planned it or not.

Rain whispered across tiled roofs below and ran in silver lines from the balcony’s carved stone lip.

Harold stood just inside the overhang, one shoulder to the wind, cup close to the brazier’s red glow. The coals shifted, giving off enough heat to take the bite from the damp air. Steam curled from his coffee and vanished into the gray.

Below him, the Landing carried on.

Lanterns bobbed as workers crossed between halls. Two tatanka stood under a lean-to while a boy dragged planks, boots slipping in mud. Down the road, a hammer rang in stubborn rhythm. Life did not pause because an army marched.

Harold drank, letting the bitterness sit on his tongue. For the first time, he had committed the Landing to a full maneuver without riding with them himself; the distance sat poorly. He had always tried to lead from the front, sharing the mud and the fear, drawing trust through sweat and presence. Yet now, command demanded separation. He rolled mana through his limbs, wrestling with the urge to be elsewhere, drawing steadiness from the motion and the cup's heat.

A knock sounded behind him. “So it begins,” he muttered under his breath. He exhaled once and straightened. “Enter,” he said without turning.

The door opened and shut against the wind. Footsteps crossed the floor with familiar economy. Margaret paused at the balcony threshold, gauging the rain. Then she stepped out beside him.

Water beaded instantly along the dark wool at her shoulders. Without comment, she edged closer to the brazier, a notebook tucked beneath one arm as if it had grown there.

“They made the crossing,” she said.

Harold nodded once and kept his gaze on the movement below.

“But?”

Margaret opened the notebook with her thumb. Her quill scratched faintly in the quiet between hammer blows.

“The Prime Century established a perimeter on the far bank,” she said. “They were engaged within minutes. The first contact involved about 100 goblins. Then, followed up with about 100 more. Field notes indicate elevated strength and aggression compared to prior encounters.”

Wind-driven drizzle blew sideways across the balcony. Harold angled closer to the brazier and drank.

“Casualties?”

"Four," she replied. "Scouts screened the area, but goblins massed just beyond. They were able to give enough warning to allow the prime to form up before they engaged, and Hale reinforced at the double; knights stabilized a failing flank struck by a berserker strain."

A cart rolled across the square below, wheels grinding wet gravel. Two new legionaries jogged alongside it, carrying bundled stakes.

Harold watched them pass.

“What is his assessment — and yours?”

Margaret hesitated just long enough for him to notice. He drank again and continued watching the movement in the rain.

"He says monster density increased," she said. "He expected resistance, but is now preparing for a sustained campaign into the area."

Harold exhaled. The outcome matched the concern he had buried over the past months. For months, they pushed elsewhere, letting the wilderness gather. The lizardmen destroying that village had allowed the monsters to consolidate.

“Is he secure?” he asked.

“They are digging in now,” Margaret said. “Earthworks on the far bank with timber barricades. Bridge security remains a priority for resupply. Dalen’s labor crews are assisting, and he will pull some of his legionaries to maintain the watch after Hale leaves.”

She lifted her eyes from the slate and followed his gaze down into the rain-washed streets.

"Captain Hale formally requested adventurer support—ranged teams for screening and den clearing. He believes advancing without them raises casualty risk and threatens his timeline."

A shout rose from the yard as a beam slipped from someone’s grip and thudded into mud. Laughter followed. Someone cursed back. Harold moved the cup between his hands, feeling the heat seep into his fingers.

“Hmph.”

Margaret’s mouth curved slightly.

“Deny the request. He advances with the force he has; if he wants a force to screen, use the knights. They are irregular forces and meant to be employed irregularly.”

He leaned forward onto the cold stone rail and studied the wavering lantern light reflected in puddles below.

“How much time do you think we have before Henri moves?”

Margaret stepped a fraction closer to the brazier.

"It’s difficult to judge without an internal source," she said. "If I must estimate: a week for consolidation with Arjun, depending on the Thresher King’s movement, then about a week's march toward us—longer if disruption delays him."

Harold continued to watch the Landing for another long moment. Then he turned and walked back into the chamber, lowering himself into the chair at the table that still overlooked the rain-swept square. He finished the last of the bitter coffee before finally looking at her.

“Send Hale new orders. No further reinforcements. He maintains the timeline. Two weeks to clear that basin sector, then he pivots south to seize the first village. Delay is unacceptable.”

Margaret’s expression tightened, then settled again.

“What about Henri?”

Harold met her gaze. A thin, deliberate smile appeared.

“Get me Mark and Evan,” he said. “It’s time we show Henri how adventurers are meant to be used. And let's make another forum post. I want to make sure Henri maintains that timeline. Make sure he knows our main force is deployed to the north, clearing monsters that overran a village. When he attacks us while we are doing something that benefits everyone, we will have the other Lords' sympathy, and when we win. They will know the Landing isn't to be messed with.”