Chapter 17: Edge of the Wastes

The gates of Volgunder Keep swung open with a groan of iron and wood, and the attack force spilled out onto the frost-covered plains. Dawn was just breaking, painting the eastern sky in hues of pale grey and blood orange. Liam rode near the rear of the third squad, his mithril short sword at his side, his shield strapped to his back, and a knot of apprehension tightening in his stomach. He was a Volgunder, a warrior, and a mage, riding to war.

The first day's march was grueling. The terrain, though still technically within Drakonian territory, was harsh and unforgiving. The rolling hills gave way to rocky outcrops and windswept plains, the sparse vegetation offering little protection from the biting wind. Liam kept pace with the other riders, his body aching, his mind racing. He thought of Van, of his father, of the impossible task that lay ahead.

As dusk settled, they made camp in a sheltered ravine. The soldiers moved with practiced efficiency, setting up tents, building fires, and posting sentries. The air was filled with the smell of woodsmoke, the murmur of voices, and the occasional clang of metal.

Liam found a relatively secluded spot near a cluster of rocks, away from the main bustle of the camp. He unsaddled his horse, tethered it to a stunted tree, and then sat down with his back against a cold stone, his short sword and shield within easy reach.

He closed his eyes, trying to find a moment of peace, but his mind was a whirlwind of anxieties. He was surrounded by seasoned warriors, veterans of countless battles. He was a boy, barely a man, with a magic he barely understood and a fighting style that was still new and untested. He felt like an imposter, a fraud, waiting to be exposed.

"You're quiet tonight, Liam."

He opened his eyes and saw Brad standing over him, his expression unreadable in the fading light.

Liam shrugged. "Just… thinking," he said.

Brad nodded, then sat down beside him, his movements surprisingly graceful for a man of his size. "About the fight?" he asked.

Liam hesitated, then nodded again. "About… everything," he admitted. "About Van. About my father. About… what we're going to face."

Brad was silent for a moment, his gaze fixed on the distant horizon. "War is never easy, Liam," he said finally, his voice low. "It takes its toll, on everyone. Even the strongest."

Liam looked at him, a question in his eyes. "You… you've fought in many battles, haven't you?"

Brad gave a short, humorless laugh. "More than I care to remember." He paused, then added, "I wasn't always… this." He gestured to himself, to his simple tunic, to the absence of any high-ranking insignia.

Liam frowned. "What do you mean?"

Brad sighed, his gaze turning inward, as if he were looking back at a distant, painful memory. "I'm from a branch family of the Volgunders," he said, his voice barely a whisper. "A minor branch, far removed from the power and prestige of your line. But we still carry the name, the responsibility."

He paused again, his eyes clouded with a sadness Liam hadn't seen before. "I was… talented, once," he continued. "Or so they said. I trained hard, I excelled in the forms, I rose quickly through the ranks." He reached up and touched the jagged scar that ran across his face, a silent testament to past battles. "But I hit a wall. Four stars. I could never get past it. No matter how hard I trained, how many battles I fought, I couldn't break through."

Liam listened, intently. He had never heard Brad speak so openly about his past.

"There were… whispers," Brad continued, his voice barely audible above the crackling of the nearby campfire. "Some said I lacked the killer instinct. Others said I lacked the… discipline. The true Volgunder spirit." He gave a bitter smile. "Perhaps they were right."

He looked at Liam, his blue eyes filled with a strange mixture of sadness and… something else. Something that might have been hope.

"But you, Liam," he said, his voice firm. "You have something different. Something… more. Your mother… she had it too."

Liam's heart skipped a beat. "My mother?" he asked, his voice trembling slightly. "You… you knew her?"

Brad nodded. "I did. She was… a distant cousin. We grew up together, in a small village far from here. She was… special. Even then."

Liam was stunned. He had never known anything about his mother, beyond the barest details. To hear Brad speak of her, to hear that he had known her, it was… overwhelming.

"What… what was she like?" Liam asked, his voice barely a whisper.

Brad smiled, a genuine smile this time, a smile that softened his weathered features. "She was… like the wind," he said. "Free, unpredictable, impossible to contain. She had a spirit that could not be broken, a will that could not be bent. And she had… a gift. A gift that was both a blessing and a curse."

He didn't elaborate, and Liam didn't press him. He knew, instinctively, that Brad was talking about magic.

"I see that same spirit in you, Liam," Brad said, his voice turning serious again. "That same… fire. But you need to be careful. You need to learn to control it, to channel it. Or it will consume you."

Liam nodded, his throat tight with emotion. He didn't know what to say. He felt a strange connection to this man, this distant relative, this… mentor.

They sat in silence for a long moment, the only sounds the crackling of the fire and the distant murmur of voices.

Then, Brad stood up. "Get some rest, Liam," he said. "We have a long journey ahead of us."

Liam watched him go, his mind racing. Brad's story had given him a new perspective, a new understanding of his own potential, and of the challenges he faced.

The next two days passed in a blur of hard riding and restless nights. The attack force moved swiftly, relentlessly, deeper and deeper into the Eastern Wastes. The landscape grew increasingly desolate, the air colder, the sense of danger ever-present.

They saw more signs of Rubak raids: burned-out villages, fields littered with bones, the occasional hastily dug grave. The soldiers rode in silence, their faces grim, their eyes constantly scanning the horizon.

Finally, on the evening of the third day, they reached their destination: the ruined barracks, the site of Van's last stand.

It was a grim sight. The wooden structures had been reduced to charred timbers, the stone walls blackened by fire. The air still smelled of smoke and death. A makeshift graveyard had been erected nearby, marked by a cluster of rough-hewn crosses.

Captain Karl Volgunder called a halt, his face a mask of cold fury. He surveyed the scene, his eyes narrowed, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword.

"They were here," he said, his voice a low growl. "Recently. And they were… thorough."

He turned to a group of scouts, their faces grimed with dirt and exhaustion. "Report," he commanded.

The lead scout stepped forward. "We found tracks, Captain," he said. "A large war party. Heading east, deeper into the Wastes. They're carrying… supplies. Loot."

Karl nodded, his eyes hardening. "They're bold," he said. "And they're well-organized. This new chieftain… he's different. More dangerous."

He paused, then turned to the assembled warriors. "We will rest here tonight," he announced. "But we will not be idle. I want a scouting party to examine these ruins. Check for survivors, for traps, for any sign of the enemy's movements. Volgunder, you're with me." He pointed at Liam.

Liam's heart skipped a beat. This was it. His first real test, his first chance to prove himself in a combat situation.

He joined Karl, Brad close behind him, and a handful of other seasoned warriors. They dismounted and began to search the ruins, their movements cautious, their senses on high alert.

The barracks were a scene of devastation. The wooden structures had been completely destroyed, the stone walls scorched and cracked. The air was thick with the stench of smoke and decay. Liam felt a wave of nausea, a mixture of grief, anger, and fear.

They searched for hours, their lanterns casting flickering shadows on the ruined walls. They found no survivors, only the charred remains of those who had fallen. They found signs of a fierce struggle, of a desperate last stand.

As they were about to give up, Brad stopped, his hand on Liam's arm. "Wait," he said, his voice low. "Look."

He pointed to a section of the wall, where a series of strange symbols had been scratched into the stone. They were crude, almost childlike, but they were clearly not Rubak markings.

Liam frowned. "What is it?" he asked.

Brad shook his head. "I don't know," he said. "But it's… familiar. I've seen something like this before…"

He trailed off, his eyes scanning the surrounding area. Then, he noticed something else. A faint trail of footprints, leading away from the barracks, towards a nearby cluster of rocks.

"They were here," Brad said, his voice grim. "And they left… recently."

He turned to Karl Volgunder, who had been watching them with a skeptical expression. "Captain," he said, "I believe we have a trail."

Karl nodded, his eyes hardening. "Then we follow it," he said. "But carefully. This could be a trap."

As they prepared to follow the trail, Liam felt a surge of adrenaline, a mixture of fear and excitement. This was it. This was what he had been waiting for. This was his chance to avenge Van, to prove himself, to fight for Drakonia.