The early morning brought with it the distant rumble of war drums. The enemy was approaching. The sky had not yet fully brightened when Aldric was already inspecting the terrain with Charles and Pierre. There would be no time for speeches or heroic gestures—only strategy.
"The river has receded, but the ground is still muddy," Pierre reported, pointing at the map spread across a rock. "If they cross here"—he traced a curve on the map—"they'll be exposed for at least two minutes."
Aldric nodded, his gaze fixed.
"That's where we'll strike. Two squads hidden in the trees, another ready to cut off their retreat, and archers on the southern hill. If they cross, we trap them. If they don't, we'll force them to."
"What if they come with siege engines or heavy cavalry?" Charles asked.
"They won't risk expensive equipment on unknown ground. And cavalry won't pass through mud. If they try, all the better. They'll get stuck like boars in a swamp."
The captains received their orders. Archers were hidden among moss-covered branches. Light infantry crouched in damp trenches. Wooden stakes, coated with mud, were invisible until the last second. Everything was ready for an ambush.
Aldric walked among his men, stopping group by group.
"Listen carefully," he whispered. "No shouting. No charging early. No panic. This forest is your ally. Silence is your best weapon."
Just before dawn, the enemy horn sounded. Shadows moved through the mist. Two dozen men crossed the pass, then thirty, then forty. Aldric watched from the hillside, every muscle tense.
"Now," he said calmly.
A single horn echoed. From the trees, archers unleashed a rain of arrows. The first lines collapsed before they even understood what was happening. Screams, confusion, blood staining the moss.
Trunks, previously tied and positioned, were released. They tumbled down the slope, blocking the pass. The enemy troops were trapped between the hillside and the hail of arrows.
"Charge!" Charles shouted, sword raised.
From both flanks, the forces of Hautterre stormed in. Aldric led the left, Charles the right. The clash was violent—mud, steel, and screams. Aldric's men knew every root and slope. The enemy, disoriented, stumbled into traps, hidden roots, and stakes.
One enemy unit tried to regroup toward the hill, but a band of local scouts ambushed them from behind using slings and short spears. The coordination was flawless. The ambush wasn't just working—it was a tactical lesson.
Pierre, soaked and mud-covered, reached Aldric.
"The enemy reinforcements haven't crossed. Looks like they're waiting for a signal."
"That means this was just a probing force. The duke's testing our defenses."
"What do we do now?"
Aldric looked over the battlefield. Surrendering soldiers, others fleeing in vain. He gave a firm command:
"Burn the pass. Let them see what awaits if they come again."
Barrels of oil were opened and poured over the trunks and bushes. Torches did the rest. Flames grew quickly, lighting up the forest still cloaked in mist. The fire danced like tongues of warning.
Charles appeared, blood still on his cheek.
"Do you call this a victory?"
Aldric didn't take his eyes off the blaze.
"No. This is a message."
Pierre swallowed hard.
"And if the duke answers with his full army?"
"Then he'll face something he doesn't understand—enemies who think."
The flames kept rising as the sun finally broke the horizon, painting the forest in red. The smell of smoke and blood mixed with the morning dew. The first day of real war had begun. And Hautterre had landed the first blow.