The plains stretched out like a sun-bleached ocean, empty and unforgiving. Wind rolled across the dry grass in waves, bending brittle stalks and kicking up clouds of dust. Here and there, the land rose into low, weary hills, bare and wind-scraped, as though the earth itself had grown tired of war and time. Almost dead-center, glinting like a silver serpent, ran the Garthum River…broad, slow, and ancient, its lush banks a green wound in the otherwise colorless plain.

Captain Wilfrid stood atop one such hill, his cloak snapping behind him in the wind. Twenty riders of the Third Spear Cavalry stood nearby, their horses silent, breath huffing from nostrils flared against the dry air. Dust clung to armor and cloaks alike. There was no cover out here. No forest, no ravines. If they were seen, they would be hunted. And they could not afford to be seen.

Major Gresham’s orders had come five nights ago, delivered personally by him with exhausted tone. It was madness, pure and simple: send the best of the Third Spear south, far beyond the battlefield, beyond the line of orcish patrols, to find out if Captain Baldred’s expedition into the Tekarr Mountains had succeeded or failed.

There had been no argument from Wilfrid. Only obedience. He’d handpicked the twenty best men from his command…riders who moved like wind and struck like lightning…and left under cover of night.

They rode north first, for hours, before swinging east, then finally south, weaving around the orcish cordon. For four days they traveled across the plains like ghosts, moving only at dusk and dawn, lying low during the high sun when shadows were shortest and risks highest. The barren terrain offered no concealment, only what the rolling hills and the curvature of the land could provide. They avoided even the smallest fire, subsisted on dry rations and water from their water bags.

Then, on the fourth day, they reached the Garthum.

The great river flowed with a kind of slow majesty, cutting a wide path through the plains. Trees and thick grass clustered close to its banks, the only place where the land seemed to breathe. And there, beneath a thicket of willows, they found the first sign: four sets of human footprints, softened by the moist soil but unmistakable.

Wilfrid knelt and studied them. “Wounded,” he murmured. “Staggered gait. Small party. This is them.”

The trail led west along the riverbank. For the rest of the day and into the seventh morning, they followed it, threading through reeds and cattails, always watching the horizon for signs of pursuit. Then they found them…four Threians huddled beneath a collapsed tree, near a bend in the river where the current lapped softly against the shore.

Two were soldiers…Lieutenants Gerber and Kael, Wilfrid recognized them from their tattered insignia. A third was a civilian man with hollow eyes and blistered feet. And the last, sitting half-upright against the tree with a blade across his lap and a satchel clutched to his chest, was Captain Baldred.

Wilfrid dismounted. The silence between them was heavy with unspoken things.

“Captain,” he said.

Baldred’s sunburnt face twitched. He blinked, recognition dawning slowly. “Wilfrid.”

Wilfrid crouched beside him. “Did you succeed?”

Baldred said nothing. He only nodded once, a faint movement…but unmistakable.

Relief flickered across Wilfrid’s face. “We’re taking you north. We ride hard and fast.”

*****

The journey back was slower…agonizingly so. The survivors could barely stand. Halveth, the civilian, was in the best condition compared to the other three. Kael’s wounds had festered. Gerber was feverish. And Baldred, though silent and alert, could walk only a few steps at a time without assistance.

They followed the Garthum north, using the dense riverbank vegetation for cover. For a day and a half, they made steady progress, crossing through shallow tributaries and riding among reeds taller than a man. But by the second evening, they were no longer alone.

Sergeant Borr rode up from the rear with his helmet tucked beneath one arm, his face grim. “Orcs. Back on the plain. Twenty, maybe twenty-five. They’ve picked up our trail.”

Wilfrid’s jaw tightened. “Where?”

“Two ridgelines back. They’re fanning out. Scouts.”

Wilfrid glanced toward the hills beyond the river and then toward the wounded. There was no hope of outrunning them.

“We make our stand,” he said. “We choose the ground.”

*****

They made their stand on a broad, flat stretch of land just above the Garthum’s bank where the river curved sharply, forming a natural bottleneck. On one side lay thick brush and tall reeds. On the other, a dry rise covered in wild grass and scattered boulders. The riders formed a V-shape atop the rise, horses calm and ready, bows strung tight.

Wilfrid positioned the four rescued men behind the reeds with three riders as guards. The others spread out in loose formation…each knowing exactly where to move, what to do, and how to kill.

The orcs came with the late sun behind them…black silhouettes against gold and crimson skies. They moved quickly and without fear, bounding down the slope, blades raised, snarling battle cries loud and wild. Most were light scouts, but among them were larger warriors with iron-studded clubs and jagged axes.

“Wait,” Wilfrid murmured, hand raised.

The orcs charged closer, screaming. They thought themselves predators.

“Loose!” he shouted.

The Third Spear fired as one. Arrows whistled and dropped with lethal grace. The first line of orcs collapsed before reaching the halfway mark…throats punctured, legs wounded, skulls pierced. But they kept coming.

“Second volley!”

Again the bows sang. Again orcs fell. But still, ten reached the base of the hill and began scrambling upward, frothing with rage.

“Draw swords!”

Wilfrid wheeled his horse and led the charge. The hill shook with the sound of hooves. The Third Spear descended like a hammer.

The clash was sudden, brutal. Wilfrid’s blade tore through the neck of the first orc he met. To his left, Pragar impaled one with a spear and kicked another backward into the dust. Borr dismounted mid-charge and fought on foot, carving through three opponents in rapid succession.

A massive orc with a twin-headed axe roared and brought it down at Wilfrid’s horse, but the captain shifted low, ducking under the blow, then rammed his blade through the orc’s gut and twisted.

Behind him, a rider screamed…struck down by a thrown spear. Wilfrid saw the man fall, then saw Gerber stagger forward from the reeds, grabbing a fallen sword with trembling hands.

“Get back!” Wilfrid bellowed.

But Gerber didn’t retreat. With a cry, he slashed at a charging orc and managed to bring it down before collapsing beside it. Wilfrid would not forget that.

The rest of the battle was a blur of motion and sound. The Third Spear circled back up the slope, cutting down the last few orcs who tried to flee. It was not a battle. It was an execution.

When it ended, twenty-two orcs lay broken and still. Two more limped away into the plains…wounded and terrified. Wilfrid let them go.

The Third Spear had lost one man. Another was wounded. Gerber was unconscious but breathing. They had survived.

Baldred stood silently, eyes on the bloodied ground, clutching the satchel as if it were part of him. He did not speak. He did not need to.

*****

That night, the riders of the Third Spear camped near the Garthum, where the reeds grew tall and the frogs sang in strange rhythms. They built no fire, spoke few words.

Wilfrid sat beside Baldred under the bough of a tree, watching the stars.

“What did you find out there?” he asked.

Baldred was slow to answer. “A stone…”

“Just a stone?”

“No,” Baldred said. “A puzzle of a stone.”

Wilfrid considered that. Then he looked to the river. “Well, that’s for the higher ups to figure out.”

Baldred looked at him.

Wilfrid’s eyes narrowed. “We’re going to get you home.”

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