Chapter 1384: A warrior sense(1)

The thick musk of rot, stale piss, and sour animal dung drifted heavily on the morning wind, slapping the Warden of the Yarzat forces in Oizen square in the face the moment he punched through the flap of his command tent.

The washed-out grey of dawn was just beginning to turn into a pale, golden light, the rising sun creeping slowly over the hastily built timber palisade that encircled the camp.

Edric spat into the dirt, his jaw clenched tight. The state of the legion’s quarters was a disgrace, a double insult to any man who took pride in the iron discipline of Yarzat. With proper time and architecture, they could have erected a proper military camp: wide avenues between the tents, deep latrines dug downwind, and fortified watchtowers guarding every corner of the square.

Instead, they were hoarded together like hogs in a slaughter-pen.

To make room for the marching columns, Edric had been forced to evict thousands of the refugees already living here, driving them out toward neighboring hamlets like cattle. It mattered little if those villages were already bursting at the seams; the displaced smallfolk simply needed to stay out of the way for a few weeks, just long enough for the various coohorts to move in, rest, and march out for one swift, bloody hunt.

Yet, even after kicking out thousands, thousands more remained jammed into the far side of the camp, responsible for every foul, suffocating reek currently torturing Edric’s senses.

One more week, he reassured himself, inhaling through his teeth. Just one more week, and no more.

After months spent enduring sleepless nights and the constant, bitter taste of failure, he could stomach a little shit. Especially now that he was so close to driving a sword through his quarry’s ribs.

Gods bless Laedio for his keen eyes. It had been a moon since the man and his blue cloak, had dismantled the grand smuggling ring running out of the very heart of Oizen. It had been a grand trade, truly, they hanged a dozen treasonous merchants wasted some rope , and in return, the Vulture’s shadow-network was starved of silver, food and iron.

All because one greedy merchant had grown sloppy . Break a single link, and the whole bloody chain collapses.

Deprived of supplies, the barely thing called discipline inside the bandit lord’s mountain camp had frayed and snapped. It had never been a question of if the rats would turn on each other, only when. And now, the dish was served precisely as Edric had planned.

They finally had a trail. After months of hunting ghosts, the Hounds had caught the scent of their prey and they had been kind enough to share it with everyone.

"Smells like the Weaver’s own backside, doesn’t it?" a loud, booming voice called out from the side, rising easily over the morning clamor of the camp.

Assembling a massive strike force in a single staging area without alerting the enemy lurking in the surrounding woods was an impossible task. Edric wasn’t foolish enough to believe the Vulture’s scouts hadn’t caught wind of something moving in the dark. So, instead of building a new fort, he had used the existing refugee infrastructure, trickling his legions in small, quiet cohorts under the cover of night or under various carts with the guise of merchants.

Now, the trap was set. Once the final detachments arrived, they would roll out like a thunderclap and finish the war in a single day.Speed was the key, as it often was.

Edric turned to his right to find Ghalrim , Asag’s second-in-command,slouching against a wooden post, picking at his teeth with a iron dagger as his eyes lazily swept over the swarm of unwashed bodies across the camp. A narrow, five-meter strip of churned mud was all that separated the legionnaires’ lines from the refugees.

"You seem to be in high spirits," Ghalrim drawled with a lazy smirk. "Or am I the only one choking on the smell?"

"Hardly," Edric replied, a genuine, cold smile touching his lips.How long had he dreamed of this ? "A week ago, it was ten times worse. We had to physically beat the lesson into the pigs’ skulls that they couldn’t simply drop their breeches wherever they stood. When my vanguard first rode in, a man couldn’t take three steps without stepping in someone’s morning business." He grimaced at the memory. "Had to string up a dozen of them by their wrists before the lesson took. Though I am surprised to see a lazy dog like you awake at dawn."

"Hard to sleep through a circus," Ghalrim spat, stretching his thick arms with a heavy yawn.’’And mind you, I hardly lost a wink both at the Bastion and at Aracina.That should tell you something, all right.This place is a pigshit

Between the stench of piss wafting through the canvas, the damn squalling of starve-ling babes, and the sounds of refugees fucking in the mud... it’s a wonder any man gets rest. And I can’t even partake! Half the wenches in this ditch have the pox, and the other half are hiding it under their skirts. Gods above, when I donned the black-and-white and marched south by the King’s decree again, I imagined a bit more glory in the trade."

He sighed, shaking his head as he looked down at his ,maybe, mud-splattered boots.

"From marching over green fields at the Ford to slipping on brown patches of shit in Oizen. I only hope I get the chance to bloody some of the green lads in my ranks before this is over, otherwise I’ll count this whole campaign a waste of good steel. So far, only the dozen lads I lent to those bald clerk in charge of construction have seen any red on their blades. The rest of my boys are itching to cut down something that bleeds."

"Do not worry, we’ll get bloodied soon enough," Edric said, his voice dropping into a grim, dark tone. "I plan to let the green recruits take the brunt of the initial assault,let them get the taste of copper in their mouths and harden their bellies. We were gut-shot at the Ford." He bit his lip, a flash of old anger tightening his jaw. "Lost nearly half our force between the slain and the crippled. It will take years to rebuild the discipline we used to boast of. A man would think we were cheap copper coins and the King a profligate, given how carelessly we were thrown into the fire."

Ghalrim held the legate’s gaze with a long, unblinking stare before letting out a soft grunt. "Come off it now, Edric. I know you’re bitter over the butcher’s bill at the Ford. But you and I both know war is a filthy trade, hardly possible to keep your steel bright and your hands clean when you’re wading through shit. Stop nursing your sores. We are at the tail end of it now.

Soon enough, we’ll rejoin the King at the capital for the coronation. We’ll feast on roast pork, bed clean wenches, and drink to Yarzat’s glory.This was a nasty job to be sure, but one that needed be done.No one likes shit and yet the pot has to be emptied once in a while"

Ghalrim slapped a heavy, iron-clad hand onto the legate’s shoulder just as a iron-shod horn blasted from the perimeter, its low rumble cutting through the morning gloom.

They looked expectantly to the side.

The heavy timber gates of the camp creaked open, grinding against the dirt. The crowd of refugees gathered outside scrambled backward, falling over one another in a desperate frenzy to clear the path.

A tight column of mounted men thundered through the gap. They were draped in thick wolf pelts, their long hair woven into intricate war-braids that bounced against their mail, some of them still had their faces caked in road-dust and dried blood. The smallfolk parted before them like water before a bow, needing no orders to cower from the path of the pack.

Riding at the very head of the vanguard was a mountain of a man. He sat tall in his saddle, possessed of arms as thick as ironwood trunks and a chest wide enough to block out the sun. Draped across his massive shoulders was the stark, blindingly white pelt of a wolf, a prized trophy dragged all the way from the frozen plains of the far northern kingdoms.

Even through the suffocating stench of latrines and rotting straw, Edric could feel the radiating, suffocating aura of the commander’s displeasure. The long, wasted months of hunting ghosts in the brush had clearly soured Rykio’s blood just as deeply as his own.

"It seems our hounds have finally returned for the hunt," Edric muttered, trading a sharp, knowing look with Ghalrim.

’’Well seems hardly right not to give him his welcome, few are those that still remains to be held in account’’ He muttered, his smile widening just a bit.

They both knew what the deal was.

The time for waiting was over. The hour of the sword had arrived.