The Border - Northern Algrim, 3rd Moon, 25th Day, 1624 Symfora Telos

  Emerging from the path along the riverbank came the vanguard of the Lion’s host, a spectacle both proud and foreboding. Their banners unfurled like talons of war, snapping in the wind, emblazoned with sigils Levi scarcely recognized. They heralded the march of a lord whose name carried little weight in Algrim but whose swords would carve bloody letters into its soil soon enough if let unchallenged.

  At the forefront rode the mounted vanguard, knights astride destriers whose hooves churned up the damp earth. Gleaming steel and polished plate caught the pale light of morning, a veneer of glory masking the grim reality of war. Behind them, the cavalry followed in tighter ranks—a few dozen strong, their steeds sturdy but mud-splattered from the long road. Their pennons were frayed, their armor dulled from use, and their faces were set with the weary resolve of men who knew the toil of battle all too well.

  With them came the archers, their bows unstrung for the march, their quivers rattling softly with each step. After them tramped the footmen, clad in rusted mail and patched leathers, their shields emblazoned with the sigils of lesser houses or the crude marks of mercenary bands. Their spears and halberds swayed with the rhythm of their march. Levi’s sharp eye caught the uneven gait of many—a company cobbled together from conscripts, sellswords, and deserters. Cannon fodder, he thought grimly. They would serve their purpose and die for it.

  Amid the column marched knights, a few gleaming as if they had stepped from a bard’s tale, but most were men-at-arms, their steel marred by decades of hard use. Practical, seasoned killers, they moved with a purpose, their hands never far from sword hilts or lance shafts. This was no romanticized host of chivalric champions; it was a machine of slaughter, each man a cog turning toward Faywyn.

  Trailing behind was the baggage train, a long, creaking serpent of carts and wagons, laden with the lifeblood of the army. Barrels of powder, crates of arrows, sacks of grain, and barrels of ale rolled alongside bundles of rope and spare arms. Oxen and mules trudged alongside weary drivers, the beasts’ burdens heavy but carefully balanced. Camp followers swarmed about the wagons—a patchwork of women, children, and craftsmen offering their services. Blacksmiths with soot-streaked faces, cooks hauling iron pots, whores leaning idly against wagon wheels—all were part of the great engine of war.

  At the rear came the siege train, grim and slow, dragging the great iron beasts meant to reduce Faywyn’s walls to rubble. The artillerists moved with grim purpose, their shoulders bent beneath the weight of barrels and cannons. The rearguard brought up the end of the column, lightly armored but vigilant, scanning the horizon for any sign of ambush. Here was no glory, no songs waiting to be sung. This was the truth of war: an army on the march, as vulnerable to hunger and fatigue as it was to blades and arrows.

  Levi lowered the seeing glass, his brow furrowed in thought as he turned to Ser Mannon at his side. The Codfather rocked gently beneath them, the wind carrying them forward with an almost sinister calm. His gaze lingered on the army's vanguard, now a distant but discernible blur of men and steel.

  "How close must we get?" Levi asked, his voice steady despite the unease that churned within him.

  Ser Mannon, garbed in a simple gambeson and helm, shifted uncomfortably on the swaying deck. His face was pale, though he made a valiant effort to mask his queasiness. “Another hundred paces, my lord,” he replied. “We could loose the guns now, but the range would be against us. The shot would scatter.”

  Levi gave a curt nod, his hand tightening around the rail of the ship. His own stomach roiled—not from fear, but from the unfamiliarity of the river’s sway. Yet he would not be the first to falter. The crew of the Codfather, hardened men of the Strega’s waters, moved with ease, oblivious to the discomfort of their noble passengers.

  “How many do you think we can take down today?” Levi asked, his gaze fixed on the tightly packed ranks of the Lion’s host.

  Mannon frowned, his eyes narrowing as he studied the distant figures. “With all forty-four cannons loaded with grapeshot and incendiaries? A fair number,” he said at last. “But I doubt Tristan will be fool enough to let his men linger in the open once he sees what we’re about. We’ll have to make the first volley count.”

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  Levi allowed himself a faint smile, though it held no warmth. “Aye,” he said, his voice low. “Let’s give them something to remember.”

  The Codfather crept closer, the river’s currents carrying her inexorably toward the invading host. Levi could see the vanguard now beginning to stir, the first detachments breaking away to investigate the approaching ship. The Lion’s men would know soon enough what awaited them.

  The Codfather glided lazily up the Strega, her pace unhurried but deliberate, a predator stalking prey too laden to flee. Along the riverbank, the Lion’s host struggled mightily, their progress hampered by the cumbersome baggage that bore the weight of their campaign. Wagons groaned under the strain of barrels, crates, and cannon, their handlers scattering like frightened rabbits into the shelter of the woods as the ship loomed closer. Even the beasts of burden, tethered still to their doomed loads, brayed and stamped in vain against their fates. Yet Levi’s eye was drawn most keenly to the abandoned siege guns.

  There they stood, proud yet vulnerable, half-assembled monuments to the Lion’s hubris. The artillerists had begun their futile work, hoping to bring one of the great guns to bear against the brig. But siege guns, for all their destructive potential, were creatures of preparation and patience. Here, on the banks of the Strega, where haste was the order of the day, they were but ornaments waiting to be ruined.

  Their failure, Levi thought, would be his boon.

  "Fire!" The command rang out, sharp and cold, cutting through the steady hum of the river.

  BOOM!

  Eleven guns along the Codfather’s broadside roared in unison, their fury unleashed upon the helpless artillery. Shrapnel screamed across the water, a torrent of death and flame. The abandoned weapons shuddered under the assault, their frames buckling, their barrels ringing like bells struck by a smith’s hammer.

  "Fire!"

  BOOM!

  Again, the cannons thundered, their fury unrelenting. Levi stood at the helm, his face a mask of grim satisfaction as the helmsman shouted to drop anchor. The chain rattled and splashed into the Strega’s depths, slowing the vessel as she turned, presenting her other broadside.

  "Fire!"

  BOOM.

  Twenty-two more shots rang out, the combined might of the brig’s batteries tearing into the siege guns with a finality that left no question of their fate. Splinters and shards of iron flew through the air, the great engines reduced to so much wreckage scattered along the muddy banks. The foe would not fire these guns today or ever.

  "Raise anchor!" Levi barked, his voice cutting through the fading echoes of cannon fire. The Codfather lurched as the helmsman obeyed, turning her prow for another pass. Below deck, the gunners moved with practiced efficiency, ramming shot and powder into the waiting barrels.

  "Target the powder and grain," Levi commanded. His voice carried no trace of mercy, only purpose. The cannons roared anew, their salvo tearing through wagons and beasts alike. Stranded oxen, still trapped beneath their burdens, screamed as they were caught in the chaos, their massive frames collapsing bursting like overripe melons. The next volley struck with brutal precision, scattering debris and upending barrels, but it was the second that ignited the powder.

  Flame blossomed in an instant, leaping from one wagon to the next. A second explosion followed the first, then a third, the chain reaction consuming the baggage train in a storm of fire and black smoke. The air itself seemed to tremble with the force of the blast, and a triumphant grin crept across Levi’s face as he watched the conflagration spread.

  The Codfather turned for yet another pass, her guns reloaded and eager. "Aim for the head of the formation," Levi ordered. The cannons spat fire and iron, the barrage striking down every wagon, ox and mule that still clung to life amidst the carnage. No burden would be salvaged this day. The Lion’s army would march hungry, weaponless, and ill-provisioned.

  Levi’s sharp eyes caught movement in the trees—a scattering of men lurking in the shadows, believing themselves safe. He narrowed his gaze, the faintest trace of a smirk curling his lips. "Broadside into the treeline," he commanded.

  BOOM!

  Shrapnel tore through the foliage, rending leaves and branches as it sought flesh. Cries of pain and the throes of death echoed faintly across the river, though no flames took root in the damp underbrush. Levi allowed himself a brief sigh of disappointment before turning his attention back to the battlefield.

  One final broadside was loosed, its wrath falling upon the last remnants of the artillery and baggage train. The destruction was total, the ground littered with smouldering ruins and broken bodies. The Codfather pulled away, her task complete, leaving behind a charred and broken scar upon the Lion’s flank.

  As the brig drifted downriver, Levi stood at the prow, his expression unchanging. The stench of smoke and burned flesh lingered in the air, carried on the breeze like a grim herald of what was to come. He did not turn to watch the fires die, nor the enemy regroup. Victory had been reclaimed, but the war was far from over.