The Chronicles of Lumineia: Book 02 - The Gathering by Ben Hale

he rose and prepared for sleep. His
eyes on the battle to come, he climbed into bed. As he lay awake trying to create
a better strategy, his heart began to sink. If nothing was added, the best he
could see them surviving was not seven days . . .
    It was three.

 
    Chapter
7: Captain Arrow
     
     
    The afternoon
sun filtered through the thin canopy as Aroet wearily leaned forward and rubbed
the neck of the big roan. Zel tossed his head in response to the touch, but
lacked the energy for a more typical playful reaction. In that moment Aroet keenly
missed the spark of mischief in the big animals’ personality. He sighed,
remembering brighter days with his stallion.
    Tall and broad
shouldered, Aroet carried himself in a manner much older than he appeared at
first glance. With brown hair and smooth skin, he looked more like a flag
bearer than swordsman. Upon closer inspection, others would notice the square,
firm jaw, and a certain depth to his brown eyes that only came with experience.
Over the last five years of his captainship, more than a few swordsmen had
learned to respect both his weapon and his leadership skills.
    Seasoned
soldiers to the last man, the survivors of his five hundred rider command rode
dejectedly around him through the northern foothills of the eastern kingdom. So
many dead , he thought, once again fighting the despair that had threatened
to engulf him over the past few weeks.
    Although he
fought it, the image of his father being torn from his saddle during the battle
at Terros sprang to his mind. With a supreme effort of will, he tightened his
jaw and shut out the image. There was no time for grief. He was down to less
than two hundred men, and he was lucky to have them. The black army had invaded
so quickly that few had been fast enough to survive their onslaught.
    The eastern
villages had been struck first, and scarcely a handful had made it out of the
valleys to warn the middle cities. With just days to prepare, they had been
overrun in hours, and the black creatures had spread like wildfire. Without
mercy, the horde slaughtered everyone, and drove the entire population of
Griffin towards the great lake. Nearly half of the country, numbering over two
hundred thousand, had sought refuge at Terros, only to be massacred a few days
later.
    Aroet had
never seen such courage as he had that day. His father and the core of the
griffin army had defended the city as thousands of ships sought the safety of
the open waters of Blue Lake. Every one of them had willingly perished,
granting their people time to escape.
    So many
dead, he thought with a shudder .
    Of the vast
country that had been Griffin, Aroet estimated a third had made it out alive,
mostly by boat. He still held hope that the southern villages had been warned
in time to flee to the southern kingdom of Talinor. Deep down he doubted they
could have outrun the speed of the invaders, but hope and luck were the only
reasons he was alive.
    “Captain
Arrow,” his lieutenant said, using the nickname his younger brother had given
him when he was too little to pronounce his name.
    Aroet faced
the man riding at his side. Of average build and older, his next in command
sported a week old beard that matched his salt and pepper hair. Brusque and
blunt, he had been a minor officer his entire life, mostly due to his inability
to restrain himself when a superior gave a stupid order. Aroet felt lucky to
have gained the man’s respect.
    “Lieutenant
Fisk,” he said with a nod, ready for the day’s report.
    “We are down
to one hundred and eighty seven men—.”
    “Who did we
lose?” Aroet interrupted, wiping his forehead, and then realized he’d only
smeared the grime.
    Fisk sighed,
“Baron and Holdr.”
    Aroet bobbed
his head, placing the memory of the two men into the same vault that held his
father. Grieving would be a luxury . . . if he didn’t die first. “Understood,
continue.”
    “Thirty-seven
are wounded, and three are in critical