We learned many lessons in our journey through the Riverlands.

  I learned once more the importance of terrain. It had taken us weeks to cross the Dragon-Spine Mountains, and yet we flew across an area far larger in only five days. Rather than having to navigate icy slopes and imposing peaks, we could run straight for bells at a time across open farmland and through sparse forests.

  We avoided the main thoroughfares and road networks, even if they would have lent us greater speed. Given our recent encounters with both bandits and soldiers, we wanted to stay off the beaten track to avoid any further issues, and the gamble seemed to have paid off, while only taking us an extra day or two to navigate the many back roads and old drover's paths that crisscrossed The Verdant Land.

  We only fought twice in that time. The first encounter was almost the polar opposite to our last. We came across a bandit camp, and given that their numbers were low and, more importantly, that they had captives who did not look to be in a fit state, we decided to intervene. Like last time, it was a slaughter, and we freed captives, gave them weapons, directions and what medical attention we could without delaying ourselves over much. And then we were off.

  Jacyntha especially seemed to dwell on the encounter as we sped off through the countryside. It was the next incident that had the most dramatic effect, however.

  We came across a town just as we were in danger of needing to replenish our food stores, and so decided to head towards it, despite our wish to go unnoticed. We were near the border to the Sunsets anyway, and were confident of escape should our presence be noted by anybody that could prove troublesome.

  We arrived in the midst of another bandit raid. Screams cut the air, interrupting and silencing what should have been a sky filled with the pleasant chatter of songbirds. Smoke was beginning to trickle into the sky, casting the world into a darker mien. We needed no discussion this time, and launched in among the houses, cutting down desperate people to shield other desperate people.

  I'd been hardened by my time in this new world, but I still wasn't blind to the fact that people turned to banditry for reasons other than a wanton need for senseless slaughter. With instability on the rise, farming – the main source of employment in the country, as far as I could tell – was under threat.

  Harvests were burned, fields were salted, and that left people desperate and hungry, looking for any way they could feed themselves and their families. Joining up with a bandit crew was often the only way to ensure both food and safety, and so, many people turned to a life of violence, not through choice but need.

  While I understood that, I felt no sympathy for the men and women I saw, blades bared in the flickering firelight as they torched houses with people still inside and spilled the blood of innocents in their own streets. Our actions were a response to theirs, and their violence was committed against those who could not fight back, while ours was saved only for those whose hands clutched weapons and dripped blood.

  We stalked through the village, cutting down any who seemed inclined to fight, until, after nearly a bell of hunting, we managed to bring peace once more to the town. We couldn't save everyone and many were dead, many houses burned, but unlike Darrow's Edge, the people here could rebuild.

  Needless to say, we found accommodations in the town and our supplies were restocked swiftly. This settlement was once more built onto the bank of a great river, though one far further from the coast and not used as a trade route for cargo. Nevertheless, there was still plentiful trade to be had up and down the river, and the well-managed waterways ensured there would be food aplenty for the residents, and raw materials for rebuilding besides.

  A crying child hugged Jacyntha's Cat-Bear to her chest, smearing blood on its fur as it licked the tears from the little girl's face. She had been orphaned in the attack, and Jacyntha seemed unable to let her go, holding the girl and her pet both to her chest, shoulders heaving with great sobs.

  But leave we did.

  The next two days brought with it a heavy contemplation I'd not yet seen on the barbarian woman. She'd spent much of the first week with us brooding, dour and self-absorbed, her shame cutting apart her soul as she aimed that anger inwards. Eventually, though, we'd broken down her walls, and Vera had managed to get through to her.

  She'd become almost a companion since then, though there was still a sense of distance all the while. But this felt different. I could see the effect that that one small act, less than an afternoon of our time, had had on her.

  To save people, to use our strength to shield them, to protect the weak from the strong…it seemed to be a thing that resonated with her. A true calling. It should have come as no surprise that not long afterwards she broke through to the 2nd tier. That was the lesson she seemed to have learned at least; that strength could be used to shield as well as harm.

  I watched Nathlan that evening, but he seemed to have nothing in his heart but genuine gladness at her achievement. For his part, Nathlan had learned that he could not outrun his past, if I had to guess. He spoke more of it in our conversations, as we sat around recovering our strength and eating to replenish the energy that we spent by running through the wilderness; of his life before he left, of his home and what could be done.

  Even of the vengeance that he sought, and whether it was truly worth it. A difficult question, to which I had no answer to give. I couldn’t counsel him that revenge was worthless – after all, we travelled even now to extract revenge on Vera’s behalf. But the difference was clear, at least to me. Vera’s country was about to fall into the hands of a tyrant whose grip it would not shake free from for centuries if Duke Ryonic managed to use the Ashkanian Vault to propel himself into the 4th tier. Revenge may have played a small role, but she had contented herself for a decade now without it, so I doubted it was the motivating factor in her decision to return home.

  Sadrianna's lesson was a brutal one, though it only further reinforced her path; Warriors with nothing to do became terrors. It had been not the battle itself that had hurt her, and not even the work afterwards, where we helped catalogue and make pyres for the dead, heal the injured and sick as best we could, and stop the fires and rebuild the houses. No, what cut Sadrianna so deeply was the evening where mothers and sons, and fathers and daughters had wailed into the night at their losses.

  We had heard their tales and stood witness to their grief, and the stories were harrowing. Neighbours were recognised, and some of the men and women that we had cut down, that had turned their blade on the people of this town, were in fact previously members of it.

  A butcher’s wife had taken up with one of the men in the bandit crew and had returned with them, cleaver in hand, to slay her own husband. Three brothers that worked as foresters had been seen, one of them killed by Sadrianna herself, as they tried to burn down the home of the woman who paid their wages. A young woman killed and dumped into the river by a spurned lover. An old man beaten to death by somebody he’d sold a donkey to only days prior.

  Each story different, with potential justifications hidden within if one were to investigate. But all told of one thing; a community pulled apart. Once that final tether was severed and the spark of violence in the air, the town burned and its people with it.

  In many ways that was exactly what she was hoping to avoid with her clan and the worrying trend she had started to notice. For the moment, the disconnect between the old warriors and the rest of the clan was something that turned inwards. ‘One last hunt’ as it were. But I could well imagine how disgruntled clan warriors could decide to project that suicidal intent outwards to other clans, and war would soon follow if that grim prediction ever came to pass.

  So, while Jacyntha withdrew into a contemplative silence for most of the next two days, arms wrapped around her furry friend whenever we stopped, and Nathlan recounted to me tales of his homeland, Sadrianna brooded on ways to save her clan and bring peace before it all broke apart. There was nothing quite like war to make one dream of peace, after all.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  It was not an entirely grim affair though as we travelled through the wilderness. Banter, discussion, jokes and camaraderie flowed easily, bonds of battle tightening our emerging fellowship into something not quite resembling a band of brothers and sisters, but not entirely far off, either.

  I could feel them, like the tethers in my soul that connected me to my weapons and shield, courtesy of A Frozen Pyrre. These links binding us to one another by shared experience, shared goals and shared suffering, were strengthening bit by bit, day by day.

  Jacyntha's Cat-Bear had also grown over the weeks, and being out of the mountains seemed to do wonders for its sense of exploration. While still barely reaching my mid-shin while it stood on four legs, the creature had filled out, its limbs lengthening and body thickening until it was the size of a medium-sized dog.

  It could run now without tripping over its own paws, and Jacyntha spent much of her time, when we did make camp, trying to corral the beast and stop it from getting up to mischief. We didn't mind, and collectively took on her tasks so that she could devote her attention to the nightmare bundle of fur and teeth without a conversation needing to be had.

  Seeing the innocence and the joy with which it frolicked about in small streams, chasing squirrels, rats and small birds around, brought a measure of joy to all our tired hearts. Its strange blend of predatory instinct and child-like innocence, combined with a new-born’s coordination, was a sight to behold as it plodded around with hitching leaps and yowls of frustration when it inevitably failed its latest conquest.

  In return, each of us was blessed for our lenience with cuddles from the furry creature. Indeed, it seemed to be forming a bit of a routine, visiting each of us in turn, one after the other, begging for scratches and treats before moving on after graciously allowing us the gift of its presence for a short time.

  Nathlan was still the favourite, of course, behind Jacyntha who took on responsibility for its care. His quiet way seemed to resonate with the normally rambunctious creature in a way that I found surprising, although perhaps I shouldn't have. Animals sometimes have a keen sense for intention, and I think it enjoyed being able to sleep in his lap knowing it wasn’t the centre of his attention.

  Jacyntha had worried about how the creature would fare once we crossed into the Western Marchlands and met our goal head on, but Jorge had reassured her that as urgent as our mission was, we wouldn't be storming a castle by ourselves straight away. Vera would make links and reconnect once more with whatever resistance remained in the area, even if it was simply an information network, and she was sure we could find somebody to protect and care for the creature in our absence while our task was done.

  There was no warning when we crossed over into the Sunset Kingdoms proper. And I only realised we had done so bells after the fact when Vera started to withdraw from the shared conversation. When I asked about it, she simply told me not to worry.

  Jorge had caught my eye, gesturing me over and whispered quietly to me; “she gets like this sometimes, lad. We're in the Marchlands now and this land holds many memories for her, most of them not very pleasant.”

  We soon saw one such memory writ large upon the world later that same day.

  Barrow-under-Tine stayed with me long after we passed through.

  The sun had been shining high above when we’d first entered the town, dappling the evergreen leaves of fir and pine that surrounded the settlement. Water gurgled merrily beneath the many small bridges that speckled the town, and starlings let out rambunctious calls as they played above the network of streams that crisscrossed the land.

  Despite the beautiful vista, my memory of that place was a grim one, my mood stained black for the rest of the day.

  The river Tine wended its way through the Riverlands, one amongst many, before it slipped across the border in the Sunset Kingdoms quietly and without fanfare. From there it continued its meandering march towards the ocean, losing much of its beauty and serenity, until, at last, exhausted and with its former strength drained, it split into a hundred smaller tributaries to drown the forests of the Western Marchlands.

  Barrow-under-Tine was a small border town at the edge of the territories controlled by Duke Ryonic and was the last settlement that experienced the Tine as a river more so than a collection of streams and marshes. It had been beautiful, the envy of many a town in the Marchlands due to its latticework of old stone bridges and pretty-as-a-painting environment. The waterways had sustained a modest industry with their watermills – wheat and textile processing, mostly. When coupled with the transport allowed by the river, the Barrow-under-Tine of old had been a thriving community at the edge of the Sunsets.

  The settlement that greeted us as we followed the river was far from that nostalgic idea. Nature had reclaimed much of the town in the last decade, ivy wrapping the stone structures of abandoned houses, weeds colonising what remained of the mills and shops that used to supply traders. The many stone bridges still stood, saved from the flames of conquest by their inflammable nature. The passage of time had even removed the soot-stains that had marred their surface.

  It was a simple history; the people of Barrow-under-Tine had given too much support to the rebels, and they had been punished for it. The town was razed by the duke and his men, and each person killed, the village burned. Never again would the bakeries deliver fresh loaves to the woodcutters as they ventured out into the forests. The watermills would never spin once more to grind flour and spin yarn, now laying broken amongst choking weeds.

  Without context, it was nearly a pretty sight; green stalks waving from clear streams, buildings appearing to blend with nature rather than stand against it, if I squinted. But once I knew the history and saw with clear eyes, I could read nothing but tragedy in the flowers springing from between cobblestones and the new growth reaching towards the old canopy.

  When we entered the centre of town, Jorge stopped. He stared at the burned husk of an ancient oak tree and appeared to see something else. It crouched there in the middle of what had used to be some sort of central clearing, a fountain opposite – long dry now and crumbling where the weeds had eaten away at small cracks caused by many freeze-thaw cycles.

  Vera had already gone on ahead, striding through with a straight back and eyes very deliberately kept forwards.

  “What happened here?” I asked.

  “Punishment,” was all Vera had said before walking off. I made to follow but Jorge had snapped out of whatever memory had held him captive and blocked my path with a raised arm.

  “Leave her, lad. She needs some time alone.”

  I sighed. “What happened here Jorge? I assume that this was a stronghold against the duke or something?” I asked.

  He looked at me curiously before replying. “What makes you say that?”

  “Well…it’s well-positioned, isn’t it? Near the border, good access to sneak goods, supplies and fighters in and out of the Marchlands, relatively wealthy so residents can afford to give up some of what they have for the war effort, far enough from the seat of his power to maybe feel safer from retribution…Lots of reasons, I suppose” I said.

  He shook his head softly though. “No, Lamb. Some of that may be true – and some definitely isn’t – but this was no bastion of rebellion against the Duke.”

  “Why was it burned then? Don’t leave me guessing here, I’ll just make a fool of myself,” I muttered, somewhat irritable. I could sense the mood of my companions, and it was affecting me despite my best efforts.

  “Barrow-under-Tine was burned as a message, lad.” Jorge said.

  Nathlan piped up, “A message for who though? Surely it would only cement their hatred and firm their hearts?”

  “Aye, no chance of it changing their minds. No, this was a message to the rest of the Marchlands. Treat with the rebels, offer them bread instead of spurning them, fail to report sightings of them to the local garrisons…resist in any way, and you will burn along with your home.”

  I looked at the path down which Vera had strode and sighed. “Fuck, this is grim,” I muttered.

  There wasn’t much else to say, really. I knew resistance had a cost, knew from recent experience in the Riverlands that war brought ruin tight on its heels, but…when Vera had spoken of her decision to return, she’d said that the cost of revenge was too high for her to consider it just and that only the discovery of the duke’s plans with the Ashkanian ruin was what had tipped the scales in favour of intervention, but I hadn’t truly understood what she meant until now.

  It was one thing to know in an intellectual way that fighting back against a superior power came with consequences, but to see it with your own eyes? To read it in the broke rubble and abandoned ruins of a village before you? That was entirely another.

  I had somehow convinced myself, with the aid of the skill descriptions of Guerrilla Warfare and Skirmisher of Antiquity, that I could fight a more powerful foe while on the run. I could bring them with me into a world I had created, and break them safely within the wild lands, keeping innocents clear of any blow-back.

  I saw now that I had been a fool. Resistance had a cost, and even guerrilla warfare led to immense suffering amongst the people of the land you warred within. Perhaps it would be your enemy and their cruelty alone that imposed that cost on them, but the people would bear it all the same, no matter your best intentions.

  Our goal was a noble one, but looking around at the devastated town, I couldn’t help but feel sick at the possibility of imposing such a fate on others with our actions. If we raided his castle and defeated the duke, but he burned three towns in the process, could that victory be called anything but pyrrhic?

  Thoughts awhirl with conflicting emotions and arguments, I followed the others as we moved through the site of long-past suffering, and considered how I could avoid such destruction in future.