Chapter 15
The mountain road winds through pine forests and rocky outcroppings like a serpent's spine, treacherous even in good weather.
Now, with late autumn mist clinging to the peaks and the constant threat of early snow dusting the higher elevations, it's become a nightmare of uncertain footing and hidden dangers.
But Ivah pushes the pace anyway, driven by a desperation that grows stronger with each passing hour.
The combined column of warriors makes for a strange sight—Everitt soldiers in their black leather and steel riding alongside Mirn veterans in blue and gold, traditional enemies united by shared purpose and the grim determination of men who understand what failure means.
The political implications of this alliance would normally occupy Ivah's thoughts for hours, but now he can think of nothing but the man they're riding to save.
"The horses need rest," Harwick calls from somewhere behind him in the column of riders, his voice carrying the professional concern of a general who's seen good men die from poor planning.
"We've been riding hard for two days. At this rate, half our mounts will be lame before we reach the Northern territories. "
Ivah doesn't turn around, his eyes fixed on the narrow trail ahead that winds ever higher into the mountains. "Then we'll walk," he replies, his voice flat with exhaustion and barely controlled fury. "Bellamy doesn't have the luxury of rest."
"He won't benefit from a rescue force that arrives too exhausted to fight effectively."
The criticism stings because it's tactically sound, the kind of wisdom that Ivah would normally heed without question. But every moment of delay feels like a betrayal, like an abandonment of the man who means more to him than crowns or kingdoms or conquest.
Still, he recognizes the truth in Harwick's words. Reluctantly, he raises his hand to signal a halt, allowing the column to rest their horses and check equipment.
"Five minutes," he concedes, though it feels like pulling teeth to say the words. "Water the horses, check your gear, then we move."
Harwick rides up beside him, his weathered face set in lines of professional concern that can't quite hide his own worry. "We need to discuss strategy. We can't just ride into Kent's territory and hope for the best."
"I'm aware of the tactical considerations," Ivah replies, dismounting to give his horse a chance to rest. The animal is lathered with sweat despite the cold mountain air, its sides heaving from the punishing pace.
"Are you? Because right now you're acting like an avenging lover rather than a military commander."
Ivah feels his temper flare hot and immediate. "Careful, General."
Harwick's voice gentles slightly, taking on the tone of a man trying to reach someone balanced on a knife's edge.
"I understand the urgency—believe me, I want him back as much as you do.
That boy has been like a son to me since his father died.
But we need to be smart about this. One mistake, one moment of poor judgment, and we'll all be dead or captured. And then who saves Bellamy?"
The logic is unassailable, but it doesn't make the waiting any easier.
Ivah paces restlessly as the men tend to their horses, his mind racing through worst-case scenarios and contingency plans.
How long has Bellamy been in Kent's hands now?
Eight days? Nine? Each hour of delay could be the one that breaks something irreparable in the man he loves.
"Your Majesty," Captain Korrath approaches with the careful deference of a man addressing his king in a dangerous mood. "The scouts report clear road ahead for the next few miles, but there are signs of increased patrol activity in the border regions. Kent's men are definitely on heightened alert."
"Expected," Ivah replies, forcing his voice to remain level. "They know they've crossed a line. They'll be watching for retaliation."
"It also means they'll be ready for us," Harwick points out. "This won't be a simple smash-and-grab operation."
Before Ivah can respond, one of his scouts comes galloping back from the advance position, his horse's hooves striking sparks from the rocky trail. The man's face is grim with warning as he reins in beside them.
"Bandits ahead," he reports, breathing hard from his urgent ride. "Two dozen, maybe more. They've blocked the pass with a barricade of logs and stones. Looks like they're planning to hold up any travelers coming through."
Ivah feels his jaw tighten with frustrated anger. Mountain bandits are a constant threat in these remote areas, preying on travelers and merchants who can't afford proper escorts. Under normal circumstances, he might try to negotiate passage or find an alternate route to avoid unnecessary conflict.
But these aren't normal circumstances, and he's in no mood for delays or diplomacy.
"Time?" he asks tersely.
"They're about half a mile ahead, positioned at the narrowest part of the pass. Good defensive position—we can't go around them without adding hours to our journey."
Hours they don't have. Hours that Bellamy can't spare.
"Standard formation," Ivah orders, his voice carrying to every man in their small force. "Fast, violent, decisive. Anyone who surrenders can live. Anyone who fights dies."
The soldiers begin preparing for battle with professional efficiency—checking weapons, adjusting armor, forming up into assault positions. Ivah notes with satisfaction how well the Everitt and Mirn forces work together, their initial distrust forgotten in the face of shared purpose.
"Seems harsh," one of Harwick's younger officers murmurs, clearly uncomfortable with the idea of killing men whose only crime is choosing the wrong profession.
"Harsh is what happens when you delay a rescue mission because you're feeling charitable toward bandits," Ivah replies coldly. "These mountains are full of men who've chosen to prey on the innocent. Today, they learn the consequences of that choice."
The attack comes twenty minutes later, as they round a bend in the road and see the crude barricade of logs and stones blocking their path. The bandits have chosen their position well—a narrow chokepoint between towering rock walls, with concealed positions for archers and spearmen.
They emerge from concealment with wild shouts and brandished weapons, clearly expecting easy prey in the form of a small merchant caravan. Their leader, a burly man with a scarred face and rusted mail, demands their surrender with the casual arrogance of someone accustomed to being obeyed.
They're not prepared for sixty elite warriors moving with professional coordination.
Ivah leads the charge personally, his twin axes singing through the mountain air as he cuts through the bandits' front line like a scythe through wheat. Behind him, Everitt and Mirn soldiers fight side by side with the fluid efficiency of men who've trained for exactly this kind of engagement.
The battle is swift and brutal. The bandits' crude weapons and opportunistic training are no match for professional soldiers fighting with lethal purpose. Ivah moves through their ranks like an avatar of destruction, his axes carving paths of carnage that his men exploit with ruthless efficiency.
A bandit archer takes aim at him from the rocks above, but Harwick's crossbow bolt takes the man in the chest before he can loose his arrow. The general nods grimly at Ivah's acknowledgment, then turns his attention to the remaining resistance.
The battle lasts less than ten minutes. When the last bandit falls or flees into the forest, Ivah surveys the carnage with cold satisfaction. Sixteen dead, the rest scattered to the winds, and only two minor wounds among their own forces.
"Efficient," Harwick observes, wiping blood from his sword blade with practiced motions. "Your men fight well."
"They fight for their king." Ivah cleans his own weapons with the same automatic precision, the familiar ritual helping to center his thoughts. "That's powerful motivation."
They clear the barricade with efficient teamwork, soldiers from both kingdoms working together to drag logs and stones from the path. The delay has cost them precious time, but it's also served as a grim reminder of what they're capable of when necessity demands violence.
As they continue north, pushing deeper into territory that grows more desolate with each mile, Ivah finds himself thinking about the last conversation he'd had with Bellamy. The prince had seemed troubled by something, distracted in a way that was unusual for their stolen moments together.
Had he known something was wrong? Had there been signs that danger was approaching, warnings that might have prevented this catastrophe if only Ivah had been more attentive?
The guilt gnaws at him as they ride through landscapes that grow increasingly harsh and unforgiving.
This is country that breeds hard men with harder choices—rocky peaks thrust up from narrow valleys, pine forests that could hide armies, the kind of terrain where small forces can disappear without trace.
Perfect country for desperate kings and hidden prisons.
"Tell me about Drakemoor," Harwick says during a brief rest stop, consulting the maps they've spread across a fallen log. "Your intelligence suggests it's not one of the major fortifications, but you seem certain it's where they're holding him."
"Because it's exactly where I would hide a valuable prisoner," Ivah replies, tracing the location with one scarred finger. "Far enough from the main territories to avoid casual observation, but close enough to the capital that Kent can reach it quickly if needed."
"You said there are three primary strongholds—"