Dragon Heartstone > Chapter 24–The First Encounter

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From the rise overlooking the Bear River bridge, Banoch pressed his boots into the gritty soil. The wind carried a metallic tang of impending battle—iron and sweat mingling with the damp earthiness of late summer forest. Pine resin and crushed vegetation scented the air. His weathered hands gripped the spyglass, the leather strap it hung from worn smooth from years of campaigns, the metal cool against his sun-browned fingers.

A group of horsemen appeared from the hazy distance, moving in an orderly procession up the rutted road. Above the column, a Bretagnian banner snapped and rippled, deep green and white catching the late morning light. The horses’ hooves kicked up small clouds of dust that hung like pale ghosts in the still air. Using practiced hand signals that needed no words, Banoch ordered his bow and pikemen to prepare—their fingers flexing, muscles coiling with anticipation.

The horsemen approached the bridge, their metal armor glinting, leather harnesses creaking. They slowed to cross four abreast, the wooden planks groaning under the weight of mounted men and armored horses. Banoch raised his arm. Archers pulled back on their bowstrings, fingers tight, backs arched with tension—a human crossbow ready to unleash its bolt.

As the last horsemen clambered onto the bridge, Banoch’s arm swung down. The air sang with the sharp twang of bowstrings. Arrows arced through sunlight, their slim shafts whistling a deadly hum. They plunged into flesh and metal with meaty thuds and sharp metallic rings. Men’s shouts, horses’ terrified whinnying, and the wet sounds of pierced bodies created a horrific symphony of violence.

“Advance!” Banoch’s voice cut through the chaos. Shoulder to shoulder, pikemen burst from the forest’s green shadows—a wall of steel and muscle racing down the embankment. The ground trembled beneath their synchronized charge. Horsemen attempted to wheel and counterattack, but dead and dying men choked their ranks, transforming their formation into a killing pen.

Pikes collided with sabers in a cacophony of ringing metal and crushing impact. The coppery smell of blood mixed with the acrid scent of fear-sweat and panicked horses. Combat dissolved into a brutish, intimate contest of survival—each movement a desperate struggle between life and death.

A trumpet’s mournful call swirled through the blood-soaked air. Some horsemen fled across the bridge, retreating as chaotic as their initial charge. The banner carrier and the Earl of Wessex remained—the young leader crumpled on bloodstained planks, surrounded by the broken bodies of his men.

Banoch watched, his expression granite, as his pikemen methodically finished those unable to escape. The slaughter continued, measured in heartbeats and desperate gasps, until a ragged cry of victory rose—more a release of tension than celebration. A success of sorts, but it held no joy for Banoch. This brutal moment felt like a prologue to greater, more terrible conflicts yet to come.

* * *

As the sun set, painting the canvas tent in burnt orange and deep crimson, someone stepped inside. The movement stirred the heavy air, bringing the day’s accumulated scents of leather, sweat, and distant woodsmoke. Britta looked up from her map, the parchment’s edges frayed and still carrying the markings of Edwyn’s campaign of carnage and retribution.

Katun’s uneven footsteps announced his approach before he spoke—one step steady, the other slightly dragging, his cane tapping a syncopated rhythm against the tent’s wooden floor. His pale, drawn face told the tale before his words could.

“It was as I feared,” he mused, his voice rough with exhaustion. “At the Bear River bridge, the Dracnorians were waiting. Wessex and most of his men are dead.”

Nausea rose in Britta’s throat, sharp and immediate. She looked away, focusing on the map’s intricate terrain markings, her hand quivering slightly as she located the crossing. The parchment felt rough beneath her fingers—her blood-soaked contribution to the map’s story. “I ordered them to their deaths,” she whispered.

“None of that, your Majesty,” Katun interrupted, his tone softening. “What has happened is history, and what we do now will determine the future.”

Despite the darkness pressing against her thoughts, Britta nodded. The tent suddenly felt smaller, the weight of command crushing her shoulders. “We need to move toward Keihl in force, but how do we cross the river without losing more men?”

“We need to find another place to cross.”

Britta examined the map, lamplight casting shadows across the terrain’s contours. Her temples throbbed with the day’s accumulated tension. “But where? I see no alternative.”

“Scouts say a ford exists downstream in the middle of a swamp. There might be something to the east, but we can’t spare anyone to look. The losses to our cavalry yesterday, combined with those lost at Knife Edge pass a few weeks ago, have left us fairly blind. We need more horsemen.”

She ran her trembling hand through her long locks. It’s no wonder men enjoy war so much. It suits their constant need for chaos and destruction. The lamp flickered, casting Katun’s shadow long against the tent’s canvas walls. Britta’s voice carried a sharp edge. “Where exactly do you expect me to find them?”

“The Preytars are nearby. They might be persuaded to join us and provide the necessary cavalry support.”

She considered the suggestion, the shadows of her fingers dancing on the map. “Send an emissary and propose an alliance. But I want terms spelled out.”

“Understood,” Katun replied. He turned and hobbled toward the tent entrance, the soft thuds of his cane punctuating each uneven step.

Britta watched. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“I’m off to visit the Golden Serpents.”

“No, you’re not. Send someone else.”

“Do not worry, I will return,” he said, grimacing as he threw open the tent flap, a slice of twilight breaking into the lamp-lit interior.

“What if I command you not to go?”

“I’ll do it anyway,” Katun grinned, tapping his good leg with a cane—a gesture at once defiant and affectionate.

“I ought to hit your bad leg.”

“As your father might say, ‘I’ll just kick you with the other one.'”

Britta stifled a grin, the moment of levity cutting through the day’s accumulated weight. “Now that you mention it, that is exactly what he would say.”

“Do not worry, your Majesty, I will return with an answer.”

“You better,” Britta replied, with a bit more desperation than she intended.