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Chapter 7: The Leader
A massive tide of refugees, dragging their families and belongings, finally spilled out through the northern gates of Ridenburg. The congested crowd dispersed as they moved forward across the plains at the mouth of the valley north of the Usson River. Under the moonlight, the throng resembled a dense swarm of ants.
In the distance, the hazy undulations marked the southernmost tip of the Deerhunter Hills—a small hill known as Silver Sparrow. It was covered with towering Goran-Elsun firs, their shapes like spires reaching toward the heavens. The forest was home to bears and mane wolves, creatures that often forced players in the game to travel in groups to survive sudden dangers lurking in the hills.
Brandon was certain their first step had to be securing Silver Sparrow Hill if they hoped to mitigate the threat coming from the plains. Madara’s forces had fully spread out, drawing sustenance from the earth day after day, swelling like a sponge. Brandon dreaded the thought of facing an endless sea of skeletons stretching across the open plain.
Thankfully, that nightmare hadn’t come to pass.
But even so, the sight of a skeletal cavalryman flickering in and out of view on the high ground amidst the night fog was far from reassuring. Those bone riders mounted on skeletal steeds likely hailed from Madara’s core territories. In this era, crafting such undead cavalry was still a rare and intricate magical art—not yet the widespread practice it would become in later years. History marched forward drenched in blood, and war sharpened both sides’ lethal arts with terrifying speed.
Brandon watched the agile shadows materialize briefly in the mist, glance back at them from afar, then vanish only to reappear closer moments later. He worried the refugees trailing behind might scatter under pressure. Ordering Freya to take the mercenaries to the flank to protect the civilians, he soon followed her lead.
Freya had won hearts by proposing they seize horses from nobles—a bold move that proved she was willing to fight alongside the mercenaries, risking her neck for the cause. Before Brandon had taught her what she now knew, she’d never have dared such a thing. And since then, the young woman with the long ponytail had proven herself admirably. She had charged into the market under a hail of arrows, cleanly severing the drawbridge cable with a single swing of her sword to allow others safe passage.
From that moment on, she earned her place among the mercenaries, convincing Retto, Mano, and the rest to take a gamble on her leadership.
By contrast, the young man Freya so admired seemed almost unremarkable in the eyes of the group. His carriage rolled alongside Freya’s horse; he sat beside the driver, one hand resting on his sword, lost in thought. On the other side of the cart, Chael, cloaked in robes, leaned against his cheek pretending to nap.
The carriage door hung loose, and heads occasionally popped out to peer curiously at the world outside. Inside, Roma tended to several children, her heart racing not from exhaustion but excitement. Escaping pursuit by the undead on such a mysterious night felt thrilling—exactly the kind of adventure she craved.
Behind them, Mercenary Mano couldn’t help but sneer. To him, Brandon—who couldn’t ride a horse—was just another weakling, unfit for battle. He nudged his companion with an elbow, thinking privately that these noble-born youths were all talk and no action. He hoped Freya, naive as she was, wouldn’t fall for Brandon’s honeyed words.
With a subtle gesture, Mano signaled his companion to test the young man with two spare horses. They’d seized over fifty mounts during their raid—half heavy draft horses, the rest fine Anlek warhorses. After setting aside those carrying supplies, wounded soldiers, or reserved for personal use, plenty remained.
His companion caught on immediately. Truthfully, many in their group shared this sentiment. Though Brandon had ordered Freya to command them to protect the refugees, they harbored silent resentment. Why drag along this baggage? Now that everyone had a mount, they could simply gallop away and leave danger behind.
Some had already suggested as much to Retto, but the tavern keeper sent them packing to speak with Freya instead. Mercenaries lived by their word; losing face meant losing livelihood. It was Freya who’d proposed seizing the horses, and she who led the charge. Their agreement bound them together—they couldn’t abandon her without consequence.
Still, that agreement came with conditions.
This time, the skeletal cavalry appeared thirty seconds sooner than before, vanishing silently into the fog once more. The second moon rose large and luminous above the eastern mountains, its pale disk casting jagged peaks into sharp relief. Beneath the moonlit heights, the mist-shrouded highlands and the dark sprawl of Ridenburg’s walls formed a layered tapestry of mystery.
Brandon glanced at his pocket watch, its edges catching the cold light of the moon.
“Why aren’t you saying anything?” He turned to see Freya riding silently, head bowed, looking uneasy. He’d intended to praise her earlier—the people she’d gathered and the horses they’d taken had been invaluable. He hadn’t anticipated encountering so many refugees, nor that so many would willingly follow him.
Glancing back, he saw the number of refugees swell from dozens to nearly three hundred. Humans were herd animals; the larger the group, the faster it grew.
Freya feared her impulsive decisions might displease Brandon but hesitated to voice her concerns. Once determined to surpass him, she now found herself striving to impress him—a shift so subtle it went unnoticed even by her.
“You… you’re not mad at me?” Freya asked, startled when Brandon’s tone betrayed no irritation. Her wide eyes reflected the moonlight, shimmering with surprise.
“What’s there to be angry about? You did great.”
“But I was late.”
“Plans have flexibility—as long as we stay within limits, it’s fine. I was delayed too.”
“That is…”
Their conversation halted abruptly as one of the mercenaries approached. Dismounting respectfully, he bowed deeply, treating the young man like nobility. Holding up the reins of two horses, he said, “Your Lordship, best mount up. If combat arises, mobility will serve us well.”
Brandon eyed the man, understanding his intentions perfectly. With effortless grace, he stepped down from the carriage and accepted the reins. Looking up, he asked, “What are the key points to riding?”
The mercenary froze, amusement flashing in his eyes. So you don’t know how to ride, yet you pretend confidence? Do you think horsemanship can be mastered overnight? In Vonder, few nobles lacked equestrian skills, especially soldiers. Being unable to ride was considered shameful.
Still, eager to embarrass Brandon in front of Freya, he offered patronizing advice: “Mount from one side—see the stirrup? Take your time, slow and steady.” He elaborated unnecessarily, convinced no one could learn to ride from mere instructions. If they could, seasoned riders like himself might as well throw themselves off a cliff.
But barely had he finished speaking when Brandon received a prompt asking if he wished to spend 15 skill points to learn riding. His initial awkwardness gripping the stirrup gave way to fluid motion as he grasped the bridle and swung onto the saddle, moving with practiced ease.
Level 3 Riding unlocked. Total cost: 45 skill points. Brandon had wanted to learn riding for some time but hadn’t realized Freya knew how. For a fleeting moment, he missed the Investigation ability.
Turning back, he saw the mercenary glaring at him, flushed with embarrassment.
…………..
“Wait,” the princess interrupted Orville’s recounting. “You mean to say he was a novice before mounting the horse?”
“Precisely, Your Highness. Unless my eyes deceived me, his footing on the stirrup was clumsy, typical of beginners,” Orville replied deferentially.
“Can someone truly master a skill in an instant?” The young princess, proud of her intellect, struggled to believe it. Learning to ride had taken her nearly half a month. Yet once she mastered it, she rivaled the best riders.
“Either he deceived us, or it is true,” Orville admitted, though he himself found it hard to accept. Still, he doubted the youth could fool his trained eye.
“A master manipulator, indeed,” the princess murmured.
Orville thought otherwise but kept silent, continuing his tale.
……………….
Meanwhile, Chael also dismounted from the carriage. Casting a sidelong glance at the mercenary, he accepted the reins and mounted smoothly. As a mage squire, riding was part of his training—not expert, but competent enough.
Freya observed both men, musing that Brandon excelled at everything except deception. She blushed recalling the time he’d asked her to teach him first aid.
The mercenary stared at master and servant, realizing too late he’d been played. Behind him, Mano noticed his comrade’s humiliation and spurred his horse forward to join the group.
“Young man, until when do we protect these people?” Mano cut straight to the point.
Brandon wheeled his horse around, riding abreast with Freya ahead. Glancing at the refugees, he replied, “We’ll guide them through Thornstone Valley. Once we reach the other side, their safety will be assured.”
“With so many, we won’t outrun Madara’s forces,” Mano shook his head.
“You can’t, but I can.”
Mano blinked. “How?”
Brandon drew his elven blade, pointing it toward the high ground. “Those skeletal riders are scouts from Madara’s core territories. Drive them off. At the refugees’ pace, it’ll take over half an hour to reach Silver Sparrow Hill. During that time, I need assurance our flank remains secure.”
Mano hesitated, surprised his question had turned into an order. He glanced at Freya—their agreement was with her, not Brandon.
“Brandon?” Freya trusted the young man but felt his demands bordered on arrogance.
Brandon sheathed his sword. “So, you’re only concerned with escaping safely yourselves, not helping me lead these people out. Arguing further is pointless. You have an agreement with Freya, yes? Convince me, and I’ll let each of you leave with a horse.”
Mano stiffened, recognizing the ‘noble youth’ wasn’t as simple as he seemed. In a few sentences, he’d seized control of the conversation. A former mercenary captain himself, Mano had dealt with nobles before but never encountered one so sharp-tongued.
“We’re mercenaries. Offer sufficient pay, and we’ll work for you. But naturally, we prioritize ourselves—it’s nothing to be ashamed of,” the older mercenary stated matter-of-factly.
“True. But let me remind you: having horses doesn’t guarantee escape. Madara has air units—have you seen wraiths and bone vultures? How do you plan to evade necromancers’ spies in the sky?” Brandon rested his hand on his sword hilt, doubting these borderland mercenaries understood Madara’s true terror. Killing a few skeletons didn’t equate to understanding necromancy. If it did, necromancers might as well bash their heads against walls.
Retto and his daughter Su rode up, hearing the young man’s words. Retto frowned. “So, you have a plan?”
“No guarantees, but my chances improve significantly in the forest. First, I must deal with those skeletal riders. With them flanking us, the refugees won’t move quickly.”
Mano and Retto fell silent, instinctively sensing the truth in the young man’s words.
Suddenly, Brandon loosened the reins, urging his horse in a wide circle toward the high ground. Turning back to the mercenaries, he pulled a ruby from his pocket. “If you want to survive, follow me. My terms are simple: obey my commands, ensure Freya leads these refugees safely to the other side of the canyon. You’re mercenaries—this gem is your reward. Complete my task, and there will be more.”
Tossing the ruby, it arced through the air, landing at Retto’s feet.
Freya pointed at herself incredulously. “Me? Brandon, why me?” She glanced at the refugees behind her. Hadn’t Brandon brought them here? Why was she suddenly responsible?
It wasn’t reluctance—she simply doubted her ability to lead hundreds, perhaps thousands. From militia captain to commander of seasoned mercenaries, the leap felt surreal.
Brandon smiled enigmatically, making no reply. Instead, he waved to Mano and Retto. “Go gather your men. I’ll await your report here. At least you can choose how you die—whether crushed by Madara’s forces and turned undead, or taking my coin and fighting like true mercenaries to carve a path to survival.”
Turning back, he saw the skeletal cavalry reappear under the moonlight, ten seconds earlier than before.
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