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“He’s got the upper body strength,” Terson said, “but he’s still a miller.”
Gregson frowned thoughtfully as he watched Ricks and Curtis sparring with Jayson, the miller’s apprentice standing off to one side watching. “But he’s learning fast.”
“Because he’s angry. You can see it in his thrusts. Whatever happened to him in his village, it’s affected him.”
“That isn’t necessarily bad. A little anger during a fight or battle can be useful. And we’ll be seeing many more like him, if what we’ve seen between Cobble Kill and here is any indication.”
Terson’s mouth twisted with derision. “An army of commoners.”
Gregson turned slightly toward him. “Given what we saw at Patron’s Merge, and the destruction we’ve seen throughout the countryside since… I’ll take an army any way I can get it.”
Terson’s brow creased at the mild reprimand, but he said nothing.
In the makeshift practice yard, Ricks took a swing toward Jayson’s side, grinning as sweat ran down his face. Jayson parried with a grunt, the swords clashing as Curtis barked from the sideline, “Now use the momentum of your opponent’s swing to thrust his sword off to the side, leaving him open.”
Jayson attempted to follow through, shoving Ricks’ sword to one side and down, the natural movement still stiff and forced. Gregson could tell that Ricks wasn’t countering the thrust as hard as he could, but Jayson had barely begun practicing. He and Curtis were simply trying to get him to adjust from swinging sacks of grain to handling the weight of the blade. The motions were obviously different, and Jayson needed to feel that difference in his arm and shoulders before he’d have any chance of putting it into practice during a real battle.
And it was looking as if a real battle was imminent.
They’d been traveling covertly since Patron’s Merge, scouts sent out ahead, searching for the Horde as it ransacked its way across the Province. Parties of twenty to over a thousand had been sighted, forcing the large group of Legion and commoners to find alternate routes at least three times already. And the group had grown. Two days before, they’d run into another group with the remnants of another garrison, mostly younger soldiers, only one officer who was beneath Gregson in rank. He had been almost painfully relieved when Gregson had reluctantly taken control of the remains of his unit and the forty civilians and three wagons they’d been protecting.
He might have turned them away to fend for themselves, but they’d had food. He wasn’t certain how long it would last, not with nearly three hundred refugees, but at least most of the men in the group knew how to hunt and trap. Although even that had been restricted. The closer they came to Temeritt-it could only be a few days away now-the more activity they’d seen from the Horde. They were closing in on the city, their scattered groups coming together and squeezing all of the refugees between them. He’d become increasingly convinced that they were going to have to fight their way through to Temeritt, if they arrived in time to make the city at all.
His gaze passed over the rest of the men, and a couple of women, gathered to watch the match. He scratched at the bandage on his left arm, the bite marks beneath itching, then caught himself with a grimace.
“Pair up as many men as we can spare with the civilians. Use whatever you can find for weapons. Don’t give any of the able-bodied men a choice. Tell them if they want to see Temeritt alive, they’re likely going to have to fight.”
Terson nodded and Gregson moved off toward their encampment. There were still a few hours of sunlight left, but he hadn’t dared move on beyond the small field, the waist-high grasses now trampled down into a rough mat beneath his feet. The scouts he’d sent out ahead of them had reported the roads safe only up to this point; they hadn’t heard from them since. Gregson tried not to let that fact bother him. The scouts had been late before and it meant nothing. The one time he’d pushed on regardless, they’d nearly run into a party of Alvritshai.
The five wagons were drawn up in a rough circle, a few of the women, Ara included, butchering some of the small game the hunters had brought in. He’d reluctantly agreed to allow a fire, hoping the breeze that whispered through the surrounding trees would be enough to disperse the smoke. As he entered the small circle, a group of children emerged from the closest section of forest, arms laden with branches. They screamed in delight as the two women who’d accompanied them herded them toward the fire, one tripping and falling, bursting instantly into tears. Their laughter cut strangely through the somberness that passed between the adults in the group.
“Children are the most resilient of us all,” Ara said, jerking her knife through the rabbit’s carcass as she separated the skin from the meat. Once free, she gutted it and impaled the body on a spit, passing it to one of the other women as she tossed the skin to one side and reached for another rabbit.
“I’m not used to dealing with… children.” He’d been about to say civilians. He still didn’t understand why they were all here, why they continued to follow his orders. There was barely enough food or supplies for them all, most of the adults going without in order to feed the children. The rabbits Ara butchered had been a windfall. He was only a lieutenant, and out of the group of three hundred there were only thirty Legionnaires. Why did the others remain? Why didn’t they break away to fend for themselves, or to find someone who could take care of them better than he could?
Ara eyed him critically, up and down, eyebrow quirked. “You seem to be doing just fine. We haven’t lost a man… or woman… yet. Not since Cobble Kill.”
The men and women cut down there by the Alvritshai arrows or the catlike creatures’ claws flashed through his mind and he grimaced. He could still feel the claw marks on his legs, no longer bandaged, but still healing.
Before he could respond, one of the Legionnaires guarding the edge of the camp shouted. Nearly everyone jumped, fear skating through their eyes and faces as they tensed.
To the southeast, another Legionnaire emerged from the edge of the trees. He waved his free hand in desperation, the other holding up one of the scouts and helping him along. The young man was covered in blood, his legs barely supporting him.
Gregson was moving before he consciously thought about it, surprised to find Ara at his side, others heading toward the two men as they stumbled into the field. The Legionnaire who’d shouted a warning and another man reached them first, taking the wounded scout and lifting him off the ground, practically sprinting toward the carts.
“Over here,” Ara shouted, and grabbed Gregson’s arm to halt him before he moved beyond the wagons. She cleared a small section of grass, yelling, “Give us room, give us room,” gruffly, shoving those who lingered too long aside. Then she caught an older woman’s arm. “Get whatever rags you can find, and a bucket of fresh water.”
The Legionnaire and the other man-a blacksmith, Gregson recalled, from the new group-set the scout down on the grass and Ara began checking him for wounds. Gregson crouched down beside them as the older woman arrived with an armload of rags, their meager medical box, and a bucket of water.
“Can you hear me?” Gregson asked, lightly slapping the scout’s cheek.
Ara shot him a glare, soaking a rag and running it across the scout’s face. Blood ran away in rivulets, the skin beneath shockingly pale, almost gray. Something clutched at Gregson’s heart, but he forced it back. Three claw marks ran from the younger man’s ear into his scalp, bleeding as fast as Ara could wipe it away. Ara huffed in exasperation and left the wounds, moving toward the rest of his body. Most of the blood that covered his chest and side could have come from the head wound, but not all of it.
Gregson reached down and caught the scout’s jaw, turning his head toward him as he leaned far enough forward he could stare down into the glazed eyes. “I need you to focus.” He saw a flicker of awareness and patted his cheek again until the awareness caught and held. “What happened? What did you see?”
The scout coughed, a froth of blood spattering his lips. Gregson heard Ara rip the man’s shirt open and swear, but he didn’t turn to look. She shouted for more water, more rags, and some godsdamned thread, her voice shaking.
“What did you see?” Gregson repeated.
The scout finally appeared to recognize him, smiling even as he choked on blood. “War party,” he wheezed. “Found me. Chased me. Had to get through. Need to tell you-”
He contorted with a seizure. Ara spat curses and ordered a Legionnaire to hold him steady; Gregson leaned his arm onto the scout’s chest.
“Tell us what?” he demanded, even as the youth thrashed. He tightened his grip on his jaw, felt the muscles bunched beneath his fingers. “Focus, boy, focus. What did you need to tell us?”
The scout’s gaze locked with Gregson’s and he muttered, “GreatLord Kobel… Legion… line day distant… watch birds… not birds…”
Then the intensity in his eyes faded and his body went limp. A trickle of blood trailed down one side of his face, staining the grass beneath him.
The activity beside him ceased abruptly and someone grabbed Gregson’s hand. He turned to find Ara, hands bloody up to her forearms, staring at him intently. “He’s dead.”
Gregson drew in a breath and released his grip. He glanced down toward the scout’s face and thought about not losing a man since Cobble Kill, then swallowed the tightness in his own chest and rose. He suddenly realized he hadn’t even known the young man’s name, that he barely knew any of the newer members of his group.
That would have to change, he vowed. He wanted no more nameless men dying during his command, under his watch.
A crowd had gathered, mostly women and children, but a few men among them, including Terson.
“Terson, you have the camp. You five, come with me.” He’d selected three of the civilians-Carlson, Brent, and Orlson from Cobble Kill-and two Legionnaires, Leont and Darrall, all of them sturdy men with weapons already in hand. They must have come from the practice field.
As he moved away from the scout’s body toward the edge of the forest, the silent crowd parting before him, Terson stepped up to his side. “Where are you going, sir?”
“To verify what he saw.”
“What did he say?”
Gregson looked back to find the five men he’d selected a few paces behind them, the three civilians looking uncertain. All of them were listening, though, and Carlson, the carpenter, gave him a nod of encouragement.
“He said the front line was a day distant. We’re near the Northward Ridge. I want to know if we can see it from there.”
“Shouldn’t we wait until the other scouts return?”
He met Terson’s gaze squarely. “What makes you think they will?” he said softly.
Terson’s eyes narrowed.
“We’re obviously closer to the Horde’s line than we thought. I want to know how close, and if we have a chance in hells of getting through to our own side.”
“Very well.”
He heard the unspoken warning to be careful. He didn’t need it. He’d seen the scout’s face and the jagged wounds along his torso.
He only wondered what the scout had meant when he’d whispered, “Watch birds… not birds.”
“Ah,” Gregson murmured to himself.
“Diermani’s balls.”
Gregson turned, a reprimand on his lips, but realized the man who’d spoken was Brent, one of the civilians. He caught the tail end of the man crossing himself, his eyes wide with fear, his breathing already shortened in panic.
“Steady,” he said tightly, catching the man’s gaze. “The line is too distant to be a threat.”
Brent swallowed and gripped the pendant that hung hidden beneath his shirt, his breath slowing.
Gregson turned back. Reaching forward, he pulled a leafy branch out of his line of sight and stared down from the ridge toward the rolling hillsides below.
The Legion fought in ragged formation along a front that was far too wide to hold, not with the amount of Legionnaires present. Gregson estimated nearly ten thousand Legion had been gathered, the combined garrisons of Temeritt and all of the surrounding cities and towns within a hundred-mile radius of the Autumn Tree. His heart lifted with hope when he picked out the orange-and-black banners of GreatLord Kobel near the heart of the fighting. They were too distant for him to pick out the man himself, but he could tell they were fighting ferociously. His own muscles tensed, his hand itching to find the handle of his blade and join them, but even without the responsibility of the refugees waiting a short distance away there was no easy descent from the Northward Ridge.
Not close anyway.
Instead, he turned his attention toward the Horde. As at Patron’s Merge, it undulated on the hillsides like a black wave, pushing against the Legion, the line of combat shifting beneath the late evening sunlight. Arrows darkened the sky; archers perched on the highest hilltops on both sides, the deadly shafts raining down in waves. Gregson was close enough he could hear the clash of blades and the screams of the dying, but it was muted, rising along the ridge face to his position like mist.
The sound made his jaw clench.
The Horde was composed mostly of Alvritshai, some on horseback, like those who’d attacked Cobble Kill, but most on foot. Mixed in with them, he could see more of the leathery-skinned giants and packs of the catlike creatures attacking in swarms. The giants were mindless, powering forward by brute force, grabbing and ripping and rending whatever they could get their hands on. The catlike creatures were just as vicious, but their attacks were more intelligent, their attention focused on the Legion on horseback.
The Alvritshai were precise and methodical, their lines coordinated. Gregson studied their formations with a coldly critical eye, his mouth pressed into a grim line, even as he fought a surge of respect. He had never fought the Alvritshai before. Temeritt’s Province was separated from Alvritshai lands by the dwarren. They’d only had to deal with the dwarren, and with the Accord that had meant an uneasy alliance that neither race had seen fit to test significantly. There had been skirmishes, disputes over exactly where the boundary lay between the dwarren Lands and the Province, but nothing serious. The attacks were mostly posturing.
The Alvritshai below were not posturing. They were vicious and frighteningly direct. No hesitation and no attempt to back off or to seek quarter. They weren’t here for concessions of land or for barter, and they weren’t looking for the Legion to surrender.
They were here to kill and conquer.
Gregson’s eyes narrowed as he began searching for a way for the refugees to get past the Horde’s line and to the uncertain safety behind the Legion. The fighting raged across a flat stretch of rolling land between multiple hills, split by a road running more or less east-west. A low wall of stone ran across a few of the hills, most likely separating the property between two owners. Copses of trees grew in the valleys between the nearest hills.
The ridge had forced the Horde to separate and converge from the east and west as they bypassed it, but they now lay between Gregson, the refugees, and the Legion’s forces. He leaned farther forward, trying to see the land beneath them, closer to the face of the ridge, but it was empty.
He frowned. Where were the Horde’s supply wagons? Their supporting forces?
“Lieutenant!”
The warning from Darrall snapped Gregson’s attention back to the fighting.
The Legion to the west had collapsed, the men fighting desperately as a roar of triumph washed up the ridge face from the Horde. Horns blew, the creatures and Alvritshai at the back of the Horde shifting toward the break. Gregson bit back his own curse, then felt a hand on his shoulder.
Brent’s face was etched with terror. “Not there.” He pointed toward the sky. “There.”
Gregson looked up, his heart already sinking, to see a huge bird circling above their position. Even as he registered that it wasn’t a bird-the wings were too long, the head too pointed and narrow-it shrieked, the sound slicing into Gregson’s gut. He heaved up out of his crouch as Darrall, Leont, and Carlson drew their swords. Orlson panicked and vanished through the trees, racing back toward the refugee camp, but before Gregson could roar an order to stop, the creature that was and wasn’t a bird shrieked again, louder than before, and swooped down toward them.
Leont and Carlson jumped in front of Gregson, both swords raised. Leont, a new recruit, bellowed in defiance, but the creature never broke the tops of the trees, banking left out over the edge of the ridge and down toward the army below, its shriek fading with distance.
The four remaining men were left gasping at the edge of the forest.
“Did you see its eyes?” Brent asked. His chest heaved, his face and shirt damp with sweat. He wiped at his forehead with one sleeve. “They were yellow. And that head! I’ve never seen anything like that, never even heard of such a thing, not even in the legends. It didn’t even have feathers! And it was the size of a horse! It-”
“Quiet!” Gregson barked. Brent’s voice verged on hysteria. He opened his mouth in shock, but Gregson didn’t let him continue. “Whatever that thing was, it knows we’re here. We have to warn the others. Move!”
After a moment of indecision, mouth still open, Brent turned and ran.
The rest of them followed, Gregson keeping his eyes on the patches of sky he could see through the leafy cover. The shadow of the creature passed by overhead before they’d made it halfway back to the camp, moving fast, and within fifteen minutes they heard it shrieking from the direction of the refugees. He swore, prayed to Diermani that the archers could take it down, but heard its cry veering off to the side.
When they broke through the edge of the clearing into the field, the camp was in chaos, with men, women, and children racing in every direction. Terson stood in the middle of it all bellowing orders left and right. He was surrounded by five men with arrows nocked and trained toward the sky, but the creature wasn’t in sight. Everyone else was frantically throwing supplies into the backs of the wagons, calming skittish horses, or heaving children up into saddles.
As soon as Gregson took stock of the scene, he roared, “Leave it all! If it isn’t already in the carts, leave it! We need to go now!”
His voice cracked over the chaos, nearly everyone turning toward him, their faces panicked. He caught sight of Orlson, the civilian who’d fled the ridge, and gave him a black glare before turning away.
“Terson, get them moving to the west. Our best chance is to skirt the end of the Northward Ridge and have everyone scatter into the forest there. If we aren’t all gathered into a single group, the Horde will have a harder time finding us. We’ll try to make the Legion’s line through the cuts between the hills to escape notice. Go, go, go!”
Gregson’s second in command stalked off shouting, “Form up!” shoving people he passed, too roughly for Gregson’s taste, but he couldn’t take the time to curtail him.
Somewhere south, beyond the ridge, the creature screamed.
It was answered by another shriek, so close Gregson flinched from the sound, ducking instinctively. Nearly half of the refugees did the same, a few dropping into a crouch.
But not all.
Gregson heard the flap of thick cloth, spun in time to see a shadow fall over the group, a confusion of leathery wings, a thick body, reaching legs-
Then the talons of the creature raked across one of the mounted men, tumbling him from the saddle as blood flew. The distinct sound of arrows being released shot through the high-pitched scream that followed, Gregson registering mild respect that some of the archers had remained calm enough to fire, and then with a gust of wind that carried grass and grit into his face, the creature lifted away, something clutched in its talons.
Gregson stared after it in shock, his mind not willing to accept that the figure struggling in the creature’s grip was a child. But the mother’s screeching wouldn’t stop. He turned to face her, body numbed, two men holding her back as her arms reached up and out toward the bird that was not a bird, already a receding shadow in the distance.
A smaller shadow suddenly dropped from it and fell toward the earth.
Gregson turned away, bile rising in the back of his throat, the mother’s scream escalating before breaking into sobs as she collapsed back into the arms of the men holding her, her body suddenly limp. Two men hauled her upright and carried her to one of the carts, tossing her into the back as she protested, arms flailing, striking them and herself in her frenzy.
“Lieutenant!”
Gregson swallowed with a wince, then turned, saw Curtis and Jayson charging up to him.
“Everyone’s moving out,” Curtis gasped. “We need to go!”
Gregson surveyed the trampled grass of the field and acknowledged that Curtis was correct. The attack of the creature had lit a fire under everyone’s ass. The carts had already reached the edge of the road heading westward, the one with the mother trailing slightly behind the others. The rest of the refugees were stumbling at a half-run out in front, the Legion, archers, and men on horseback urging them on, all with swords drawn. He shook his head. It was all falling apart. They weren’t abandoning the supplies; they weren’t preparing to separate into smaller groups. In their panic, they were doing the exact opposite, unwilling to break from those they’d bonded with over the last few days.
He couldn’t shake the feeling they were running to their deaths, couldn’t think of a way to stop it.
After they’d come so far, come so close to reaching Temeritt.
“Lieutenant?”
Someone touched Gregson’s shoulder tentatively and he jerked away as Jayson pulled back.
He stared at the miller, then growled, “Let’s move,” harsher than he’d intended. Jayson merely stiffened and nodded.
They fled, Terson following the road that was nothing more than two dirt tracks cutting through the trees and grass of the few fields and clearings they encountered. Everyone kept their eyes trained on the circling birds overhead. The trees kept the creatures from attacking as they had in the field, but Gregson was more concerned with the rest of the Horde. The creatures must have warned the dark army where they were, but would they act? Would the refugees reach the base of the Northward Ridge in time for him to force the group to scatter before the Horde arrived?
As they descended the long slope to the west, then broke through the last of the heavy cover of the forest, he realized with a sickening wave of despair that it didn’t matter. The Horde’s supplies and their reserve forces-the forces he’d searched for on the ridge above-filled the hills between the west end of the ridge and the main battlefield.
There wouldn’t be time for them to scatter. The refugees’ time was up.
A hundred Alvritshai on horses were waiting. As the refugees emerged from the trees and were spotted, Gregson seized hold of their only hope of survival: chaos.
“Abandon everything!” he roared, even as the Alvritshai kicked their horses into motion. “Scatter and race for Temeritt!”
Everyone but the archers panicked at the sight of the Alvritshai bearing down on them, tossing whatever they clutched aside as they scattered toward the southwest, half trying to skirt the Horde’s encampment toward the Legion beyond, the others racing back into the forest behind. The archers set arrow to string and fired, not stopping as the riders charged. Three Alvritshai fell in the first volley, two more a moment later, and then the Alvritshai drew their swords and ran the archers down where they stood. Two of the men dodged at the last moment, flinging themselves aside, but the Alvritshai ignored them, breaking formation to attack those who’d fled.
Not waiting to see what happened, Gregson began to run, drawing his sword in one smooth motion. At his side, Jayson shouted, “Corim!” as loudly as he could and began to pull out ahead of Curtis and himself. Gregson couldn’t pick out the young boy through the confusion, gave up almost instantly, and focused on reaching a cut between two hills. Most of the refugees were heading there.
All but one of the wagons had been abandoned, two children left screaming in the seats. The fifth jounced across rough ground as the woman in the seat thrashed the horses with the reins, urging them onward. Gregson watched in horrified fascination as the bed of the cart jumped, supplies and food bouncing and spilling out. It landed with a crash, one of the back wheels shattering into splinters, but the cart kept moving, slowing as its bed tilted to one side. Three children clung to the woman in the seat, another two holding onto the cart’s headboard. One of them screamed and pointed as a group of Alvritshai cut in ahead of Gregson, split into two groups, and closed in on either side of the cart, the nearest bringing his sword around in a sweeping arc.
The woman lurched to one side, the horses drawing the cart following suit, the cart careening to the right-
Directly into the path of the Alvritshai on that side.
An inhuman scream tore through the chaos as the cart and horses collided, Alvritshai mounts rearing, the cart tilting, throwing the woman, children, and all of the remaining supplies clear. The cart’s horses tried to keep moving, but as the Alvritshai plowed into the cart, unable to stop themselves, the tongue dragged them down into a tangled mess of splintering wood, traces, horseflesh, and Alvritshai.
Gregson charged past a moment later, ignoring the screams from both animal and man coming from the wreck. More of the Alvritshai were scattered ahead, cutting down the refugees from behind, swords flashing in bloody arcs, men and women falling on all sides. The woman who’d driven the cart had fallen to the grass, body crumpled and unmoving, one of the children clinging to her and sobbing uncontrollably. Gregson scooped the girl up beneath his free arm as he reached them, saw Curtis doing the same with an even younger boy who stood alone and crying, and then he was moving again, breath burning in his lungs at the additional weight. He was shocked at how heavy the girl was, but shifted her awkward weight as he focused on the trees. If they could reach the trees, the Alvritshai would have a hard time following on horseback.
He’d forgotten about the flying creatures, until the shadow fell across the grass before him.
Heart quickening in his chest, he clutched the girl close and threw himself to the ground, rolling so that he’d hit with his shoulder. A talon scraped across his face and he hissed with pain; the creature shrieked in frustration and the winds from its wings buffeted him as it rose back into the sky. Not waiting, he lurched to his feet, felt blood slicking down his neck from the new wound on his jaw, the girl sobbing into his chest. He ran, noted that some of the refugees had reached the woods, Terson shoving them under the cover of the branches and yelling at them to keep running, the remains of the Legion doing the same. The Alvritshai on horseback veered off from their attack, circling around to catch those that were coming up from behind.
There were too many of them, enough to form a line blocking Gregson and the rest from reaching the trees. He, Curtis, Jayson, and the others weren’t going to make it.
But Gregson didn’t slow. Their only chance was to plow through.
He pulled the girl closer, holding her so tightly she began to struggle. A few of the men and women left on the field faltered, slowing, but the rest continued forward. Those with swords drawn raised them and roared defiantly.
Gregson locked gazes with the Alvritshai directly before him, took note of the strangely angular face, the too-pale skin, the deep-seated arrogance in the eyes. Those eyes narrowed with hatred as he nudged his horse a step forward, sword held ready. Gregson drew a breath and bellowed wordlessly, the Alvritshai’s mouth twitching into a smile-
And then, from behind, a volley of arrows shot over Gregson’s head and slammed into the line of Alvritshai, taking Gregson’s in the eye and snapping his head back. All along the line, Alvritshai tumbled from saddles, their mounts snorting and sidestepping. Gregson swung his blade as he dodged the Alvritshai’s unsettled horses, felt the sword cut into flesh, then plowed past. He sprinted the last few feet to the trees, passed beneath their branches and into the coolness on the far side before slowing. He caught sight of Terson to the left, veered toward him as his second stared grimly out over the field behind. The call of a horn split the air as he reached him and turned.
Behind, on the far side of the field, at the edge of the forest from which they’d come, at least two garrisons of Legion archers stood, arrows trained on the remains of the Alvritshai who’d attacked them as well as the encampment a short distance away. At least half of the heads of the arrows had been dipped in pitch and set afire.
Without a sound, the arrows were released, arcing up and over into the Horde’s supply wagons. The rest were released into the charging Alvritshai, bodies falling, enough that the group veered off toward their own encampment and the rest of the reserve forces scrambling under the attack.
“What’s happening?” Curtis asked, coming up on Gregson’s left. He still held the boy in his arms. The rest of the Legion who had survived the flight across the field were gathering behind him.
“It appears that the Legion is attacking the Horde’s supply wagons.”
“So they weren’t here to help us?”
Gregson turned to face Terson after another volley of arrows was released. “No. We were lucky.”
“What do we do?” one of the civilians asked uncertainly. “Do we join them?”
Gregson shook his head. Weariness had settled onto his shoulders, the girl in his arms suddenly too heavy. He wanted to set her down, wanted to simply sit down himself, lean back against a tree and let the tensions of the past few weeks drain from him.
But they weren’t done yet.
He sighed. “Gather up whoever you can find in the immediate area. We need to make it to the Legion’s main line. This isn’t our battle.”
He needed to find one of his superiors, a lieutenant commander or a commander, perhaps even a lord. GreatLord Kobel needed to know what had happened to Cobble Kill, Patron’s Merge, and the surrounding area.
If he didn’t know already.