The forest whispered ancient secrets as a patrol from Ferralia advanced along a muddy trail, their boots crushing dry leaves like bones of forgotten men. There were five of them, their beaten iron cuirasses gleaming under sunbeams piercing the tree canopy. At the forefront, Goran – a hulking brute with scars that told tales of taverns and brothels – spat to one side and laughed, his voice as raspy as a saw in flesh.
– Dante, the great leader of the rebels – he mocked, shaking his sword as if it were a toy. – Where will our little rat hide today? In his mother's skirts?
The others joined in laughter. Rikkon, a thin man with rat‑eyes, adjusted his helmet and spat.
– They say he's vowed to overthrow the High Lord Magno Ferroforte, but he can only run like a rabbit with its tail on fire! If he had balls, he'd face us on open ground.
– Open ground? – growled Hark, the eldest of the patrol, whose greying beard smelled of cheap wine. – That fucker knows he'd die like a dog. So he hides, yapping in the shadows.
And they laughed, their jeers echoing among the ancient oaks, as certain of their invincibility as a drunken man is that he can fly.
But the trees had ears.
Among the gnarled trunks, calloused hands gripped muskets, hearts beat in silence. Dante watched them with cold eyes. The wind teased his worn-out uniform, but he did not waver. Around him, the men and women of his militia waited, fingers ready, teeth clenched.
Dante raised his arm, slow as death choosing its reaping.
And then… he lowered it.
The air filled with a sharp whistle and smoke.
Goran still had his mouth open, the laugh stuck in his throat when the bullet pierced his neck. Hot, dark blood spurted, and he fell to his knees, trying to scream, but only a red gurgle emerged. Rikkon turned, eyes wide, and a bullet buried itself in his left eye, piercing his brain like a needle in an egg. He toppled backwards, dead before he hit the ground.
Hark managed to draw his sword, but three shots lodged themselves in his chest, driving him against an oak. He slid down the rough bark, leaving a red trail behind him, his life escaping in wet gasps. The other two patrollers tried to flee, but musket balls are faster. One fell face‑first into the mud. The last, a young lad without even a beard, screamed for mercy – but war knows no pity. A projectile pierced his throat, and he drowned in his own blood, his convulsing fingers clawing at the earth.
In seconds, it was over.
The forest fell silent again, only the buzzing of flies forewarning the feast soon to begin. Dante stepped from the shadows, treading the grass with light footsteps, and looked upon the dead.
– Open ground? – he murmured, spitting to one side. – No. War has no rules, you fools.
The forest now smelled of iron and death. The patrol's bodies lay like slaughtered lambs, their glassy eyes still filled with the last moment of terror. Dante's soldiers moved among them, agile as wolves scenting fresh flesh. Cuirasses were ripped off, muskets reclaimed, powder pouches and balls stuffed into worn sacks. Even the boots were taken – a soldier with bare feet does not march far, but a well‑stitched pair of boots is worth its weight in silver in war.
Iago of the Cauldrons crossed his arms and spat on the blood‑soaked ground.
– And now, Dante? – he asked, his voice hoarse as stones rolling in a tomb. – Ferralia's dogs won't like this. They'll send more. And more. Until they catch us.
Dante, standing atop Goran's corpse, gazed through the trees to the horizon, as if he saw something the others could not.
– Time is on our side, Iago – he said, calm as a deep river. – Time is everything.
Iago frowned.
– Time? – he growled. – Does time feed men? Does time fill our powder‑cartouches?
Dante smiled, a slow, cold gesture.
– Since the last battle, every day brings new recruits. Peasants, blacksmiths, even deserter soldiers. Rocciaguarda opened its gates to us without fighting, and its men are now with us. We have five thousand souls, Iago. Five thousand soldiers who are no longer afraid.
Iago spat again, but this time there was a gleam in his eyes, like a war‑hound scenting blood on the wind.
– Five thousand… – he murmured. – And Ferralia? How many have they?
Dante turned, his gaze as sharp as the blade at his waist.
– It doesn't matter. Because they fight by orders. We fight for freedom. And no army in the world kills the will of the people who are no longer afraid.
There was a silence, broken only by the distant cawing of a crow.
– Then, do we wait? – asked Iago.
– We wait – confirmed Dante.
– Now is not the time to wait, Dante – he growled, spitting the words as if they were poison. – Ferralia still has thousands of soldiers at its feet, and our scouts say Lucien Darcos is gathering another army in Dragospire. That honour-thirsty dog will not forget the humiliation we dealt him. He will come with everything, and this time he will not fall for our ambushes.
The men around exchanged glances, some furrowing their brows, others tightening their sword hilts as if already feeling the weight of the battle approaching. The forest, once a refuge, now seemed to close in around them, full of whispers and omens.
But Dante remained impassive, his eyes cold as stone beneath the grey sky.
– Darcos is a man chasing his own tail – he said, his voice calm but cutting. – If he comes, we will defeat him again. And again. And again. Until his pride buries him.
Iago snorted, his face flushed with frustration.
– And what if he brings ten thousand soldiers? If he surrounds these lands and crushes us like fleas beneath his boot?
Dante turned slowly, his coat billowing in the wind.
– Then we will fight in the woods, on the hills, among the ruins. Every village burned will be more fuel for our fury. Every man who falls will be the seed of ten new rebels. Darcos may have numbers, but we have the land. And the land consumes armies, Iago. Slowly, but surely.
There was a heavy silence. Even the birds seemed to have stopped singing.
Iago looked at the men around him, at faces marked by hunger and determination, then back at Dante.
– You are as sure of that as a condemned man is of the gallows – he muttered.
Dante smiled, without humour.
– Darcos is not stupid – Dante murmured, his voice low but heavy with conviction. – With enough time and blades, he will realise this war is slipping through his fingers like sand. And if Elias succeeds with the Green League…
Iago grunted.
– 'If' is the word of fools, Dante. Silvania is full of narcissistic druids and old men who only know how to pray to trees. What makes you think they will open their coffers for our cause?
Dante gave a smile as subtle as the edge of a dagger.
– Because even old men love the smell of other men's blood. If Elias promises them a slice of Ferralia after its fall, they will give him weapons, men, and even their daughters in marriage if necessary.
A crow cawed in the distance, as if mocking the men's hope.
– And the Ferralians? – growled Iago. – Do you really think Darcos' soldiers will trade gold and bread for promises of freedom?
– When they see the balance tipping in our favour, yes. Men follow winners, Iago. It has always been so. If we manage to show strength, many will come. And each one who comes is less blood that will run.
– Fine words. But words do not kill soldiers.
– No – agreed Dante. – But cannons and muskets do. And that is what Elias will bring us.
For a moment, it seemed Iago would say more, some curse or doubt burning on his tongue. Instead, he merely raised his eyes to the sky.
– May Solarius hear you – he muttered, in a tone that was neither quite a prayer nor a challenge, but something between both.