By dusk, the first enemy scouts appeared.
Three riders, cloaked in black and silver—Cedric's colors. They moved carefully, eyes scanning the hills.
Aldric watched from a ridge above.
He gave the signal.
Arrows hissed through the air.
The first scout fell instantly—a shaft buried in his throat.
The second tried to wheel his horse around—too slow. An arrow punched through his chest, sending him tumbling.
The third spurred his horse, racing back to warn the others.
Aldric had expected that.
From the shadows, a rebel lunged with a spear, catching the rider in the ribs.
Three scouts dead.
Cedric's men would know now.
And they'd be coming.
Nightfall
The horns began at sundown.
Low, deep, and foreboding.
Cedric's army had arrived.
From the treeline, dozens of torches flickered like fireflies. The glow reflected off steel armor, off drawn blades.
Aldric stood atop a rocky outcrop, eyes scanning the mass of soldiers.
Too many.
A direct fight was suicide.
