Chapter 43 (Patreon)

Reminder, pausing any charges till the 1st.

Mud oozed around Hale’s greaves as the marching cadence fractured into fighting movement.

A series of harsh horns cut through the rain. The hillside to their right split open like rotting timber as wet earth peeled away in slabs. Goblins clawed upward from burrow mouths, then spilled downslope in a snarling press.

“Contact Right! Shields!” the centurion’s voice cracked across the column.

The standard whipped sideways. Shields dropped from carry. They locked rim to rim with a drumming rhythm that pulsed through the ground. Men stepped out in drilled angles, boots sliding in churned clay. Files aligned into a single hard front.

“Ready javelins!”

Javelins dipped forward in one motion.

From the forest edge came the sound of chopping iron and breaking bone. Hale caught a flicker of pale light before the knights burst from the trees.

They came on foot at a dead run, cloaks snapping behind them. Great blades carved wide paths through the goblins at their heels. One knight swung low and hard. The edge of his weapon punched through two bodies before slicing smoothly free. Another planted and flared mana along his calves. He slid sideways through the mud to meet a lunging attacker with a downward split that drove the hobgoblin flat.

They gave ground by choice, cutting space open step by step while the horde crowded after them. A horn answered from deeper in the woodline.

Hale tilted his head toward the sound.

“They’re coordinating,” he muttered. “Someone over there knows what they are doing.” Rain drummed on the crest of his helmet. He tried to read the slope through the gray sheet falling around them.

“Loose!”

The front ranks hurled their javelins in a sudden dark volley.

Iron heads punched into the goblin swarm, descending the hill. Goblins tumbled, rolling over one another. The press faltered for a heartbeat. Then the next wave slammed into the bodies.

“Draw!”

Short swords flashed free as the distance closed.

From the line ahead came another shout.

“Archers! Shields!”

Goblins scrambled into shallow pits along the slope and fired low, skidding arrows into the formation. Some shafts clattered against raised rims, while others thudded into backs. As soon as the arrows struck, optios drove their men to pivot and overlap their shields for better cover.

“Turn your files! Close it!”

Potion flasks were dragged from belts with mud-slick fingers. Corks tore loose between teeth. Bitter liquid went down in hard gulps. Broken arrow shafts were snapped. Wounds were packed with shaking hands.

Then the goblin infantry hit.

Bodies smashed into the shield wall in a wet crush. Breath blasted from lungs as the lines collided and men pressed in order to hold the line.

“Brace!”

“Push!”

The line surged as one, shield bosses smashing snarling faces and cracking ribs to claim a sliver of space. Stabbing thrusts fell in pitiless rhythm. A legionary barked a harsh laugh as he felled his goblin, until an optio cuffed his helmet and shoved him back in line.

“Hold your damn interval!”

Hale glanced left.

The forest flank still held. Knights flowed along the formation’s edge, breaking clusters apart with sweeping cuts before slipping back. Flickers of mana carried them clear of grasping hands.

Higher on the slope, another section of ground caved inward.

A massive gray shape hauled itself upright through the falling dirt.

The troll’s roar rolled over the clash of steel, so deep it vibrated in the bones. Legionaries shrank behind their shields, some stumbling as the creature stooped, wrenched a slab of stone free, and hurled it in a savage, wheeling arc toward the packed ranks. For a breath, time seemed to stretch—men ducking, eyes wide, as the spinning missile blotted out the sky. Shouts of warning cracked from the centurions, but the fear in the line was unmistakable.

“Shields high!”

The impact crushed men flat and tore a jagged gap through the front edge. Splinters and bent iron skidded across the mud.

A second troll rose beside the first and began ripping loose another missile.

Parker was already moving.

“Prime century forward!” he shouted, striding through the reserve with his baton raised. He seized an optio by the strap and spun him toward the hill.

“You heard me. Take your squads and clear that slope. Get up there and put those things down before they break the line.”

Men began to move, boots churning deeper into the soaked earth as the reserve broke into climbing elements.

Hale turned away from the slope and scanned the rear through the curtain of rain.

“Runner!” he barked.

A young legionary splashed toward him, breath already high in his chest, tablet case thumping against his ribs.

“Find Garrick,” Hale said, gripping the man’s shoulder to steady him. “I need him here!”

The runner nodded once and tore away into the shifting mass of movement, slipping between wagons as he vanished toward the tree line where the scouts were firing their bows.

Behind the fighting centuries, Tribune Tran’s detachment had already formed a tight defensive ring around the wagons. Stakes were being driven into soft ground while drivers hauled on reins and shouted at panicking tatanka. One animal reared, eyes rolling white, before two legionaries dragged its head down and forced it back into line.

Hale turned forward again.

The two centuries holding the forest side fought with room to breathe. Knights moved along their flank in short, violent bursts, cutting down clusters that strayed too close before stepping back into the shield rhythm.

The centuries facing the hill had no such luxury.

Stone strikes punched ragged holes through their frontage as trolls hurled ceaselessly, heedless of where their missiles crashed. Goblins flooded the gaps, clambering over mangled bodies and shattered shields. Under unending assault, men clustered together, formation lines warping as files buckled inward.

It sat one step from failure.

Hale drew breath to shout.

The tribune on the hillward maniple beat him to it.

“Broken Edge! Broken Edge!”

A horn shrilled the coded pattern.

The effect rippled through the line like fire taking dry grass.

Legionaries drove forward at once. Mana flared in tight flashes along calves and forearms as the men surged into the swarm. They broke from locked intervals, each seeking their own killing space. Swords rose and fell in brutal arcs, splitting crude armor and hacking through grasping hands. Goblins slammed together in wet collisions, reeling from the legionaries' sudden violence and momentum.

Each man fought alone for the span of several breaths while rain hammered shields and ran in streams down their faces.

Then the shields snapped back into place. Files closed with shouted markers and hard shoulder checks. A single wall surged outward again, where moments before jagged gaps and twisting bodies had threatened to swallow the formation.

“Forward!” the tribune roared. “Testudo!”

Hale’s mouth stretched into a feral grin.

“Yesss,” he breathed, already striding toward the maniple to lend weight to the order.

“Take that hill. Press them back!”

The tribune snapped him a salute and turned to bellow fresh commands.

Up the slope, the Prime Century began its assault. Files climbed hard through churned mud, shields rising overhead as they closed ranks into tight shells. Stones descended in heavy arcs. Trolls heaved again and again, hurling rocks that smashed into the advancing formations. Hale watched one legionary twist aside with a mana-driven dive. The missile struck the man behind him in a burst of red and splintered iron.

“What do you need?” Garrick shouted over the din.

Hale turned sharply. “That bow of yours. Think you can make the shot from here?”

Garrick followed his gaze up the hill. “Hard to miss that great bloody target.”

He reached back into his quiver and drew out an arrow whose head caught the gray light in a strange way. The metal looked thin at the edges, hollowed and sharp enough to slice breath.

He planted his boots wide and set the shaft to string. Mana gathered along his arms as he drew the great bow back, holding the tension with a low groan that seemed to come from the weapon as much as the man.

The release cracked like a snapped beam.

The arrow vanished into the rain.

A heartbeat later, one of the trolls’ heads burst apart in a blossom of flame and bone. The creature toppled to the side, shaking the slope as it fell.

Garrick bared a blood-slick grin. Kers’ new work. Hollow head for poison or fire. Figured we needed the loud version.”

A roar of approval rolled up from the climbing ranks. Legionaries swarmed the fallen troll at once, hacking into its limbs as it thrashed in blind rage.

Then Hale saw something stranger still.

Two soldiers planted themselves in the mud and locked wrists. A third sprinted toward them, mana blazing along his legs as he leapt. They hurled him upward with a grunt of effort. His blade sang as he drove it down into the troll’s shoulder, hanging there for a breath before the monster tore him free and flung him downslope.

Another legionary darted in beneath the creature’s reach and carved deep into the back of its knee while two more closed from either side, hacking at tendons with short, brutal strokes.

The hill fight had turned.

Elsewhere, the testudos ground upward. Testudo’s crawled toward the goblin archers, who had begun to falter. Prime Century squads burst from the formations in tight knots. They dove into the pits, dragging shrieking shapes out into the rain.

Hale pivoted back toward the field below.

“Short charge,” he told the horn bearer at his side. “Clear them. Then reform.”

The man lifted the instrument and blew the coded pattern.

Across the line, horns answered in staggered echoes.

Legionaries broke from tight intervals, spreading into killing space with practiced instinct. Shields struck aside claws. Swords worked in heavy, efficient strokes. Ordered ranks dissolved into hundreds of separate struggles that surged forward like a single advancing tide.

Hale stepped into the gap between centuries, rain running from his helmet rim as he watched the violence unfold with raw satisfaction.

“Kill!”

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Barley mash sloshed against the sides of the copper kettle as Harold worked the paddle through it in slow, steady circles. Heat rolled up from the fire pit in damp waves, carrying the sour-sweet scent of the hops and flavor he tossed in. Smoke clung to his clothes and hair. It was blissfully quiet down here, and he found himself retreating here more often than not when he needed to think.

He leaned into the motion, shoulders working, trying to let the rhythm settle his thoughts.

It did not.

He had needed a break from the focus demanded by brewing the potion for Kess and the clutch of eagles he was raising. He would lose half the lot if his concentration slipped. The ingredients were rare, and if he failed, he would not get another chance soon.

He set the paddle aside and wiped his forearm across his brow, leaving a streak. The meditation exercises he had forced himself through earlier had slipped apart the moment he thought about all the pieces he had set into motion.

He reached for a mug and dipped it into the smaller cask beside the kettle. Foam climbed the rim and slid over his knuckles. He took a drink anyway, bitterness and warmth hitting together while the coals shifted under the kettle with a dull crack.

He groaned with satisfaction as a knock sounded against the cellar door.

He turned toward the door and picked up the paddle again to keep mixing. “Enter.”

The hinges gave a soft complaint as the door opened. Cool air followed it down the stairwell, carrying the wet scent of rain and churned earth from above.

“Lord Harold.”

Adeline’s voice held its usual calm, though it sat too tight in her throat. She was still adjusting to her duties, but she had done admirably so far.

He turned then, mug still in hand.

Lantern light caught her face as she stepped down into the cellar. Her ledger was tucked beneath one arm, cloak dark with damp along the hem. Her eyes looked wrong at first glance, the gray filmed over as though she had stared too long into bright light.

Clouded. Harold felt his grip tighten on the paddle before he set it down carefully beside the kettle.

“What happened?”

It came out flatter than he intended.

Adeline closed the door behind her and stood with her back to it for a moment, as if steadying herself against the wood. Water dripped from her sleeve onto the stone floor in slow, hollow taps.

“Report from Captain Hale to the west,” she said.

He crossed the space between them in three strides. The mash behind him began to bubble harder as the heat built, forgotten.

“Say it.”

She opened the ledger and ran her thumb along the edge, gathering her thoughts like she gathered her notes.

“They made contact again during the march,” she said. “Almost 600 mixed hobgoblin and goblins staged an ambush along the forest edge. They had dug out a hill and concealed goblins within. Prepared pits for archers. Concealed trolls popped out and threw rocks to shatter the formations. Simultaneously, another force attacked from the woods.”

Harold exhaled through his nose, jaw working once.

“How bad.”

“The centuries held,” she replied. “But one of the maniples was forced to call broken edge. The Prime Century assaulted the hill and killed the trolls.”

The cellar fire popped, throwing sparks that died before they reached the damp stone.

“Casualties?”

“More wounded than straight casualties, so most will make a full recovery. But almost 50 dead.” Adeline said. “Still within what Hale calls sustainable, though much higher than his initial estimates from before he crossed the river. He has accelerated the march. He believes the goblins are attempting to delay his movements and believes there is some kind of goblin commander, and is again requesting adventurers to support him.”

Harold turned away from her then and braced both hands on the edge of the workbench. The wood felt slick under his palms.

“They must have formed a nest,” he murmured.

Adeline did not answer. She watched him instead, eyes still clouded, as if the report had not fully left her.

“He also reports scouts have found signs of more organized resistance ahead,” she added after a moment. “Tracks. Supply traces. He believes the destroyed settlement may have been a focal point.”

Harold let out a slow breath, stirring the steam rising from the kettle.

“All right,” he said.

He straightened and reached for the mug again, though he did not drink.

“Tell Margaret I need the estimates on our current legionary manpower. If we need to reinforce Hale, where can we get the bodies? Wake Caldwell if you have to. I want to know how long Hale can keep pushing before supply becomes the fight.”

Adeline nodded once.

She did not move yet.

“There is more,” she said quietly.

Harold looked at her fully then. The cellar lantern flickered between them, light sliding across the sheen in her eyes.

“What,” he said with no small amount of dread.

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