Chapter 45 – War Drums
The skies above Eisenwald were heavy with gloom. Low gray clouds crawled across the horizon, as though the heavens themselves sensed blood was about to be spilled. In the main courtyard of the fortress, rows of Eisenwald militia stood tall. They were no longer the naïve farmers of four years ago. With simple yet well-maintained armor, spears, and gleaming swords, they looked every bit the soldiers of a rising domain.
Fenrir Eisenwald strode before them. His black-and-crimson cloak whipped in the wind. His eyes were sharp, his voice steady as he began his speech.
"Soldiers of Eisenwald! You know why we stand here today. Our caravans have been seized, our people butchered, our honor trampled. Shall we remain silent?"
"No, my Lord Baron!" the ranks roared.
"Shall Eisenwald bow to Falkenrath?"
"Never!"
Fenrir raised his sword high. Crimson aura flared to life, lava-like and pulsating as though the blade itself throbbed with molten fury. "Then steel yourselves! Today, we sound the drums of war. Eisenwald will no longer be mocked. Eisenwald will rise!"
The thunderous cheer that followed shook the very courtyard stones.
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After the speech, Fenrir entered the war room with his captains. Markus, Greta, and the other senior officers stood around a large table spread with maps.
Fenrir tapped a section near the eastern border. "Falkenrath expects us to cower and wait. He plans to strike when he chooses. We will not give him that chance."
Markus leaned forward. "What do you propose, my Lord?"
Fenrir's lips curled into a thin smile. "We strike first. But not directly. We will cut where they least expect."
His finger slid across the map to the mining route. "Without iron, their forges go silent. We will raid their supply lines—swift, sharp, then disappear. Let them learn: even in their own lands, they are not safe."
Greta smirked. "Guerrilla warfare. It suits us. Falkenrath's men may be stronger, but they are slow."
Fenrir nodded. "Precisely. The swamp and the forest are our allies. We will make Falkenrath taste nightmares in his own territory."
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Three days later, in the rocky hills near Falkenrath's mines, a small Eisenwald detachment crouched among the trees. Fenrir led from the front, with Markus and Greta at his side.
The rumble of wagon wheels echoed along the dirt road. Carts laden with ore creaked forward, guarded by a dozen Falkenrath soldiers. They were relaxed, unaware of danger.
Fenrir raised his hand. Bows drew silently.
Swiiish!
A storm of arrows rained from the treeline. Several guards fell instantly, crying out in shock.
"Ambush! To arms!" their captain shouted.
Before they could regroup, Markus charged from the right flank, spear braced like a lance. The Eisenwald infantry crashed into the disorganized escort. Fenrir leapt ahead, his blade ablaze with molten aura. Every strike cleaved through steel and flesh alike, his enemies crumbling as though cut from rotten wood.
The clash of steel and screams filled the valley. Greta's arrows whistled from afar, crippling the draft horses and halting the wagons in place.
Within minutes, the escort was shattered. Survivors fled in panic, abandoning the wagons. Fenrir stood atop the burning ore-cart, his crimson sword dripping with blood.
"Let some run," he commanded coldly. "They will carry the tale that the swamp now speaks with fire."
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News of the raid reached Heinrich Falkenrath's fortress. The Baron hurled a goblet of wine against the wall, face twisted with rage.
"That whelp dares strike my mines?!"
A dark aura surged around him, heavy and crushing like a hammer descending. Unlike Fenrir's molten blaze, Heinrich's aura was raw iron—dense, brutal, oppressive. His retainers trembled under its weight.
"Ready the army!" he bellowed. "I will crush the swamp with my own hands!"
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Back in Eisenwald, tension spread through border villages. Farmers whispered that Falkenrath's retaliation would raze their homes.
Fenrir rode into one such village. Dismounting, he faced the frightened peasants.
"My Lord… will Falkenrath destroy us?" an old man asked, voice shaking.
Fenrir's gaze was steady. "Hear me well. As long as I draw breath, none of you will be handed over to Falkenrath. I swear it. This swamp is your home—and no tyrant will take it."
His crimson aura flared for an instant, radiating heat that stirred something deeper than fear in the villagers. Their trembling gave way to determination.
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That night, Fenrir stood atop the fortress tower, eyes fixed eastward. In the distance, faint torchlights danced like fireflies—Falkenrath's army on the move.
Markus approached. "My Lord, can we truly stand against their numbers?"
Fenrir did not look away. "No army is invincible, Markus. Every giant has a weak point. We only need to find it."
Greta folded her arms. "If Falkenrath himself marches, it could be our chance. Kill the lion, and the pride scatters."
A thin smile touched Fenrir's lips. "Exactly. This war is not just about land. It is about proving who deserves to lead."
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In the far distance, the sound of war drums began to rumble, carried on the night wind. Falkenrath was coming.
Fenrir gripped his sword tighter. His molten aura pulsed like the heart of a volcano.
"Come, Falkenrath," he muttered. "I will show you that the swamp you scorn can swallow you whole."
The war between Eisenwald and Falkenrath had officially begun.
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