Chapter 32: Baron Hawthorn
With the players’ agreement secured, Alistair had no intention of wasting another moment in Silversky Town. The situation at Sablewood was dire, and they were waiting for him to save the day.
The size of the orcish force was unknown, but past experience suggested a host of at least five thousand. Every one of Alistair’s regulars was a soldier he had personally and meticulously trained; he felt the loss of each one keenly and had no desire to squander them on simple reconnaissance.
The players, however, were another matter. Though weak, their ability to resurrect made them the perfect scouts. And the perfect cannon fodder.
Alistair had simply exploited a gap in their knowledge to trick them into fighting his war, suppressing the troublesome protagonist in the process and completing a system quest. It was an absolute coup. Mobilizing the players not only allowed him to probe the enemy’s strength at no cost to his own forces, but it also served to whittle down their numbers.
The players’ main quest had advanced to its second phase—the development of Silversky Town—but Alistair’s actions had no direct impact on that objective, so no system warnings were triggered.
Outside the town walls, Alistair re-formed his army. The players, led by Geralt and a few other representatives, fell in at the rear.
"Pass the order! Destination, Sablewood Creek! Forced march! Move out!"
A cacophony of clattering steel, stomping feet, and drumming hooves erupted. Under the fearful gaze of the beastkin, the army departed as swiftly as it had arrived, vanishing in a cloud of dust. The only difference was that a chattering crowd of the Awakened now trailed in its wake.
.....
In a newly built, exquisite wooden house in Silversky, the lovely beastkin Saintess, Lena, stared blankly at the departing army.
Those Awakened were going to serve as cannon fodder for her, for the beastkin, for Silversky Town.
She knew they could be resurrected, but the feeling of being killed was unavoidable. The terror and brutality they were about to face were things that resurrection could not erase. She’d also heard that death weakened them.
Lena’s heart ached with guilt and a bitter hatred for her own powerlessness. Inevitably, her thoughts drifted back to that powerful, cruelly cold man. She remembered the long, strong fingers that had tilted her chin. She remembered the predatory hunger in his eyes.
"He was so fierce, so terrifying... but why do I have this strange feeling?" Lena murmured, lost in confusion. She hugged her large, fluffy tail, her cheeks flushing a deep crimson as a restless energy coursed through her.
.....
After an afternoon’s forced march, Alistair arrived with his army and the players at Sablewood Creek. Along the way, they had passed numerous villages razed by orc soldiers, but they had not spotted the orcs themselves.
Alistair’s immediate priority was to rendezvous with Baron Hawthorn and obtain intelligence. He knew nothing of the orcs’ current movements, and to track them blindly would be to lead his men into a trap.
In the great hall of Sablewood Keep, Baron Hawthorn greeted the dust-covered Alistair and his retinue with a grin stretched unnaturally wide.
"By the gods, look who has arrived!" he boomed with the forced cheer of a court minstrel. "It is the savior of Sablewood, our very own Earl of Frostfell, Lord Alistair!"
Flanked by his steward and a retinue of knights, Hawthorn bustled forward. His eyes drank in the sight of Alistair and the formidable army behind him as he extended a short, pudgy hand.
"Welcome to Sablewood Keep! On behalf of all my subjects, I thank you for your aid."
Alistair responded with a noncommittal grunt and, with practiced indifference, placed his horse’s reins into Hawthorn’s outstretched hand. He scanned the hall before striding confidently to the head of the conference table and taking a seat.
Hawthorn’s smile faltered, his expression momentarily darkening with indignant fury at Alistair’s arrogance. But by the time he turned, the fawning grin was plastered back on his face. His steward, Lazlo, moved with practiced efficiency to take the reins from his lord’s hand.
"Baron Hawthorn," Alistair said, his knuckles rapping sharply on the table. "I have no time for pleasantries. Report to me everything you know about the invading orc forces. Now."
He had effectively cut off whatever fawning platitudes the Baron had been about to offer.
"Yes, yes, of course! You’re right. Business first," Hawthorn said, nodding obsequiously. He waved a hand at one of his personal knights.
The knight approached the table. He cast a look of pure reverence at Alistair before turning his back on his own lord and spreading a map of Sablewood on the table. He began to recite in a clear, respectful voice.
"Three days ago, the orc invasion force overran Elderfield Town on the border. They then followed the Sablewood Creek—a name that belies its nature, for it is a wide and treacherous river—advancing on Sablewood Keep. Nearly all villages along the riverhave been destroyed."
"According to our most recent scouting reports, the last sighting was at Ashridge Village, three leagues from here at the foot of the Frostfang Mountains."
"The main orc force is estimated at six thousand. In addition, there appears to be a highly mobile raiding party. We’ve attempted several counterattacks with the militia, all of which have failed. We surmise they are wolf riders, approximately fifty in number."
"This is all the intelligence we have gathered."
The knight fell silent, his eyes fixed on Alistair. Seeing Alistair give a slight nod, he retreated respectfully to the side, awaiting his commander’s orders.
Alistair felt a flicker of recognition as he looked at the knight but couldn’t place him. He dismissed the thought and focused his attention on the map.
The orcs’ strategy was obvious: a direct push toward Sablewood Keep, taking the key towns that blocked their path. Their main army was responsible for the sieges, while the elite wolf riders sowed chaos in the surrounding lands, destroying supplies and cutting the keep off from its villages.
Alistair’s route from Silversky Town had not been on the orcs’ main line of attack, yet he had still seen torched farmsteads. This meant the orcs’ plan was already nearing completion; the villages around Sablewood Keep were almost entirely lost. Even if they failed to take the keep’s high walls, they could simply starve it out.
Hawthorn may have been a sycophant, but he wasn’t a fool. He had the basic strategic sense to see at least half of the orcs’ plan, yet he had no effective counter. His militia was mere fodder for wolf riders, and by the time he mustered his own knights for a chase, the raiders were long gone.
"Which villages near Sablewood Creek have not yet been destroyed? Show me."
At Alistair’s question, the knight hurried forward again. After a moment’s study, he pointed to several locations on the map. "Hounslow Village, Bison Village, and this one, Ironstone Village. These three are still standing."
Alistair’s gaze swept over the three locations before locking onto Ironstone Village. It wasn’t the closest, but its access to the river meant it could transport far more supplies than the other two. Furthermore, based on the trajectory of the orc vanguard, their path would take them right past it.
Alistair’s mind worked swiftly. The orc main force and their wolf riders would likely take a small detour to rendezvous near Ironstone. From there, they would cross the river, attack Hounslow and Bison in succession, and then march triumphantly on Sablewood Keep itself.
And that is where Alistair would lay his trap.