Chapter 1387: A warrior’s sense(4)

With the entire council sharing Edric’s enthusiasm and convinction, the atmosphere in the pavilion shifted cleanly from grand strategy to the actual execution.

"So," Ghalrim summarized, leaning his thick elbows on the oak table. "We burn the fishing boats along the lake, and you’ve already barred every bridge and ford along both rivers. We’ve effectively built a wall around the grave they chose for themselves. The only way out of those woods is straight through our front lines. Safe to say the rats are well and truly boxed in?"

"Rightly so," Edric replied smoothly.

"Then I suppose it is time we discuss how we intend to gut them," Ghalrim said, his eyes gleaming.

With every gaze in the tent fixed squarely on the Warden of Oizen, Edric delivered.

"What we hold in our hands is a tightening noose. We command the only threshold. From the intelligence Rykio dragged out of the creek, we know the main camp sits hidden somewhere within the deep timber between the rivers. Rykio, is there anything else those dogs babbled under the iron , that might serve us?"

Rykio nodded, his pale wolf-pelt rustling against his shoulders as he leaned forward. "As you know, my men took a high-ranking deserter, a bastard who ran in the Vulture’s inner guard long before his exile. Beside him, we plucked a lesser dog, also fleeing the camp. Two rats abandoning a sinking ship."

"They can already smell the hopelessness of their cause," Torghan rumbled with a savage grunt.

"More likely they can feel their bellies eating their own ribs," Rykio corrected dryly. "Though I’m certain they know they’re living on borrowed breath. Following standard legion protocol, we separated the prisoners, broke them in different places, and weighed their answers against one another. Their tales aligned mostly. I’m inclined to vouch for the truth of it; those two aren’t clever enough to coordinate a lie so seamless under the pliers.I don’t think we shall fall in the same trap that the Western camp fell to."

Rykio paused, sweeping his eyes over the commanders. "From what we’ve gathered, the Vulture commands roughly two hundred men. Perhaps a few less by now, as the desertions take hold of their ranks.

My outriders haven’t spotted any massive troop movements leaving the tree line, so our advance has remained hidden, though by now, with the boats burning and hundred boxing the road , they must know the air is turning sour. We know the general quadrant of their lair, but not the precise clearing."

"Then we beat the bushes until the birds fly out," Ghalrim proposed, a cold smirk breaking across his face as the other commanders nodded .

"And we shall do precisely that," Edric declared, his voice cutting through the tent like a drawn blade. "My friends, the enemy is trapped, starving, and hopelessly outnumbered. By the last morning tally, we have at our disposal one hundred and twenty men from the First, eighty from the Third, one hundred and fifty from my own Fourth, fifty Hounds, and two hundred and twenty Voghondai auxiliaries. We possess every tactical advantage a general could pray to the gods for, while the rats in the brush can boast only that we haven’t found their hole yet."

He slammed his flat palm onto the center of the leather map.

"I see no reason to throw our advantages into the wind. I propose we completely choke the tree line between the two rivers, denying passage to a single bird, beast, or man. We shall divide our host into three fortified camps, spanning the entire front of one river from the other. The Hounds will run continuous patrols between the strongpoints, day and night, especially at night, for if the Vulture tries a desperate break, he will crawl under the cloak of darkness. I will draw more of the local militia to fill out the perimeter watches. With every door barred, we begin the hunt."

Edric cleared his throat, turning his sharp, expectant gaze toward the chief of the Voghondai.

"Torghan, your warriors and your cousins are the most skilled woodsmen in the south. You know how to track, stalk, and kill in dense canopy better than any legionnaire in iron. I propose your tribesmen form the primary searching force."

Edric looked around the round table to see if any commander dared to object. Not a single voice rose against the logic.

Torghan’s dark eyes lit up with a fierce, bloodthirsty warmth.

"My warriors will scour every thicket, cave, and hollow in those woods," the chieftain declared, clapping a heavy, scarred fist onto the oak. "We’ll sniff out their outposts first. They are bound to keep patrols moving; if nothing else, the bastards will have to forage if they don’t wish to starve in the brush. So while they are hunting for roots and rabbits, we will make prey of them. A single day in those trees, Edric... a single day is all my warriors will need."

Smiles lit up around the room, cold and sharp. Edric offered a low, grim nod. "I shall hold you to that, Chief," he muttered.

Before another word could be spoken, the heavy canvas at the entrance flapped open. A line of camp servants shuffled in, carrying broad wooden platters piled high with hard cheese, salted pork, dark rye bread, winter apples, and pitchers of fresh water. They set the rations across the round table, allowing each commander to serve himself without ceremony.

Edric reached for a wedge of cheese, carving off a piece with his belt dagger. "We have yet to discuss the bloody work itself, how we shall operate during the actual assault once the lair is found. I fear that will take a while."

And indeed, the squabbling stretched through the entire morning and bled well into the afternoon.

Ghalrim, speaking for the Third, proposed that his cohort be held in reserve to charge through the main gates the moment they were breached. Their heavy, seven-foot halberds would be useless for scaling wooden palisades or fighting in dense brush, but lethal in a tight choke point for a charge, a sentiment the council quickly agreed upon.

Rykio and his Hounds were naturally ruled out from the main storming party.Cavalry in a thick, uncharted forest was an invitation for dead horses and broken necks, the ridges and hanging branches offering a greater threat than the bandits’ iron. Coupled with their ongoing duty of riding patrol and hunting down deserters who slipped through the net, their role was already set.

"Whatever the Crown asks of us, we obey," Rykio grunted, tearing into a crust of bread. "My riders are brave and eager, but they aren’t stupid. We will leave the climbing and the door-kicking to the foot-soldiers."

When it came to who would spill the first blood on the walls, the air in the pavilion grew tight. Thalek of the First offered his men to lead the initial assault on the flanks, intending to scale the timber walls, swerve inward, and throw open the gates for the rest of the host. Torghan instantly demanded the exact same honor for his Voghondai.

To pacify the two proud spirits before tempers flared, Edric put forth a compromise: the Primogenia under Thalek would strike the left flank, while the Voghondai would hit the right. Thalek’s men would scale the forward timber to break the front defenses, while Torghan’s tribesmen would swarm the rear.

It was a middle ground both leaders accepted, no longer a petty squabble over placement, but a race between allies, with the prize being the glory of throwing open the gates first.

Only the matter of the main gate remained. Edric leaned across the table, his sharp eyes locking onto Ghalrim.

"My men will take the front gate," Edric said, his voice dropping into an unyielding, iron register. "We were the first to bleed in this war. It was the Fourth whose boys were butchered and desecrated when the Vulture Lord first made his name known by call of blood and steel. We will hold the bastard to account for that, and for every soul we buried in the mud. You and your men will circle to the rear and wait for either the Primogenia or the Auxiliaries to drop the bars. I will not budge on this."

Ghalrim studied the legate’s hard face for a long, quiet moment, then simply dipped his head in silent assent.

Every legion held its own glory close to its breast, but this was no longer a matter of vanity or royal favor. It was a matter of blood-debt and honor. Not a single commander around the table fought him on it.

Edric, who had been fully prepared to pull rank as Warden of Oizen to force the issue, let out a slow, quiet breath. A faint, satisfied smile touched his lips.

By the time the final details were forged, the golden daylight had long surrendered to the bruised, purple hues of evening.

Edric retreated to his private tent, leaving the noise of the camp behind him. The air inside was cool, carrying the faint, clean scent of crushed pine needles. A simple brass basin filled with tepid water sat upon a wooden tripod beside his cot.

He unclasped his heavy gorget, letting the iron plate clatter onto the floorboards, followed by his sweat-stained leather doublet. Stripped to the waist, he plunged his hands into the basin, cupping the cold water and splashing it violently over his face, neck, and chest. He gasped as the shock of it washed away the dust of the road, the dried sweat, and the suffocating reek of a war that had gone on for too long.

He leaned over the basin, gripping the iron rim until his knuckles turned white, watching the water swirl into a murky, darkened brown as the grime dripped from his unshaven beard.

He raised his head, staring blankly at the dark canvas wall of his tent, listening to the distant, rhythmic thrum of the legion’s night watches setting their perimeter.

"Almost over," Edric whispered into the quiet dark, his voice barely louder than a breath.He would not tell it to the others, but he was tired. Dead tired. He hated being in command.

"Just a little more blood, and it is done."