The scouts returned late in the evening and Durakel met with each group, digesting their information and conferring with Relad to pick which targets the warband would hit and what route they would take.

“Aye, I agree Durakel, I think that will draw them out and make the rest of the escape faster,” Relad agreed, leaning back on his chosen rock and turning to look at Rogden.

Shrugging, the younger lord chimed in, “I think any plan will serve to confuse them enough that we can easily walk out.”

Durakel nodded at his two conspirators and sighed, resting his elbows on his knees and leaning in, “I want to head out tomorrow to find a place to set up our ambushes, when I return, I will gather the warriors and tell them the plan.”

The breezy forest air filled Durakel’s nostrils as he stalked through the trees with Kinsa, creeping along the river toward the shallower part of the river between Eaglecreek and Oakfield. Kinsa surveyed the forest, speaking out on occasion to plot where the warband could ambush any retaliation.

“What exactly are we looking for out here, Durakel?”

Durakel called a pause, sitting down to lean against a wide trunk and beckoning his partner over. His green eyes swept the diminishing tree line, before settling on Kinsa’s amber ones.

“What exactly can your brother do?”

She scoffed and took a seat next to Durakel, leaning against the same trunk, “I thought it was my expertise you wanted out here.” She shook her head and sighed, “I guess I can’t compare to his flashy story of burning down Gullpoint’s harbor.”

A short bark of laughter startled Kinsa and she turned to find Durakel smiling, “That’s not at all what I’m saying. I wanted your brains out here and your ability to help me think like the bastards across the river. I needed help figuring out where to hit them and, yeah, I’d like to see how Agarn can help, but I am asking you how he can. I trust your opinion of how we can leverage him in an ambush.”

She exhaled, cheeks colored a slight pink color, and regarded Durakel. Nodding, she chewed her lip for a moment before standing again and facing north to the river.

“Agarn can pull some boulders by the river bank to shield a few warriors. Our men light a fire in the tree line, making noise and pretending to celebrate.”

Watching her, Durakel smiled and gestured for Kinsa to continue.

“We have our archers here to harass them as they cross the river. We send a few to engage them and then our men hiding on the river hit them from behind, flanking them and making sure none of the bastards can escape.”

He stood and nodded, turning to face the river as well. Silent, he walked over to Kinsa and smiled.

“That’s why I asked you to come this morning.”

Kinsa rolled her eyes and strode away, heading further along the river toward Oakfield. A few more chuckles left Durakel before he realized Kinsa did not plan to stop and wait. He trotted ahead to catch up, laughing as she quickened her pace as well.

Crouching in the underbrush separating Oakfield's forest from its hills and farmlands, Durakel and Kinsa inspected the sprawling town indebted to Ironhill. They stared between the town and the river for an hour, discussing the valleys and rocky hillsides and groves. Moving on from watching the town, they skirted farmsteads and meandering shepherds for a while before Kinsa tackled Durakel, shoving his face into the loamy grasslands and hissing at him to remain quiet. He spat out mud, fighting to avoid snarling at her, but she shoved his face into the dirt before wrenching his neck up and pointing him across the valley. A cloaked figure crested the rise next to theirs. The figure dropped to a knee and held a hand above his eyes to shield them from the sun. He peered down at Oakfield, withdrawing a slim object from a satchel on his hip.

Kinsa's deft hands slid her unstrung bow off her back and began preparing to shoot while Durakel bit his lip to keep from panting. He wrestled with his hands, forcing them to stay pinned by his side, frantic eyes watching Kinsa line up an arrow on the distant figure. The cloaked man on the opposite ridge scrawled in his journal and continued to watch the bustle beneath him in Oakfield. Grabbing Durakel by the back of his jerkin, Kinsa murmured down to him.

"When I fire, fuckin' run."

A moment later, her shortbow loosed its arrow and Durakel bolted off his feet and began tearing down the valley separating their hill from the other figure's ridge. As his feet began tearing into the dirt leading up the opposite rise, the figure jerked as Kinsa’s arrow plowed into his thigh. He stumbled and fell, rolling down the other side of his hill. Durakel panted and forced his legs to churn faster as he raced up the slope and crested the hill. He whipped his head around, seeking the escaping scout. Barreling downhill like a boulder jarred loose during a rockslide, the figure neared the valley below and attempted to regain his footing.

Pumping his arms, Durakel danced down the incline, but as he spared a glance at the hobbled scout, he lost his balance and tumbled. Dazed, he blinked away stars after he landed at the bottom and scrambled to his feet in time to watch another arrow streak across the valley and into the retreating figure’s shoulder. Durakel crowed and turned to give the smirking Kinsa a salute. He waited a few moments for her to descend and they approached the limp form together and slowed their gait as they reached the body.

A few tentative pokes from Durakel’s sword elicited no response, so he used his boot to roll the man over. The arrow embedded in his shoulder twinged and the man jerked awake with a whimper. His panicked gaze flicked between Kinsa and Durakel before he used his elbows to crawl backwards, stopping as he watched Kinsa’s hand yank an arrow out of her quiver and level her bow at him. The man’s rapid breaths slowed and turned into desperate pleading as his pair of captors stared down at him.

The midday sun beat down on the valley into the eyes of the captured scout. He sat leaned against a stone jutting out of a hill with his arms and legs bound and a dirty rag stuffed in his mouth. Crimson stains had colored his shoulder and hip where the pair of arrows still protruded. A few yards away, Durakel sat with his back to the sun and his focus glued on the half lidded scout’s face. Kinsa paced behind him, watching her chieftain deliberate and wrestle with himself as his fingers dug into the soft dirt of the grassy valley. His beard failed to hide the clenching of his jaw as Kinsa watched him. She averted her gaze when he turned around and spotted her pacing, but he called her name and she looked up at his conflicted eyes before striding over and standing above him.

“What do you want to do with this shit sack?” Kinsa asked.

Durakel sucked in air, trying to halt his breaths and grasping for some remote control of his heartbeat. He stared at the limp form of the youth before them bearing the red and light blue colors of West River, watching the blood pool underneath the scout as the pair of arrow wounds leaked more blood. Durakel grabbed his temples, covering his eyes as he exhaled and bit his lip.

“He won’t live if we drag him back.”

Kinsa agreed.

“He won’t survive if we leave him here.”

Kinsa agreed again, amber eyes boring into Durakel as she frowned.

“He’ll bleed out. It’ll take a while.”

Keeping quiet, Kinsa continued to stare at Durakel.

He inhaled and nodded to himself before deciding, “We should question him.”

Grabbing the man by the back of his neck, Kinsa slapped him and pulled him closer. Durakel swallowed and pushed her off so he could grab the scout by the shirt.

The man grinned and his head lolled back to the ground as he stared at the afternoon sky, “I can’t feel my legs, I’m not scared of you sheep loving assholes.”

Durakel spat on his face and drew a dagger with his left hand, “Are you scared now, shit sniffer? How many of you are there?”

Recoiling, the scout jerked his head away, trying to whip the saliva off. He scowled at Durakel and attempted to spit back. Kinsa blasted him with her fist and he coughed, spitting up blood instead. He blinked away the brilliant sun rays and the salty tears, casting his head to the side and coughing. Pressing his blade into the scout’s throat, Durakel watched as his flesh pressed in and a beadlet of blood formed. The man writhed away, seeking to escape the pressure as Durakel bore down a fraction harder.

He snarled, “I’m dead anyway, why would I say a damn thing. My gods already love me because I fell to an enemy’s hand.”

Kinsa’s teeth flashed as she snarled at their captive, “They won’t love you if we weigh your body down and leave you in the river.”

Sucking in air and quivering, he kept silent, staring at his captors and daring them to continue. Kinsa nodded and ripped an arrow out of her quiver. She pulled a vial out of the pocketed belt she wore across her chest and poured a small quantity on the head of the arrow. She waved it in front of the scout’s half-lidded sight before pushing the tip into their prisoner’s abdomen.

Durakel smacked the man across the face and drew close to him, growling, “How many warriors guard the river? How many men do you have patrolling the village and farms? How fast can you pigfuckers cross the river?”

The captured scout cried in pain and refused to answer. Durakel scowled and nodded at Kinsa, who shoved her arrow deeper and twisted the arrowhead. Writhing in pain, the man scratched at his bindings and whimpered as the fire oil tore at his insides.

Durakel grabbed Kinsa’s wrist and pulled the arrow out before pulling the tip up to the scout’s face and tracing a line on his cheek. He began crying and Durakel growled again, “How many warriors patrol the river?”

Eyeing her partner and seeing the chief’s eyes boring into the scout, Kinda pushed the arrow deeper, slicing the man’s cheek. He bucked against the weight of his captors, gasping and fighting to wriggle free. Kinsa pushed her elbow deeper into the man’s chest, forcing him down as Durakel punched the man in the mouth, fighting to continue straddling the prisoner. Weeping, the man finally answered after Durakel stopped raining down punches.

“Groups of five walk the river every few hours. If they find something, ten and a warhound will patrol. Every day a scout crosses the river to keep watch on the villages.”

He gasped and spat out a tooth, begging his captors, “Take me with you, or give me to one of your villages at least, I’ll be tortured if they find me here.”

Crimson tears ran down the scouts face as Durakel stood up, Kinsa keeping a dagger leveled at the man’s throat. Her green eyes met Durakel as he stared down at the weeping man. Gritting his teeth, Durakel nodded at Kinsa and watched as her blade slit the man’s throat, blood spurting out and catching both of them with its spray. She flicked the knife off and cleaned the blade with a spare cloth she tucked back into her belt.

“We’ll need to hide him somewhere.”

Durakel nodded and hefted the corpse onto his shoulders and trudged back over to the rocky hillside they had first sighted the scout from. They found a shallow niche underneath a large boulder and, after excavating some room, shoved the body into the ditch and covered him with dirt and loose rock.

“Long as he’s not found before tonight, we’ll be fine.”

They stared at the ground, shoulders touching, for a while before Kinsa put an arm around Durakel. He glanced up, eyes misted over and lip bloody from biting down.

“I’d say it gets easier, but if it does there’s a problem. It doesn’t make you a bad man to do what you need to protect your home.”

Leaning into the hug, Durakel let his head fall. They stood for a few more moments before he coughed and they began making their way back to the camp. They kept an eye on the river, remaining silent except to continue plotting their ambush. The sun dipped below the treeline and signalled evening as they returned to the warband. Kinsa clapped him on the back before making a beeline to her brother and dragging him off into the woods. Striding to the center of the camp and wishing for a fire to stare at, Durakel flagged down Bagrad and sent the quartermaster off to produce one of the few remaining flagons of liquor. The metallic tang of blood from continuing to chew his lip shook him out of his reverie in time for Rogden to walk over with a pair of flasks and squat down on a wide log next to Durakel.

The burn of the dark brown liquor caused Durakel to wince as it washed across his broken lip, prompting Rogden to laugh in surprise.

“One day out in the field with Kinsa and you can’t handle your booze anymore?”

Durakel licked his lips and wiped them off with his sleeve before taking another long swig. Brow furrowed, Rogden took a deep sip of his own flask. They sat in silence for a few minutes, listening to the soft clinking around camp as the men prepared themselves to march and told rowdy jokes to lighten the mood.

“What happened out there, chief? You gonna be able to lead these men in a few hours?”

Spitting, Durakel turned to Rogden and nodded, only meeting the man’s gaze for a second before he howled to the warband and called for the men to assemble.

“Last night our scouts watched the land around Eaglecreek. Tonight, we burn the town and remind them to stay on their side of the river and leave our villages and farms alone.”

Wide eyes, several murmuring voices, and a handful of raucous cheers greeted him as he continued to detail the battle plan.

“The largest group will head to Eaglecreek and burn down the guard barracks. They will cross the river immediately and head to our meeting point. The other groups will target the violet water lilies in the surrounding farms and set them ablaze when you see the fires rise in the village.”

The warband began nodding and a few more cheers broke out. Glancing around, Durakel still noted a few shocked expressions and sideways looks.

“I know this seems extreme. We found a scout today watching Oakfield. They are going to take our towns and fields and farms and families if we don’t stop them. We aren’t here to kill their villagers, we are here to make sure ours stay safe and don’t have to live under the threat of West River’s greedy lords.”

More men rapped their chest in assent as Durakel continued. The wary looks slipped away, replaced by steel eyed warriors latched onto his words. He took a few deep breaths, pausing to look at every single member of his warband. Relad and Shegara stepped out of the crowd to flank him and raise their arms, and Rogden cried out from the back of the crowd, “Glory to Ironhill and glory to Durakel!”

The warband cheered and hollered, echoing Rogden’s cry as they dispersed and began checking and double checking their gear. As the last beams of golden light slid out of the sky and allowed night to fall, Durakel and Rogden led the warband in a column snaking out of the forest and down to the river. They hugged a hillside sloping down to the water until they arrived at a rocky portion of the river bank dotted by dozens of stones. Raising his fist, Durakel called a halt and sent Rogden to retrieve Agarn and Kinsa.

Durakel’s heart raced and his palms sweat as he watched the shaman make his way to the front of the column. He wore fitted leathers that covered the tattoos swirling across his chest and arms and scratched at his neck as he followed Kinsa. The warlord and shaman nodded at one another as Agarn stopped at the largest of the stones sticking out of the bank. He grit his teeth and placed his hands on the boulder and began murmuring under his breath while Durakel’s intent gaze bored into the faint glow emanating from Agarn’s neckline.

Commanding the attention of the rest of the group as Agarn worked, Rogden and Relad outlined the plan to hide a small force in the boulders while the rest hid in the treeline. Shegara and Kinsa stepped in to assign groups to the four torch teams and determine which warriors would return to the boulders and which would lie in wait in the false camp in the forest.

The terse commands of his lieutenants fell flat on Durakel as he remained glued to watching Agarn work. The shaman’s palms also shone with a dim green radiance where they touched the boulder and the stone rose out of the ground several more feet at Agarn’s command. Continuing to mutter under his breath with closed eyes, his hands continued to produce a deep green color as he pulled off the boulder and aimed his palms at a pair of rocks nearby. Groaning, the ground shifted under his feet as his calling pulled the stones toward him. Blinking several times, he leaned back against the largest boulder and yanked a waterskin out of his satchel before sucking it down.

The shaman stood behind a large natural rock formation, with no furrows in the muddy bank even revealing where he had dragged the stones from. Durakel gaped at the stoneshifting before shaking his head and resolving to strongarm Agarn into a longer conversation when they returned to Ironhill. Oblivious to the exertions of the shaman, the rest of the warband milled about in their divided groups as they waited for Durakel to give the final command to cross the river and begin their assault on Eaglecreek.