---The Borderlands - Pennmerian Forward Operating Base---
The previous twenty-four hours had been a blur of calculated movement and silent observation.
After dispatching the ambush party in the Weeping Stones, Reuben, Thulani, and Shakoka did not return to camp immediately. Instead, they pressed forward, slipping deep into the heart of the enemy territory like ghosts in the machine of war.
The Iroquois war camps were not the orderly grids of tents seen in European armies. They were organic, dispersed, and terrifyingly vast. The Five Nations… Mohawk, Oneida, Onondaga, Cayuga, and Seneca… had answered the call of the confederacy.
From the high branches of ancient oaks and the shadows of limestone ridges, the trio counted fires. They counted weapons. They counted souls.
Three thousand warriors.
According to Shakoka's expert eye, the composition was a mix of hardened veterans and fresh blood. The plague had taken many elders and seasoned fighters, forcing the tribes to muster every able-bodied man capable of drawing a bow or swinging a tomahawk. Most lacked formal discipline, but they possessed something far more dangerous… Terrain Mastery.
The war would not be fought on open plains where Pennmere's muskets could form firing lines. It would be fought here… in the choking density of the forest, the treacherous currents of the rivers, the sucking mud of the swamps, and the narrow ravines where sunlight rarely touched the ground.
The Iroquois knew every root, every stone, every shift in the wind. They could move through the undergrowth without snapping a twig, while Pennmerian soldiers, laden with kit and heavy boots, would sound like a herd of stampeding buffalo. This terrain mastery threatened to break formations, stretch supply lines until they snapped, and turn every shadow into a potential ambush.
It was midnight when the three scouts finally returned to the Pennmerian lines, their minds heavy with the tactical nightmare they had mapped. They gave a brief, grim report to the night watch commander and collapsed into their quarters, knowing that the real work would begin when the sun rose.
---Currently - Vanguard Tent---
The morning air was crisp, carrying the scent of damp earth and woodsmoke. Inside the officers' tent designated for the Vanguard, the atmosphere was quiet, save for the rhythmic chewing of bread.
Reuben sat on the edge of his camping cot, a piece of buttered bread in one hand. He ate mindlessly, his eyes unfocused, staring at a patch of canvas as if decoding the secrets of the universe written in the fabric weave.
Thulani, sitting on the opposite cot and polishing his greaves, glanced up. He watched his friend for a moment, noting the furrow in Reuben's brow.
"What's on your mind?" Thulani asked, his deep voice rumbling in the small space.
Reuben blinked, the spell breaking. He raised his eyes to look at Thulani, then let out a short, dry chuckle. "Nothing. Just busy eating."
"Tch." Thulani snorted, setting the armor down. "Don't lie to me. Aside from Flavia, I'm the one who knows you the most. Hell, Flavia only beats me in terms of information about your sex life. No homo."
Reuben rolled his eyes, but he didn't deny it.
It was a fact etched in years of shared blood and sweat. They had spent countless hours sparring, bleeding, and learning together. They were brothers in all but blood, bound by a unique connection: they were Alaric's Disciples.
There was a strange, unspoken barrier between them and their Leader. Alaric wasn't snobbish; he ate with them, joked with them, and protected them. But in terms of ability? He was a star, and they were people trying to catch the light. In wealth, he was the provider. In power, he was the apex.
It wasn't resentment. It was a driving force. They ran the race side-by-side, always chasing the crimson coat that remained perpetually ahead.
Reuben stared at Thulani for a moment, then sighed, his shoulders slumping slightly. "Shut up, Bigfoot."
"So? Come on, baldie," Thulani grinned, burping loudly. "Spill it."
"..." Reuben stayed silent for a moment, finishing the last bite of his bread. He washed it down with a swig of water from a canteen. "I was just thinking about my life... throughout the years. Y'know, before I met you guys. Before Alaric 'found' me."
He leaned back, resting his hands on his knees.
"...Ever since I can remember, I was just trying to exist. I was an orphan. I lived in the gutters of Bristol, begging for scraps like a stray dog. Then I was taken in by a man named Ferigo... a leader of a thieves' den."
Reuben looked out the open flap of the tent, watching the Pennmerian soldiers running drills in the morning mist.
"I did everything just to have some value in that den," Reuben continued, his voice low and reflective. "I picked pockets until my fingers bled. I manipulated other children to beg so I could take their cuts. I broke into homes to steal family heirlooms. I looted merchant wagons, using my small size to look innocent while I cut purse strings."
He paused, a shadow crossing his face.
"I don't know... even back then, I never felt like I belonged there. I wasn't meant to be a rat in the dark forever. That's why I'm actually thankful to Alaric. For taking me in. For training me. You. Us."
He shook his head, a look of wonder in his eyes.
"It's just amazing, isn't it? I was once just an orphan turned thief. Then I became strong. I made a name for myself in the Mediterranean countries. I met Flavia. I became the captain of The Wraithling."
He looked at Thulani. "And you, captain of Liberty's Wrath. We command frigates that can fend off multiple battle ships without a single scratch. And now... now I'm going to lead men to face Pennmere's enemies in a war that will define this continent."
Thulani listened intently, nodding along. But at the last sentence, he raised a brow.
"You've led men before, Reu. You're not new to command."
"Yes, but the difference is..." Reuben gestured toward the soldiers outside. "These men are normal. I've led the Assassins in Monteriggioni. I've led the Vanguard soldiers against British ships in Barbados, Antigua, St. Kitts. Those were elites. They were killers."
Reuben's expression tightened.
"These people right here... they're just men. Soldiers, yes… but normal men, nontheless. They're disciplined, sure, but they're too low for our standards. I'm afraid we're going to a war where we have to babysit them... or worse, a war where only we return."
Thulani hummed, the sound resonating in his chest. He stood up, his massive frame filling the tent. "It's not fair to compare them to the assassins or the Vanguard, even if they're too low for your liking."
"But... I get your point," Thulani nodded in understanding. He walked over and placed a heavy hand on Reuben's shoulder. "However, don't underestimate Pennmere's soldiers, Reuben. Unlike the colonial militias of the past… part-timers with rusty muskets… Pennmere's standing army is different."
Thulani smiled, a confident, reassuring expression.
"They are full-time professionals. They have top-quality steel from the Kingdom's foundries. They have the best rations. They have a temperament forged by William Penn's ideology. And remember... they have families to go back to. They have a Kingdom they swore to protect. That conviction counts for something."
Thulani squeezed Reuben's shoulder.
"And lastly... if they are too low for your standards? We have you. Me. And Shakoka. The three of us are enough to fend off at least five hundred warriors alone. We're given hundreds of soldiers, yes, but we're still the shield, Reuben. That is our job. We're Vanguard."
Reuben looked at his friend. He felt the tension in his chest loosen.
He chuckled, standing up and grabbing his sword belt. "I get it... you're right. I'm overthinking."
Both of them sensed a presence approaching the tent… a messenger, moving with the hurried gait of someone under orders.
"Come on," Reuben said, adjusting his coat. "I guess General Ashcombe is asking for our presence in the war tent."
"Yeah, let's go," Thulani smiled. "Ah, and don't forget... each soldier has a Celestial Salve in their kit. Pennmere's Arsenal is overflowing with those. They won't die easily."
"Yeah-yeah," Reuben sighed with a smile. "But stop with the baldie, yeah? Or I'll really beat you to death."
---General's War Tent---
The tent smelled faintly of parchment, ink, and smoldering candle wax. The large central table was dominated by detailed topographical maps of the Five Nations' territories, cluttered with wooden pins marking villages, trails, rivers, and ravines.
Reuben, Thulani, and Shakoka stepped inside. Their boots were silent on the canvas floor, a contrast to the heavy tread of the other officers.
General Edmund Ashcombe stood at the head of the table. He didn't waste words on pleasantries. His eyes, sharp and calculating, swept the room, settling briefly on the three Vanguard soldiers.
"Gentlemen, good morning," Ashcombe began, his tone measured but sharp as a bayonet. "I trust your reconnaissance was thorough?"
Shakoka stepped forward, folding his arms. He looked every bit the native warrior, yet his discipline was entirely Vanguard.
"Every trail, camp, and patrol," Shakoka confirmed. "Iroquois forces number roughly three thousand, scattered across the forward camps. Most are poorly trained conscripts, but they know their terrain better than we know our own names."
"And," Reuben interjected, his face neutral but his eyes hard. "Poorly trained doesn't mean harmless. A desperate man with a club can kill a knight if the knight slips."
"Indeed," Ashcombe replied, nodding in agreement. He gestured to the map. "Your scouting has given us an advantage we've never had before... knowledge. But knowledge alone doesn't win battles. Timing, coordination, and execution do."
He tapped a red pin located in a narrow depression between two ridges.
"Here, at Shadow Valley. The enemy expects an attack at dawn. It is the standard doctrine. The mist covers the advance."
Ashcombe looked around the room, meeting the eyes of his colonels.
"We'll hit at high noon instead. When the sun is highest, the shadows are shortest. There will be nowhere to hide. They won't see us coming because they'll be waiting for tomorrow morning."
Thulani raised an eyebrow, studying the map. "And if they break? If they retreat into the swamps to the east?"
Ashcombe's eyes gleamed with the thrill of strategy. "That's where you three come in."
He moved three black markers… representing the Vanguard units… into position.
"Reuben, you take the ridge. Secure the high ground and rain hell on anyone trying to flank us. Thulani, take your unit into the swamp. It will be miserable, but if you plug that gap, they have nowhere to run."
He looked at the scout.
"Shakoka, you guide them. You signal the timing. Your goal is simple… cut off any escape routes, disrupt the enemy command structure, and allow my main infantry force to engage the center safely."
Reuben leaned forward, resting a hand on the table. The map crinkled slightly under his fingers. "We'll handle it. But know this, General… the Iroquois fight with everything they have. They may break, but they won't go quietly. This will get messy. After all, we have so many camps to secure."
Ashcombe allowed a faint, grim smile. "Good. I would have it no other way. A clean war is a myth."
He straightened up, his demeanor shifting from strategist to commander.
"Remember… we're not here to exterminate. We break their war bands, we capture their leaders, we end this war swiftly. Mercy to those who surrender, steel to those who resist. We are Pennmere. We do not butcher. We're not fighting because of race, but because of justice."
He turned to the rest of the officers, his tone rising to fill the tent. "You've been given the tools, the information, and the advantage. Do not squander it. Every man knows what he must do."
Then, softer, almost as an aside to the Vanguard trio, he added. "And you three… I trust you'll show them that Pennmere isn't one to be trifled with."
Reuben's smirk returned, sharp and dangerous. "Heh... 'course. We plan to put on a show."
"Well General," Thulani chuckled, cracking his knuckles. "We've got things to do. Swamps to swim."
Ashcombe smiled at Thulani's light jest but nodded, satisfied. "Very well. Prepare your men quickly and effeciently. An hour from now... we move."
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