Chapter 5: The War Council of Men

 Chapter 5: The War Council of Men

The torchlight flickered across a long stone table, casting grim shadows on the faces of kings, generals, and high lords gathered within the war tent. The air was thick with sweat, steel, and the unmistakable stench of dread.

Sir Salty entered without ceremony, his cloak still damp from the fog outside, battle axe strapped across his back. Mud clung to his boots, and a smear of dried blood stained the leather of his glove. He hadn’t slept in days.

The talking stopped.

“Salty,” said Lord Eldric of Caerwyn, rising stiffly, a silver-haired noble whose once-golden armour bore the dents of too many campaigns. “We feared you would not return from the southern ridge.”

Salty grunted, tossed a bundle of wolf pelts and severed goblin ears onto the table with a thud.

“They’ve begun moving,” he said. “Scouting parties, wolf riders, poison traps in the rivers. The Orc lords are coming.”

Gasps echoed through the council chamber. One knight crossed himself. Another spat on the ground.

“And the Chios?” asked Lady Vael, commander of the Northern Vanguard, her voice steady but her knuckles white around the hilt of her sword.

“They’re here,” said Salty. “Not many yet—but I saw the sky bend around a summoning pit. I’ve never seen dark magic twist so deep into the earth. The air itself shudders near them.”

The room fell silent.

Then—General Harven of the King’s Army, scarred and broad, slammed his fist on the table. “We march now. Meet them head-on. Break their teeth before their full strength gathers!”

“No,” Salty cut in. “That’s what they want. A head-on clash against their full might is suicide. We’ve seen what happens when they charge. They’ll throw ogres at the wall and follow with goblins behind us.”

“And what would you have us do, hedge knight?” sneered Lord Darrant of the Midlands, still sore from losing a duel to Salty’s axe months before. “You swing a blade, aye, but leave the strategy to—”

“Enough!” barked Lord Eldric, rising fully. “If Salty says the Orc lords are mustering, then we prepare for war—on our terms. We’ll not wait for the Blacklow Plains to become a charnel pit. We defend the Hills of Cairnwood, draw them in, and bleed them on the rocks.”

Lady Vael nodded. “We’ll need scouts in every valley. Fire signals every league. I’ll have the riders from the North ready before moonrise.”

Salty stepped forward and unrolled a crude map sketched in ash and blood on goblin hide.

“This,” he said, pointing to a jagged line through the lower forests, “is where the goblin outriders move. Quick and silent. If we don’t deal with them first, they’ll gut us in our tents while we sleep.”

“They ride wolves now,” he added grimly. “Twice as fast, twice as vicious.”

The fire crackled. Outside, a horn blew faintly in the distance—three notes. Enemy scouts. Closer.

“Prepare the ballistae,” muttered Eldric. “Reinforce the palisades. Double the guards.”

Salty turned to the youngest voice in the room—a prince, barely more than a lad, staring wide-eyed.

“You’ve never killed before, have you?” Salty asked.

The boy shook his head.

“Then keep your sword sharp. And don’t blink when it’s your mate or your horse being torn apart by something that screams in your mother’s voice.”

The boy paled. But he nodded.

Outside the tent, the sky burned faint orange as torches lined the hilltops. The camp was stirring—smiths hammering, messengers running, war dogs howling at the scent of something far off and wrong.

Salty stood in the doorway and looked toward the dark edge of the plains. He could almost feel them—Orc lords on the march, banners of skulls, goblins howling like devils, and behind them all, the pulse of magic that didn’t belong in this world.

From behind him, the grizzled siege master, Old Bram, shouted across the war tent, dragging a wooden crate of black powder and iron spheres.

“I’ll get the cannon and cannon balls ready!” he growled. “If them green bastards want our walls, they’ll have to march through fire and thunder first!”

Salty grinned faintly, his hand tightening on his axe.

“Let them come,” he whispered.

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