Chapter 5: Riders on the Great Road
Dawn found Kelan and his companions already miles north of Red Stone Outpost, their horses' hooves drumming a steady rhythm on the packed dirt of the Great North Road. The imperial highway stretched before them, a pale ribbon cutting through rolling scrubland and sparse savanna. Here and there, clusters of acacia trees offered scant shade, and the call of distant jackdaws echoed in the crisp morning air.
They rode at a hard pace. Aric wanted to cover as much ground as possible in the cool hours. By mid-morning, signs of more populous lands appeared: a goat-herd driving his flock across the road, crude mile markers more frequently spaced, and occasional thatch-roof huts dotting the landscape. It struck Kelan how quickly the emptiness of the deep desert gave way to these outskirts of civilization. Each mile northward, the world grew less still—and more anxious.
The first travelers they overtook were a small caravan of merchants headed south. Four wagons laden with pottery and grain creaked along under the watch of a hired militia. The merchants eyed the approaching riders warily until Aric hailed them with a professional greeting. Learning that Aric was military and bound for the front, the caravan leader waved them past with wishes for fortune.
"You'll find the road busy ahead," the leader warned. "Refugees from hill villages, heading south to safer ground. Empire's paying to feed 'em in the city, they say."
Refugees already? Aric thanked the man and spurred on, a frown creasing his brow. Astrid exchanged a grave look with Kelan. The Horde's threat must be common knowledge here if villagers were fleeing preemptively. Fear rode before the storm.
By noon, that fear took shape on the road. They encountered clusters of peasant families trudging south—carting belongings in handcarts or piled on donkeys, faces drawn and dusty. Mostly women, children, and the elderly; the able-bodied men likely stayed behind to guard what they could or were conscripted.
Kelan's heart clenched at the sight of a toddler wailing in his mother's arms, the woman's eyes hollow with exhaustion. As they rode by, Astrid abruptly reined in. "Aric, wait," she called.
The column halted. Astrid dismounted and approached the mother, who shrank back initially until Astrid pulled a water flask from her belt and gently offered it. The woman's cracked lips parted in gratitude as she took it and helped her thirsty child drink. Astrid dug into her saddlebag, producing a small packet of dried dates—precious rations she pressed into the mother's free hand.
A few other refugees hovered close, gazing at Astrid as if she were some storybook heroine come to life with her shining braid and confident bearing. One gray-bearded man mustered courage to ask, "Is it true? Will the Empire stop the Horde at Arden Pass?"
Astrid placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "That is what we intend," she said. Her voice carried a steady conviction that drew Kelan's admiration. "Turn back to your homes if it becomes safe. The north has protectors."
The old man bowed repeatedly, murmuring blessings on her.
Kelan used the brief pause to hop off his horse and discreetly tend a limping boy's blistered feet with a quick wash and wrap of clean cloth from his pack. He left the boy with a kind smile and hopped back into his saddle. These small acts barely scratched the enormity of need, but as they resumed their journey, Kelan felt Astrid's hand find his for a moment, a silent affirmation: they would hold to their humanity, even amid haste.
By late afternoon, the sun bore down fiercely and they rode through undulating grasslands, brown from the summer heat. The road descended toward a shallow river valley where an imperial checkpoint stood guard by a wooden bridge. A motley gathering of travelers and soldiers clustered there.
As Aric's party approached, they saw why: on the far side of the bridge lay the blackened wreckage of a village. Smoke still curled from charred beams, and villagers—perhaps those who hadn't fled in time—milled in shock as imperial troops tried to corral and comfort them.
Aric cursed under his breath and spurred forward. The checkpoint guards waved them through without challenge, too distracted by the calamity beyond.
Kelan's stomach turned as they crossed the bridge and entered the ruined hamlet. It must have been attacked only hours before. Huts were reduced to smoldering piles, the acrid smell of burnt thatch heavy in the air. A few bodies covered with blankets lined the roadway, and a keening wail rose from a knot of women mourning their dead.
Astrid drew a sharp breath. "Raiders?" she asked Aric, though the answer was plain. The arrow still jutting from an oak stump, fletched with steppe hawk feathers, was answer enough.
"Horde outriders," Aric said grimly, dismounting. Bren and Joris immediately began scanning for any lingering threat while Aric sought the ranking officer among the chaos.
Kelan and Astrid wasted no time. "To the wounded," Kelan said, already moving toward a cluster of injured villagers laid on makeshift pallets near a trough.
On the blood-stained grass, perhaps a dozen wounded lay moaning or unconscious as a single harried imperial medic triaged them. Kelan knelt beside a man with a gut wound being compressed by a crying teenage girl—his daughter, by the resemblance. The medic, a young lieutenant with shaking hands, was trying to sprinkle wound powder but clearly overwhelmed.
"I'm a healer. Let me help," Kelan said, gently but firmly taking over. The medic looked startled to see a plainly dressed stranger take charge, but relief quickly dawned in his eyes as Kelan's calm competence became evident.
With Astrid assisting, Kelan moved from patient to patient. He worked methodically—cleansing and binding gashes, stitching where needed with his travel sutures, and now and then letting his Mind-Touch flow subtly to stanch a deep bleed or steady a faltering heartbeat. Astrid sang softly under her breath as she worked alongside him, an old Northhaven cradle tune to soothe frightened children hovering nearby. The melody wove through the hot air, gentle and heartbreaking.
One by one, the groans of pain lessened under Kelan's and Astrid's care. The teenage girl gasped in amazement as her father's bleeding slowed far more rapidly than expected once Kelan laid hands on him and focused. Kelan merely gave her a tight smile and moved on to the next triage.
By the time Aric found them, Kelan was splinting a villager's broken arm while Astrid gave a little boy a piggyback ride to distract him from his mother's sutures. Aric's face was etched with worry and anger. "This is the fourth village hit this week, the officer says. Scouts slipping past the main lines."
"They're testing our defenses. Sowing terror," Astrid said darkly.
Kelan stood, wiping sweat and soot from his brow. "We've done what we can here." His voice was heavy. Some wounded would live thanks to their intervention, but some would not last the night. The thought gouged at him.
Villagers swarmed around, offering tearful thanks—an old woman even tried to kiss the hem of Kelan's travel coat. Embarrassed, he gently stopped her and squeezed her hands instead. "Stay together. Help each other south. The army will push these raiders back, I promise."
As they made to depart, the medic grasped Kelan's arm. "You saved lives today. Who are you…?"
Aric interceded smoothly, "He's a passing friend with field training." Lowering his voice, Aric added to the medic, "Get these people to Willowford camp. More help will be there."
The medic nodded, deciding not to press for more amidst the chaos.
Kelan lingered only long enough to see that the worst wounded were stabilized. He caught Astrid's gaze—she was gently transferring the little boy back to his mother's arms, brushing ash from the child's hair. Her eyes glistened, but she blinked back tears and returned to Kelan's side.
They mounted up, hearts leaden. As they rode out, the villagers and soldiers watched them go with expressions of gratitude and confusion. Kelan realized none of them even knew his or Astrid's names, yet they looked at the departing riders as if divine healers had descended and vanished.
Dusk was falling by the time they left the devastated village behind. Aric pushed them on a few miles further to put distance between the smoke and their camp. At a sheltered hollow by a stream, they finally called a halt for the night.
The mood was somber as they made camp. Bren and Joris unsaddled the horses silently. Astrid, normally quick to jest over rations, sat staring into the small campfire with hands clasped, the flicker of flames painting her face in red gold.
Kelan sat beside her, placing a fresh waterskin in her hands. "Drink," he urged softly. She did, as did he—both parched from hours of exertion and dust.
After a time, Astrid spoke, voice low. "Those people… they never stood a chance." Images of the charred village danced in her mind—she didn't need to say it for Kelan to know.
He poked at the fire absently. "No. The Horde wants to break spirits before battle is even met." He recalled the terrified eyes of the refugees on the road, the anguished cries of the mother who discovered her child beneath collapsed timbers. "It's working."
Aric cleared his throat gently from across the fire. "Your presence gave them hope, though. What you two did back there… news of it will spread among the refugees. They'll know the Empire hasn't abandoned them."
Kelan managed a ghost of a smile. Trust Aric to find a silver lining in their bleak day. Bren, busy checking the fletching on his arrows, grunted in agreement. "Never seen a healer do what you did, sir," he remarked to Kelan quietly. "Took five of us to drive those scouts off, and we couldn't save near as many as you did after."
Joris nodded fervently. "It was like the old legends, ser—um, just like the stories." The young soldier's eyes shone in the firelight; clearly, he now had his own miracle to tell.
Kelan tensed slightly, but Aric gave him a subtle shake of the head as if to say: it's all right.
"We were in the right place at the right time," Astrid said, trying to deflect the praise. "Like today with those travelers. And who knows what lies ahead? Perhaps we will find a cause or a place where you can do even greater good without it being misused by others."
An uneasy silence followed. The crackle of fire and chorus of night insects were the only sounds.
At length, Aric spoke, voice firm. "We'll make better time tomorrow. The sooner we're off, the harder it will be for anyone to catch up or meddle. We'll leave at first light."
Kelan's and Astrid's gazes met. Tomorrow they would venture further into lands unknown, moving steadily toward the promise of safer anonymity or new discovery. Whatever came, they would face it together.
They murmured agreement and banked the fire. That night, as Astrid drifted to sleep against Kelan's shoulder, he remained awake a little longer, gazing at the strange stars overhead. Bits of the peddler's tale about Northhaven swirled in his mind—the grandiose exaggerations, the king's interest. A part of him felt guilty that Northhaven might soon play unwitting host to royal interrogators. At least they'll find nothing but confused villagers, he thought. He hoped Ulfric could handle that diplomacy.
As for himself, he resolved to travel even more carefully. He would continue to help those in need, but with as light a touch as possible. The last thing he wanted was for royal couriers to catch up to them.
With those thoughts, Kelan finally let himself relax into the simple joy of a soft bedroll and Astrid's warmth. Her even breathing was a lullaby of its own. He closed his eyes.
Outside their makeshift camp, a moonless night had settled, wrapping the wild downs in quiet darkness. Tomorrow they would venture further into lands unknown. The road ahead was uncertain, but in uncertainty lay freedom—and perhaps the destiny Kelan would choose for himself.
In that hopeful thought, he found sleep, holding the woman he loved close as the world around them dreamed.
Chapter 6: Shadows of the Past
Two days later, by early evening, Kelan and Astrid reached the market village of White Oak Crossing. It was a modest roadside hamlet, a dozen timber buildings clustered near a stone bridge that spanned a swift-flowing river. The white oak from which the village took its name stood ancient and huge at the central crossroads, its branches sprawling protectively over the roof of the local inn.
They decided to stop for the night. After days of camping under the open sky, the prospect of a hot meal and a real bed was enticing. Astrid saw to stabling the horses while Kelan secured a small upstairs room at The Spotted Goose, the only inn in town. The innkeeper, a rosy-cheeked woman named Belda, bustled about setting a hearty stew on the hearth and pointing them toward a wash basin to freshen up.
In the tavern's common room, travelers and locals mingled over mugs of ale. A friendly buzz of conversation filled the air. Kelan and Astrid chose a corner table beneath a low-hanging beam (carved with generations of initials) and settled in to observe and rest.
For a time, they simply enjoyed ordinary pleasures—thick lamb stew with barley, a crusty loaf of bread, and dark ale foaming in clay cups. By unspoken agreement, they avoided heavy topics, instead chatting quietly about little things: how far the spring wildflowers extended along the road, a funny anecdote Astrid recalled from her childhood about chasing a goat that had eaten her apron.
Kelan found himself chuckling easily. In their plain travel clothes, with no urgent crisis looming, they might have been any young couple on a journey. The tension of being hunted or celebrated almost slipped from his mind.
Almost.
Across the room, a stout peddler was regaling the blacksmith with some tale, his voice carrying in excitement. "—I tell you, an entire clan's warband knocked out cold as if by magic!" he exclaimed. "They say a ghost-magicker did it, protecting the village. Poof, men dropping like flies."
Kelan's spine stiffened slightly. He shot Astrid a sidelong glance. She had heard it too; she raised an eyebrow.
The blacksmith guffawed. "Ghosts and magic? More likely the raiders drank themselves stupid before battle. You know how storytellers exaggerate."
The peddler huffed, taking a swig of ale. "Perhaps. But something odd happened up north. Even King Halvor's dispatching investigators, so I hear. Old Bart at the mill saw a royal courier ride through just yesterday, asking after unusual events in these parts."
Astrid casually reached across the table and placed her hand over Kelan's, a gentle reminder to stay calm. He realized he had stopped chewing his bread.
"Unusual events? We've had none," the blacksmith was saying. "Nothing more unusual than Jonna's cow birthing twin calves."
The peddler shrugged. "Likely nothing here, aye. But mark my words, the King's men are sniffing around every village from here to the Nordlands for whiffs of magic. Some rumor rattled them. Maybe those old witches in the bog finally stirred up trouble."
He lowered his voice conspiratorially (though Kelan and Astrid could still hear every word). "The wildest story claims an entire army of steppe riders was driven off by a single man wielding the power of the gods."
This earned laughter and scoffs from the small cluster of villagers listening in. "Next you'll be selling us flying horses and talking fish, Marlin," chuckled Belda the innkeeper as she refilled mugs.
The peddler raised his hands. "Laugh if you will. Tales grow in the telling, sure. But something truly happened out there. Even if it was a handful of mages or a hidden battalion, the King clearly thinks there's a kernel of truth."
At that, Astrid cleared her throat loudly and shifted in her seat, "accidentally" knocking her cup off the table. It hit the floor with a thud, drawing eyes for an instant.
"Oops," she said, ducking under the table to retrieve it. Kelan realized she was deliberately derailing the conversation and any scrutiny of them as strangers.
He quickly rose. "Let me get a cloth," he offered, moving toward the bar where Belda was already coming over with a rag.
In the brief distraction, the cluster of eavesdroppers lost the thread of the peddler's story. The blacksmith had begun ribbing the miller about something else, and the tavern's atmosphere returned to its easy chatter.
Belda wiped their table with a smile. "No harm, dearies. That old Marlin—don't heed half his gossip. He loves the sound of his own voice." She topped off their ale and lumbered away.
Astrid gave Kelan an apologetic half-smile. "Sorry. That got a bit... specific."
Kelan shook his head, amazed by how quickly rumors traveled. "Two days out and already bards and peddlers are spinning fanciful versions of what might be our story."
"Ghost-magicker?" Astrid snorted softly. "Power of the gods, no less."
Kelan grimaced. "It would be almost amusing if it weren't attracting royal agents."
She reached under the table and squeezed his knee reassuringly. "They're far behind us. And no one here seems to connect any of that to two ordinary travelers."
Kelan let his shoulders relax. She was right—no one in the inn was giving them a second glance. They appeared as normal as any other pair of wayfarers. He intended to keep it that way.
Later that night, in the privacy of their small room, they discussed their next steps in low voices. A single tallow candle on the washstand cast a soft glow over the simple space—bare wood walls, a narrow bed they'd gladly share for warmth, and their packs stacked neatly in the corner.
"They're looking north, where we came from," Astrid murmured, unlacing her boots. "That gives us an advantage. We stay ahead of news."
Kelan nodded, sitting on the edge of the bed. "We should perhaps avoid larger towns for a while, at least any under heavy crown presence."
Astrid sat beside him and leaned into his shoulder. "Vaeldrun is a market city a few days south. Perhaps we skirt it and stick to smaller crossings like this for now."
Kelan took her hand, twining his fingers with hers. He was silent a moment, reflecting. In Northhaven he had accepted that leaving was necessary to protect the town. Now it sank in that he and Astrid were effectively on the run—not from any wrongdoing, but from fame and fear.
"How do you feel about all this?" he asked her softly. "Truly. Life on the road, rumors at our backs, hiding who we are."
Astrid looked up at him. Her golden hair was loose about her shoulders, and in the gentle candlelight, the determination in her face was tempered by affection. "I won't pretend I don't miss home," she admitted. "I miss my parents. I miss knowing every neighbor by name." She gave a small shrug. "But I knew what I was choosing. Being with you—" She squeezed his hand. "It's where I need to be. And this is the path we must walk for now."
Kelan's throat tightened. "You've given up so much—"
"So have you," she interjected firmly. "My home will always welcome me back when the time comes. But your situation is… complicated." She brushed a strand of hair back from his forehead. "I saw what it did to you, Kelan, being looked at with awe and fear in equal measure. You carry enough burdens. I don't want adulation or condemnation from strangers to be another."
He closed his eyes for a moment, absorbing her words. It was true: as painful as leaving was, he felt lighter out here in anonymity, responsible for no one except themselves. Yet the weight of his power and the responsibility it brought was still his constant companion.
"I worry," he confessed quietly. "If we keep running, keep hiding, am I shirking some greater purpose? The things I can do… maybe I'm meant to do more than roam freely."
Astrid was silent for a long moment, considering. "You're doing good wherever you go—that seems purpose enough to me," she said at last. "Like today with those travelers. And who knows what lies ahead? Perhaps we will find a cause or a place where you can do even greater good without it being misused by others."
Kelan nodded slowly. That hope had driven him as well—the idea that somewhere, there might be a role for him that didn't mean becoming a king's pawn or a feared threat. "Maybe we'll find answers about... people like me," he added. "If there are others."
"A mage guild or great scholars, perhaps," Astrid mused. "The world is wide. We've only seen a sliver."
They sat in comfortable silence for a while, listening to the muffled laughter and clink of tankards from the tavern below. Eventually, Astrid's head began to droop with weariness. She'd barely slept the night before, insisting on taking first watch at their camp despite no obvious danger.
Kelan gently urged her to lie down. "Sleep. We'll need to start early."
She didn't protest, admittedly exhausted. Kelan stretched out beside her on the bed. They curled into each other under a single wool blanket. In the stillness, he pressed a light kiss to her temple. "Thank you," he whispered.
Astrid murmured drowsily, "For what?"
"For being with me through all this. For understanding."
She turned and touched his cheek. "Always," she breathed, then drifted into sleep, her arm draped across his waist.
Kelan remained awake a little longer, staring at the dim ceiling beams. Bits of the peddler's tale swirled in his mind—the grandiose exaggerations, the king's interest. A part of him felt guilty that Northhaven might soon play unwitting host to royal interrogators. At least they'll find nothing but confused villagers, he thought. He hoped Ulfric could handle that diplomacy.
As for himself, he resolved to travel even more carefully. He would continue to help those in need, but with as light a touch as possible. The last thing he wanted was for royal couriers to catch up to them.
With those thoughts, Kelan finally let himself relax into the simple joy of a soft bed and Astrid's warmth. Her even breathing was a lullaby of its own. He closed his eyes.
Outside their window, a moonless night had settled, wrapping White Oak Crossing in quiet darkness. Tomorrow they would venture further into lands unknown, moving steadily toward the promise of safer anonymity or new discovery. Whatever came, they would face it together. The road ahead was uncertain, but in uncertainty lay freedom—and perhaps the destiny Kelan would choose for himself.
In that hopeful thought, he found sleep, holding the woman he loved close as the world around them dreamed.
Chapter 7: The Mountain Fortress
By midday of the next day, the snow-capped peaks of the Ardens loomed overhead, jagged against a steel-gray sky. The air was thin and bracing. Kelan tugged his cloak tighter, marveling at how the landscape had transformed. They rode now on a winding mountain road carved into granite cliffs. Far below, a white-water river foamed through a gorge, its roar a constant undertone.
Astrid inhaled deeply beside him. "Smells like home," she murmured, eyes alight. The crisp scent of pine and distant snow carried on the breeze, reminiscent of her northern fjords.
Kelan offered a small smile. For him, the icy tang was foreign, but it invigorated him nonetheless. Or perhaps it was the anticipation coursing through their group; they were close now.
As they rounded a final bend, Fort Arden revealed itself across a high valley ahead. Kelan felt his breath catch. The fortress spanned the width of the pass—a formidable wall of stone bristling with battlements, anchored by stout towers at each end where the cliffs steepened. Beyond the walls to the north lay rolling plains fading into distant haze, where even now faint smudges hinted at fires or dust clouds – the enemy's harbingers.
Tents sprawled outside the southern side of the fort, multiplying up the slopes in rows. Thousands of imperial soldiers and northern warriors milled about or drilled in the shadow of the walls. The ring of hammers on iron and the distant bark of commanders carried to them even here.
"There it is…" Aric said quietly, reigning in his horse so they could take it in. "Arden Pass. The gate to the heartland."
Astrid's hand found Kelan's, a brief squeeze. Her face was a mix of awe and determination as she surveyed the defenses. "They've built new palisades beyond the old wall," she noted, pointing to fresh timber bracing on the outer ditches. "Halvor's men must have arrived weeks ago to manage that."
They urged their horses onward. As they approached the outer perimeter, a sentry blew a horn blast. Soon a small honor guard rode out to meet them: four cavalrymen in imperial blue-and-gold, and at their head a man in ornate half-plate with a wolf-head cloak clasp—one of King Halvor's own thanes.
Captain Aric spurred ahead to confer with the thane. After a quick exchange, the escort fell in around their party. "Welcome to Fort Arden," said the thane, a burly man with a neatly braided beard. He inclined his head respectfully to Astrid. "Your reputation precedes you, Shield-maiden."
Astrid flushed slightly at the formal title from a stranger. "Just Astrid, please," she said. "We fight as one host now, after all."
The thane smiled. "As you wish. The High Commander awaits you all inside."
They processed through the outer encampment. Soldiers paused in their tasks to gawk openly. Some recognized Astrid's distinctive northwoman attire and murmured to each other; others stared at Kelan, perhaps guessing—rumor of a powerful mage's arrival must have spread.
Kelan kept his posture straight, face serene, ignoring the whispers. Internally, a swirl of emotions threatened to unsettle him: relief at arriving, anxiety for the coming battle, and self-consciousness at so many eyes watching. He focused on the sight of the fort's gate ahead—a massive ironbound portcullis raised to admit them.
Passing under the shadow of the wall, they entered a broad courtyard bustling with activity. Messengers dashed to and fro. At one side, blacksmiths pounded out arrowheads. The smell of woodsmoke and horses mingled with a faint tang of fear-induced sweat that Kelan's keen senses did not miss.
Dismounting, they were immediately approached by a tall man in imperial general's regalia—deep blue cloak and polished breastplate, a baton of command at his hip. He was older, iron-gray hair cropped short, and his eyes were keen as a hawk's. A scar ran down his left cheek to his jaw, marring an otherwise patrician face.
"Captain Aric," he greeted, voice echoing off the stone. "And our… distinguished guests." He studied Kelan and Astrid shrewdly, weighing youth against what he'd heard.
Aric saluted. "General Varys, I bring Kelan di'Rase and Astrid Haestensdottir, as ordered."
General Varys nodded slowly. "We are grateful for your swift arrival." He glanced at Astrid. "Lady Astrid, your presence raises spirits. Many of your countrymen are here under Jarl Torvald, eager to fight alongside you again."
Astrid dipped her head. "They honor me, General. I'm here to serve."
His gaze shifted to Kelan. The courtyard seemed to hold its breath. "And Master Kelan." The honorific 'Master' rolled cautiously off his tongue. "Your reputation… is unlike any I've encountered. Know that every soul here is counting on you."
Kelan squared his shoulders. "I understand, General." He appreciated that Varys did not mask the gravity of it. "I will do everything in my power to justify your trust."
Varys's stern face softened a fraction, whether in relief or sympathy. "Come. The High Commander wishes to speak with you straightaway."
They followed him toward a large command tent erected just off the main keep. As they walked, a distant series of horn blasts sounded from the north-facing wall. A scout returning with news? The timing sent a chill through Kelan.
Inside the tent, a group of leaders awaited around a large map table. King Halvor himself was absent—Kelan recalled Halvor had been wounded in the previous war and might be coordinating from safer quarters. Instead, a bull-necked northern Jarl stood alongside two imperial colonels. Lord Rengel was among them, offering a small smile of recognition from their time on the road.
Introductions were made, but formalities were brisk—time was too short. High Commander Orios, King Halvor's marshal, outlined the situation without preamble.
"The Horde is two days away at most," said the marshal, gesturing to map markers bristling on the northern approach to the pass. "Our scouts report their vanguard is already visible from high lookouts at dawn. They come on foot and horse, tens of thousands."
Even knowing it was coming, hearing the number sent a ripple of unease through the tent. Astrid set her jaw; Aric let out a slow breath.
"We have perhaps twelve thousand fit for battle," Orios continued. "More behind these walls than that, but many are support folk, wounded, or inexperienced levies. We've fortified as best we can." His gauntleted finger tapped lines drawn before the fort. "Spiked trenches here, here, and here. Scorpions and trebuchets on the ramparts. King Halvor's archers on the heights. Yet against such a horde, these are sticks before a tide."
He then fixed his steely gaze on Kelan. "This is where you come in, Master Kelan. Frankly, you are our unconventional defense."
All eyes fell on Kelan. He inhaled slowly. "I need to know what exactly you expect of me."
It was General Varys who answered, voice measured. "The Emperor's hope is that you can repeat your feat at Northhaven—break the enemy's charge utterly. Shatter their will to fight. In essence, rout them with minimal casualties on our side."
A heavy silence. Astrid's hand found Kelan's elbow, a subtle support.
Kelan absorbed the words, then shook his head slightly. "I will do what I can. But you must understand—what happened at Northhaven was..." He struggled to articulate the enormity and cost of that act. "Exceptional. To fell an entire army in one stroke—" he hesitated as the gathered officers hung on his words, "—it is not something I can promise lightly."
A colonel frowned. "Emperor Aurelian seemed convinced. He spoke as if you could slay by the hundreds with a thought."
Kelan felt a flush creeping up. Exaggerations had set dangerous expectations. "I did—something like that—once," he admitted quietly. "But it was a desperate act, with unforeseen consequences. It nearly killed me as well. If I try such a thing here, against so many… there's a chance it might not be enough, or that I might fall unconscious— or worse—in the attempt, leaving the rest of you to fend with no advantage gained."
His candid words unsettled the room. Jarl Torvald's brow furrowed. "Then… what do you suggest? You have some power; we've heard the rumors ourselves from clanfolk. How would you use it?"
Kelan looked to Astrid, who gave him an encouraging nod. He straightened. "I'm more than just a weapon of destruction. I'm a healer and a telekinetic. I propose we integrate my abilities into the battle plan in multiple ways. I can reinforce weak points on the walls—by bracing or pushing siege ladders off telekinetically. I can strike down key targets—enemy siege engines or leaders—precisely rather than broadly. And most critically, I can keep our men in the fight by rapidly treating serious injuries during any lulls, preventing losses."
Murmurs ran around the table. This approach had not been fully considered by those hoping for a single thunderclap resolution.
Astrid spoke up, voice clear and confident. "Aye, and I will be on the ramparts with our archers. There are… abilities I've honed that can bolster our side's morale and sow confusion among the enemy ranks." She alluded to her combat-singing without detailing it—no need to invite incredulity or misunderstanding right now.
Marshal Orios drummed his fingers. "So you're advising a more measured use of your gifts. And if the walls are truly about to fall?"
Kelan's jaw tightened. "If collapse is imminent and it's kill or be overrun, I'll unleash everything I have. But I'd prefer to avoid reaching that point. The toll…" He didn't finish. They all understood.
A grave nod went around. It was Torvald who offered a toothy grin suddenly. "I've seen proud men freeze on the battlefield and untested youths rise to greatness. Maybe we should all stop trying to script the gods' will." He raised his drinking horn in a toast-like motion. "We have a plan. But let's allow these two to apply their craft as they see fit when steel meets bone. They've earned that trust with their deeds."
That broke some tension. A few smiles, a few claps on shoulders. Commander Orios gave an assent. "So be it. We fight at dawn tomorrow or the next day when the foe arrives. For now, see to your positions and get some rest."
The meeting dispersed. Several officers took a moment to thank Kelan or clasp arms with Astrid in respect before hurrying off to ready their troops. It was a stark change from minutes before—many seemed actually buoyed to have met the living legend and found him human, thoughtful. Perhaps that in itself brought hope.
As the tent emptied, General Varys stayed a moment with Kelan and Astrid. "You spoke wisely in there," he said quietly. "I'll adjust the medics' stations to give you space to work, and have runners ready to relay if you're needed at a crisis point."
Kelan inclined his head. "Thank you, General."
Varys paused, then added, "I know some of my peers were hoping for a miracle on command. But perhaps a miracle spread across a whole battle will serve just as well." He afforded them a rare, thin smile and departed.
When they emerged back into the daylight, the mood in the fort felt subtly changed. Word had clearly rippled out that the mage and maiden were here. Soldiers on the walls stood a bit taller; some even cheered as Astrid passed, her northern cloak emblematic of clan valor. Kelan caught hopeful gazes turned his way. It was daunting—an entire army's faith resting on his shoulders—but also strangely energizing. All his life he had wanted a place to belong and a way to matter. Now, at the fulcrum of fate, he had both in abundance.
Aric excused himself to see to his cavalry unit integrated with the defense. Bren and Joris went with him, each exchanging a gripping handshake with Kelan and Astrid—silent pledges of loyalty in the coming fight.
That left the two of them momentarily alone in the bustling courtyard. High above, the afternoon sun struggled through haze and cloud. Astrid exhaled, taking off her helmet to run a hand through her hair. "So it begins," she said softly.
Kelan reached over and brushed a windblown strand from her face. "Bittersweet pressure of being relied on, indeed."
She gave him a wry smirk at echoing her earlier words. Then her expression turned earnest. "I believe in you, Kelan. In us."
"I know," he replied, voice hushed amid the clamor. "That makes all the difference."
Around them, final preparations roared on: the thud of logs being moved into place, the bark of officers mustering archers to drill, the distant rumble of another scout patrol galloping out. The war machine was in motion.
Kelan and Astrid stood for a moment at the base of the rampart steps, side by side, taking in the frenetic scene. Tomorrow or perhaps the next dawn, the Horde would be upon them. Every life here hung in the balance. Yet as Kelan glanced at Astrid—her chin high, her eyes bright with courage—he felt a profound calm well up.
"Let's get to work, Healer," Astrid said, bumping his shoulder with hers gently. "We have a long day and night ahead."
With that, they plunged back into the fray of preparations. Together they moved along the walls: Astrid conferring with archery captains on vantage points for her clan bowmen, Kelan visiting the infirmary tents to organize supplies and quietly instruct the medics on how to assist him once battle commenced. Everywhere they went, salutes and nods trailed them—symbols of hope walking among the rank and file.
And as afternoon waned toward evening, high atop Fort Arden's mighty wall, the two paused and looked northward. In the far distance, beyond rolling plains, they could just make out a dark smudge against the horizon, like a storm front gathering.
The Horde was coming.
Kelan felt Astrid slip her arm through his. No words passed between them. None were needed. They turned from the brewing darkness and climbed down to prepare for what the dawn would bring.
Chapter 8: The Last Vigil
Night fell with a restless quiet over Fort Arden. Along the ramparts, torches flickered in iron sconces, their light reflecting off watchful helms. In the courtyards below, most fires were doused to embers to deny the enemy easy sight, leaving the garrison in a dim, red glow beneath a canopy of stars.
After a final round of inspections and preparations, Kelan and Astrid found a moment to slip away to a vantage point on the southern wall, overlooking the interior camp. From here they could see much of the fort's activity: the lines of soldiers bedding down in their tents or saying prayers by candlelight, the pacing of sentries on the walls, the glint of armor as officers made late rounds.
No horns had blown alarm; the Horde would not reach them this night. But the foreknowledge of battle made the air taut.
Astrid leaned on the parapet, gazing outward where beyond the darkness lay the homelands she had fought for before and would fight for again come dawn. "Do you remember," she said softly, "the night before Northhaven's siege? When we stood watch under the stars, just listening to the wind on the ice?"
Kelan stepped closer, shoulder to shoulder with her. He did remember: the bitter cold, the aurora faintly shimmering, and Astrid's quiet humming to keep fear at bay. "I was so afraid," he admitted. "More than I let on. But hearing you there beside me… it kept me together."
Astrid turned to him, a small smile on her lips. "I was afraid too. I kept thinking, would we see another dawn? But I drew courage knowing you were with me."
Kelan brushed his fingers over the back of her gloved hand on the stone. "Here we are again. Different sky, same stars."
She looked up. The sky was moonless but clear, stars cluttered thickly across the void. "Think our Northern Star can see us down here?" she mused, picking out the bright familiar point on the horizon that she'd navigated by all her life.
"Likely wondering what we're doing so far from home," Kelan chuckled.
They fell into a comfortable silence, the sounds of the night around them: a distant clink of armor, a muffled sob from a young soldier in prayer, the murmur of an old camp ballad rising from a knot of clansmen passing a skin of mead below. The melody was somber, about a hearth waiting for those who may never return. Astrid quietly sang a line or two along under her breath, voice so soft only Kelan caught it.
He slid an arm around her waist, and she let her head rest against his shoulder. For a short while, in the privacy of shadow, they allowed themselves to simply be—a man and woman sharing warmth against the night's chill, drawing what comfort they could before the storm.
A gentle cough behind them made them part slightly. It was a sergeant—a burly silhouette and grizzled hair giving Kelan a pang of memory for Dennor—come to fetch Kelan.
"Beg pardon," the older sergeant said quietly. "Master Kelan, the infirmary master asked if you'd look in on Corporal Fenn. His leg's troubling him again."
Kelan recognized the name—a soldier whose badly broken leg he'd mended that afternoon with a combination of splint and Mind-Touch. "Of course." He glanced to Astrid.
"Go on," she urged. "I'll be right here."
Planting a quick kiss on her temple, Kelan followed the sergeant down to the infirmary tents. Inside one, lit by dim lanterns, lay half a dozen men too injured to join the battle on the morrow—victims of previous skirmishes or accidents fortifying the pass. He spotted Corporal Fenn grimacing on his cot as the chirurgeon adjusted his splint.
Kelan knelt beside the young man. "Throbbing again?"
"Aye, sir," Fenn said through clenched teeth. "Sorry to trouble—"
"No trouble." Kelan laid a hand gently on the splinted leg, closing his eyes. He extended his senses inward: the bones were aligned as set, but swelling pressed painfully. With a focused pulse of his gift, he encouraged fluids to drain and tissue to calm. Fenn sucked in a breath as the ache receded to a dull pressure.
"Better?" Kelan asked, opening his eyes.
Fenn managed a smile. "Much. You're a wonder, sir."
The chirurgeon shook his head in amazement. "If half our physicians could do in seconds what you do, well… wars might be a damn sight easier."
Kelan merely gave a small nod and moved down the row, offering a word or a touch to each injured soul. He adjusted a bandage here, eased a fever there. These men likely wouldn't fight on the morrow, but they deserved comfort and hope all the same.
One older soldier with an arm in a sling caught Kelan's hand as he turned to leave. "They say you'll finish this for us tomorrow," the man whispered, eyes shining with a mixture of awe and desperation.
Kelan felt a pang. He knelt, meeting the man's gaze. "No, we'll finish it together. Every one of us has a part. Rest now, friend. Draw strength. We need you healing up so you can get back to your family after."
The man blinked rapidly and nodded, releasing Kelan's hand. "Aye, sir. Together."
Returning to the wall, Kelan found Astrid right where he'd left her. She was speaking quietly with a pair of King Halvor's huscarls who had come to pay respects. As Kelan approached, the warriors gave him appraising looks—equal parts curiosity and respect—then nodded and departed to resume their patrol route.
"He wanted to see the 'sorcerer' up close," Astrid said wryly. "I told him you prefer 'healer.'"
Kelan huffed. "At least they asked politely this time."
They stood a while longer, watching a few stray sparks of firelight dance up from the camps and vanish into the dark. Down in the moat, frogs chirruped obliviously, a strangely normal sound amid the weight of anticipation.
Astrid eventually broke the silence. "I visited the archers' lines earlier. They were singing that old clan hymn 'We Ride at Dawn.' Trying to bolster each other."
Kelan nodded. He had heard snatches of the distant, mournful melody. "And you? Feeling bolstered?"
She gave a half shrug. "I find my mind drifting to home. Wondering if Father and Mother know I'm here, if they worry." She paused, then admitted softly, "Wondering if I'll see them again."
Kelan took her hand. "You will. We will walk into Northhaven together on a spring morning, mark my words."
Astrid squeezed his fingers. "And your family. When this is over, we'll take a ship to Tiruva. I want to meet the Mother who raised such a stubbornly noble son."
He chuckled, though emotion tightened his throat. "I'd like that. Gods, how I'd like that."
They turned, no longer looking out but facing each other in the torchlight's glow. Astrid traced the line of Kelan's jaw where a faint scar from Northhaven still lingered. "For luck," she whispered, and stood on her toes to kiss the scar, then his lips.
His arms encircled her, drawing her close. The kiss deepened, slow and yearning. In it they poured all the hopes they dared not speak aloud—that this wouldn't be their last night, that fate would grant them more quiet dawns and shared cups of tea, more gentle teasing and tender embraces.
When they finally parted, both were breathing unsteadily. Astrid rested her forehead to his. "Perhaps we should get some sleep," she murmured, though neither moved.
"At least lie down and pretend," Kelan replied, a hint of a smile in his voice.
They descended the wall and made their way to a small lean-to tent set aside for them just inside the inner gate, away from the bustle. Not exactly the privacy of their desert cottage, but sufficient. A single lantern glowed within, illuminating two bedrolls spread on cloaks.
They removed their outer armor, boots, and cloaks, leaving tunics and trousers for modesty amid a crowded fortress. As they settled onto the bedrolls pushed together, Astrid reached and drew Kelan's head to her chest gently. He sighed, eyes closing, as her fingers combed through his hair with slow, soothing strokes.
For a long while they lay like that, listening to each other's heartbeat. Kelan felt the tension drain from his muscles. Here, in this small pool of lamplight and warmth, the world's clamor receded.
"I'm proud of you," Astrid whispered suddenly.
He tilted his face up to meet her eyes. "For what?"
"For how you stood before them all today—calm, honest. You became the leader they needed, in your own way."
Kelan's cheeks warmed. "I just told the truth."
"Often that's the hardest thing." She pressed a kiss into his hair. "We'll get through tomorrow, Kel. And whatever comes after."
He listened to the strong beat of her heart beneath his ear. "Together," he said.
Her arms tightened around him in lieu of answer.
At length, their breathing slowed. Though sleep was elusive, exhaustion eventually draped over them.
Kelan's last wakeful thought was a memory of Greta's voice back in Northhaven: "Forewarned is forearmed." Well, he was forewarned and forearmed with more than just magic now. He was armed with purpose, with people who believed in him, and with love. Whatever dawn brought, he would meet it with that strength.
In the silent hours of the night, as the armies of men kept anxious watch against the armies of darkness gathering unseen beyond the mountains, Kelan and Astrid held each other and kept their own private vigil—a final ember of peace glowing fiercely in the encroaching night.
Chapter 9: Grey Before Dawn
A thin mist clung to the pass in the hour before first light. The stars had turned brittle and faint, yielding the sky to a deep predawn blue. Fort Arden stood in hushed readiness. Along the ramparts, every man and woman was awake, weapons in hand, breath steaming in the chill.
Kelan moved like a shadow among the troops on the eastern wall, offering quiet reassurances. A young pikeman, face pale in the torchlight, confessed to him in a trembling whisper that it was his first battle. Kelan squeezed the youth's shoulder. "Breathe. Remember your training. And know that none of us stands alone here." The pikeman swallowed and nodded, some color returning to his cheeks.
At a corner battlement, Astrid stood with a unit of clan archers, helping them string their powerful northern longbows. She murmured tips on timing and target selection—her calm demeanor infecting the others with steadiness. One teenage archer fumbled with nervous fingers; Astrid gently guided her hands to secure the bowstring. "Steady now," she said. "Think of home, of those you protect. Let that guide your aim." The girl managed a grateful smile, resolve hardening in her eyes.
They regrouped near the center of the wall where the command banners fluttered in the growing breeze. King Halvor himself had emerged, armored and stern, to survey the field from atop the gatehouse. Though still recovering from prior wounds, he refused to remain behind the lines. His presence was a silent rallying cry to his people.
Beside the king, General Varys and Marshal Orios conferred with Aric and other officers one last time. All was in order. Nothing to do now but wait for the enemy's arrival.
Kelan closed his eyes briefly and expanded his Mind-sense outward, straining to detect any signs ahead in the dark valley. Faint, he could feel them—hundreds, no, thousands of heartbeats in the far distance, marching in time. A cold shiver danced across his skin.
"They're close," he murmured to Astrid.
She glanced toward the dim northern horizon, fog-laced and still. Her hand sought Kelan's and gripped it firmly. "Then it will be soon."
Down on the field before the fort, the last of the trench traps were being uncovered, spiked pits gaping like mouths. A contingent of Imperial cavalry took their position behind the gate, ready for a sortie if the enemy faltered. The silence was uncanny; even the animals seemed to feel the weight of it—horses stamped softly and whickered, and far overhead an eagle cut across the sky without a sound.
Astrid cleared her throat softly. In the stillness, Kelan almost expected her to break into song to uplift the troops. She had done so before in smaller skirmishes. But here and now, with breaths held and nerves taut, any sudden sound felt sacrilegious. Instead, she caught King Halvor's eye atop the gatehouse and raised her bow in salute. The king unsheathed his sword and held it aloft, a mute gesture of solidarity to all his warriors. Those who saw it straightened and silently thumped fists to breastplates or bowed heads in respect.
Moments ticked by. Each second stretched like an eternity on the rack of anticipation. Kelan's heartbeat matched the distant drum of the enemy's march he alone could sense—a slow thunder building.
Finally, as the very edge of the eastern sky began to lighten from deep indigo to ashen blue, a horn blast echoed up the pass. Not from their walls, but from far ahead in the gloom.
A northern scout on an outcrop shouted down, "Signal fire! At the far ridge!"
All eyes strained. And there—a tiny orange glow pulsed on the dark slope beyond the valley's turn. The last watchpost beyond Arden had lit the warning beacon. The Horde was in sight of the final approach.
A murmur rippled among the troops. Kelan felt Astrid's grip on his hand tighten once, then release. She stepped back, sliding her helm over her golden hair and nocking an arrow to her bowstring. He donned his own skullcap and flexed his fingers. The time was upon them.
From the fog ahead came a low, resonant sound—a war-horn's bellow, long and mournful. Then another, from farther west. The calls of communicating armies.
Marshal Orios raised his arm and called out in a carrying voice, "Stand to arms!"
A tremor went through the ranks as every soldier raised shield and spear or drew arrow to cheek. Kelan planted his feet on the stone battlement, closing his eyes one last time to center himself. He summoned forth that inner vision: he would likely soon feel every life around him like a constellation of stars—he braced for that influx.
Astrid exhaled a slow breath by his side. He looked to her. She met his gaze steadily and managed a small smile—the same smile she had given him on the Northhaven walls at first light before all hell broke loose, a mixture of courage and love. Kelan felt an answering smile tug at his lips. Whatever came, they would meet it as they always had.
In the east, the first sliver of sun broke over the peaks, casting a pale glow into the valley. The mist began to burn away in ghostly swirls. An unnatural hush fell. Even the breeze died, as if nature itself recoiled in anticipation of the violence to come.
Kelan could now see the curve of the pass stretching out below, clearing yard by yard as dawn's light crept forward. Everyone squinted into the dissipating murk, hearts in throats.
For a moment, nothing. Just the silhouette of pines and the white ribbon of road empty beyond the outermost traps.
Then a distant rustling, like the stirring of dry leaves. A clink of metal. A faint chant or growl—it was hard to tell—from far voices.
A dark line appeared at the valley's mouth, spreading like ink on wet paper. Then multiple lines, advancing. The sun's rays caught on something—hundreds of somethings—glinting like facets of a moving jewel.
Spears. Helmets. Armor catching the light.
Astrid drew a sharp breath. Kelan felt his hands curl into fists at his sides.
The Horde had arrived.
Chapter 10: The Horde at the Gates
They came on like a tide of shadow. From Fort Arden's heights, the defenders watched as the hazy shapes coalesced into ranks upon ranks of warriors pouring into the valley. What at first seemed a dark line soon revealed depth: columns stretching back as far as the eye could see, the rear lost beyond the bends of the pass.
Flags and pennants fluttered above the horde—jagged wolfshead standards of Vorannis's clan intermingled with the emblems of countless subjugated tribes. Mounted riders in furs and iron helms rode at the flanks, scimitars glinting. Between their lines trudged heavy infantry, brutish figures in mismatched armor beating axes against shields in a rhythmic clang that set the very ground trembling.
At the center of the host rolled crude siege towers on great wooden wheels, pushed by teams of bellowing ogres. Ladders, rams, and siege hooks bristled in the morning light. Above it all, the deep boom of war drums thudded out a slow, inexorable cadence—the heartbeat of the Horde.
A collective chill coursed along the wall. Seasoned veterans felt mouths go dry; a young recruit at Kelan's side involuntarily whimpered until his sergeant laid a steadying hand on his shoulder. King Halvor's jaw was set in grim resolve, but even he muttered a quiet prayer to the All-Father under his breath.
Astrid stared, eyes wide beneath her helmet, at the seemingly endless mass of warriors. "There must be fifty thousand… or more," she whispered.
"More," Kelan confirmed, his voice taut. Through his Mind-sight the valley was a blinding constellation of life-forces—an overwhelming galaxy of sparks moving toward them. He forced himself to focus, narrowing his senses to the nearest foes to avoid being drowned in the psychic noise.
Onward the Horde marched, until they were but a bowshot beyond the outermost traps. Then harsh cries rang out in some guttural tongue, and the great columns came to a jostling halt. The drums fell silent. An uncanny quiet swept over the valley once more, broken only by the occasional snort of a warhorse or clank of a warhammer being hefted into readiness.
In that lull, a lone figure on a massive black stallion rode forward ahead of the enemy lines. Clad in wolf-fur cloak and gleaming scale armor, he carried a tall spear from which billowed the banner of a snarling wolf's head. Even without hearing his name, Kelan knew this had to be Vorannis—the Warlord of the Steppe. The man reined in his charger and surveyed the fortress from a distance, likely seeking any sign of weakness. Finding none obvious, the Wolf of the Steppe raised his spear high.
A thousand throats let loose a blood-freezing howl that echoed from the cliffs. The Horde's war cry rolled over the defenders in a palpable wave. Several soldiers atop the wall flinched; one even stumbled back a pace.
But Astrid stepped forward, planting her feet on the parapet, and let out a clear, defiant shout of her own—a wordless ululation that cut through the howl like a keen arrow. Her voice rang fearless and true. From the men around her, a cheer erupted, spreading down the line. King Halvor thrust his sword aloft and a ripple of answering shouts rose from the entire fortress. The stone beneath Kelan's boots thrummed with the roar of thousands of his comrades yelling back at the horde in challenge.
Vorannis seemed to snarl in reply, then wheeled his stallion and galloped back to his host. A moment later, a horn blast from the Horde's ranks signaled the attack.
The tide began to move again—this time at a charging pace. The drums resumed, faster and frenzied. Kelan could see the individual foes now: snarling orcs brandishing pikes, human marauders with painted faces and curved blades, giant ogres lumbering forward with tower shields. They surged toward the first line of pits and spikes.
"Archers!" Marshal Orios bellowed from the gatehouse. "Notch—draw…!"
Bows creaked along the ramparts as hundreds of archers drew as one. Astrid raised her bow, jaw set, her gaze locked on the onrushing horde. Beside her, clan hunters and imperial longbowmen alike took aim in grim concentration.
Kelan positioned himself at a crenel, heart hammering but mind startlingly clear. He stretched out a hand and felt the iron cores of a dozen enemy weapons ahead—he could rip them from grips at will when the moment came. With his other hand, he slipped a small throwing knife free of its sheath at his belt, ready to send it flying true with but a thought toward any foe who climbed too high.
Below, the Horde's front wave reached the first spiked trench unsuspecting. With sickening effectiveness, the ground gave way beneath dozens of charging warriors; shrieks rang out as they tumbled into the concealed pits. Some were impaled on stakes, others trampled by those behind who couldn't halt in time. A ragged cheer went up from the walls at the initial success.
Yet the Horde barely faltered. Whips cracked and second ranks surged, bridging pits with fallen bodies and debris. Siege towers rolled forward, crews straining to push them across uneven ground.
"Loose!" came the Marshal's command.
Astrid and the archers let fly. The sky darkened with a hissing cloud of arrows that arced down into the enemy mass. Kelan's keen eyes tracked Astrid's own shaft streaking unerringly and striking an orc chieftain through the throat—he toppled with a gurgling roar. Scores of other arrows found flesh; the Horde's charge wavered as bodies fell and cries of pain and fury mingled.
And still the Horde came on, vast and unyielding under the crimson sunrise—an endless sea of warriors crashing upon the last bastion of defense.