We emerged victorious, but we marched home a sorry bunch.
The orcs were a proud and fearless race. Where greenskins—or even men, for that matter—would scatter in the face of annihilation, the orcs fought to the very last fighter standing. That stubbornness ensured we could wipe out the entire warband in a single decisive battle.
But it wasn't a victory worth the songs.
The punitive force had lost too much. Half the entire fighting strength was either dead, wounded, or routed. Everyone was pointing fingers, arguing over who was to blame.
The mercenaries were the most obvious suspects. They had abandoned the right flank, and in their flight were massacred by the orcs. Their collapse nearly brought the entire line down, threatening to destroy the whole force. What's worse, what they did next was just as criminal, if not more. Not only did they lead the orcs straight to the rearguard, but they also stole the horses. Those who hadn't already died on the battlefield would surely rot in prison or swing at the gallows.
To my surprise, some fingers were also pointed at the baron.
They claimed he should have anticipated such a collapse. Instead of placing the Castorians, the Minotians, and the mercenaries into three distinct groups, they argued he should have mixed them together. That way, no single flank would have been entirely entrusted to an undisciplined, disjointed crew like the mercenaries.
In addition, he was accused of disengaging from the orcs too early. The center flank had wheeled around towards the rear to chase the orc band that reached the riverbank, while there were still enemies left in the main field of battle. The Minotian contingent, left behind to hold the line, had to fight alone. That, they said, was the reason for their surprisingly high number of dead—thirty-five soldiers.
The latter accusation, if true, I would forgive. The baron must have swung his forces back at the thought that his daughter was in danger. And I think it's reasonable for a man to prioritize the ones he loves over the lives of strangers.
It wasn't a victory feast that awaited us at the palace, but a disgruntled host.
One of the Minotian dead turned out to be noble-born—a man-at-arms, the very son of one of the prince's closest confidants.
"I left the Minotians to a battle already won. I did not expect they would crumble without us," the baron argued. He was tense, uncomfortably shifting in his seat. Sitting beside the prince was no honor that night.
Before we could even take the first bite of dinner, the shouting had already begun. We were famished after the fighting, but the bickering drained what little appetite we had left.
"Do you doubt the quality of my soldiers, my lord?" the prince glared across the table, tightly clutching his silver cup. If he had hurled it the next second, no one would have been surprised.
"They are Lacquer's very own," he said through gritted teeth. "Trained from a very young age. Drilled every morning. Paid handsomely for their service. They are elite soldiers, used sparingly. And you lost thirty five of them to orcs!"
"I think it was the baron's needless worrying for his daughter that caused his premature disengagement," a man behind the prince added. He was the captain of the palace guards, introduced to us earlier. His tone was scathing, his manner utterly irreverent.
"Needlessly?" the baron shot to his feet.
"I was told your daughter had already been evacuated to the far bank by the time you reached the river," the captain pressed on, unflinching. "First to be evacuated, no less. You risked the lives of our soldiers for nothing."
That was how they interpreted the event. Convenient for me, since most of the survivors seemed convinced they must have simply lost track of us. Clueless, if we had slipped away ahead of the others. It also helped that those who had seen me cross the river had either been cut down by orcs or drowned before they could tell the tale.
Unfortunately, I couldn't just stand up and say the baron's worry wasn't unjustified—that I had to carry Elena over the river, walking on the water itself.
Elena, for her part, seemed intent on keeping the secret. She sat with her head bowed, weakly slicing at the meat on her plate. I couldn't see whether she was crying, but I would have understood if she was.
"And what prudent commander brings his daughter to a battlefield?" the prince's voice cut in again, sharp as a blade. "This isn't a picnic. A battle is a place of blood and horror, not fit for children—least of all a young girl." He sneered. "I think matters would have gone better if I had left Sir Lawrence in command instead."
All eyes turned to the old knight, who had been silent throughout. He stroked his chin, glancing between the baron and the prince as if weighing his words.
"Well, Sir Lawrence?" the prince snapped. He didn't appreciate the silence.
The old knight straightened in his chair and finally answered, his tone calm. "He did what he could, my lord. A fight with orcs can go either way."
The prince chuckled bitterly, throwing up his hands. "It always ends like this. People clinging to their own tribe, no matter how wrong they are. And here I thought you, Sir Lawrence, were above that."
The old knight did not respond. By the look on the prince's face, he clearly expected him to. But Sir Lawrence's composure held firm.
"My hospitality will not extend past tonight," the prince declared, his voice low but full of venom. "Tomorrow, you and your ship will leave this town."
"Not without our reward," the baron said, standing his ground.
"And if I say I have reason enough to withhold it?" Prince Basil smirked.
The baron's lips twitched. He raised his hands, tiny orbs of light beginning to orbit around his fingers.
The prince responded in kind, summoning small, crackling bolts of thunder into his palm. A thunder mage—befitting of royalty. The baron would be easy prey, or anyone else in the hall for that matter.
Everyone reacted instantly. Guards by the walls and knights at the tables reached for their swords. Edmund and Clifford tensed like coiled springs.
"How easy it would be to kill you all," the prince muttered through gritted teeth. But then, with a snap, he extinguished his spell. "But enough bloodletting for today."
"You will have your reward," he said coldly, rising from his seat. "But hear me well: you may never again enter this city or dock your ship at my port."