Chapter 11 : The outpost
Valen pressed his palms against the cool timber of the gate, listening. From behind him came sudden faint shouts and the clatter of armor—soldiers moving, preparing. The heavy thud of the final lock echoed like a heartbeat, steady and absolute.
Startled, he spun, his hand already clutching the handle of his sword.
For a moment he simply stood there, breathing hard, the adrenaline of the chase still burning in his veins. His eyes slowly scanned the surroundings.
The thick canopy above swallowed most of the fading light, leaving the outpost cast in a dim green haze.
Towering trees rose like silent pillars around the settlement, their enormous trunks forming a natural barrier beyond the wooden walls.
Mud huts dotted the clearing, scattered in uneven rows.
Each one looked old.
Some had large chunks missing from their walls, the dried clay crumbling where rain and time had worn it away. Others had partially collapsed roofs, wooden beams exposed like broken ribs. Moss crept along the sides of many of them, and vines crawled lazily across their surfaces.
This place had endured many seasons.
Maybe too many.
The outpost walls, however, told a different story.
They were thick—far thicker than the flimsy village barriers Valen had seen so far. Rough logs had been driven deep into the earth, reinforced with crossbeams and packed mud. Time had darkened the wood, but the structure remained sturdy, stubbornly standing against whatever the forest had thrown at it.
Even the huts themselves were built differently.
Instead of the square shapes common in the villages, most were rounded, their circular designs hugging the ground. The curved walls made them look squat and defensive, as if they had been built to endure storms… or something worse.
Valen exhaled slowly.
This was not a place meant for comfort.
It was a place meant to survive.
In front of him, the villagers gathered in the clearing, some collapsing beside the carts while others helped the children down. Wide eyes darted around the unfamiliar outpost, the sudden silence after the chaos of the forest leaving them uneasy.
Somewhere deeper in the outpost, another shout rang out.
Boots pounded against packed earth.
Something was gathering.
Valen's grip tightened slightly on the hilt of his sword.
If this truly was an outpost, then someone here was in charge.
And after the chaos they had brought crashing through the forest… he suspected that someone would want answers.
Clank, clank.
Heavy plated feet struck the ground beneath.
Valen's grip tightened on his sword, knuckles whitening against the hilt. His heart thudded in his chest, echoing the rhythm of the approaching footsteps. He took a cautious step forward, peering into the dim green haze of the outpost.
He did not know much about the outside world, but with the recent information he quickly assumed this was not a human outpost. The circular huts, the layout of them, the large tent in the distance made of animal hide—it all spoke of foreign origins. Something predatory. Something dangerous.
The heavy footsteps grew louder, closer, each strike vibrating through the packed earth. Even the children pressed against the carts, eyes wide, their small hands clutching at the ropes, trembling. A low whimper escaped Zack, but he didn't dare move.
By now even the elderly nun, with her sharp, aged senses, could hear it. She straightened, her knuckles tightening around her spear, shoulders stiffening. Lyra's short sword flicked in her hand almost instinctively, and her eyes darted from shadow to shadow, searching for the source.
The clearing had become eerily silent. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath. Birds had vanished from the canopy, their chirps replaced by the pounding of heavy steps. Valen's stomach twisted, adrenaline and instinct warring within him.
A faint metallic scrape made him flinch, and he took a defensive step forward, positioning himself between the children and the sound. Argon shuffled closer to the carts, hammer at the ready, his small frame bracing for impact despite his calm façade.
Valen's gut tightened. He didn't know what was coming, but instinct screamed it was not human.
Then, from the shadowed treeline, a figure emerged. Broad, imposing, each step deliberate. Plate glinted dimly in the fading light, but the movement, the posture—it was too precise, too disciplined.
The group tensed, ready to defend, hearts hammering.
But the figure stopped a few paces from the clearing, and Valen caught the insignia on the chestplate.
A human.
Not an orc. Not a predator from the wilderness. A human, commanding, steady, and in control.
The group exhaled slowly, some of the tension leaking—but not all. Humans could be as dangerous as beasts. Lyra's eyes narrowed, scanning for hidden threats. The elderly nun's grip on her spear remained firm. Valen's muscles stayed coiled, prepared for anything.
The human's gaze swept over the villagers, the carts, then finally rested on Valen. There was a pause, a measured assessment, before the figure's voice cut through the tense silence.
"State your purpose," the commander called, calm but unwavering.
Valen swallowed. The forest behind them was still alive with distant growls and rustling, but all attention had shifted to this unexpected twist: the approaching human, who could be friend… or foe.
"We come from the village of Ashford." Valen mustered his courage. He had spent his life speaking with men much larger than himself at the homely dinner table, but this presence felt different. "Beasts… hundreds of them… have destroyed Ashford." His voice carried deep sorrow, shaking slightly despite his efforts to remain steady.
"We are all that remains, and we have come to seek refuge within these sturdy walls."
The man's gaze measured him. "And what is your name, boy?"
"Valen. Valen Bluescale."
"You're Valen? The youngest of that walking fortress?"
"That's one way to put it, yes." Valen straightened his shoulders. Even at fourteen, he stood shoulder to shoulder with most grown men—broad-chested and tall, a gift from his father.
"My condolences." The man's voice was deep, steady, carrying authority without a hint of arrogance. His armor gleamed faintly in the filtered light, polished but scarred in places—a veteran of countless campaigns. "I am Jonathon. Jonathon of Cambria." He stepped closer, the weight of his presence enough to make Valen swallow hard. "Follow me. The journey from Ashford must have left you in pieces. You've done well, boy, to have led your people here. This outpost is under my command. Or at least, it is now."
"I am a centurion. Sent here to investigate the disappearence of your father. Any idea where he may be?" He questioned as he walked towards the large tent. A faint aroma of freshly cooked meat hanging in the air. "He has not responded to any message. And the messengers sent went missing too."
His calm voice finally showed some emotion. A tinge of worry seeping through covered in a dose of sympathy.
The canopy overhead sank, as though mirroring the poor boys heart.
By now they had reached the large tent. And with a light pull Jonathon revealed a spacious interior.
Lining the floor were wooden boards, each covered in slices of cooked meat. The aroma was tantalizing to the hungry survivors, they had not eaten meat in many moons.
In the back lay a fire, slabs of meat resting gently atop skewers, holding them in place.
"We managed to find a cow. A rare sight these days, there's enough for everyone twice over."
Countless soldiers stared back at the wide eyed Valen. Never had he seen so much food in one place, or so many people either.
One of the rows swiftly cleared some room, with one young man with a chiselled jaw patting the ground next to him.
Valen did not deny in the invitation, and neither did the other survivors.