A thin morning mist clung to the Red Mountains, shrouding the jagged peaks in grey. On the winding, treacherous mountain paths, an army marched with unnatural speed.
The Mountain Corps spent their days drilling in this very terrain; they knew every crag and ravine of the Red Mountains like the backs of their hands. Even burdened with supplies and heavy grain sacks, they moved over the rough ground as if walking on flat pavement.
The other soldiers—guardsmen and levies—were not as acclimated as the Mountain Corps, but under the influence of Arthur's command abilities, which granted them a nearly supernatural vigor akin to the legendary endurance of the First Men, they kept pace without faltering.
"My Lord, enemy scouts ahead!" a runner panted, rushing up to the front of the column.
Arthur raised a hand, signaling the column to continue its steady march, then closed his eyes.
When he opened them again—in his mind's eye—his vision was linked to the eagle, Sharpwing, soaring high above.
Through the raptor's piercing gaze, he clearly saw a dozen furtive figures lying in ambush on the ridge ahead.
"Jimmy," Arthur said, his consciousness snapping back to his own body. He turned to the captain of the archers beside him. "The ridge on the left. Forty yards up. One volley."
Jimmy nodded, understanding immediately. He barked a quick order to his squad of forty sharpshooters. They drew their longbows, the wood creaking under the tension.
Thrum.
As the bowstrings sang, screams echoed from the distance. Figures broke from their concealment, attempting to scatter.
"Bear Di, take your men. Clean them up. Let none escape."
Bear Di acknowledged the order and vanished into the brush. He returned a short while later, his blade wet with fresh blood. "It is done, My Lord. All dead."
Such encounters became common as they marched deeper into the mountains.
The wildlings attempted to use guerrilla tactics to slow the Starfall army, but against Sharpwing's aerial reconnaissance, the Mountain Corps' high mobility, and the overwhelming superiority of Starfall's steel and discipline, their efforts were futile.
By the second day, the wildling scouts and ambushes had vanished completely.
On the way, Arthur made a point of marching his army past the settlements of several neutral, fence-sitting tribes to display his strength.
The tribal chieftains watched from their rocky holdfasts. They saw the Starfall troops in immaculate formation, their armor gleaming. Seeing over a thousand men moving through the treacherous Red Mountains with the speed of mountain goats, the chieftains hastily brought out gifts of food and wine, eager to curry favor.
"My Lord, the Vulture Tribe's stronghold lies just ahead," Bear Di said, pointing toward a distant highland.
Arthur closed his eyes, re-establishing his link with Sharpwing. Looking down from the heavens, the Vulture Tribe's settlement lay exposed before him.
The settlement was perched on a high plateau. He could see terraced fields, fruit orchards, and crude pens holding mountain goats and garrons.
But the camp itself was eerily quiet. It was empty, save for a few elderly folk and children moving sluggishly between the huts.
Arthur swept the eagle's gaze to the surrounding ridges. There, hiding in the dense tree lines along the spine of the mountain, were nearly two thousand warriors. They were split into two distinct formations, lying in wait in total silence.
It seemed that Chian, son of the Vulture King, and Kara of the Mountain Shadow Tribe were not fools. They knew this battle was unavoidable.
If Chian could win here, the prestige of defeating the Sword of the Morning would be enough to unite all the tribes and crown him the new Vulture King.
Although Arthur knew his advantage was overwhelming, he also knew that war was fickle. He sharpened his focus, snapped his perspective back to his body, and issued his commands.
"Halt! Form battle lines! Prepare for contact!" Arthur's voice boomed down the column.
Seeing that the Starfall army had stopped and was deploying into formation rather than walking into the trap, the enemy played their hand.
Wooooo—!
The mournful blast of wildling warhorns shattered the silence. The enemy forces erupted from the tree line with earth-shaking roars, charging from three directions in a loose, chaotic swarm, hoping to catch Arthur's men before their shield wall was set.
They waved crude axes and rusted swords, their faces and bodies painted with fierce patterns in red and ochre, creating a terrifying spectacle.
The two armies collided on a gentle slope littered with jagged stones.
The Starfall army, composed of battle-hardened household guards and disciplined archers, did not flinch.
Under Ser Gerold Dayne's curt commands, the infantry locked together into a dense formation. They formed a series of tiered shield walls, their iron-rimmed heavy shields overlapping like the scales of a dragon to create a fortress of steel.
The two hundred archers were protected snugly in the center of the square.
Arthur, leading the elite Mountain Corps, took position on the flank of the archers. Beside him, Zack held the banner of House Dayne—the white sword and falling star—high in the air.
Jimmy's calm voice cut through the din. "Volley fire by ranks! First rank, loose!"
Under his direction, the archers fired in rotating waves. The first rank, comprised of the best sharpshooters, took the long shots. The second rank followed, creating a continuous rain of death.
Thrum. Thrum. Thrum.
Arrows whistled through the air, plunging into the charging mass of wildlings. The tribesmen's crude wooden shields were punched through by the bodkin points, and those without armor fell in droves.
But the wildlings retaliated quickly, hurling a dense cloud of short throwing spears.
Though most were caught by the shield wall, the impact was heavy. Many infantrymen were forced to discard their shields, now rendered useless by the weight of multiple spears embedded in the wood.
The wildlings crashed into the front line. But the Starfall formation, built of professional guards, men-at-arms, and sellswords, was worlds apart from a levy of frightened peasants.
The formation held firm. Whenever a wildling managed to claw his way past a shield, another shield wall was waiting behind it. In the rear, Gerold Dayne moved with cold efficiency, reorganizing any wavering men and cycling them back into the fray.
As the vanguards locked in a grinder of blood and steel, the rear guard of the wildling army launched their charge.
The archers, hemmed in by the melee at the front, were forced to fire in high arcs, drastically reducing their effectiveness against the second wave.
Bear Di watched the situation nervously. "The front wave is Chian and the Vulture Tribe. The rear wave... those are the tribes from the upper Torrentine."
Arthur narrowed his eyes, a sharp violet light flashing within them.
Seeing the enemy commit their full strength, he gave the order. "Archers, wheel to the left flank! Mountain Corps, with me!"
One hundred and seventy elite shock troops of the Mountain Corps rallied instantly behind Arthur.
Though they lacked warhorses, their movement through the rocky terrain was swifter and more sure-footed than any cavalry.
Arthur drew Dawn, the greatsword pale as milkglass, and raised it high. When he charged, the entire unit moved like a spear thrust, driving straight toward the enemy's exposed right flank.
The wildling commanders spotted the purple banner moving and frantically tried to divert men to intercept.
But Arthur was a storm of steel. He fought with two blades—Dawn in his right hand, shining with an otherworldly light, and a pitch-black castle-forged sword in his left.
Triggering a warrior's trance, he became unstoppable.
Dawn flashed in the sunlight, shearing through leather, mail, and bone alike with every swing, sending sprays of crimson into the air. His black sword struck with the speed of a viper, piercing throats with lethal precision.
When Arthur and his Mountain Corps successfully flanked the enemy, the momentum of the battle shifted instantly.
The wildling formation began to crumble into chaos, while the men of Starfall fought with renewed ferocity.
Gerold Dayne's infantry stood as immovable as the mountains themselves, while Jimmy's archers found new angles, pouring specific, deadly fire into the disorganized enemy ranks.
By high noon, the wildling army broke.
Chian and Kara attempted to rally a retreat, but it was too late.
Arthur led the Mountain Corps to cut off their escape route. He closed the distance, his white blade humming through the air.
When Dawn came to rest against Chian's throat, the son of the Vulture King fell to his knees, his face the color of ashes.