Chapter 20: Chapter 20 - Victory Was A Heartbeat Away

Lord Cedric Stormcrow sat atop his warhorse, elevated on a snow-dusted rise overlooking the Frostmire clearing. Beside him, Lady Ingrid watched. Baron Cedric's personal guard formed an armored semicircle behind them.

Below, separated by trampled snow, stood the three forces.

To the left, fifty men radiated grim competence. They were the storm-washed rocks of Stormkeep's defense. Well-maintained ringmail over padded gambesons, polished kettle helms glinting dully. Their heavy oak shields formed a near-impenetrable wall, overlapping seamlessly.

They stood utterly still, breathing vapor in perfect unison. Gunnar sat before them on his horse, gaze sweeping the clearing, already assessing approaches and kill zones.

To the right, Garrick's force shimmered with ostentatious wealth. Fifty men, but less an army, more a display of House Stormcrow's extravagance.

Half were mounted on glossy coursers draped in deep blue livery. Gleaming scale armor, each plate meticulously polished. Visored sallets, expensive and imposing. Even their blunted practice weapons looked like parade ornaments, etched with silver filigree.

The footmen wore thick quilted jacks reinforced with hardened leather plates, polished to a shine. They looked comfortable, confident, and utterly spoiled. Garrick sat tall at their head, resplendent in blue and silver armor, face alight with arrogant anticipation. He kept casting sideways glances at Cedric, hungry for approval, then smirking towards Eirik's position.

In the center, looking pitifully outclassed, stood Eirik's fifty.

They looked pathetic. Fifty scarecrows plucked from different, equally miserable fields. Their gear was mismatched patchwork - boiled leather jerkins, patched woolens, dented rusty helms from Fenrir's depleted armory. Spears uneven, shields mismatched sizes and shapes.

Half looked like hardened criminals - scarred, feral eyes darting with predatory alertness. The other half were Fenrir guards, rigid discipline warring with humiliation etched on their faces. Leif Fenrir stood among them, looking like he'd swallowed poison.

But the most ridiculous sight? Men clutching large clay jars in crude rope slings or held awkwardly at their sides. They looked like farmers heading to market, not warriors.

Garrick snickered openly. Murmurs of derision rippled through the onlookers. "Jars?" someone muttered loudly. "Does the bastard plan to pickle Gunnar's veterans?"

Cedric stared, expression unreadable. What madness is this? Did the boy waste Fenrir coin on pottery?

"Commander Gunnar! Commander Garrick! Commander Eirik! Attend!" Cedric's voice boomed across the frosty stillness.

Eirik walked forward, flanked by Olaf and Leif. Garrick swaggered up with two knights. Gunnar moved alone, impassive.

Cedric's gaze swept over them, lingering on Eirik's ragged force and the bizarre jars. "The rules are simple. Wooden weapons, blunted steel only. No live blades. No Mana. Captures count as kills. Victory by rendering the opposing force incapable of organized resistance or forcing commander surrender."

His cold eyes settled on Eirik. "The battlefield is Frostmire clearing and surrounding Blackroot Forest to the marked boundary stones. Begin when the horn sounds."

He paused. "Remember, this is a trial of skill and strategy. Excessive brutality towards helpless opponents reflects poorly upon your command." His gaze flicked pointedly at Garrick, who looked momentarily chastened.

“Lord Father!” Eirik bowed slightly. “A humble request regarding the trial’s start. If I may?”

Cedric paused, one hand already raised to wave them off.

“Speak.”

“Real battles,” Eirik began, “aren’t fought by armies magically appearing nose-to-nose in an open field. Scouts find ground. Commanders position their men. Ambushes are set, not sprung instantly.”

He gestured towards the vast clearing and the dark treeline of Blackroot Forest beyond. “To test true readiness, shouldn’t we simulate that? Grant each force a brief period – say, the time it takes the sun to move a hand’s width – to choose their starting ground after hearing the battlefield limits? Let Commander Gunnar deploy his veterans where he sees fit. Let Commander Garrick place his knights for maximum charge. And let me… attempt to find ground where my rabble has a sliver of a chance.”

He met Cedric’s gaze squarely. “Otherwise, this becomes a simple slaughter in the clearing, not a trial of leadership or tactics. Surely you wish to see if I understand positioning as well as fighting?”

Garrick snorted derisively. “Afraid of an honest fight, brother? Need time to hide your pots in the bushes?”

Cedric studied Eirik. The bastard has a point. A straightforward clash favors strength. Gunnar would crush him instantly here. This way… I get to see if there’s actual cunning behind his jar-throwing. He saw Marshal Gunnar give a slow nod of agreement. Real commanders did deploy.

“Very well,” Cedric conceded. “A sliver of dawn’s edge, then. Upon the horn, commanders will have the time it takes for the sun to crawl the width of one mailed finger above the horizon to move their forces to their chosen starting positions within the marked boundaries. Then, the true horn sounds, and the trial begins. Understood?” His gaze swept over Eirik, Gunnar, and Garrick. “Use the time wisely… or waste it. The outcome will demonstrate which.”

“Understood, Lord Father,” Eirik acknowledged, relief hidden behind a mask of calm. Perfect. Time to get into the trees.

Cedric raised a gauntleted hand. "To starting positions of your choice! May the Frost judge the worthy!"

“Move!” Eirik didn’t hesitate. “Talons! To the trees! Double time!” His ragtag force surged towards the Blackroot forest, abandoning the exposed clearing where Gunnar’s iron veterans stood motionless and Garrick’s knights milled in confusion.

Eirik kept his pace steady as he led his men the final yards towards the Blackroot forest. He glanced back. Gunnar hadn’t moved – the Marshal stood calmly within his veteran square. Garrick was forming a wedge aimed straight at the forest. At the tree line, ancient pines swallowed the morning light and any view of his men. The air grew colder, quieter, thick with pine resin and decaying needles.

Within heartbeats, Eirik and his men disappeared entirely from sight.

———

Garrick Stormcrow surveyed the Frostmire clearing from atop Silvermane. The beast pranced, sensing its rider's excitement. Garrick adjusted his perfectly polished sallet, blue enamel gleaming under weak winter sun.

Pathetic. Absolutely pathetic.

He shifted his gaze to the rabble huddled at the forest's edge. Eirik's "company." Almost embarrassing. Fifty scums dressed in garbage. And what in the Frost's frozen nipples was the bastard thinking? Pickle jars? Did he raid the kitchens?

I spent days currying favor, calling in debts, begging Mother… for this? A pang of regret, quickly crushed by contempt. He's not worth the polish on my boot, let alone this army.

His force was a masterpiece.

Twenty-five mounted knights formed the core. Not garrison louts - knights from Lady Ingrid's personal retinue. Veterans of border patrols, men who'd earned their spurs. Their scale armor was articulated for maximum movement, polished to blind. Their mounts were pureblood coursers, bred for war, draped in livery worth more than Eirik's entire force.

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Behind them stood twenty-five footmen. Handpicked household guards from Stormkeep itself, sworn to the Stormcrow heir. They wore expertly crafted quilted jacks over hardened leather plates. Their shields freshly painted, blunted weapons held with disciplined ease.

He pictured Cedric's face when his golden son shattered both his bastard brother and the supposedly invincible Marshal Gunnar. The glory will be mine.

He positioned his men carefully. Gunnar was the real threat - fifty iron veterans positioned center-right, about five hundred paces away. They looked like an immovable rock formation, shields locked, spears bristling. Utterly professional.

They'll wait. Gunnar always waits. He'll let Eirik and I tangle first, then crush the winner. Garrick's lip curled. Fine. I'll deal with the vermin first.

His mounted knights formed a wedge aimed at where Eirik's rabble had vanished. The forest edge was barely fifty paces - perfect charge distance. His infantry positioned directly behind, ready to exploit the chaos.

Once the knights smash through and scatter them like chaff, the footmen mop up. Quick. Clean. Glorious.

He'd leave ten footmen facing Gunnar's direction, purely ceremonial. Gunnar won't move until he sees how the wind blows. By then, I'll have finished the bastard and be wheeling around, fresh and ready.

He glanced toward the viewing rise. His father sat impassive as a glacier. Lady Ingrid radiating calm assurance. Garrick gave a subtle, confident nod. Watch me, Father. Watch your true son.

He looked back at the ominous tree line. Silence. No movement. No scouts. Nothing.

Hiding like rats. His amusement faded, replaced by hot impatience and contempt. Come on, you bastard. Come out before I get bored and burn the forest down around you.

Nearby, Kael cleared his throat. The lead knight's visor was up, revealing a face carved from seasoned oak. "My Lord, the forest terrain is dense. A frontal charge could be messy. The trees funnel movement. Perhaps a dismounted advance—"

"Nonsense, Kael!" Garrick cut him off, voice loud enough for his knights to hear. "Messy? For whom? Them?" He jabbed toward the forest. "Look at them! Scrap leather and pots! My knights in full plate? Coursers bred for battle? They'll break before we make contact!"

He pounded his armored thigh. "The trees won't protect them - they'll trap them! Speed! Shock! That's how you break vermin!"

Kael’s jaw tightened, but he nodded curtly. "As you command, Lord Garrick." He lowered his visor with a decisive clang.

Old war-dog. Too cautious. Garrick saw hesitation as weakness. This was his moment to prove decisive aggression.

His eyes flickered toward Gunnar's position. The Marshal sat motionless, gaze sweeping the entire clearing with cold, professional detachment. Planning his boring, predictable defense. Let him plan. While he's calculating, I'll be winning.

Garrick shifted impatiently in his saddle. The cold bit through his layers. Anticipation was a physical ache. He scanned his lines - knights ready, lances upright, blue-and-silver pennants fluttering. Horses stamped and snorted, sensing tension.

He thought of the stakes. Leif Fenrir, chained to Eirik's sinking ship. If Garrick won, Leif became his. A valuable hostage, proof of dominance. The thousand talons pledged to Eirik? Gone. House Fenrir would be utterly his mother's creature.

And Father will have no choice but to stop this madness with that bastard.

A ripple went through the viewing platforms. Cedric raised his gauntleted hand high. Hush fell over Frostmire. Garrick could hear his saddle creak, a horse's nervous snort, a distant crow's caw.

The Baron's arm swept down.

A deep blast echoed across the clearing - the signal horn.

Now!

Garrick drew his blunted longsword, steel flashing. He raised it high, channeling arrogant certainty into his voice.

"STORMCRROOOWS! FOR GLORY! FOR VICTORY! CHAAAAAARGE!"

He slammed spurs into Silvermane's flanks. The courser surged forward, instantly finding stride. Garrick leaned low, sword pointed toward the dark forest maw.

The earth shook. Twenty-four knights echoed his cry, a terrifying roar of metal and momentum. Lances snapped down, becoming a deadly hedge of steel-tipped wood. Thunder of fifty heavy hooves filled the world, a physical wave rolling ahead of the charging wedge.

Snow kicked up in sparkling plumes. Pennants streamed like blue fire.

"FORWARD, FOOTMEN! FOLLOW THE KNIGHTS! TAKE THEM ALL!"

Fifty paces… Forty… Thirty… He saw first figures between thick trunks - Eirik's ragged line. They looked tiny against the armored avalanche bearing down.

Garrick grinned savagely behind his visor. This is it! Crush them! Break them! Show Father! Show EVERYONE!

He urged Silvermane faster. Victory was a heartbeat away.

Fifty paces. Forty. So close! The thunder of his knights drowned all thought except victory. Scatter them! Ride them down! He saw the ragged shapes ahead—a thin line of mismatched shields and spears braced between two massive pines. A natural choke point. Fools! They funnel themselves!

Thirty paces. He gripped his sword, picking his target—a bulky thug near the center, face twisted in fear. Twenty-five paces. Almost… NOW!

Thwoomph!

The sound came from his right flank. A blur of motion—a thick log, longer than a man, swung horizontally across the trail at chest-height. It materialized from the undergrowth like a giant's club.

CRUNCH!

It struck Sir Edric's courser in the shoulder. The animal screamed, front legs buckling. Sir Edric catapulted forward, his blue armor flashing absurdly. The log's momentum continued, smashing into the knight behind Edric, sending beast and rider stumbling into the pines. Chaos erupted on the left flank.

Eirik! Garrick's brain screamed. What trickery—?

But he was committed. Silvermane surged forward regardless. Ten paces. They're breaking! He saw panic in the defenders' eyes, shields wavering. NOW!

Hissssssssssss-SHHHHH-CRACK!

A clay jar exploded against a tree branch overhead. From the shattered fragments billowed a dense, yellow-white cloud. It expanded with unnatural speed, sinking rapidly into the packed mass of knights.

Frost! Garrick clamped his visor shut. Not all his knights were as fast.

The cloud engulfed the vanguard's center and left flank.

Instantly, hell broke loose.

Horses screamed—high-pitched, panicked shrieks of terror. Coursers reared wildly, utterly blinded. Knights who hadn't secured their visors clutched at their faces, retching, collapsing from their saddles. Violent coughs replaced war cries. Men dropped weapons to claw at streaming eyes and burning throats.

Garrick felt his eyes sting through his visor slit. He tasted acrid vinegar and something fiercely peppery. Silvermane bucked wildly, almost unseating him. His perfect charge disintegrated in a vortex of blind confusion. Knights stumbled into trees, horses bolted into the forest, dragging screaming riders.

"SHIELDS! ADVANCE! SPEARS DOWN!"

Eirik's voice cut through the chaos. Garrick's blood froze.

Whoosh! Thump!

A volley of practice spears scythed into the milling confusion. They struck armored backs, flanks of horses, exposed legs of knights. More chaos, more stumbling bodies.

Garrick wrenched Silvermane sideways, out of the cloud. He saw Kael nearby, trying to rally coughing, stumbling knights. His magnificent charge was a choking ruin.

"PUSH THEM! NOW!" Eirik snapped.

From the shield line, figures erupted. Olaf Stenson's recruits, eyes protected by crude cloth strips, lunged forward with brutal efficiency. They ignored armored knights, targeting stunned footmen caught behind the cavalry disaster.

Garrick saw a burly recruit—Number Forty-Two—swinging a spiked club. He smashed a downed knight's knee joint with a sickening crunch. Nearby, others used spears to saw at stirrup leathers, toppling armored men. They worked in pairs—gutter fighting elevated to brutal tactics.

"Leif! With me!" Eirik commanded.

Garrick spotted his bastard brother moving with grim purpose, flanked by Fenrir veterans. They targeted his unhorsed footmen trying to form a shield wall. Leif parried a thrust and slammed his practice blade into a footman's temple. The man dropped.

Garrick felt panicked fury. His beautiful plan! Ruined by jars and logs and peasant tricks!

"KAEL!" he bellowed, wrestling Silvermane. "REFORM! FOOTMEN! TO ME!"

Through the thinning haze, he saw Kael—a rock amidst the disaster. The grizzled knight had shoved up his visor despite the stinging air. "STORMCROWS! SHIELD WALL! RALLY ON THE HEIR!" He slammed sword against shield boss. CLANG-CLANG-CLANG.

Yes! Not all was lost. His footmen were scattered, but some veterans stumbled towards the sound, trying to raise shields. If they could form a knot on clearer ground, they could anchor a defense.

"Rally here! Knights! Fall back to the shield wall!"

"Olaf!" Eirik snapped. "Fall back! Call them off! Now!"

Olaf put fingers to lips and blew a sharp whistle—the recall signal. "Back to the line! Talons, BACK!"

The recruits obeyed, melting back towards the chokepoint. They dragged "captured" knights—men with broken limbs or blinded eyes, declared dead by the rules.

Garrick saw them pulling back. Relief washed over him. Cowards!

"SEE?! They FEAR US! FORM THE WALL!" His remaining footmen coalesced around Kael. Shields slammed together, spears lowered. A bristling defensive formation took shape.