CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The frozen expanse of the northern wastes stretched endlessly behind Proudlock and his band as they pushed southward, the blizzard’s fury relenting into a bitter wind that sliced through their patchwork armor like a honed blade.
For two grueling days, they had battled the elements, snowdrifts swallowing their tracks, the cold gnawing at their bones like a relentless predator.
Proudlock’s head still throbbed from the blow Thorgrin had delivered in the gorge, a dull ache that pulsed with each step of his weary horse, a constant reminder of not just his own narrow escape from death, but of the consequences his actions had set in motion.
He rode at the head of the column, his scarred face wrapped in a frost-rimed scarf, eyes fixed on the horizon where the faint, shimmering glow of the Shield promised sanctuary and the sweet taste of reward.
The group had dwindled to fourteen now; one mercenary, a gaunt man with a festering wound, had succumbed during the night, his body left unceremoniously in a snowbank, stripped of boots and blade.
The survivors were a hardened lot, their loyalty bought with promises of shares in the nobles’ bounty.
Skarn, the wiry man with the missing ear, rode beside Proudlock, his perpetual sneer hidden beneath layers of cloth.
“Think the fat lord will pay up?” he muttered, voice muffled by the wind, his breath fogging in the frigid air.
“All this for a cloak and some trinkets?”
Proudlock glanced at him, expression unreadable behind the scarf.
“Aldrich has much to gain. The king’s death clears the path for him and his ilk.
But we must sell the tale perfectly. No slips.
We are survivors of a beast attack—wild horrors from the breaches, not bandits.
The cloak and trinkets are proof of Thorgrin’s fall in battle. ”
Garr, the burly mercenary with frostbitten fingers wrapped in rags, grunted from behind, his massive frame hunched against the cold. “And the others? Reece, Erec—did they make it? Could ruin the story if they show up.”
Proudlock shook his head, though uncertainty gnawed at him like a rat in his gut.
The chaos of the ambush had obscured the fates of Thorgrin’s companions.
Alistair’s magic had blasted several mercenaries to oblivion, azure bolts cracking ribs against cliffs.
Kendrick’s sword had danced with lethal precision, claiming lives even as blood ran from his own wounds.
But in the end, the mercenaries’ numbers had told in the cramped gorge.
“Dead or captured,” Proudlock lied smoothly, his voice steady despite the doubt.
“Doesn’t matter. Our story holds: beasts overwhelmed us, the king sacrificed himself to save the rest. It will also be our story that will be told first. Then repeated across the land. ”
They had rehearsed it during the ride, weaving a tapestry of lies to match the kingdom’s growing fears.
The breaches had unleashed nightmarish creatures—rock-skinned trolls with claws dripping venom, serpentine horrors from the earth’s depths with eyes like burning coals.
Thorgrin had fought heroically, his sword blazing, cleaving dozens before a swarm dragged him down.
Proudlock had barely escaped with his life, and they had been fortunate to have been joined by a patrol of these other knights, who had willingly fought side by side their king, albeit in vain.
They had managed to recover what they could amid the carnage.
The blood on the cloak was real enough, its crimson stains frozen into grotesque patterns, and the discarded items—pack, sheath, amulet—added authenticity.
No one would question survivors bearing such grim tokens, not in a realm already trembling from tales of breaches.
No one would question Sir Proudlock either. He was known throughout the land as one of the king’s most loyal and faithful servants.
As they neared the Ring’s border, the landscape softened from barren ice to rugged hills dotted with sparse evergreens, their branches heavy with snow.
The Shield loomed ahead, its shimmering wall now solid, no hint of the cracks and breaches that had so worried the population.
Patrols had increased, Proudlock noted, silver-armored riders galloping along the canyon’s edge, their lances glinting in the pale light, and he knew there would be more on the other side.
They had seen none of the beasts, and despite everything else going on inside his head, he wondered if they somehow knew when and where the Shield was going to weaken and break, moving in preparation.
He signaled his men to prepare, to feign grief to go along with the exhaustion that was only too real.
They looked like a band of survivors, escaped from a battle where the odds had been stacked against them.
Their armor, bodies, and faces showed the ferocity of that battle, while their bloodied royal booty showed the awful cost of it.
The outpost at the northern bridge was a sturdy fort of stone and wood, its walls pitted from years of weathering the Wilds’ harsh winds.
Two dozen guards manned it under Captain Malik, a stern man Proudlock knew from the Silver, his granite features unyielding as the cliffs.
As they approached, horns blared in alarm, and archers notched arrows on the walls, their bows creaking in the cold.
Proudlock raised a hand in peace, pulling back his hood to reveal his scarred face.
“Hold! It’s Lieutenant Proudlock of the king’s expedition!” he called, voice hoarse from the journey.
Malik emerged from the gatehouse, his eyes narrowing in surprise, then widening with dread. “Proudlock? We feared you all lost. No ravens, no news, or scouts for days. What news of the king?”
Proudlock dismounted, his movements slow, as if weighed by grief. “Captain... it’s grim. The wastes... beasts from the breaches ambushed us. The king—he fought like a legend, but they were too many. He’s... gone.”
Malik’s face paled, and murmurs spread among the guards like wildfire.
“Gone? King Thorgrin dead?” He gestured them inside, barking orders for food, blankets, and a fire.
In the fort’s common room, a low-ceilinged hall warmed by a roaring hearth, Proudlock spun the tale.
His men nodded solemnly, adding details: the ground shaking with unnatural tremors, cracks in the earth spewing foul mists, Thorgrin’s sword cleaving through monstrous hides before a venomous claw felled him.
Proudlock presented the cloak briefly, its bloodstains drawing gasps, then bundled it away “for the queen,” his voice breaking for effect.
The pack, sheath, and amulet lay beside it, their battered state a silent testament to the fabricated horror.
Malik’s jaw tightened, his hand gripping the table’s edge.
“The realm must know,” he said, clasping Proudlock’s shoulder.
“You’ve done a hero’s duty returning.” He dispatched riders immediately, one to King’s Court with urgent missives sealed in wax, another to nearby outposts to spread the warning.
By nightfall, they were on the road again, the news racing ahead like a shadow across the Ring.
Proudlock smiled inwardly; the seed was planted, and the soil was fertile with fear.
The next day brought them to Lord Garrick’s manor, Highland Hall, under a leaden sky that mirrored the growing unease that followed the expedition like a damp fog.
They slipped through the gates that skirted the manor, which was a bastion of old nobility, its towers piercing the twilight like spears, walls etched with bas-reliefs of ancient battles fought by Highland lords.
Guards at the gate waved them through without question, their eyes glinting with shared purpose.
In the stables, Proudlock dismissed most of his men to quarters, warning them not to get drunk and allow their tongues and loose lips top betray them.
He kept Skarn and Garr as escorts, briefly looking each in the eye to reassure himself they were up to what was to come. “Remember the story,” he warned, his voice low. “One slip, and we’re all dead.”
The great chamber of Highland Hall was a cavern of opulence and intrigue, its high ceiling supported by beams carved with noble crests, tapestries depicting ancestral triumphs swaying faintly in the draft.
A massive oak table dominated the room, surrounded by high-backed chairs carved with thorny motifs that seemed to writhe in the flickering light of candelabras.
The air was scented with beeswax and crushed herbs.
Platters of roasted venison, wheels of cheese, and bowls of winter fruits adorned the table—a feast masking the treasonous intent, a veneer of hospitality for a gathering that would reshape the Ring.
Two dozen figures filled the room, a handpicked cross-section of the Ring’s power brokers, their faces a gallery of ambition and discontent.
Lord Aldrich presided at the head, his portly frame ensconced in crimson velvet, his beard like tangled thorns framing a face schooled in deception.
He had risen through cunning, amassing lands by exploiting the post-war reconstruction, resentment growing year by year as Thorgrin’s reforms elevated commoners at the expense of nobles, the very people who had made the kingdom what it was.
Beside him sat Lady Elowen, her midnight silks clinging like shadows, her sharp eyes missing nothing.
She had lost influence when Gwendolyn redistributed her family’s trade monopolies, fueling her ambition to reclaim power.
Baron Holt, wealthy from caravan routes, toyed with his jeweled rings, his mind on profits disrupted by the breaches but also by the opportunities chaos might bring.