Chapter 23 Shifting Ground #2
The village beyond looked unchanged, with people moving through the streets, children playing near a well, and smoke rising from chimneys as life continued much as before.
Yet conversations stopped when the riders passed, eyes followed them from every direction, and doors closed often enough to make the message clear.
A woman gathering laundry hurried her children indoors, an old man lowered his gaze, and several merchants watched openly from across the square.
None of them approached, and none offered a greeting.
The feeling settled heavily in Soren's stomach because he had seen it before, though never here.
He had encountered it in other territories that were preparing to choose a side and waiting to see who would emerge victorious.
The realization left a bitter taste in his mouth.
Black Ridge had not betrayed them yet, but fear had arrived before them, and fear was often the first step toward betrayal.
Garrick guided his horse closer again.
"This wasn't like this six months ago."
"No."
The answer came quietly, and for a moment neither man spoke.
Then Soren looked toward the hall of the local lord standing above the village, where two guards waited outside with the unmistakable posture of men who were observing rather than welcoming.
The old irritation returned alongside the pressure behind his eyes, the heat beneath the mark, and the growing certainty that Vargan was already several moves ahead.
For the first time in years, Soren found himself wondering whether he had noticed the game too late.
The lord of Black Ridge kept them waiting, not for long, but long enough to make the delay both noticeable and deliberate.
By the time Soren was finally shown into the hall, the irritation behind his eyes had settled into a steady pulse.
The room itself was modest, with stone walls, a long table, and a fire burning low in the hearth. Nothing had changed since his last visit except the atmosphere.
Lord Hakon rose when they entered. He was a broad man in his fifties who was usually confident and direct, but today he looked tired and nervous. The second observation interested Soren far more.
"Lord Soren."
"Sit."
Hakon blinked as the invitation he had been preparing died immediately.
Soren crossed the room and took a chair without waiting for permission, while Garrick sat beside him. The lord of Black Ridge lowered himself back into his own seat.
An uncomfortable silence followed before Hakon finally broke it.
"You arrived sooner than expected."
"I was told there were complications."
The man's jaw tightened.
"There are."
"What complications?"
Another pause followed, one that lasted far too long.
Soren watched him carefully. The hesitation told him everything, and the words merely confirmed it.
"Frostvein has been active."
Of course. The answer no longer surprised him.
"How active?"
Hakon looked toward the fire, directing his gaze anywhere except at Soren, which was a mistake.
"Messengers."
"To you."
"To everyone."
Soren leaned back as the mark burned with a slow pulse beneath his ribs. He forced himself to ignore it.
"He offered you something."
Hakon remained silent, and that was answer enough.
"What did he offer?"
"Protection."
For a moment nobody spoke. Then Garrick let out a humorless laugh.
Hakon did not appreciate it, and neither did Soren.
Protection, as though Ironfang had suddenly become the threat and decades of alliance meant nothing.
The realization settled heavily inside him, not because it was unexpected, but because it was working. He could see it in the man's eyes: fear, doubt, and calculation. Vargan had planted all three, and they were growing.
"What exactly are you afraid of?"
The question came quietly.
Hakon finally met his gaze.
"War."
The answer was immediate and honest, perhaps the first truly honest thing spoken all afternoon.
"I have farmers."
The lord spread one hand helplessly.
"Families."
"Villages."
"If Frostvein marches south..."
He did not finish because he didn't need to. The image already existed in all their minds: burned fields, dead sons, and empty homes.
Soren understood, and that was the problem. He understood too well, which made the next part worse.
"Then stand with us."
Hakon looked away, and in that moment Soren knew this was not betrayal, at least not yet. It was the beginning of it, the first crack, the first retreat, and the first step backward.
Vargan had not taken Black Ridge; he had merely made them hesitate, and sometimes that was enough.
The silence stretched between them, long and heavy, until movement caught Soren's attention.
One of Hakon's men entered quietly through a side door, almost too quietly. He crossed the room, leaned toward his lord, and whispered something.
Hakon's face changed only slightly, but it was enough for both Soren and Garrick to notice.
The man stepped back.
Hakon swallowed.
"My lord..."
Soren's eyes narrowed.
"What?"
The hesitation returned, as persistent as before.
"There has been trouble on the western road."
Something cold settled in Soren's chest.
"What kind of trouble?"
The lord looked suddenly reluctant to answer.
"An Ironfang patrol was attacked."
The room became very still.
"And?"
Hakon looked away again.
"They did not win."
Soren was already on his feet when the chair scraped sharply across the floor.
"Where?"
Hakon blinked before answering.
"The western road."
"I understood that part."
The lord swallowed and shifted uneasily in his seat.
"There is a settlement called Red Creek."
Before the words had fully left his mouth, Soren was already moving toward the door, and Garrick rose immediately to follow him. Behind them, Hakon remained seated, whether out of wisdom or cowardice, and at the moment Soren found himself caring very little which it was.
The journey took less than an hour, though the storm finally caught them halfway there.
Rain swept across the hills in cold sheets, and the road turned to mud beneath the horses' hooves.
No one complained or spoke during the ride, and the heavy silence suited the mood far better than conversation would have.
Red Creek emerged beneath the rain shortly before dusk. It was a small settlement consisting of little more than a handful of homes, a mill, and a bridge crossing a narrow river. There was nothing strategically important about the place, which somehow made the attack feel even worse.
The bodies had already been moved beneath a wooden shelter by the time they arrived.
There were four of them, all Ironfang warriors, and one still looked painfully young.
Rain hammered against the roof overhead while Soren stared down at the dead. For a long moment he said nothing.
One of the surviving guards stood nearby with his arm bound tightly in cloth. His face was pale, and he looked both exhausted and frightened. The fear was not directed at the attackers.
It was directed at Soren.
That, Soren reflected grimly, was another recent development.
"Tell me."
The man nodded immediately.
"There were twelve of them."
"Twelve?"
"Maybe more."
"Mercenaries?"
The guard hesitated before shaking his head.
"No."
Soren lifted his gaze.
"No?"
The man swallowed hard.
"We recognized some of them."
The rain suddenly seemed louder.
"From where?"
The answer came reluctantly.
"Black Ridge."
Silence settled over the shelter, heavy and absolute, until Garrick finally cursed under his breath.
The guard continued.
"There were others too. Not locals. But some were."
Soren looked back toward the bodies as the pressure behind his eyes returned, stronger and hotter than before. The mark burned beneath his skin while rain continued to hammer against the roof overhead.