Chapter 20
Smoke from the breakfast fire twisted among the pine trunks and settled in Theron’s lungs, a persistent, acrid companion. He crouched low, hood pulled up against the morning frost, and used his boot to nudge a chunk of half-burned wood into the flames. Lake Vylmerith was just visible through the haze, black water flickering with hard-edged ripples. The camp squatted on some knolls above the shore, almost one thousand men spread thin among the trees, their voices muffled by the warming air. These months on the road had been long and cold, but it was nice to see that the sun was once again beginning to warm.
Caulin, their squad leader, stood at the edge of the fire circle, hands clasped behind his back. He wore his wool cloak with the precision of a man who had something to prove, his dark hair was swept back, and his boots were oddly clean enough to make the other soldiers look at him with wonder. When Lieutenant Colonel Roberic stepped between the tents, moving with the deadly quiet of a man who found noise undisciplined, Caulin snapped to attention, spine straight as the trees next to him.
“Sergeant Caulin,” Roberic said, the name serving as acknowledgment rather than greeting.
“Sir.” Caulin did not blink.
“Report.”
Caulin kept his eyes level. “Squad’s steady,” Caulin said, hands behind his back. “No sickness, no complaints. The men are rested, fed, and in good spirits. Brenn says the stew from the mess tents is actually edible today, so I’ll take that as a win.”
Roberic gave a curt nod, eyes on the fire. “Good. Keep them sharp. If they’re comfortable, don’t let them get lazy. Keep the drills light, the pace steady. I want all my men ready, not relaxed.”
“Understood,” Caulin said. Theron caught the flicker of a smile at the edge of his mouth. Relief, maybe, or pride. “Permission to request extra rations from the quartermaster, sir?”
“Granted, if you think it’ll keep morale high. But don’t hoard it. Share it forward if the other squads are short.”
Roberic’s tone was even, but there was a glint of approval in his eye.
From the far side of the fire, Brenn rumbled, “A second helping of this stew wouldn’t hurt morale either, Caulin.”
Caulin didn’t turn, but his voice carried. “I’ll send word to the mess tent too, Brenn. I’ll tell them you’re not complaining for once.”
Roberic’s gaze swept the squad, pausing on Theron. “You’re the hunter?”
“Yes, sir,” Theron nodded. He’d made some successful hunts on the march, and his reputation had spread.
Roberic gestured toward the lake. “Can you fish too? Go make yourself useful. Gather some men together and see what you can do. If the men get fresh fish again, I might stop getting complaints about the food altogether.”
Rook piped up from his spot, mug in hand. “He caught three yesterday, sir. Would’ve been more, but Brenn here got stupid and scared them all off trying to catch some for himself.”
Caulin chuckled. “I heard it was all the talking from a certain caravan scout.”
Rook pointed at his chest, mock-offended. “I only speak when regulations require it. Besides, if you want more fish, you’ll have to give Theron a break from standing guard, seeing as he can’t do both.”
Roberic snorted. “Then make the trade. One watch for one catch.”
Theron shrugged, meeting Rook’s grin. “You up for an extra watch?”
Rook pretended to weigh the offer. “For smoked trout? I’ll take two. Three, if you cook it yourself.”
“Deal,” Theron said, letting a smile flicker across his face before it vanished again.
Caulin brushed his dark hair out of his eyes. His posture relaxed as Roberic moved on to the next fire. “You two never stop, do you?”
Rook leaned closer to the flames. “If we did, you’d get bored.”
Theron chuckled low, poking at the embers with a stick. Caulin approached and sat down, so that the three of them sat close enough now that their shoulders almost touched, the heat from the fire chasing away the night’s bite. It felt strange how natural it had become, this easy rhythm between them. Back when the march started, Caulin had been all sharp edges and barked orders, an experienced sergeant with a chip on his shoulder the size of Duskweld itself. Rook had tested him from day one with endless jokes, and Theron had kept his distance, quiet as always.
But weeks on the road changed things. Long days of trudging through mud and frost, nights huddled around campfires, swapping stories to forget the ache in their feet. Rook’s humor had worn down Caulin’s defenses first, turning glares into reluctant grins. Theron earned respect the hard way, stepping up during drills or squabbles without a word, his steady presence pulling the squad together. Caulin started seeking them out after supper each night, sharing his flask or griping about the other officers. They ribbed him about his perfect posture, so he would fire back about Rook’s mouth and Theron’s silence. Somewhere along the way, rank blurred around the fire. Caulin became one of them, a friend forged in shared misery and quiet laughs.
Caulin shook his head now, an actual smile cracking his face. “Bored? I’d sleep like the dead if you would shut up for once.”
Rook grinned wider. “And miss all my wisdom? Never.”
Theron glanced between them, feeling the warmth spread deeper than the fire. These two had become his anchor on this endless road, pulling him from the shadows he usually kept to himself. He didn’t say it, but the friendship he felt for them spoke volumes.
At the edge of the circle, Codryk and Daelan passed a canteen between them as they laughed at the exchange. Codryk, younger, tall, and broad-shouldered, watched Theron with quiet admiration. Daelan, brown-skinned, and worn thin by too many years of hard work, drank like a man who trusted nothing but the bottle. The two of them had also become close friends on the road.
“I’m going to pack my kit,” Caulin said as he stood up and walked over to his tent. “Codryk, you’re with Theron at the lake. Daelan, go with them. Rook, help me pack their kits while they’re gone. Brenn, go see if you can charm the mess into giving us the good pot for once for Theron’s fish.”
Brenn made a lewd joke about the mess steward’s wife, which got a round of snickers.
Rook tilted his head at Theron, voice low. “You think Caulin ever relaxes?”
Theron shook his head. “He was born in a uniform.”
Rook considered this. “You ever wonder if it’s better to be like him? Never doubt, never break?”
Theron let his eyes drift to the horizon, where the trees faded into gray. “Everyone breaks. Some just take longer.”
Rook nodded, then looked up with that lopsided grin. “Let’s make a bet. Which of us lasts longer?”
Theron studied him. “What do we bet?”
Rook didn’t hesitate. “Loser buys the winner a round at The Scorched Horn, next time we’re in Duskweld. If we’re both dead, then we drink together in the next world.”
Theron grinned. “Deal.”
The wind shifted, bringing the spray off the lake with it. Caulin approached the fire again, then hesitated, eyes on the two of them.
“You two—” he said, then faltered, as if he’d forgotten what he meant to say. “Just keep an eye out. Roberic thinks we’ll start seeing Sylphar scouts soon. We don’t know when the fighting will begin, and we don’t know what will happen once it does.”
Theron nodded, and Rook raised his mug. “To the squad,” he said, and the others echoed it, soft but certain.
“Oh, and one more thing.” Caulin said. “We’ve been reassigned to Captain Jaroad’s scouting unit. Long nights are ahead of us, men.”
The fire crackled and popped, a small, bright thing in a world grown sharp and hungry.
Theron counted the silent breaths between his footfalls. There were no other sounds. The mud here was thick and slick as wet clay, swallowing all evidence of the squad’s passing. Far behind them, Lake Vylmerith bared its iron-gray surface, the wind gnawing across the hills in between with savage teeth. Theron kept his eyes on Caulin’s back, thirty paces ahead, then flicked his gaze back to Rook, who crept behind Codryk and Daelan at the line’s tail, every step perfectly placed. The rest of the men were barely visible in the deepening murk from the setting sun, little more than silhouettes hunched against the cold. They were one of tonight’s scouting parties, moving ahead of the battalion to look for any Sylphar resistance.
As they crept forward, Theron’s hand brushed a weed, and a jolt of wrongness surged through him so violently that he froze. The stalk looked almost normal, but thin black veins ran through every leaf. He crouched, breath quick and uneven, and examined it more closely.
“Hey,” Rook hissed behind him. “What are you doing?”
Theron didn’t answer. He lifted his head and felt his stomach drop. Every plant around them carried the same corrupted appearance.
“It cannot be…” he whispered.
“Theron!” Rook hissed sharply as he seized his shoulder. “Look at Caulin. Something is happening.”
Caulin never signaled, not with a wave or a whistle. His warning came in the way his body tensed, the angle of his shoulders, the exact moment he chose to slow his pace. Even though they hadn’t known each other long, Theron could read his friend like a map. Now, he had gone rigid.
Caulin closed his fist and signaled the line to sink to a knee. The men did, every one save Rook, who slid behind a moss-caked boulder with a muttered, “If my knees had known there’d be this much crouching, they wouldn’t have brought me this far.” Theron shot him a disparaging look. Rook grinned back and shut his mouth.
He crawled up to Caulin’s side, boots barely disturbing the rotted carpet of needles. The brush ahead was dense, but through it, a flicker of something not the same color as the night. Caulin’s hand pressed to the earth, then he touched his index finger to the scar at his jaw, then lifted three fingers, signalling a small enemy scouting group ahead.
Theron nodded, then silently drew his sword from its padded sheath, keeping the blade low. Caulin signaled with a short upward jerk of his hand, indicating five heartbeats. The squad tensed, and at the exact heartbeat, Caulin leapt through the thicket, Theron on his right, Codryk and Daelan to the left, the rest following in a coiling flood of blue.
The first Sylphar scout never saw the blade. Caulin slit its throat before it could raise its spear, then turned and buried his foot in the groin of the next. Theron had to duck the splatter of blood. He stepped around Caulin and met a Sylphar face-to face, a beautiful, androgynous face, pale as a stone. The Sylphar jabbed a knife, but Theron caught the wrist and twisted, shattering the hand, and then twisted again to force the point into the hollow under the Sylphar’s chin. It bucked once, then sagged. Theron let it fall, already looking for the next threat.
But now the enemy was aware. And somehow they were a dozen more.
Theron twisted away from a Sylphar blade that sang past his ear. The steel caught the firelight for a split second, long enough to see the runes etched along the edge. He drove his shoulder into the attacker’s chest, felt ribs give, then spun and brought his sword up in a tight arc. The Sylphar dropped with a wet gurgle, but two more were already closing in from the left.
“It was a trap!” Brenn shouted. His voice cracked over the roar of the fight. He ducked under another swing, the blade whistling where his head had been. The ground was slick with blood and mud, making every step a gamble.
“More coming!” Caulin bellowed from somewhere behind him. Shadows in the trees surged forward, and a dozen pale figures in dark violet armor melted out of the night like smoke. Caulin was already moving, his dagger raised, sword low. He caught one Sylphar on the hip and kicked another back into the underbrush.
Theron fought as if he were carving wood, every motion deliberate. A Sylphar lunged at him with a spear. Theron stepped aside, caught the shaft under his arm, and yanked. The weapon came free. The Sylphar stumbled. Theron drove the butt end into its gut and let it fall, following up swiftly with a thrust downwards.
The clearing erupted in shrieks that tore through the night like jagged knives. Moonlight caught on blades, splintered against armor, and flickered across faces twisted with exertion, fear, and rage. The Sylphar fought in eerie, practiced silence, their movements fluid and precise, each strike a whisper of death. In contrast, the men behind Theron lacked such discipline. Every grunt, every curse, every shouted warning made the clearing feel alive with panic.
Codryk stumbled under a spear thrust, the point tearing through his thigh. The cry that tore from him was raw and ragged, cutting through the night and ricocheting off the trunks of the nearby birches. He dropped to one knee, slick with mud and blood, trying to stay upright as his leg buckled beneath him. Daelan didn’t pause to witness the fall. He grabbed the nearest Sylphar by the collar, the fierceness of the man wrestling an equally dangerous opponent, teeth bared and fists swinging. With a roar, he slammed the creature’s skull onto a gnarled root. The sound was wet, sickening, echoing in the night. The Sylphar twitched once, twice, then stilled.
Rook ducked beneath a spear thrown with deadly precision. The metal whistled past his ear and thudded into the soft earth. He drew his knife in one swift motion, the leather handle slick in his sweat-soaked hand, and drove it twice into the creature’s midsection. The Sylphar’s gasp was short-lived, choked off by the final twist of the blade. Around him, the forest seemed alive with the sounds of panic, the air thick with the musk of fear, sweat, wet leather, and the metallic bite of fresh blood.
Yet suddenly, without warning the enemy seemed to vanish. Theron spun, sword at the ready, and found only silence in their wake. Three bodies now lay at his feet, lifeless, drenched in mud and purple blood. In the distance, he could hear the ragged breathing and shifting of their squad, but the forest beyond the clearing held no shape of their foes.
“They’re falling back,” Caulin’s low voice whispered from somewhere in the darkness, calm, controlled, but taut with warning.
Theron rolled his neck, letting the tension loosen, and risked a glance to the side. Codryk and Daelan still stood, though Codryk leaned heavily on Daelan’s shoulder, his makeshift bandage soaked through. Rook crouched behind a thicket of brambles, eyes wide, lips pressed tight, trembling as he steadied himself. The rest of the squad, including Naemer, Brenn, Kranten, and Brees, were scattered, crouched low, weapons gripped, every joint taut as if ready to spring. Each man’s breath came unevenly, mingling with the smell of wet leaves and the acrid tang of blood.
“They’ll circle behind,” Theron muttered, voice low, cutting through the chill and the fear.
“Or lure us into the open,” Caulin countered, scanning the shadowed treeline with practiced eyes, muscles coiled like a predator.
Rook hissed, voice sharp. “Why don’t we just stay put? If they want us, they’ll come to us.”
Caulin’s smile was slow, deliberate, dangerous. “You’re thinking like prey,” he said. His gaze slid over Rook, then Codryk, then back to Theron.
He looked back over at Codryk. “Can you walk?”
“Yes, sir,” Codryk answered, adjusting the rag around his leg. “It’s not as bad as it looks. I can fight.”
“Then we split,” Caulin said, decisive, slicing the air with the finality of his words. “Draw them out. If you run into any, call out. The rest of us will come. Rook, take Codryk, Naemer, Baldrey, and Daelan. Move east, keep low, keep fast. We meet back here in twenty if no one runs into them.”
Rook opened his mouth, but the glance Caulin sent him closed it instantly. He slapped Codryk’s shoulder, and together, with silent coordination, they vanished into the brush with the others, low and swift, shadows among shadows.
Caulin eyed Theron. “Alright, Theron. Show us all what it takes to be a hunter. I want you to use those skills of yours and see what you can discover. See if you can’t sneak up on ‘em.” Theron nodded. “Aye, I can do that.”
Caulin vanished with the others, the forest swallowing them instantly.
Alone now, Theron slowed his breathing, letting each inhale and exhale match the rhythm of the night as he walked slowly through the dense forest. He let his body slacken, muscles loose but ready, senses sharpening to the smallest movement. The cold pressed against him, biting into his bones, but he barely noticed. Focus narrowed to the edges of sound, to the faintest rustle of leaves, the whisper of branches, the distant snap of twigs under careful, deliberate feet. The Sylphar were not as silent as they believed. Oil on their skin, freshly sharpened steel, even the subtle tang of their sweat reached him, carried on the night air.
Stepping forward, boots squelching in the mud, Theron positioned himself as bait. He paused at the edge of a birch stand, the tip of his sword pressing into the muck, senses reaching outward.
A shadow flickered to his left.
Theron dodged instinctively, pivoting, and found a Sylphar crouched in the brush, knives poised. Another balanced on a low branch near his head, eyes glinting like pale fire in the moonlight. Theron’s lips curled into a grim, violent smile. “Come on, then.”
They lunged. Knives flashed, silver arcs in the dim light. Theron parried the first, felt the second bite across his forearm, hot and stinging. He grabbed the Sylphar by its hair, slamming his forehead against its nose. A wet, sharp crack. The creature jerked back, only to meet the blade again, chest splitting open, purple blood painting the mud around them.
Some yelling off in the distance, and the forest became a storm of movement as he sprinted towards the commotion, every step kicking up mud. Screams of the wounded, gurgled curses, the rasp of exhausted breathing, and the metallic clash of blades formed a cacophony that could have driven a man mad. Theron ran, weaving between trees, closing the distance as fast as he could.
At the edge of another clearing, Rook’s scream pierced the air. Theron sprinted toward it, vision sharp, senses alive with the scent of iron and fear. Rook lay facedown in the grass, three Sylphar advancing. Naemer and Daelan were locked in their own brutal struggle nearby, each movement desperate and vicious. Baldrey lay unmoving, the crimson of his life staining the earth. Codryk was nowhere to be seen.
“No!” Theron bellowed.
There was no memory of movement. In an instant, muscle memory and instinct took over. He was upon them, sword in hand, mind stripped of distraction. A hard slash opened the first. A kick shattered the second’s knee with a crack that echoed in the silent, shocked forest. The third took a slash that opened its gut, then a precise backslash took its head off, purple blood splattering in the mud.
The second Sylphar tried to crawl, to rise. Theron pressed the blade into its throat, watching as the creature gurgled, clawing uselessly. When the struggle ended, Naemer and Daelan arrived, breaths heaving, eyes wide and desperate, and finished off the remaining enemies.
Theron turned to Rook. Blood trickled down his temple and into his eyes, mixing with the dirt and grime that caked his face. He tore a strip from his shirt with his teeth, the fabric ripping with a rough sound that cut through the sound of his groaning. He pressed it tight against the gash, and Rook winced as the pressure sent a fresh wave of pain throbbing through his skull. The cloth soaked through almost immediately, warm and sticky against his skin.
“Is it bad?” Rook asked, voice faint, teeth gritted against pain.
“You’ve looked better,” Theron said. “But you’ll live.”
Rook grinned through blood, grimy and triumphant. “Told you, I have a hard head.”
They crept through the clearing, checking on the fallen. Baldrey was gone, body slack and still. Daelan cursed low and bitter, kneeling beside him. Codryk remained missing, his absence heavy in the air.
A snap in the brush drew Theron’s attention. Caulin stepped into the clearing, followed by Brenn and the rest of their small squad. Their faces were streaked with purple, drying blood clinging to hair and clothes. “Report,” he said, voice calm despite the chaos.
“Baldrey’s dead,” Theron said. “Codryk’s missing. Rook took a hit on the head, but he’ll survive.”
Caulin swore, then scanned the trees, letting his eyes settle in the distance. “A group is retreating north. Fast. They’ll warn the Pass.”
“They’ll be expecting us,” Theron said.
“Maybe,” Caulin replied, shrugging, “but they won’t know our full strength. We’ve done our job, move out.”
They melted into the trees, bodies moving like shadows, senses alert to every rustle, every potential strike. Theron’s wound pulsed hot, a dull throb of pain, but he ignored it. Rook’s eyes were bright with feverish energy, his usual humor replaced by tense, anxious silence.
As they rounded a bend near camp, the moonlight glinted off armor at the base of a hill. Captain Jaroad, the leader of their company, stood with his officers, assessing their arrival with the calm certainty of command. Other scouting squads were scattered around nearby, reports given, and a small command tent sheltered maps from the rain now falling in thin sheets. Jaroad’s eyes met theirs, unreadable, calculating.
“You lost men,” he said.
Theron nodded. “Baldrey. Codryk is missing.” Daelan grimaced at hearing about his friend’s disappearance.
Caulin said, “They’re warning Redan Pass.”
Jaroad grunted. “They’ll know we’re coming. They won’t know how many.”
Rook said, “Should we pursue?”
Jaroad turned. “No. The mission was reconnaissance. You found them before they found us, it sounds like. And now we know they’ll be expecting us.”
Theron looked at the captain. “What now?”
Jaroad gazed out over the blackened valley. “Now, we wait for the battalion. Then we take the Pass.”
Rook snorted. “Easy as that, huh?”
Jaroad’s voice was quiet. “Nothing’s easy. But you’re still alive. Make it count.”
Theron looked down at his hands, at the blood crusted under his nails. He wondered whose it was.
He looked at Rook, who grinned back, then at Caulin, who just nodded, cold and resolute.
Jaroad’s gaze lingered on the mist. It was quiet again, but the tension hadn’t lifted. He turned back to the group, voice low but firm.
“I need eyes back out there. Your man might still be alive, and I won’t have him left behind to be used against us. Recover him… or his body.”
Before he could name anyone, Caulin stepped forward. “I’ll go. Codryk is one of mine.”
Theron didn’t hesitate. “Me too.”
Jaroad nodded slowly, approving. “Good. Naemer, Daelan, and Brenn,” he nodded to each of them. “Go with them. Five is enough. No, Rook, you’ll stay here. You’re hurt.”
Rook looked like he was about to argue, but thought the better of it and nodded.
“Alright,” Caulin said. “Let’s go find our man.”