FREE USE in Primitive World

”Our hundred warriors haven’t even fought a proper battle today,” Kira pointed out, resting her hip against the stone table. ”All they did was march here and round up looters, extinguish the fire and patrolled around.

Their stamina is full, their gear is sharp, and morale is higher than the canopy.”

Zephyra’s pale fingers traced the southwestern routes on the hide map, pointing toward two distinct, dark-shaded valleys nestled within the forest.

”The Zerith clan lies in the low swampy basin to the west, while the Gray Marauders occupy the fortified mountain crags further south,” Zephyra explained, her white eyes narrowing thoughtfully.

”Their elite warriors, chieftains and the majority of their strongest warriors were butchered in the battlefield. So, what remains in those territories are secondary line forces, older guards, and civilian populations.

We can’t go slowly according to the previous plan. If we return home now, we give them time to realize their leaders are dead. They might elect new war-leaders, though that wouldn’t be a problem for us, but if they fortify their choke points, or burn their own supply granaries in desperation, it will cause unnecessary complications.”

Veylara placed her hand on the pommel of her spear, her gaze locking onto Sol.

”Yeah that’s what I was thinking too. So, I have decided we will not rest and will strike now,” Veylara said, her sovereign tone leaving no room for hesitation.

”We will march light and fast and hit the Zerith lowlands before twilight, absorb their lands, and push straight into the Gray Marauder crags at first light tomorrow.”

She paused, studying Sol’s calm, unreadable expression.

”What do you think, Sol?”

Sol adjusted the strap of his Dreadwing blade, his crimson eyes gleaming with cold, unwavering focus as his mind ran through every possibility present.

”I agree. Let’s strike while they’re still waiting for the army that’s never coming home,” Sol rasped, a faint, predatory grin touching his lips.”Every hour we give them is an hour they can use to dig in or scatter. Let’s finish sweeping the board before anyone else in the region realizes how empty those valleys have become.”

A slow smile spread across Veylara’s face. The essence around her body flared once in proud resonance with the decision.

”Thauren!” she called, her voice booming through the hall with renewed force. ”Assemble the warriors! We are gonna march for the Zerith!”

Outside the Great Lodge, a low, aggressive blast from a Veynar war horn rolled across the conquered valley. The sound was short and sharp... a signal every elite warrior in the expedition force recognized instantly.

Within minutes the hundred-strong vanguard had formed up again in the open ground near the shattered gates. There was no confusion, no wasted motion. Packs were checked. Weapons were secured.

The warriors who had spent the morning imposing order now turned their attention toward the next objective with the same focused readiness.

Sol stood near the front of the forming column with Kira and Zeyra flanking him. The Mountain-Marrow Stone continued its faint, steady pulse against his side, a silent reminder of the threshold that now lay within reach. But there would be time for that later. First came the rest of the board.

Veylara took her place at the head of the force, spear resting against her shoulder. Zephyra moved up beside her.

Thauren gave a final series of quiet instructions to Captain Thalos regarding the garrison, then joined the departing column.

The Veynar turned their backs on the pacified Zharun settlement.

As the war horn sounded one last time, the elite force marched southwest, leaving the broken gates and smoking remnants of the Zharun tribe behind them.

The deeper wild forests of the Great Orrath closed around the column once more... dense, untamed, and unaware that two more domains were about to fall before the next full day had passed.

...

The march toward the western lowlands took the Veynar vanguard through a rapidly changing terrain.

The free and breezy ironwood trees of the Zharun highlands gradually yielded to damp peat, hanging moss, and the thick, humid air of the sunken basin where the Zerith clan held their domain.

Unlike the green clearings of the Veynar and Zharun tribes, the Zerith settlement was built into the belly of an ancient, stagnant marsh.

Thick ironwood palisades were sunk deep into the black mud, reinforced by tangled barriers of venomous thorn-vines. Even the air here was heavy with the sulfurous stench of bog gas and stagnant water.

As the Veynar convoy crested the muddy ridge overlooking the swampy approach, it was immediately clear that the Zerith were in a far different state than the self-cannibalizing Zharun.

They were not rioting around. In fact, they seemed to have prepared for the attacks and were waiting.

High atop the mud-slicked wooden ramparts, dozens of armored silhouettes stood in tight formation. Archers drew bone bows, the broad arrowheads glistening with a greasy, iridescent green sheen of swamp viper venom.

Below the gate, thirty heavy spearmen... wearing cured hide cuirasses and bearing broad wicker shields.... stood knee-deep in the murky water, their weapons leveled in a defensive bristling wall.

When the chief of the Zerith failed to return from the Veynar pass at dawn, the remaining elders had not turned their blades on each other.

Bound by the insular, paranoid survival instincts of swamp dwellers, the secondary line had immediately pulled their outer hunting parties behind the walls, sealed the gate, and prepared to drown anyone who approached the marsh in poisoned blood.

”They’ve fortified the approach,” Commander Thauren observed, his hand dropping to the hilt of his broadsword as the vanguard halted just beyond bowshot.

”The bog before the gate is full of sinkholes and hidden spike traps. If we charge in standard formation, the mud will slow us down and their archers will turn our frontline into pincushions.”

”A turtle hiding in its shell,” Zeyra muttered, her eyes narrowing as she studied the thorn barriers. ”Desperate, but organized.”

Warchief Veylara stepped to the front of the column, her spear resting in a casual, one-handed grip. ”They think their mud and snake spit will buy them survival. Do they really think that the force which their chieftains and elite warriors could not stop would be stopped with a few traps?”