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He had lost track of how many days and nights he had spent in the saddle.
Though they had stopped at rectories along the road for recovery magic, the riders were hollow-eyed and spent from the ceaseless ride. White lather bubbled at the warhorses’ muzzles, their legs trembling with exhaustion.
In the end, Varkas split the column in two.
He drove the vanguard of mobile light cavalry along the shortest route, leaving the heavy knights to muster whatever men they could from the lords neighboring Kalmor and follow behind.
By riding without pause, they reached the fringes of Armund Forest two days ahead of schedule.
“Do not worry too much, Your Grace,” Daren said, his voice heavy as he fought for breath.
They were halfway through the dense birch forest.
“The garrison at Kalmor does not break easily. Even if the Zram swarm them all at once, so long as the gates were shut in time and the siege begun, they could easily hold out for months.”
Varkas did not bother answering. He knew Daren spoke only to reassure himself.
Bjorn Blodar Heimdal had posed as a Holy Knight with credentials guaranteed by the Grand Cathedral itself. That meant high-ranking clergy within the Central Church were complicit.
If treachery ran as deep as the Eastern Diocese, they could not guarantee a single night, let alone months.
Spurring Toruk, Varkas burst through the thick woods. Before long, a charred outpost came into view.
He pulled up before the shattered barricade, his jaw tightening at the sight of corpses strewn beneath the blackened watchtower.
Around twenty dead. Judging by the decay, they had fallen at least a fortnight ago. The lines of communication had been severed early to leave Kalmor blind and isolated.
Varkas ground his teeth. If the other outposts were in the same state, Kalmor was cut off from the world.
He cracked the reins, driving his mount faster. Grasping the gravity of what lay ahead, the cavalry rode hard at his back, spurring their exhausted horses.
They rode on, losing all sense of time.
As they broke from the forest and crested a gentle rise, the scorched ruins of the outer village spread before them. Beyond it lay thousands of besiegers. Varkas drew his sword.
The enemy had encamped to the north and south, pressing both sides in a relentless assault.
Rough curses broke from the knights at the sight of dozens of siege engines arrayed across the fields, hurling stone after stone against the towers.
The city had not yet fallen, but the walls were badly battered, and waves of enemy warriors surged toward the breaches where the stone ramparts had given way.
Varkas plunged down the slope without a second thought.
Tearing through the ruined village, he struck the enemy’s rear in a breath. His blade severed the neck of a man adjusting a catapult, just as fifteen hundred horsemen slammed into the besiegers like an avalanche.
Fixated entirely on the walls, the siege crews were slow to react to the blow from behind.
The thunder of iron hooves bore through them like a flood, trampling hundreds of panicked men in an instant and shattering their formations.
Infantry rushed to reinforce the siege lines too late; the Wolfram cavalry had already carved a bloody swath through their ranks.
Varkas cut down a charging warrior with a single blow and leaped his horse straight through the collapsed breach.
Looters guarding the gap lunged at him with axe-bladed spears. Parrying the thrust with ease, Varkas hauled back hard on the reins. Toruk reared, iron-shod hooves coming down to crush the spearman’s skull.
The barbarians shrank back, hesitating. Varkas took the opening and burst into the streets, his eyes sweeping the wide avenue where brutal melees raged. Shouts and steel echoed through the dust hanging thick in the air.
“Your Grace!”
An aging commander shouted, catching sight of him.
Varkas narrowed his eyes, recognizing the man. Clad in battered plate, Modrian was locked in combat with two pillagers.
Varkas rode in and drove his blade through the back of one.
The man choked out a scream, twisting around as the steel tore his flesh.
Varkas wrenched the sword free in an upward slash through his flank, then took the head off the second attacker as he charged in fury.
Seeing two grown men butchered in a breath, the remaining looters backed away. But the Wolfram cavalry was already at their heels. Dozens of warhorses swept into the thoroughfare at full charge, rolling over the enemy lines.
A ragged cry broke from Modrian’s lips.
“You have returned in the nick of time! God has not abandoned Kalmor after all!”
Varkas surveyed the streets, ignoring the praise.
Though the outer districts had been sacked, the city center looked largely untouched. The enemy had not yet reached Raedgo Castle.
A relief so sharp it made his hands shake welled up from deep inside him.
He gripped his sword until his knuckles turned white. Only now did he realize how tightly fear and tension had gripped him.
He caught his breath against a sudden wave of dizziness, forced his thoughts into order, and turned back to Modrian.
“Report. Keep it brief.”
“A fortnight ago… no, three weeks today. The barbarian raids began not long after Your Grace rode out with the army.”
Modrian drew a deep breath, his voice steadying.
“We managed to bar the gates in time to throw back their first assault, but they soon brought up siege engines. They have bombarded us day and night, laying waste to much of the outer town.”
“The casualties?”
“Among the smallfolk, relatively light. Some living beyond the walls were caught, but most were brought inside before the slaughter began. We evacuated the outer districts into the keep early, keeping the loss of life to a minimum.”
Modrian paused, wiping the sweat from his brow, then added,
“It is all owing to Her Grace, the Grand Duchess. Her prompt orders saved countless lives.”
Varkas, who had been scanning the fighting down the lane, froze and turned to look at him.
“What did you say?”
“The moment the raid began, Her Grace ordered the people evacuated into the citadel. She led the maids in tending the wounded and spared no stores for relief. If tens of thousands have survived this long, it is thanks to her.”
Varkas stared at the old knight, speechless. Genuine reverence resonated in Modrian’s voice.
This was a man who had doubted and criticized her more than anyone. What could have happened in mere weeks to change him so completely?
Before he could sort through the strange stir of emotion, a deafening crash shook the air.
Varkas snapped his head toward the sound. Dark plumes of smoke billowed from the northern quarter. He dug his heels in and drove his horse through the chaotic city.
Passing the deserted square, he reached the northern walls, where the towers and stone parapets were crumbling. His brow furrowed at the sight of thousands of Zram warriors arrayed beyond the breach.
At least four thousand, by a conservative count.
He glanced back over his shoulder.
Only about three hundred cavalrymen had managed to stay with him. The rest were tied down clearing out the enemy around the southern gate.
If they waited for the main body, the horde would pour into the breach. He had to hold the gap until reinforcements arrived.
Varkas leaped Toruk over the tumbled heap of masonry and charged straight into the waiting host.
END