The command tent smelled of oil, ink, and damp wool.
It was a large structure, reinforced with wooden frames and weighted at the corners by stones hauled from the nearby hills. A lantern hung from the central pole, its flame steady despite the wind outside, casting long shadows over the assembled figures. Maps were spread across a heavy oak table scarred by past campaigns—some belonging to Duke Reinhardt, others older still, annotated by hands long since turned to bone.
Alaric Valenroth stood at the head of the table.
He did not sit.
Not yet.
Around him gathered the spine of House Valenroth's expeditionary force: men and women who had fought bandits, rebels, border skirmishes, and wars that never made it into songs.
Captain Marcus Feldren stood closest, helmet tucked beneath one arm. His face was lined, his beard streaked with gray, eyes sharp with the habitual caution of a man who had survived too many "decisive engagements."
Beside him was Sir Edric Halvain, commander of the heavy cavalry—broad-shouldered, scarred, his presence filling space as naturally as his destrier filled a battlefield. Across the table stood Commander Lysette Arno, master of the archers, lean and sharp-eyed, fingers unconsciously flexing as though drawing phantom bowstrings.
Further back were quartermasters, engineers, messengers, and one representative from the city of Redhaven—a nervous, well-dressed man whose boots had never known mud until this march.
All eyes were on Alaric.
Not because of his age—though at eighteen he was young by any measure—but because he was a Valenroth, and because Duke Reinhardt had placed him here deliberately.
Alaric rested his hands on the table and studied the map.
The valley lay spread before him in ink and parchment. A shallow basin flanked by low ridges, narrowing into a natural choke point before widening again toward Redhaven. A river cut across the southern edge—shallow in summer, muddy and treacherous after rain.
He absorbed it all with a scholar's calm.
"Report," Alaric said.
Marcus stepped forward. "Scouts confirm the horde is advancing faster than anticipated. They will reach the valley by dawn tomorrow—possibly earlier if they do not slow to forage."
"How many?" Alaric asked, though he already knew the answer would be imperfect.
Marcus hesitated. "Conservative estimate: twenty-five thousand. Possibly more. The outer bands are scattered, but the core moves together."
A murmur rippled through the tent.
Twenty-five thousand goblins.
Alaric nodded once. "Composition?"
"Mixed," Marcus replied. "The bulk are light infantry—spears, cleavers, crude shields. There are wolf-riders on the flanks, fast but poorly armored. We have confirmed at least three war-chiefs traveling with the main body. And…" He paused. "Something else."
"Say it," Alaric said evenly.
"Siege beasts," Marcus continued. "Not in great numbers, but enough to matter. Brute constructs of flesh and iron—likely driven by handlers."
The representative from Redhaven swallowed audibly.
Alaric turned his gaze to him. "You were sent here to give us time," he said. "Tell me how much."
The man cleared his throat. "The city began preparations the moment your banners were sighted, my lord. Militia is being raised. Civilians evacuated into the inner districts. But the eastern wall—" He hesitated. "It was not built to withstand prolonged assault."
"How long," Alaric repeated.
"Five days," the man said. "Seven, if the god are kind."
Alaric nodded. "May he with us"
He turned back to the map.
Five days.
History whispered its lessons to him. Sieges were not broken by walls alone. They were broken by time—by exhaustion, hunger, panic. If the goblins reached Redhaven intact, five days would become five hours.
Sir Edric crossed his arms. "With respect, my lord, we cannot hold against that number. Not in open field."
"No," Alaric agreed. "We cannot."
That answer, calm and unembellished, silenced the room.
Lysette tilted her head slightly. "Then we bleed them," she said. "Slow them. Harass the flanks. Fall back toward the city."
"And allow them to regroup?" Marcus countered. "A stampede does not behave like a disciplined army. Pressure them the wrong way and they scatter—then reconverge closer to the walls."
Alaric listened without interrupting.
The word stampede echoed in his mind.
This was not a migration. Not a raid. It was an uncontrolled surge driven by scarcity and rage, where momentum mattered more than command. Once set in motion, it devoured everything in its path—including itself.
"What of the terrain?" Alaric asked.
An engineer stepped forward, unrolling a secondary map. "The valley here," he said, pointing, "narrows naturally. The ridges on either side are stable enough to support formations. The ground is firm—no bogging for heavy infantry. Cavalry could maneuver, though space would be limited."
"And the river?" Alaric asked.
"Crossable in places, but slow. If pressed, retreat across it would be costly."
Alaric nodded.
He saw it clearly now—not as lines on parchment, but as living ground. He imagined the press of bodies, the chaos of noise, the way fear moved like fire through crowds.
History did not repeat itself, but it rhymed.
"Numbers," Alaric said.
Marcus gestured to a ledger. "We march with three thousand one hundred and forty-two. Two thousand heavy infantry. Six hundred archers. Four hundred cavalry. The remainder are engineers, medics, and support."
Outnumbered nearly eight to one.
On parchment, it was madness.
In reality, it was familiar.
"How long can we sustain combat?" Alaric asked.
The quartermaster answered. "Rations for ten days, assuming discipline. Arrows for two major engagements—three if conserved. Medical supplies are… limited."
Alaric nodded again.
No one spoke for a moment.
They were waiting—for orders, for reassurance, for the lie that would make this easier to swallow.
Alaric did not give it to them.
Instead, he said, "We are not here to defeat the goblins."
Several heads turned sharply.
"We are here to stop them," Alaric continued. "Stopping does not always mean annihilation. It means disrupting momentum. Breaking cohesion. Turning numbers into a liability rather than a strength."
Sir Edric studied him carefully. "You speak as though you expect them to come at us all at once."
"They will," Alaric replied. "A stampede cannot afford caution. Hunger and fear drive it forward. If they slow, they tear themselves apart."
Lysette's lips curved faintly. "Then they will come screaming."
"Yes," Alaric said. "And loud."
He straightened, finally allowing himself to sit.
"We choose the valley," he said. "Not because it favors us—but because it constrains them."
No one argued.
Orders were given after that. Practical ones. Camps adjusted. Supplies redistributed. Scouts sent back out under cover of darkness to monitor the horde's approach.
When the meeting ended, the officers departed one by one, carrying the weight of inevitability with them.
Alaric remained alone.
He traced the valley with one finger.
Miltiades had stood on a plain not unlike this one, facing an enemy who believed numbers alone decided wars. He had understood something timeless: men pressed too tightly together could not fight as individuals.
History had given Elias that lesson once.
Now, Alaric would apply it.
---
The fog did not lift when the goblins came.
It thickened.
It rolled down the slopes like breath exhaled by the earth itself, swallowing the valley floor until distance became suggestion rather than certainty. Sound arrived first—drums beaten without rhythm, horns braying like wounded animals, a chorus of shrill voices layered over one another until they became a single, grinding roar.
Alaric stood at the center of his line and felt the vibration travel through his boots, up his legs, into his chest.
Momentum, he thought.
Not courage. Not discipline.
Momentum killed more soldiers than blades ever had.
He raised his gauntleted hand.
The army of House Valenroth waited.
Two thousand heavy infantry formed the front—bronze-edged shields overlapping, spears angled forward, armor dulled deliberately to avoid reflection. They did not stand in a straight wall. No banner marked the curve, but it was there: the center set slightly back, the wings angled forward just enough to be felt rather than seen.
A shallow crescent.
Alaric had read about it first in a lecture hall, decades ago, chalk dust on his fingers, his professor dismissing it as an anomaly—a trick that worked once because the Persians were careless.
That had always been a lie.
Miltiades had not relied on carelessness.
He had relied on human nature.
"Steady," Alaric murmured, though his voice carried only to those nearest him.
Behind the infantry, six hundred archers waited with arrows nocked, bodies loose, breaths measured. They did not chatter. They had been told exactly how long this would last.
Not long.
The goblins burst from the fog.
They did not advance in formation. They poured.
Thousands of bodies surged forward—short, hunched figures with skin ranging from sickly green to ash-gray, their armor a chaos of stolen metal, bone, and leather. Spears waved erratically. Blades banged against shields. Wolf-riders howled from the flanks, their mounts foaming at the mouth.
They were starving.
Alaric could see it in the way they ran—not cautiously, not tactically, but with desperation that bordered on frenzy.
Good, he thought, coldly.
He lowered his hand.
The horn sounded.
"Loose."
The sky vanished.
Six hundred bows sang as one, the sound sharp and final, and the first volley rose into the fog before descending in a lethal arc. Arrows struck flesh with wet, final sounds. Goblins screamed, stumbled, fell—and were immediately trampled by those behind them.
The horde did not slow.
"Second volley!"
Again, the sky darkened. Arrows punched through shields, through throats, through eyes lifted too late in confusion. The front ranks began to thin—but the mass behind them only pressed harder.
Alaric watched carefully.
This was the moment most commanders misunderstood.
They saw bodies falling and assumed victory followed.
But numbers were not defeated by death alone.
They were defeated by space.
"Hold," Alaric said.
The infantry braced.
The goblins slammed into the line.
The impact was brutal. Shields rang like bells. Spears drove forward, impaling bodies that did not stop moving even when mortally wounded. Goblin blood splashed across steel and earth, steaming faintly in the morning chill.
The center of Alaric's line bent.
Not broke.
Bent.
Step by measured step, the central infantry gave ground, shields retreating, formation intact. To an observer—especially one driven by hunger and rage—it looked like weakness.
The goblins howled in triumph.
They surged forward, flooding into the widening space, believing they had found the army's heart.
Alaric felt his pulse slow.
There, he thought.
Miltiades had understood this at Marathon: an army that believes it is winning stops thinking. It chases. It compresses itself, eager to finish the kill.
The goblins poured inward, bodies crowding bodies, spears tangling, wolf-riders forcing their mounts through gaps too narrow to maneuver. Orders—if any existed—were lost beneath screams and the crush of flesh.
On the flanks, the Valenroth infantry did not retreat.
They advanced.
Slowly.
Relentlessly.
The crescent deepened.
The archers, now repositioned, loosed again—but not at the edges. They fired into the densest mass, arrows plunging downward into a sea of bodies packed too tightly to dodge.
Panic rippled through the goblins.
Those in the center realized too late that they could not move forward—or back.
Alaric raised his sword.
The horns sounded again.
This time, from behind.
The valley shook.
From behind the ridges thundered four hundred cavalry—steel-clad riders astride warhorses bred for shock and terror. They came down the slope in perfect formation, lances leveled, hooves pounding the earth into submission.
They crashed into the goblins' rear like a falling wall.
The sound was indescribable—bone shattering, bodies bursting beneath iron-shod hooves, shrieks cut short mid-breath. Goblins turned to flee, only to slam into those still pressing forward.
The U snapped shut.
What had been a horde became a trap.
Alaric moved.
He advanced with the center as it stopped retreating and began to push forward again, the motion smooth, practiced, inevitable. His sword rose and fell with disciplined economy—no wasted strength, no flourish. A thrust to the throat. A cut to the neck. A shield bash to create space, followed by steel.
Around him, his soldiers fought the same way.
Not with fury.
With purpose.
The goblins broke.
Some dropped their weapons and screamed. Others clawed at one another in blind desperation. Wolf-riders tried to turn their mounts, only to find nowhere to run. Siege beasts bellowed in confusion, trampling goblins as often as soldiers.
The valley floor became mud and blood.
Minutes stretched into an eternity of noise and motion, then slowly—inevitably—the sound began to change.
The roar diminished.
Screams replaced howls.
Then only scattered cries remained.
When the last goblin fled into the fog, the silence that followed was almost unbearable.
Alaric stood amid the aftermath, chest rising and falling steadily.
The crescent had held.
Miltiades had been right.
He always had been.
History was not dead.
It was waiting—for someone to remember.