Chapter 8 To move in silence

The air was thick with tension as Xenric sat in the dimly lit hideout of the bandits, the flickering light of a single lantern casting long shadows on the rough stone walls. Around him, the bandits whispered among themselves, their tones sharp and hushed. Two of them, the masked figures who had saved him during the ambush, Simon and Lyra stood nearby, Xenric felt a strange sense of trust toward them, born from their actions rather than their words.

"So," Xenric began, his voice cutting through the murmurs, "what exactly do we know about where Darion and the other captives are being held?"

Lyra, stepped forward. "The slavers have an outpost deep in the Black Hollow Woods," she said. "It's heavily guarded, with patrols circling the perimeter day and night. They're holding the slaves in underground cells beneath a fortified lodge."

"Breaking into that place won't be easy," added, Viper the apparent leader of the bandits. His scarred face twisted into a grimace. "We've lost good people trying to raid it before."

"But we have an advantage now," Simon interjected. His voice was low and calm. "We know their routines, their weak points. If we move quickly and strike precisely, we can catch them off guard."

Xenric leaned forward, his fists clenched. "I don't care how dangerous it is. We're getting Darion and the others out of there."

"Easy to say," Viper grunted, crossing his arms. "But it'll take more than just resolve to pull this off. What's your stake in this, anyway? Why risk your life for one boy?"

Xenric's jaw tightened. "Because he's my friend. And because no one deserves to be treated like a piece of property." His eyes burned with determination as he met Viper's skeptical gaze.

The room fell silent for a moment, until Lyra nodded. "He's right. This isn't just about him, it's about standing against those bastards and what they represent."

"Fine," Viper said, exhaling sharply. "We'll help you. But this has to be done smart, or we'll all end up in chains or worse."

The group gathered around a crudely drawn map spread out on a wooden table. It detailed the layout of the slavers' outpost, including the lodge, the underground cells, and the surrounding forest. Viper pointed to a narrow path leading to the rear of the compound.

"This here is our best bet," he explained. "The rear entrance is less guarded, but it's also more dangerous. It's booby-trapped to keep intruders out."

"We'll need a distraction," said Lyra "Something to draw their attention while a smaller group sneaks in through the back."

Xenric nodded. "I can handle the traps. Just get me close, and I'll take care of the rest."

"Brave," Viper remarked, "but if you mess up, you'll bring the whole place down on us."

"I won't," Xenric said firmly. "What about the guards inside?"

"Once we're in, it'll be close quarters," the masked man replied. "Take them down quickly and quietly. No unnecessary noise."

The plan began to take shape. Viper and most of the bandits would stage a feigned attack on the outpost's front gate, drawing the slavers' attention and thinning their defenses. Meanwhile, Xenric, with Simon and Lyra, and a handful of others would infiltrate through the rear, disable the traps, and locate the captives.

As night fell, the group prepared for the mission. Weapons were sharpened, arrows counted, and final instructions given. Xenric adjusted the grip on his sword, his mind racing with thoughts of Darion and the horrors he might be enduring.

Lyra approached him, her voice softer now. "You sure you're ready for this?"

Xenric met her gaze. "I don't have a choice. I won't leave him behind."

"Good," she said, a hint of a smile in her voice. "Because we're counting on you."

As the group moved out under the cover of darkness, Xenric steeled himself for the battle ahead. The stakes were higher than ever, but he knew one thing for certain, he would stop at nothing to save Darion and put an end to the slavers' cruelty.

The vast hall of the Royal Citadel of Aeronberg was cloaked in a heavy silence. Golden chandeliers cast a muted glow over the assembly of knights, generals, and royal advisors who stood in tense anticipation. The room, usually filled with the echoes of debates and decisions, was now steeped in the weight of an unspoken threat, the impending arrival of Warlord Kargrosh.

Seated on his ornate throne at the head of the chamber was King Arren Vareon, his piercing eyes scanning the room with calculated intensity. Known across the kingdoms for his shrewdness and unyielding resolve, Arren exuded an aura of quiet command. His silver hair was tied neatly back, and his armor polished but practical hinted at a man prepared to lead not just from the throne but also on the battlefield.

"Your Majesty," began General Morgan, stepping forward. His voice was steady but grave. "The scouts confirm that Kargrosh's forces are less than two weeks from our borders. Their numbers are vast, and their siege engines rival anything we've seen before."

Murmurs rippled through the assembly, but Arren raised a gloved hand, and the room fell silent.

"We have faced vast armies before," the king said, his voice calm but firm. "What sets Kargrosh apart is not his strength but his cunning. He strikes not where we are weakest but where we least expect."

Advisor Calthar, an elderly man with a sharp mind and a knack for strategy, stepped forward. "Sire, our defenses are formidable, but Kargrosh does not march without reason. He seeks to sow fear and discord. We must ensure that Aeronberg does not falter, not in spirit or strength."

The king nodded, his expression unreadable. "Which is why we shall not meet him with panic but with precision. Morgan, double the patrols along the northern roads. Let no scout or messenger slip past unnoticed."

"Yes, Your Majesty," Morgan replied with a firm salute.

"Calthar," Arren continued, "ensure that our grain stores are secure and distribute rations discreetly to the outer villages. Should Kargrosh's forces aim to cut off our supplies, we will be prepared."

"At once, sire," the advisor said, bowing slightly.

Arren rose from his throne, his towering figure commanding the attention of everyone present. "Let no word of this reach the common folk," he declared. "Kargrosh thrives on fear. We shall give him none."

One of the younger knights, brimming with anxious energy, stepped forward. "Your Majesty, if I may, should we not call upon the neighboring kingdoms for aid? Kargrosh's reputation is known far and wide. They would rally to our cause."

The king's gaze turned cold, silencing the knight with its intensity. "And if we call for aid, we show weakness. Aeronberg does not beg for salvation. We endure. We adapt. And we triumph. And if it's a battle for the crown that he wants, it's a battle he shall lose."

The knight stepped back, chastened but enlightened by the king's conviction.

As the meeting concluded, the advisors and generals dispersed, each with their tasks clearly outlined. The king lingered in the hall, staring at the grand map of the kingdom etched into the table before him. His fingers traced the mountains and rivers, the natural barriers that had protected Aeronberg for centuries. But he knew Kargrosh was unlike any foe they had faced before.

"Your Majesty," a voice interrupted his thoughts. It was his spymaster, a shadowy figure who seemed to blend into the dim corners of the room. "I have agents placed along Kargrosh's path. They've intercepted whispers of his plans."

"And?" Arren asked, his tone sharp.

The spymaster hesitated, a rare sign of unease. "He does not seek merely to conquer, my king. His aim is to raze. To reduce Aeronberg to ash as a message to the other kingdoms."

Arren's jaw tightened, but his composure did not falter. "Then we shall ensure that his message is never sent. Send word to the southern garrisons. I want reinforcements ready to march within the week."

"As you command, sire."

The spymaster melted back into the shadows, leaving the king alone with the weight of his thoughts. Arren's mind raced with strategies and contingencies, every move calculated to outwit the warlord. He knew the days ahead would test not only his kingdom's strength but also his own resolve.

Standing before the grand windows of the citadel, Arren looked out over his city. The streets bustled with life, the people blissfully unaware of the storm gathering on the horizon. The king placed a hand on the hilt of his sword, a silent vow etched into his heart.

"Let Kargrosh come," he muttered to himself. "Aeroberg will not fall."