Chapter 12 — Ashes on the Greywatch
The smoke rose in slow ribbons above the riverbend, curling through the leafless trees like the remnants of a dying fire. Dawn had not yet broken fully, and the sun bled pale orange across the northern horizon. The wind smelled of frost, iron, and wet earth—laced with the acrid sting of burning flesh.
Lorien stood on the ridge above Greywatch River, his ash-grey cloak fluttering behind him. His armor, darkened from the long march and stained at the edges, bore fresh nicks from yesterday's skirmish. Around him, the Ashen Vanguard stirred silently, their ranks reforming after the night's harrying raids. No drums, no horns. Only the wind and the crunch of boots over hardened ground.
"How many dead?" Lorien asked without turning.
Commander Verrin stepped up beside him, gauntleted hand brushing mud from his helm. "Seventeen of ours. Maybe thirty wounded, though most will walk. The enemy left over eighty corpses on the eastern bank."
"Good," Lorien said. He watched the far side of the river where the remains of a wooden palisade still smoldered. "Then they know the north bites back."
Verrin inclined his head but did not speak. He had learned, as all of Lorien's officers had, that the young Warden rarely sought comfort in praise or condolence. His eyes were always on the next move, the next encampment, the next decision.
Below, the Emberborn rode in from the treeline. Silent as ghosts, they moved as one—eleven riders cloaked in black ashweave, their eyes hidden behind veiled helms. Their return was neither heralded nor challenged. Even the sentries knew better than to bar their path.
They dismounted before Lorien and knelt. The lead rider, a tall woman known only as Kael, removed her helm. Her features were sharp, dusted with soot, her braid soaked with riverwater.
"It is done, my lord," she said. "Three enemy encampments razed. No survivors."
Lorien studied her a moment, his expression unreadable. Then: "Did any see your approach?"
Kael shook her head. "Only those who died."
He nodded, then turned back to the river.
The Greywatch was not merely a stream. It was a natural border, and its control meant dominion over three key crossings into the Ashen Marches. The barbarian warband that had crossed it—those from the Tharnic tribes, judging by the warpaint and the bone fetishes—had underestimated the reach of the Marcher forces. Now their remnants scattered westward, broken and pursued.
But it was not victory that stirred Lorien's thoughts.
"They were testing us," he said aloud. "Not raiding for plunder. Not hunting for food. That was a probe."
Verrin stiffened. "You think they were scouting for a larger host?"
"I know they were," Lorien said. "And the answer we gave them wasn't loud enough."
A horn blew in the distance—three sharp blasts. A signal from the southern watchtower. More movement on the far shore. Lorien descended the ridge at once, Kael and Verrin following. The Vanguard responded with quiet precision: squads snapped to position, archers nocked shafts, pikemen drove their heels into the frozen soil.
By the time Lorien reached the forward line, scouts were already arriving with reports.
"A second force approaching," one said breathlessly. "Six longships—crossed at the shallows an hour before dawn. We think they meant to flank us while the vanguard drew us east."
Verrin cursed. "They came from the west bend? That ford is supposed to be impassable this time of year."
"They found a way," Lorien said. "Or someone showed them."
The implication hung heavily in the air. Someone had mapped the land, timed the fog, and gauged the Vanguard's patrol schedule. That level of coordination did not speak of wandering tribes.
It spoke of unification.
Lorien's eyes narrowed.
"Sound the rally," he said. "Reposition third and fifth cohorts to the west approach. I want a pike wall by the orchard ridge and archers nested among the stone ruins."
"What of the Emberborn?" Verrin asked.
Lorien glanced at Kael. "Circle behind them. Smoke the underbrush and drive them uphill. When they think they've broken through the riverward flank, I want your blades on their necks."
Kael's lips curled faintly. "As you will, my lord."
Then she vanished into the trees.
The Vanguard moved with trained discipline. Two thousand men had arrived at Greywatch; just under eighteen hundred stood ready after three days of running battle. Yet they moved without panic, forming precise lines and rotating wounded from the front. They were not conscripts. They were sons of the Marches now—hardened under Lorien's reform, blooded through merit, and bound by the harsh justice he enforced.
An hour later, the enemy struck.
The second force burst from the forested bend, shouting guttural war cries and banging axes against their shields. But the pike line held. Under Verrin's command, the Vanguard didn't charge—they absorbed. Shields locked. Spears bristled. Arrows from the ridge above rained down in disciplined volleys, thinning the barbarian ranks before they could even close.
It was a brutal, grinding melee. Mud churned with blood. Steel sang. The barbarian chieftain, a mountain of a man clad in wolf pelts and crimson warpaint, smashed into the center line and broke three shields before finally falling to a dagger between the ribs.
Then came the Emberborn.
They emerged from the smoke like shadows, cutting down the enemy's rear with ruthless precision. The encirclement was complete in less than ten minutes.
When it ended, over two hundred enemy lay dead or dying. The Vanguard lost thirty-eight.
Lorien walked the field himself.
He stepped over corpses, studied the positions of the fallen, took note of where the line had bent—and where it had held. He said nothing for a long while.
Then he turned to Verrin.
"They didn't come this far for a raid," he said. "They came to claim the river."
"Failed, though," Verrin said. "We hold it still."
"Not for long," Lorien said grimly. "If they're unified, they'll come again. In numbers we haven't seen yet."
Verrin frowned. "Then we fall back to Thornvale?"
"No," Lorien said. "We build a bridge."
Verrin blinked. "My lord?"
"We take the fight across the river," Lorien said. "We burn their forward camps. We show them that the north is no longer broken. That the Ashen Marches aren't to be tested. If they want this land—they'll drown in it."
The Emberborn gathered behind him, silent, bloody, undaunted. The Vanguard raised their spears in salute.
By midday, engineers were already laying the first timber across the shallow bend. Smoke rose from the far forest, black and thick. The Greywatch had turned red with war.
And the Warden of the Ashen Marches was not done.