Chapter 44 (Patreon)

Boots carved twin grooves through the wet yard as Harold drove forward behind his shield.

Steel rang, stinging his ears. Impact jolted down his arm into his ribs, where leather straps bit. He shifted before the recoil finished, stepping into the next exchange with controlled breath and mana running low. Across from him, the guard matched his economy, shield just angled to deflect the thrust. The sword snapped out in a short return cut that would have opened Harold from hip to navel if he had been slower.

He twisted inside the line of the strike and drove his shield rim forward. Wood splintered against the iron boss. The guard retreated one deliberate step, boots grinding mud, and the watching ring of knights leaned in with quiet interest.

Rain from the night before still clung to the packed earth. Each pivot kicked up grit. Harold tasted it as he pressed, sword darting for the gap he’d seen before. The guard closed it, as if he’d expected this since the duel began. Their blades scraped, locked. For a heartbeat, Harold heard the man’s breath and smelled the sour leather of his harness.

The knight smiled without warmth. “You’re getting better, my Lord,” then he shoved.

Harold yielded just enough to let the force bleed away, then surged forward, channeling mana into his calves for a sudden burst. He moved faster than the guard anticipated. He struck twice in quick succession—first a high blow to draw the shield up, then a low feint for the knee. The guard blocked both attacks, but the second landed with enough force to draw impressed grunts from the onlookers.

“Good,” someone muttered.

He had settled into the pace now. He was relentless, his sword and shield in constant motion as he moved his feet to maintain the pressure, forcing the guard to respond rather than act. Sweat mixed with the damp on his skin. His shoulders burned where the shield strap rubbed raw. Mana hummed in his muscles like a drawn wire. He held it there, refusing the urge to spike it for a burst that might end the exchange quickly but leave him winded after. He smiled and felt the blood in his mouth. The point was to train his skill, not just spike his mana and end the fight quickly.

The guard circled left.

Harold matched the move, facing him as their shields knocked hollow. The guard’s sword flicked in from the right, aimed at Harold’s wrist. Harold caught the strike on his shield rim, then hammered forward with a thrust targeting the man’s throat.

It stopped an inch short.

The guard slipped aside and let the thrust pass. Harold corrected instantly. He turned it into a backhand cut that scraped sparks from the other blade. They broke apart. Mud sucked at their boots.

A murmur ran through the watching soldiers.

Harold rolled his shoulders once, never taking his eyes off the man opposite him. He felt good. Better than he had months ago. He was stronger and faster. The thin chemist who had arrived here first would already have been dead.

He pressed again.

This time, the guard gave him more ground than before. Harold sensed an advantage and stepped in harder, driving a shield punch that staggered the man half a pace. He followed with a thrust meant to finish the exchange.

The feint came from nowhere.

The guard’s shield dipped as if losing balance, inviting Harold to lunge. But as Harold committed, the dip became a hook—snagging Harold’s shield rim and dragging it wide. In almost the same motion, the guard hammered a pommel blow into Harold’s forearm and swept at his ankle with his boot.

The world tilted.

Harold hit the yard hard enough to drive breath from his lungs. Cold mud soaked through his tunic. His shield landed beside him with a dull slap.

The ring of knights let out a sharp collective sound that was part laughter, part sympathy.

Harold groaned, ignoring Jenkins’ laughter. He rolled onto a knee before the guard could offer a hand, pushed up, retrieved his shield, and tightened his jaw more in frustration than pain.

“Again?” he asked.

A deep voice cut across the yard before the guard could answer.

“That was enough.”

Jack Churchill strode into the circle with the easy authority of a man who expected space—always—and got it. His hair stuck damp against his temples. One sleeve showed a dark oil streak from recent work. He stopped before Harold and examined him as if inspecting a blade for flaws.

“Good job holding the tempo,” Jack said at last. “Most men start chasing the finish once they see the opportunity.”

Harold wiped mud from his cheek. The praise landed in a way he couldn’t quite process.

“Meh, He baited me,” he said.

Jack’s mouth twitched.

“Sure did,” he agreed. “And you walked straight into it.”

He seized Harold’s forearm, and Harold met it without flinching. Jack nodded once, satisfied, and released him.

“Run this evening,” he added. “Full kit towards the hills.”

Harold groaned despite himself. A ripple of amusement moved through the watching knights.

“Yes, sir,” he said.

Two figures waited at the edge of the yard with the careful posture of men trying to look patient while carrying urgent news. Mark rocked on his heels as if he might step into the circle at any moment. Evan stood beside him with his arms folded, eyes looking around as if saying he would rather be anywhere except here.

Jack clapped Harold once on the shoulder and moved away, leaving a faint ache behind.

“Don’t be late,” he called over his shoulder.

Harold shook his head and started toward Mark and Evan, mud squelching under each step. The morning had only just begun, and already he needed coffee. Or beer. Gods, a cold beer would be amazing.

Harold crossed the yard with his shield still hooked over one forearm and his sword hanging loose in his hand. His guard parted without being told, some offering quick nods, while others fell in beside him to escort him.

Mark met him halfway, hands already moving as if the report might spill out of him before he reached speaking distance.

“We got called for,” he said. “Your runner found us near the guild house. Said it was for you.”

Evan gave Harold a more measured look, eyes flicking once to the mud streaked across his tunic and the faint tremor still lingering in his sword arm.

“Haven’t seen you fight yet. That was impressive, a long way from that skinny guy who helped us with those shipping containers,” he said.

Harold snorted. "I haven’t been that kid in a long time," he said, sliding the blade back into its sheath. "I forgot about that until you reminded me."

Mark snorted. “Well, for you it's been a couple of decades.”

“Your office?”

Harold turned and spat some blood from his mouth. “Yeah, I need some coffee and breakfast.”

They walked toward the keep. Rainwater dripped from the eaves, ticking steadily along the stone path. Two of Caldwell's clerks opened the storehouse, and adventurers waited for quest rewards.

“You’re getting faster,” Mark added after a moment. “It’s… noticeable.”

Harold rolled one shoulder where the impact had landed.

"Since you last saw me fight," Harold chuckled. "Partly it’s the mana; I have more than ever, so even a low level of empowerment makes me much faster. I’m not the completely inexperienced guy who killed that goblin commander."

They passed through the archway into the keep’s lower corridor. The air changed at once — cooler, smelling faintly of parchment, wax, and lately damp stone that never fully dried. Their footsteps echoed in soft succession as they climbed the worn steps toward Harold’s office.

Adeline stood just outside the doorway with a stack of papers tucked to her chest. She shifted her weight as they approached, expression composed, but her eyes lingering a fraction longer than necessary on Harold’s face.

“Lord Harold,” she said, holding out the report. “The reports for the day. My comments in the margins.”

He took the papers without slowing. “Thank you, Adeline.”

Her son’s voice drifted faintly from inside her office down the hall, reciting something in a halting rhythm while scratching charcoal across slate. Adeline turned back toward the sound almost immediately, professionalism snapping back into place like a shield lifted.

Mark leaned closer to Evan as they followed Harold into the office.

“She stared,” he murmured.

Evan shook his head once.

“Later,” he muttered back.

Harold crossed to his desk and set up the coffee pot with his usual precision. He measured beans, poured water from a large pitcher, and stoked the flame until it licked at the metal.

He called toward the open corridor.

“Adeline, do you want coffee?”

A pause. Then her voice came back.

“Yes, please.”

Mark shot Evan a look that said everything he did not bother to voice. Evan stared firmly at the wall.

Harold worked in silence while the brew thickened and darkened, movements economical and almost ritualistic. When he finally turned back toward them, steam curled up past his jaw.

“So we got a report from Henri,” he said.

Mark straightened.

“He’s marched?”

Harold nodded.

"From Margaret. The far-ranging adventurer team saw Henri cross the river by barge with troops yesterday. He’ll probably spend most of today organizing. If they're quick, we have about a week before he reaches us. But the team was hunted down as they tried to escape. They got one last update before being killed; they thought the adventurers were from Lord Arjun’s side. They all wore a red armband."

The words settled heavily between them. Evan exhaled slowly.

“That’s… faster than we expected.”

“Yes,” Harold replied. “Which is why I need you both to start a quest with the adventurers immediately.”

Mark’s eyes lit with something sharp and eager.

“What kind?”

Harold set the coffee pot down with deliberate care. “I need you to delay them.”

He took his cup and drank before continuing. He walked quickly out to Adeline to give her a cup before coming back and saying, “There are nearly five hundred soldiers marching toward us. I intend to recruit them after we take their villages.”

Mark blinked.

“Why not just kill them?”

“Nope, I need them alive.”

Evan frowned.

“That complicates things.”

“It does,” Harold agreed. “It would be simple to give you explosive potions and let you tear them apart. They aren't as effective against armoured soldiers, but it would work. That is not the goal. I need time, and I want them alive.”

He stepped closer to the map table and tapped a stretch of road with one finger.

“Delay them however you can. Form for fights, then withdraw. Dig ditches. Cripple their supplies. Lure monsters into them. Strike at night. Force them to deploy over and over until they bleed strength and daylight.”

Mark leaned forward, already visualizing it.

“Who can I take?” he said.

“All the adventures at Haven that you want,” Harold said. “Hale has run into heavier resistance than expected,” Harold said quietly. “I need you to give him another week at least. You have 2 days to run to Haven. The road is almost completed; you can draw whatever you think you’ll need from the alchemists. I suggest drawing some of the poison and explosives. Caltrops are already at Haven. Take what you think you need and what Centurion Ayen will allow.”

The brazier crackled. Rain began again outside, soft at first.

Mark grinned despite himself. “All right,” he said. “Now that sounds like fun.”

___________________________________________________________________________

​

Canvas snapped hard enough to make the lantern sway.

Hale caught the edge of the map before it slid off the trestle table. Wet grit rasped under his palm as he pinned it down with his forearm. The command tent smelled of damp clothes, mud, and men who had worked through the night and only just stopped moving long enough to argue.

A line of officers crowded the far side of the table. Centurions with their helmets pushed back were grateful to be out of the rain. Tribune Tran stood with his arms folded while one of his assistants whispered tallies into his ear.

Outside, the camp muttered and shifted. Stakes were being driven into sodden ground with a steady thud. Somewhere, a tatanka bawled in protest as a handler tried to coax it toward its tethering lines.

Hale dragged a charcoal line across the map. “Alright, we took a beating yesterday.”

“They came from here,” he said, tapping the slope where the goblin ambush had broken open. “And again here. The scouts found the tunnels they dug into the hills and know what to look for now.”

A centurion wiped rain from his brow with the back of his wrist.

“They’re pulling back in relatively good order, too,” he added. “They scatter, but someone is keeping them organized.”

Parker’s mouth tightened.

“They’ve delayed us for too long,” he said.

Hale grunted as he looked at the map.

The tent flap lifted. Garrick stepped through with mud halfway to his knees and a smear of green-black blood drying across one sleeve. He did not bother saluting. He went straight to the rear, where the food was, and bit into an apple immediately.

“We found it,” he said.

The murmuring stopped.

Hale straightened, giving him a flat stare.

“Can you please give a proper report?”

Garrick rolled his eyes, “I got eyes on the destroyed settlement,” Garrick replied. “Or what’s left of it, they’ve improved it.”

He reached across and shoved aside one of the weighted stones marking yesterday’s position. His finger traced a line farther north along the forest edge to where the village was.

“Two days’ hard march from here if you keep pushing, allowing for the fighting you’re gonna have to do. We circled wide and got eyes on the approaches. They have the little buggers everywhere.”

Rain began tapping harder on the canvas.

“It isn’t a ruin,” Garrick went on. “They’ve built it up. I’d guess the initial settlers dug a ditch to protect themselves with the earth walls, but now there is a haphazard wooden wall on top of that. A forest of stakes before that. Watch towers made from lashed trunks and bone. There’s a gate big enough to push wagons through. The land it’s on is good too. On top of a small hill. It's a killer approach up to it.”

Silence pressed in around the table. One of the optios swore under his breath. Hale felt something cold and clear settle into place behind his ribs.

“How many?” he asked.

“Hard to say,” Garrick answered. “More than we’ve hit so far. Patrol bands, or around twenty to thirty, move in and out like they’re rotating. Archers posted high. I saw at least four trolls working the outer ditch like beasts of labor. And…” He hesitated just long enough to make Hale look up fully. ”I think they have some kind of cavalry. Someone is mounted for sure; I saw some kind of large, clawed tracks with goblin prints around them.

Hale grunted, “It’s never easy.”

“Nope,” Garrick said. “Could be worse.”

Outside, a hammer rang against iron. Kers was working to repair as many of the javelins as he could.

Hale planted both hands on the table and studied the rough charcoal shape that now marked the fort.

“So,” he said. “How do we breach a walled fort?”

A centurion gave a humorless laugh.

“After all this marching.”

Hale’s jaw worked once as he eyed the NCO.

He turned toward Tran. “I need to know what else those alchemists can make. A full list, please.”

He turned to the command teams.

“Get the maniples ready to change formation in the next few days of marching. I want screening patrols doubled. No more blind advances into their prepared ground. I want to skirmish them everywhere we find them. Pound for pound, our men beat the goblins. We can’t afford another ambush like the last one. That was too sophisticated.”

Hale looked back at Garrick.

“You did well,” he said. “Eat. Then I want every detail you can remember, then I need you to take your scouts back out and do it again. I need all the info on that place you can give me.”

Garrick pushed away from the table, pocketing another apple. Exhaustion showed now that the urgency had burned off.

“You’re gonna rush it,” he said.

Hale’s eyes stayed on the map. “I don't know yet,” he replied. “I won't waste people, but fast violence of action solves a lot of problems. I don't want to give them more time to prepare than we can.”