Chapter 13: Night Raid — Part 1
Forty fighters moved through darkness like ghosts.
No torches. No voices. Just the soft crunch of boots on forest floor and the distant hoot of an owl that didn't know men were marching to war.
I led from the front—not because I was the best fighter, but because these were my people walking into death. If anyone was going to step on a tripwire or stumble into an orc patrol, it would be me first.
Maeglin had gone ahead hours ago, marking the path with strips of white cloth tied to branches. Follow the markers. Stay silent. Trust the plan.
The plan.
Four hours of march through terrain that wanted to kill us. A ridge overlooking the orc camp. Fire arrows to light their supplies. Charge while they scrambled. Hit hard, hit fast, break them before they could organize.
Simple plans worked best. That's what Halbarad said. But simple didn't mean easy.
Behind me, thirty-nine men carried weapons Grimbeorn had forged from scavenged iron. Spears mostly—easier to use, longer reach. A few swords for those who knew how. Axes for the former woodcutters who'd never held a real weapon before volunteering.
Farmers. Refugees. Outcasts.
My army.
Two months ago, I stood on a broken tower and claimed a ruin. Now I'm leading men to kill or be killed.
The thought should have terrified me. Instead, I felt a cold clarity that Oliver Smith had never known. The spreadsheet-minded accountant had died in that hospital bed. Something else walked in his place.
[SOUTHERN RAVINE — 2 AM]
A branch cracked.
Everyone froze.
I held up my fist—the signal for absolute stillness—and pressed myself against a tree trunk. Around me, forty men became statues. Not even breathing audible.
Voices in the darkness. Guttural. Orc-tongue.
Two shapes moved along the ridgeline above us, maybe fifty meters away. Patrol. Regular sweep of the perimeter, just like Maeglin had warned.
They passed within bowshot. Close enough that I could smell them—rotten meat and unwashed bodies. Close enough that one archer with steady hands could have taken them both.
But that would have alerted the camp. That would have ended our surprise.
I waited. Counted heartbeats. Twenty. Thirty. Fifty.
The orc voices faded into the night.
My fist unclenched. The march resumed.
Behind me, I heard someone exhale shakily. Young voice. Probably Tam, the former bandit we'd recruited on the Bree road. This was his first real battle—if you didn't count the ambush where he'd been on the losing side.
I didn't look back. Couldn't afford to show doubt.
Forward. Always forward.
[RIDGE OVERLOOKING ORC CAMP — 3 AM]
The camp spread below us like a wound in the forest.
Cookfires burned low, casting orange light across crude shelters and supply piles. I counted orcs—thirty-two visible, probably more in the structures. Weapons stacked near the largest tent. A stream running through the eastern edge.
Exactly what Maeglin had described.
Except for the cages.
They sat near the camp's center, crude iron bars lashed together with leather cord. Inside—huddled shapes. Human shapes.
"Prisoners." Maeglin appeared beside me, silent as always. "I didn't see them on my last scout. They must have brought them in yesterday."
My jaw tightened.
The plan had been simple. Fire arrows into the supply tents. Charge while they burned. Kill everything that moved.
Prisoners changed everything.
"How many?"
"Eight, maybe ten. Hard to count in this light." His voice was flat, professional. "They're guarded. Two orcs on rotation, relieved every few hours."
I stared at the cages. At the people inside—starving, terrified, waiting for death or worse.
I could burn the camp anyway. The prisoners might survive. Might not. But we'd win cleanly.
The thought made me sick.
"We're getting them out."
Halbarad's hand touched my shoulder. "That complicates things."
"I know."
"The men signed up to raid an orc camp. Not to rescue prisoners under heavy guard."
"Then they'll have to adapt." I turned to face my officers. Halbarad, Grimbeorn, Maeglin, Beran. The core of whatever passed for my command structure. "New plan. Maeglin, take your scouts—six men—and circle to the cages. Wait for the attack signal, then move fast. Kill the guards, free the prisoners, get them to the northern treeline."
"The northern approach is exposed," Maeglin said. "If they spot us before the main attack—"
"Then we die. But we're not leaving people in cages."
Silence around the group. Then Grimbeorn laughed—a low, rumbling sound that didn't carry.
"I didn't march four hours to rescue farmers," he said. "But I like you better for wanting to." His hammer rested across his shoulders. "What about the western escape route? Some of them will run that way."
"You're blocking it. Take ten men, set up at the ravine mouth. Nothing gets through."
"Done."
The plan took shape in whispered fragments. Positions assigned. Signals established. Timing coordinated.
Thirty minutes until we attacked.
[ASSAULT POSITION — 3:20 AM]
A young fighter knelt beside me, lips moving soundlessly.
Prayer. To the Valar, probably—the powers Oliver Smith had read about in books but Aldric's people worshipped as gods. Manwë for wind and breath. Tulkas for strength in battle. Mandos for mercy if they fell.
I remembered the claiming ritual. Standing on broken stones, speaking words that felt too old for my borrowed tongue. The System had awakened then—blue light flooding my vision, numbers and categories organizing chaos into progress.
Was that prayer? Reaching out to something beyond myself, hoping for answers?
I put a hand on the young man's shoulder. He startled, eyes wide and frightened.
"What's your name?"
"Jorah, my lord."
Eighteen, maybe nineteen. Barely old enough to grow a beard. He'd volunteered after the first trade caravan arrived—one of the newcomers who'd seen hope in what we were building and wanted to be part of it.
"You don't have to be here, Jorah."
"Yes, I do." His voice steadied. "My family... the orcs took them. Years ago. I was the only one who escaped." His jaw set. "I'm here."
I squeezed his shoulder and moved on.
Forty fighters. Each with a story. Each with reasons to be here beyond duty or loyalty.
If any of them die tonight, their blood is on my hands.
The thought settled into my chest like a stone. I accepted it. Carried it forward.
The moon touched the western hills.
Signal time.
I raised my hand—torch in the other, flame guttering against the pre-dawn air. Around me, archers nocked fire arrows, tips wrapped in oil-soaked cloth.
Maeglin's team had vanished into the darkness ten minutes ago. Grimbeorn's blocking force was in position. The main assault waited on my command.
Forty people against thirty-plus orcs. Bad odds by any rational measure.
But we had surprise. We had fire. We had desperation.
And we had no other choice.
I thought of the settlement—Elsa with her wilted flower, little Mira clutching her burned doll, Brina widowed and pregnant and depending on promises I'd made to her dead husband.
This is what lordship means. Making the hard calls. Living with the consequences.
Three.
I touched torch to arrow. Fire bloomed.
Two.
Archers drew. Muscles tensed.
One.
"NOW!"
The night exploded.
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