Chapter 4 - The Convoy Departs
Chapter 4 - The Convoy Departs
Ashborn stepped out of the quartermaster's tent, his cloak blowing behind him in the wind. He adjusted the sigil brooch of the black oak against his chest to ground himself. His boots pressed into the soft ground, still damp from the morning dew.
He exhaled slowly and rolled his shoulders, tiredness permeating him. He had kept his composure all morning, the conversations, the plans, the responsibilities, but now that stillness had returned, so had the burden.
Alde and Valyn had peeled away outside a few moments ago. Alde to oversee the loading of the alchemical supplies and advise his apprentices, Valyn to inspect the vanguard and relay orders for the convoy's departure of the convoy. Both men had nodded briefly before setting off.
Before Alde left, he pressed something into Ashborn's hand, a small black glass vial no longer than his thumb.
"For your aura training," the old mage had said. "Infused with the marrow of a flame dragon, mixed under the eclipse moon last summer. Don't waste it, I only have one. You'll feel it when it takes hold. Take it before you start, it will double the efficiency for a week." Ashborn nodded, silently remembering the potion and the creature Flame drake, realising it could be useful for his future.
Now, left alone in the cool dimness, he rode back to his tent, sat down on the cot and examined the vial. The liquid inside shimmered a deep crimson gold, like molten rubies. It pulsed faintly, and the warmth even spread through the mystical glass. He uncorked it without hesitation and drank it down in one gulp.
It scorched his tongue. For a heartbeat, he thought he had made a mistake, and heat flared up in his chest as if he had swallowed fire. His body started oozing sweat and grime, turning to a shade of red, his blood vessels dilated and threatened to burst. Just when he thought he was going to die, the heat subsided, as if the sunlight was blossoming in his veins. His heartbeat slowed, and clarity returned.
Ashborn stood up quickly and made his way to the centre of the tent. He unfastened his coat and dropped it quietly onto the cot behind him. He slumped into a pose, his feet shoulder-width apart, knees slightly bent, arms relaxed at his sides. The same pose is depicted in the Book of Knightly Aura and Flames: Crimson Flames.
He inhaled deeply through his nose, slowly and deliberately. Holding and exhaling, repeatedly. Each breath was deeper than the last. With each cycle, he imagined the energy flowing through him, like light warming from within. He concentrated on the breath, on the posture, on the stillness. The potion worked quickly.
He felt the warmth gathering near his heart —at first like the flickering of a candle, then growing stronger, licking at the edges of his lungs and limbs. Not painful — controlled, precise. The crimson aura had awakened.
Nothing can stop the fire's advance.
He repeated the mantra in his head. His breathing deepened, and his pulse matched the rhythm. Sweat formed on his forehead and back, but he did not break focus. He could almost see it now, inside his heart, the faint red glow, curling around his vessels like smoke becoming palpable.
Gradually, minutes passed. Maybe hours. Then it happened. A flicker of warmth ignited in his palm. Not just empty warmth, but an actual presence. When he opened his eyes, a faint red glow covered his palm. Crimson, like a liquid flame. Not a complete fire yet, but close. He bent his palm, and the aura responded, tightening slightly, and loosening again when he released it, like a taut cloth.
A slow smile curved his lips. "I can feel it," he murmured. The foundation left by his predecessor, the old Ashborn, was solid. This body remembered discipline. Muscle memory took over where Desmond's knowledge was lacking. And with the potion pulsing through him, the training had become…alive. He sank deeper into his stance and switched to the second breathing pattern.
The aura moved. Outside, somewhere behind the flaps of his tent, a horn sounded —the signal for the roll call. Voices shouted and hooves stamped into the ground. The whole camp stirred with people.
But Ashborn did not move.
Let it burn… let it grow.
He wouldn't become an Intermediate Knight overnight. But at this moment, that control was proof that the flame within him had not yet died out with his predecessor. And soon… he would walk a much further path.
Ashborn's breathing slowed as the last tendrils of crimson aura gently slipped from his limbs and seeped back into the depths of his heart. His skin glistened with sweat, and his muscles pulsed with the afterglow of exertion, but beneath the exhaustion lay something deeper. The satisfaction of progress.
He rose slowly from his position, his joints cracking softly as he stretched his arms above his head. The vial Alde had given him lay discarded on the edge of the table, the glass still slightly warm. Whatever potent alchemy had been brewed within, it had strengthened the aura in his heart, made it purer and denser. One step closer to Intermediate Knight.
He stripped off his clothes and washed himself with a cloth dipped in water. Feeling clean and refreshed, he donned a fresh tunic, black with deep red trim, embroidered with the sigil of House Blackwood — a flaming oak tree with a dragon perched upon it. A crimson belt was tied around his waist. His fingers lingered on the fabric for a moment, anchoring themselves in the identity it represented.
Just as he reached for his sword, the flap of the tent was pulled aside.
Valyn entered after announcing. The tall knight's armour gleamed with a muted sheen, practical but dignified, and his crimson cloak billowed gently behind him. A few strands of hair had come loose from his half-tied ponytail, damp from the morning cold. His expression was stern as ever, but Ashborn saw the flicker of serenity in his eyes.
"All preparations are complete, my lord," Valyn said, nodding firmly. "The carriages are packed, the provisions stored, and the guard rotations are established for the journey." Ashborn holstered his sword at his hip and turned to face him. "Good, any problems?"
"No. Quartermaster Charles reports that we are ahead of schedule. Sir Alde is already inspecting the lead wagons, and the scouts have returned with no sign of danger." "Then we'll be on our way." Ashborn declared. Valyn hesitated for a moment, then stepped forward and lowered his voice a little.
"There is one more thing, my lord. The men are gathered in the central grounds: Soldiers, serfs, and apprentices. We are all waiting to march with you." His gaze met Ashborn's, firm but earnest. "A few words from their lord would mean a lot to them. I think it would boost morale and remind them who they follow." Ashborn paused.
He glanced at his white gloves and moved his fingers against the leather.
He was not a born lord. A morning ago, he wasn't even sure who he was. But they were following him regardless, men who bled for him, workers who walked behind him, farmers who wanted to grow food for him.
They don't need a perfect lord, he thought. Just one who stands with them.
He sighed, and a slow nod escaped him. "Let's not keep them waiting." Valyn's mouth twisted into a slight curve as he stepped aside to let Ashborn pass. "They will be ready, my lord." Ashborn stepped out of the tent, stepping into the full light of forenoon.
The atmosphere in the camp had changed. Where once there had been the hum of preparations, now there was silence and order. Rows of soldiers stood at attention in formation. Wagons and carriages circled, loaded and guarded. Serfs gathered in loose groups with tools and bundles on their backs, their eyes a little lost under their wide hoods.
The way had been cleared to the centre of the camp, where a raised platform stood, made from planks, with flags hanging from its sides, fluttering in the wind. The crest of Blackwood glowed crimson on black. Ashborn took a deep breath and felt a little nervous.
The horse stepped forward and trotted towards the centre with Valyn at his side, the horse stamping firmly on the ground.
Today, they would march to their fief. But first, they would march with purpose.
Soon, he reached the heart of the camp, a sprawling expanse of open field where the Blackwood flag fluttered proudly, its crimson and black colours waving in the breeze alongside Alde. The air buzzed with anticipation as rows of soldiers in iron armour and knights on noble steeds stood at the ready, their eyes fixed on him with a mixture of respect and eagerness. As he strode past them, he took a moment to absorb the scene, noting the determination on their faces and the soft clink of armour in the stillness. He climbed onto a makeshift platform that rose above the gathering.
All eyes were on him. The Soldiers stood at attention in tight formations, their armour polished and their spears lined up like a forest of steel. Gathered behind them were serfs, farmers, shepherds, craftsmen, and their families — some clutching their few possessions, others holding wide-eyed children in their arms. There were nearly a thousand of them, the backbone of Blackwood's future...
Valyn stepped to his side, his bronze gauntlet resting on the hilt of his sword. Alde stood directly behind them, his long robe blowing gently in the wind, his wrinkled hands clasped behind his back. Both men gave him a discreet nod.
He raised his hand, and the murmur died away like embers in the snow. "My people," he began, in a firm voice that could be heard across the field. "Today, we set out not only to reclaim what is ours, but to build something greater, a homeland."
A quiet wave of excitement passed through the crowd-perhaps anticipation or hope. "I know you all carry the burden of war, of loss, of leaving behind the only home you know. But I promise you: Blackwood Vale is not the end. It's a beginning!"
He swept his gaze over them all, at the lined faces of the veterans, the nervous eyes of the young militiamen, the weathered face of the serfs. "We are riding into adversity, yes. But also into an opportunity. Into a land that will be ours to cultivate, to defend, to live upon with pride. Every stone we raise, every field we plough, every tower we build—it will bear our name, our toil, our blood and our strength."
He let that sink in for a moment before his voice rose again, imbued with boldness.
"It is the first step of a legacy! We are not just survivors of chaos — we are founders of peace. Every sword here is a promise. Every hand that tills the soil is a declaration of our future"
A murmur of approval went through the crowd, and the momentum slowly swelled like the first wave of a tide.
"I ask for trust. In me!" Ashborn said, a little quieter now, "in the path that lies before us. We do not walk alone — we walk together. And we will make Blackwood Vale a bulwark for us and our future!"
There was silence for a moment. Then someone clapped — a knight. Then another. Then a cheer. And then the camp erupted. It was a roar. Genuine and Loyal. A sound of people choosing to believe.
Ashborn nodded once and stepped off the platform with a calm expression. Valyn was the first to speak as they turned to face the carriage, his eyes slightly red. "That was well said, my lord. You speak like a man who has led for years." Ashborn gave him a wry half-smile. "The knowledge in the books knows no bounds."
Alde chuckled behind them. "The boy has finally lived up to the weight of his name." The three of them made their way to the gilded carriage, a sturdy construct of oak wood adorned with polished iron reinforcements and the crest of the black oak carved into its doors. A team of six horses with thick limbs and well-fed stood ready under the reins of an experienced coachman.
Valyn's six mounted knights formed a protective half-ring around the carriage. Banners fluttered on the spears. The shields reflected the sun like polished mirrors.
Ashborn paused before climbing in and took one last look at the crowd. Serfs had begun to mount the oxcarts. The Soldiers marched in formation. The long road ahead wound through the forested hills of the western Greenwood Trail toward the river valley that encircled Blackwood Vale.
Valyn opened the carriage door. "Shall we, my lord?"
Ashborn climbed in. The door snapped shut behind him. With a snap of the reins and a thundering clatter of hooves, the convoy began to move, slowly at first, a long line of wagons and wheels rumbling through the morning light.
The march to reclaim Blackwood Vale had begun.
The convoy began its long journey with the creaking groan of wheels, the steady drumming of hooves, and the rhythmic shuffling of boots on the grass. Hundreds of people moved in orderly columns, soldiers flanked the serfs, knights peered ahead and guarded the rear, and carriages stood in the middle. From a distance, it looked like a coiling serpent of steel and wood, winding its way into the embrace of the Greenwood Trail.
Ashborn rode in the centre, on a black horse with a proud, arched neck and a calm temperament. Valyn rode to his left, silent as ever, his eyes constantly scanning for threats. Alde rode behind in a padded carriage, too old to sit in the saddle for long, but refusing to be absent from the conversation. The air had a freshness that made breathing sharper and cleaner. The morning sun had risen high enough to bathe the world in golden warmth, neither too cold nor too hot.
Plop... Plop...
The Greenwood Trail lived up to its name, a lush corridor of towering spruce trees and moss-laced path, the kind that whispered as the wind passed through them. Occasional rays of sunlight shimmered through the canopy, scattering golden slivers onto the path like blessings from above. Ferns and shrubs grew in thick, unruly branches along the edges, while colourful birds fluttered from branch to branch, chirping a music far older than humans.
Ashborn's gaze lingered on the scenery. This place... It is breathtaking. Peaceful. Almost untouched by the ugliness of humans. For a moment, he let it sink in, the quiet serenity, the fresh scent of spruce and earth, the distant sound of a stream. It reminded him of the memories of green trails he had visited as Desmond, even if they had always been tainted by signal towers and paved asphalts. This here — this was pure.
It's strange, he thought. Despite all the bloodshed and hard work... There are places here where it's worth living. Suddenly, a harsh voice broke through the beauty.
"Lord Ashborn!" a soldier shouted, galloping forward from the left flank. Ashborn recognised him, Cilian, a prominent knight attendant, and Valyn intended to choose him as his successor. His armour was a little too large, and his horse tugged nervously beneath him. "The third wagon — its axle is broken!"
Ashborn reined in his horse and nodded curtly. "Tell the coachman to stop. Get the carpenter from the fifth wagon over there and have it fixed as soon as possible. Take the opportunity to relieve the people."
Valyn was already giving hand signals, and the message spread through the convoy with practised efficiency. One of the carts came to a halt with a pitifully groaning wheel, and a pair of serfs jumped off to inspect the damage. A few minutes later, a short, stocky man with a tool bag on his back came jogging up from behind.
"The benefit of repeated exercises, my lord," Valyn said, guiding his steed closer to Ashborn's. "One axle is broken from the rigours of travel. It will only delay us ten minutes." Ashborn turned in the saddle, his cloak blowing in the breeze as his gaze swept over the convoy behind them. Columns of men matched their pace in gentle waves. No panic, no complaints — just movement and murmurs, men adjusting their pace. A small hiccup that was easily smoothed over.
"Truly an elite force," thought Ashborn.
"I prefer ten minutes of peace to ten hours of chaos," Ashborn said with a slight nod, his tone calm but satisfied. You've done well, Commander Valyn." Valyn bowed his head modestly in acknowledgement, but the tightness in the corners of his eyes betrayed the constant vigilance of control.
"Cilian," he called out in a firm but clear voice. "What's the situation at the rear? What's the situation with the wagons, and what about the militia?"
Knight Attendant Cilian, dust settled on his armour, reined in his horse with practised ease and replied, "All is quiet, Commander. A few of the younger militiamen are lagging, but the veterans are making sure they stay in line. The wagons are holding their own, with the exception of the one I mentioned. There are no signs of stragglers or unusual movement in the woods. The pace may be slow, but we should make it through the Greenwood Trail by sundown tomorrow."
Ashborn nodded thoughtfully and let his gaze wander over the dense treeline on either side. The path wound like a snake through a forest of towering spruces and firs, their branches casting long shadows that flickered across the road like a lost labyrinth. Rays of sunlight filtered through the canopy, reflecting off armour and wagon canvas alike.
"Good," Valyn said. "Keep an eye on the flanks. These woods are too quiet for my taste."
"Aye, Commander," Cilian replied, pounding his chest with his fist. "If anything stirs, we'll gut it before it breathes twice."
Valyn allowed himself a faint smile. They walked on. Further ahead, a serf tripped over a gnarled root sticking out from the path, dropping a crate and scattering onions and apples on the road.
A nearby soldier chuckled and helped him pack it back up, while a second nudged the root aside with his boot and muttered a curse. Ashborn watched the whole thing with a kind of silent appreciation.
After an hour, the path began to curve gently along the side of a hill, revealing a glimpse beyond the trees. Ashborn slowed his horse and stared — his breath catching slightly.
Below lay a rolling landscape of hills carpeted in green, with little clearings here and there, filled with wildflowers blooming in clusters of red, yellow and purple. A stream flowed through the land like a blue ribbon, catching the sunlight in flashes. Far above, birds of prey soared, casting fleeting shadows on the ground like watchful sentinels.
Ashborn whispered, "How can a world that knows so much death still contain so much beauty?" Valyn looked over at him, but said nothing.
The convoy moved on undeterred, and the greenwood path welcomed them deeper into its ancient heart. The sunlight dimmed armour and clothing alike, and in these quiet hours of travel, the line between lord and soldier, serf and knight, blurred into something simpler: A herd of people walking together towards a future not yet written.
The sun was low over the hills, painting the sky liquid gold and deep red. The convoy had slowed to a steady crawl, the wagons creaking as they rolled over the uneven road. Ahead of them, the greenwood opened up into a wide clearing — a natural hollow cradled between two slopes where the grass grew thick and soft underfoot. A shallow stream shimmered at its edge, cutting silver through the earth.
Ashborn reined in his horse at the watershed and let the breeze cool his face. The air smelled of damp earth and wildflowers. Below, the land stretched out like a quilt, stitched together with stands of spruce and the occasional outcrop of weathered stone.
Valyn straightened up beside him, his posture not stooped despite the long journey. For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The only sounds were the distant calls of birds settling down for the night and the rhythmic sighing of the wind as it brushed through the grass.
"It's rare," Valyn finally said, his voice softer than usual, "to see a land untouched by war, the beauty overwhelms me."
Ashborn looked at him. The knight's gaze was fixed on the horizon, where the last light eclipsed the peaks of the distant mountains. There was something almost wistful in his thoughts. "Have you seen much of it?" Ashborn asked, "Both the beauty and the war?"
Valyn exhaled through his nose. "Enough to know that this peace is fleeting, a rare find these days. Don't let the beauty fool you, the Greenwood hides its scars well, but they're there if you know where to look." He pointed to a patch of younger trees near the stream, their trunks slender beside the wrinkled elders. "Wildfire, a decade back. The soil remembers."
Ashborn studied the grove. The Earth did remember. He could see it now, the way the new growth crowded eagerly into the open spaces, the way the older trees bore faint, darkened seams along their bark. Life and death, woven together.
"We'll make camp here," he decided after consideration. "The stream will serve for water, and the slope will give us a vantage." Valyn nodded, already scanning the terrain with a soldier's eye.
"A wise decision. I'll post sentries on the high ground. And we'll keep the fires small, for there is no need to announce ourselves to whatever prowls these woods after dark."
A shout rose from the convoy below as the lead wagons rolled into the clearing. Serfs hopped down, stretching stiff limbs before turning to the work of setting up tents. A pair of boys darted toward the stream, their laughter carried on the wind.