Stephan had wanted to ride with them. To take part in raiding the enemy encampment. The urge was childish, both in strength and in how sound it was, but he wished to do something, not merely stand on the wall and watch from afar.
His desire was natural, or at least he thought so.
Just as naturally, the rest of the council said: “No!” Paladin or not, he was the chief commander, and the Marshal of the East did not skulk around at night with oil flasks to burn the enemy’s supplies.
So, Stephan waited; powerless to do anything.
He stood atop Cliffort’s walls, cool stone against his palm as he leaned on a merlon. Other members of the council surrounded him, clad in steel and silk and nerves. Avery was absent, stalking in the dark, leading the raid.
Lacy was beside him, small in the darkness. She laced her fingers in front of her, shoulders drawn in.
The story of them had already begun to circulate, and it made a lovely tale—the young Paladin and his childhood sweetheart. Rather than sparking controversy, it humanized Stephan. Painted him a man of flesh and blood; more approachable. It also reminded everyone just how youthful the new Paladin was.
So much confusing and conflicting information.
And Stephan wasn’t thinking about his marital status. Rumors were spreading about a warlock among the refugees. The dark sorcerer moved with stealth, impossible to pin down, but multiple credible sources claimed they found and destroyed undead rats seeking to infiltrate granaries and storehouses; the bloated living corpses probably meant to spread disease.
The torches along the wall hissed, their flames dancing in the wind. They drew Stephan’s attention to the walls.
Enemies outside. A warlock within.
His eyes drifted further, to the haphazard constellation of orange pinpricks flickering. Hundreds of cooking fires, some larger, some smaller, all representing a gathering of enemy soldiers.
You could’ve camped closer, Stephan thought. Cliffort’s trebuchets were a marvel of engineering, but even so, they couldn’t hit a camp a full mile away. Besides, it was too much to hope for a commander to make such an egregious mistake right from the start.
The night was dark, visibility low. And yet, the hive of activity around the cooking fires was impossible to hide. Even if they were just the scouts and the vanguard. Highglen’s colors had remained invisible due to the forest when the march stopped, but they were probably too close to launch a successful sortie. Otherwise, Stephan would have hit them hard.
Don’t be too greedy.
Strike their stomachs. Sow discord; wait. A chance will present itself in time.
The books Stephan had read all taught him that beyond a sliver of doubt. An army besieging an organized and well-fortified castle faced terrible odds, and just about everything the enemy commander did, a talented strategist could turn it into a mistake.
For example, things could have been worse for Cliffort had Count Highglen waited until spring. The city would have had extra mouths to feed during the winter, but even then, the attacker’s lot would have been brutal once the snow thawed.
Stephan’s gaze rested on the orange specks and the black, humanoid ones obstructing them, wondering where the wagons were. A new spark caught his eye. He smiled. One of the wagons ignited, then another, and another. Then the wind shifted, slowly blowing the fire toward the forest.
What if we accidentally start a forest fire? Stephan’s pupils widened with realization. What if we intentionally cause it while they are marching towards us? What would happen? Could we burn them all?
Stephan imagined the scenario as if it were a game of The Art of War. If a fire started in a forest his troops marched through, he would have them run and abandon the supplies, then wait for an attack.
Not much different from what will take place here. Worse for us, since we might burn down our own forest.
Around him, a murmur rippled, but nobody dared cheer in the somber atmosphere. Lacy wrung her hands nervously, and Ernest clenched his fists, probably dissatisfied he had missed the chance to prove himself.
Stephan sighed at the absurdity of it all as the flames spread. Fire kissed wagon after wagon, and the individual orange specks merged into a glowing blot. Distant screams followed, but they were so faint, the light wind blowing atop the walls nearly drowned them.
Stephan was calm. Disappointed. It was a strange experience, knowing, worse, hoping, a tragedy was unfolding just outside earshot. All of this is such a waste.
“I guess they really weren’t expecting us,” he muttered, addressing the issue that had bothered him the most after everyone came up with the same idea about attacking the supplies on the first night.
“They probably were,” Anita said thoughtfully, “but they only have a few disciplined, professional soldiers; and those are guarding the commanders, looking out for desertion, and patrolling. There’s always too much work, no matter how many people you have.”
This is all a game, Stephan realized. Even if you know what you need to do, you have to bend to the circumstances on the board.
Men were shouting. They didn’t have enough buckets to douse the flames. The lack of organization showed once more. Even without the buckets, they could have formed a chain to the river, but that required coordination and experienced commanders. Both of which were unlikely in armies that rarely saw conflict.
The fires started drifting apart. Someone thought of moving the wagons; some of them heading towards the water. It wouldn’t help, but it revealed an officer down there with a good head on their shoulders.
Soon another sound joined the noise—the low rumble of galloping horses. It grew in intensity for half a minute before the riders emerged from the darkness, but there was no trace of pursuit. Victorious Knights entered the city, greeted by cheers, and the drawbridge rose behind them with a groan.
A handful of minutes passed before Avery arrived.
“They didn’t follow,” he said with a scowl before stopping.
He thumped his chest, then continued. “Count Longbridge is competent, or at least well-read, even if his troops are lacking. We eliminated a patrol and acted as quickly as we could, but the damage we did is insignificant; mostly we will inspire panic and raise our morale.”
Stephan wouldn’t call it insignificant. He counted ten to twenty wagons burning; that was fifteen to thirty tons of food destroyed. Enough to see a few villages through the winter.
“I think you’ve done fine work, Captain,” Stephan complimented him, not finding the work fine or admirable in any way.
“Thank you, Sir. They still have over a hundred wagons left. Had Count Longbridge decided on more stationary guards instead of lots of patrols, we could have burned half of them and inflicted a serious blow.”
“You have done your mission well, Captain,” Stephan assured him once again. They had poked at the enemy and suffered no losses of their own. Perfect. As perfect as his situation could be.
They remained atop the wall, watching chaos and abandoned wagons burning for another quarter of an hour before they turned around and headed for the keep. Stephan could have watched it all from his study, but he was sending a message to soldiers and townsfolk alike.
We are strong. We are winning. There is no reason for you to panic.
People cheered as Stephan, Queen Eleanor, and their entourage moved towards the castle.
Inside, the spirits were high too; soldiers greeted them with a roar. Stephan just wanted to get away from it all. Discomfort and wrongness lingered in his heart. He lost. The Knights might have won, but he had lost. Men had died; food had burned. For nothing.
This is why we will never eradicate evil, the book said. I’m doing it too. Solving my own tiny problems instead of looking at the overall situation. Hurting others for my own goals.
He headed for the keep after appearing suitably heroic and deep in thought. Is there anything I can do? Can I change it?
“I’m going to take a walk,” he said. “I need to think.”
Anita and Ernest exchanged worried glances. They stood behind Stephan’s back, but he still knew the exact look they had. The two of them were the most invested in him, while the rest of the captains probably saw him as an obstacle. As someone who would claim honors and merit for their hard work.
“Do you want me to go with you?” Lacy asked.
“No. I need to be alone for a while.”
He heard their salutes behind his back. The soldiers and Knights split into cliques, the victorious raiders already boasting and embellishing the account of their feat.
This is but a ripple in the water, Stephan told himself. An echo carried by the wind. None of this will happen. Did it even happen?
Then a thought stabbed him like a dagger through the heart. Lacy will forget me again.
He fled from that one. Recoiling much like Lacy did when she tried to remember their shared past. There were no gods behind his pain, no skill that enforced it. No, it was just Stephan and his young heart.
He found himself heading to Marshal Harrington’s grave. He needed counsel, and so far, the best man to offer it was the late Lord Marshal.
Maybe I should give those books written by the old Paladins another chance?
Trees lined the path leading to the graves, their branches knitting overhead, making the gloom even darker than the rest of the night. A pebble caught in Stephan’s shoe, squeaking against stone. It would have annoyed him once, yet he couldn’t hear it.
Great place for assassinations. He smirked. I need to have guards patrol here after dark.
He wondered why the late Lord Marshal hadn’t done so.
Perhaps you need dark, quiet places for certain kinds of work. Perhaps there are invisible guards stationed to catch assassins and spies in the one spot that seemed safe?
Stephan wouldn’t put it past the paranoid old marshal.
The final resting place of the former Marshals of the East stood in a clearing, a paler patch in the dark. There, Stephan saw a crumpled form in the low light. He reached to his side and grabbed his sword. The weapon left its sheath without a sound as Stephan approached.
He leaned over the corpse, catching the coppery smell of blood. He turned it around carefully, and Dorian stared at him, body mangled, mouth agape. Stephan’s eyes went wide. The old butler was dead, his throat torn, eyes bulging in his final terror.
Time stilled. Stephan’s senses sharpened. Distant cheers signaled the celebrating Knights and soldiers; his heart was beating hard enough for him to hear it.
Then, wet ground squelched just behind his back.