Page 72 of An Archer's Reckoning

“Yes, Majesty.” My head lowered.

Days passed before the battered and blackened walls of Grove’s Pass came into view. Our men had secured what was left of the town, shoring up some of the salvageable buildings to allow officers a place to meet and sleep.

The men around the Regent slowed, their eyes wide, as the utter destruction of the town became clear. She paused to consider the snow drifts around the town but never glanced at the dead.

The last of the heavy artillery creaked its way out of the forest a few days later. Over sixty thousand men, ten thousand horses, and hundreds of various trebuchets and siege towers sprawled throughout the valley surrounding Grove’s Pass. A constant stream of supply wagons flowed from Huntcliff to keep the men fed, but nothing calmed winter’s bite. Soldiers organized their tents around bonfires that dotted the landscape for miles in every direction.

I strode among my men, hands clasped behind my back as I surveyed the camp. I grimaced at the disorderly array but understood their need for warmth outstripped my desire for more disciplined rows and columns.

“General, what’s the Regent after?” one man asked through chattering teeth.

“Victory,” I said simply, clapping the man on the back. I had no idea what the Regent planned or how we should define victory. The man deserved a better answer, but that truth would have unsettled him more than my obfuscation.

I stepped from the men’s campfire and turned to stare at the building where the Regent slept. Something had changed in her, something deep and troubling. The Council and generals saw it, though few braved her wrath to voice their unease.

We knew she killed our King. We suspected she killed our Prince.

How far would we follow this woman? How could we possibly resist one with such power?

It went against my very nature to challenge my monarch. To consider opposing the Crown—it was unthinkable.

A young soldier laughed at some joke I hadn’t heard, drawing my eye. His face was unmarred, his eyes bright. Memories of another boy, another friend, filled my mind.

At twenty, the would-be-king, Prince Alfred, was quietly assigned to my unit. The boy-Prince was tall, lanky, and about as graceful as a newborn deer. Most of the men kept their distance from the royal, fearing his birth and physical shortcomings might hinder their progress, but I felt for the gangly Prince.

We became the best of friends.

For the next thirty years, I remained Alfred’s most trusted friend, advisor, and military leader. When others cowed in the face of royal power, I stood firm, offering honest, well-tempered advice. I never married or even had a relationship of any consequence, other than my abiding love for the royal family.

The royal familywasmy family.

As I continued my stroll, my mind wandered. Alfred would’ve loved to walk among the men, to offer encouragement and share stories around the fires. He would’ve loved the planning even more. I could picture the near-jubilant look in the King’s eyes as he scrutinized maps spread across tables, moving miniature wooden markers with every new gambit.

There was no way he would ever start a war, but he would relish the strategic challenge of winning one.

I missed my old friend on days like this.

A horn sounded from the center of town. Three short blasts. That was the signal for the War Council to assemble, and the Regent was not a pleasant woman when kept waiting.

Who was I kidding?

She was rarely a pleasant woman.

I entered the house to find the Council assembled and murmuring as Minister Bril pointed to various spots on the map. There was an excitement in the air. Anticipation? What had theRegent done while I was in the camp? I scanned the room to find her nowhere in sight.

“Ah, General, good,” Bril said, looking up from the map. “Join us. The Regent wants us moving within the hour.”

I walked to Bril’s side, and my eyes widened as I saw the markers laid out on the map.

“We’re besieging Saltstone? Before we take the rest of the country?” I asked, dismayed.

Bril nodded. “The Melucians have concentrated all their defenses in the capital. They stripped every soldier, lawman, and boy old enough to hold a pike from the coastal towns. We can take those anytime we like, but Saltstone is the linchpin.”

“You got that information from our scouts? What else have they reported? Skirmishes?”

“Not a single skirmish. Not even an arrow fired in our direction. They know they can’t win in open battle and are cowering behind their walls. We received reports of a steady, almost frantic supply of wagons flowing toward the city from every direction. I’ve ordered three tactical units of cavalry to move here, here, and here.” Bril pointed to three wooden horses positioned around the capital about ten leagues from the city’s border. “Their orders are to intercept supply trains, but not engage otherwise.”

“What about their Mages? I expected some surprises in the pass, but there was nothing. That likely means we will face all their magical power at Saltstone’s gates.” I turned my back to the table and leaned against its edge, then folded my arms.

---