I leaned on the cold stone of the balcony and watched the slumbering town outside the walls of the prince's palace. The city lights, with their poor orange glow, cast a sharp contrast against the ancient lanterns that still adorned the night sky.
The passing breeze disturbed my already disheveled, scraggly hair, pushing a stray strand against my forehead. I blew it away with a lazy puff of air.
"If only they knew who you are, Master Devon, they'd put you in the vanguard."
Clifford was standing beside me, casually showing off his magical prowess. From the dirt he had taken from a flower pot, he summoned a golem. The little thing marched along the parapet, its stubby feet mimicking the movements of Clifford's fingers.
His half-blood status seemed more and more like a mere technicality. He really did have the magical potential of a legitimate son of a lord.
"I am no one but a sixteen-year-old boy. No one would be crazy enough to throw me into a battle. I don't even know how to properly swing a sword," I replied.
The baron and Sir Lawrence had briefed us earlier about our roles in the sortie against the Orcs, set to happen tomorrow. Clifford and Edmund were to fight at the forefront, both recognized as skilled enough to hold their own. Meanwhile, I—in my obscurity and youth—was assigned to the rear, part of the support and reserves. My task was to keep an eye on Elena, who had whined and protested her inclusion in the dangerous excursion. I wasn't sure whether that made my assignment easier or harder.
"A sixteen-year-old body whose wounds heal, whose broken bones mend themselves, and who could take on an entire greenskin army and come out unscathed," Edmund chimed in, unable to stay quiet for long. He sat comfortably in a chair behind us, feet propped up on the parapet while he inspected his axe.
"An entire greenskin army?" Clifford nearly shouted. "Did you see it yourself, Master Edmund?"
Edmund chuckled smugly. "Yes, I saw it—the aftermath of his carnage. Hundreds of greenskins lying dead on the forest floor. Lord Devon here looked roughed up and bloodied, but once I looked closely, there were only bloodstains and no wounds. Even his broken bones snapped back into place."
"Don't exaggerate—" I began, but Clifford cut me off in his excitement. His earthen golem crumbled away as he lost control of it.
"How can you even deny it, Master Edmund? When I attacked you, my magic dissolved like snow under the summer sun. When I tried to stab you with a knife, it was like stabbing stone instead of flesh!" Clifford exclaimed.
"Wait, you tried to stab him with a knife?" Edmund snapped upright.
"None of your business, squire!" Clifford barked back.
"So you weren't satisfied with punching him square in the face? You went ahead and stabbed him too?"
"It was a silver knife! I thought he was a demon!"
"A demon? How dare you!"
I exhaled heavily, sucking in another lungful of the cold night air. Then I turned my back on both of them, heading back into the room and leaving them to their routine catfight.
Sometimes, it was hard to believe they were older than me. They behaved exactly like sixteen-year-olds.
---
We rose early the next day. I put on my brigandine, adjusted the straps, inspected and sheathed my sword, and followed the others to the assembly area.
Over three hundred men had gathered in the town plaza.
A hundred were mercenaries—an untidy mishmash of fighters, some with decent equipment, others carrying nothing more than a spear and a battered gambeson. Another hundred were Minotian soldiers, drawn from the city garrison. They wore the livery of the prince's household, most with serviceable gear, led by a handful of men-at-arms to officer them. This was all the prince was willing to commit.
The final hundred was us. Castorian knights, squires, and any commoner on the ship foolish—or desperate—enough to volunteer with whatever weapon they had brought aboard.
We circled a small elevated wooden platform in the center of the plaza. It looked like it had once been used for executions, though the guillotine had been taken down so it could serve as a stage. Curious townsfolk crowded in behind us, forming a noisy outer ring of spectators.
Prince Basil paced across the platform, flanked by the Baron and Sir Lawrence in their polished armor. He let the silence build before finally raising a hand. The crowd hushed at once.
"I don't think there is much to say," he began. "What you will do today is nothing more than a quick punitive strike. This Orc warband cannot stand against you. You will finish the job before nightfall."
He gestured to the knights at his side. "The Castorians have lent us their aid. Baron Greylock is a rare light mage, and has faced this menace before—and in greater numbers. He will lead you to victory alongside the Castorian knights."
"The impunity of these lowly creatures ends today."
The short, confident speech was met with cheers and applause. Too optimistic for my taste, but who was I to argue? I had heard we were facing a warband of roughly a hundred orcs. Perhaps small enough not to worry about.
The baron took the stage next, explaining the plan in more detail. He told us the Orcs had occupied a nearby village. Given their ferocity and bloodlust, it was likely they would rush out to fight before we even reached the edge of the settlement.
"Do you think we'll get to fight?" Elena whispered beside me, interrupting my focus. She was dressed in an oversized gambeson that made her look even smaller than usual. A little knife dangled at her belt.
"I dearly hope not, my lady," I replied, straining to listen to the baron.
"You are a coward. And you dare call yourself a man?" she muttered.
"Well, I am not a man, my lady. I am a boy. And at sixteen, it is perfectly fine to be a coward," I answered. "And you're not that much older than me."
"I am already sixteen years and eight months old, you literal baby," she shot back.
That meant it had only been eight months since her awakening. No wonder she was still fumbling with her spells. Against orcs, she would be as helpless as a child.
"I'll find a way," she muttered under her breath, but I still caught it.
"Please, I beg you, my lady. If anything happens to you, your father will have me thrown into the sea," I said. But I knew it was a wasted plea.
"Then you better start learning to breathe underwater," she huffed, snapping her head aside with a dramatic flick of her hair.