That night, Derek encountered several old acquaintances.

The Perez knightly order's arrival meant the fighting was about to begin in earnest.

Inside Count Perez's command tent, the Second Legion's mid- and senior-ranking officers gathered as one.

A great map of the Northern Province hung in the center, marked down to every mountain range and every last village.

Derek spotted Knight Croya among them. They exchanged nods, and surprise crossed Croya's face; he clearly had not expected to see Derek there.

"Gentlemen. Ironwall City lies just ahead. By our scouts' reports, barbarian forces have already crossed past it—we'll be meeting them soon enough."

One line from Count Perez, and the mood in the tent turned taut.

"What's Ironwall's situation now?"

Someone asked the question on everyone's mind. Whether Ironwall stood or fell would decide the Second Legion's own fate.

Should it fall, the trouble waiting for them would run deep.

"Our governor has held Ironwall. No trouble there, for now."

Count Perez gave them a clear answer, and the room let out a collective breath.

But he swept his eyes around the room, and his tone turned grave. "Two tasks. The Second Legion has exactly two tasks. First: drive the barbarians out. Second: avenge Chris Jeffries. House Jeffries has already posted a reward—whoever avenges the count receives a barony, land and all."

As another count of the Northern Province, Count Jeffries had fallen to the barbarians this time.

Sheer bad luck, in a way—the man had been caught with no defense at all and beheaded outright in a sudden barbarian strike.

The whole thing had gone off far too smoothly; the barbarians seemed to have known exactly where to find him beforehand.

Everyone in the room understood well enough—there had to be a traitor somewhere.

But hunting down the traitor wasn't the Second Legion's task. Avenging the count was.

No sooner had Count Perez finished speaking than every breath in the room seemed to grow heavier.

Quite the temptation.

The entire Northern Province held no more than twenty landed barons.

Whoever won this fief, it would mean founding a family's fortune outright, no matter who they were.

Never mind the other rewards on top of it—name, battle honor, all of it.

When a count fell, everyone else took a bite.

No telling yet whose luck would run that good.

Count Perez was pleased by the surge in morale. In truth, the task would be difficult: the man who had killed the count commanded the entire barbarian army.

Should anyone actually pull off that revenge, a single barony would look downright stingy—the King would surely spare no reward for it.

But Count Perez had already gotten what he wanted from the announcement, and used the moment to lay out his assignments.

"The knightly order stays with me, ready to face the barbarian main force. First Thousand... Tenth Thousand... clear this stretch of territory. Ten days. I want the barbarians pushed back north of Ironwall by then—whoever fails me, I'll strip of command. And every thousand's herald reports twice daily. I want to know where every one of you stands, ready to converge at a moment's notice."

Count Perez carved the ground up by zone and handed out the assignments outright.

He kept a reserve force of his own in hand, ready to reinforce wherever needed.

And should the barbarians make any move, he'd have the room to react calmly and force a pitched battle.

Step by careful step, the plan called for driving the barbarians out south of Ironwall first, easing the pressure there.

Derek accepted his orders. The Tenth Thousand was smaller than most, so its assigned territory was modest and far from the main theater.

It contained a single town, seven or eight villages, and several knightly manors scattered across crown land.

The exact state of the ground remained unclear for now, though if most of it hadn't fallen yet, so much the easier.

When the meeting broke up, he made a point of slowing his pace, and sure enough Knight Croya caught up to him before long.

"Derek. You've been made commander of a thousand?"

Croya felt genuinely stunned by it. He'd sensed all along the boy wasn't meant for a small pond, but he hadn't expected the rise to come this fast.

"I got lucky, Uncle Croya. Right place, right time."

Derek kept his manner modest. He knew this was no moment to gloat.

Croya clapped a hand on his shoulder, plainly delighted. "Well done. Come find me anytime you need help. Use this chance to rack up merit while you can—hold onto that commander's post, and good things will be waiting for you down the road. Just... mind your safety too."

The two exchanged a few more words and parted ways.

No time to spare for idle talk, not with the real fighting so close now.

Back at camp, the first thing Derek did was send Simon ahead with a squad of cavalry.

He was about to strike off from the main army, and with no one else to scout for him, everything now fell on his own resources.

A thousand-man command was a complete fighting unit, capable of independent operations—and a serious test of its commander.

Fortunately, Derek had raised up a solid crew of helpers, and the burden hadn't yet begun to weigh on him.

Derek pulled away from the main body and pushed fast toward the ground assigned to him.

The situation turned out better than expected—only small scattered bands of barbarians had made it this far.

The one town in the area still stood intact, though it had taken an early hit from the barbarians that cost the lives of a batch of militia.

The surrounding villages had fought back hard enough themselves; the barbarian raiders had cost some lives and looted a share of grain and goods, but hadn't achieved much beyond that.

The King's mobilization order deserved much of the credit. The entire Northern Province had spent this time preparing for war.

Militia drilled everywhere by now; standing against a full barbarian army was one thing, obviously out of reach, but holding off a small raiding band was another matter entirely.

Derek pitched camp right outside the town, turning down the local garrison officer's invitation to come inside.

He hadn't come here to hole up behind walls—do that, and the town might sit safe enough, but he'd be looking at losing his own post before long.

Count Perez's intent was clear: divide the land into zones, advance sector by sector, and lift the siege of Ironwall through steady progress.

Hunker down and go nowhere, and he'd be asking for his own end.

Simon returned before long, carrying the latest word.

"Commander. Four or five barbarian bands in our zone, two hundred men total at most. They've hit a few villages already and are still on the move."

Simon's cavalry were seasoned enough to shadow the barbarians and determine the rough extent of their movements.

Derek reasoned it through quickly. "Their aim's probably no more than looting and harassment. Once word of us reaches them, they'll likely pull out fast. Ready the cavalry—we ride ahead. Adrian, you take command here for now. Bring the elite company along at a forced march."

Derek reached a bold conclusion: the barbarian bands were preparing to flee.

Even if the read turned out wrong, riders who could come and go as they pleased faced no real danger—worst case, a wasted trip.

Derek's read wasn't wrong. The barbarians hadn't crossed past Ironwall on pure military calculation alone.

Thirty years of military and political reform under their belt or not, some things about the barbarians proved impossible to shed entirely.

Things like a chieftain system built around small tribes, or a levy-based conscription.

A great deal of the army invading now had come as warriors levied straight from those separate tribes.

And the barbarian commander, inevitably, had to weigh the demands of those tribal chieftains.

...

So loosing small raiding bands past Ironwall counted as one way of keeping them sweet.

It also served to slow down Locke's relief forces besides.

Only the barbarians had underestimated how hard the siege itself would run. Ironwall's whole purpose these many years had centered on holding off Holy Cross, not the North.

As a city of the Northern Province, then, it had been built with military need weighing heavier than commercial concern.

By sheer accident, that founding principle ultimately saved the province.

Half a month had passed since the barbarians first threw themselves at Ironwall, and still they had nothing to show for it.

The small raiding parties, for their part, proved reasonably sensible.

Spotting Derek's larger force approaching, they converged at once and readied themselves to pull out.

Only once they'd gathered enough numbers together would they even consider testing themselves against a real Locke force.

Half a month had given the barbarians ample time to take the measure of Locke's fighting strength.

The North's nobility, at the very least, hadn't sunk so low they couldn't lift a blade. Quite the opposite—every last one of them ran fiercer than a wolf.

The scattered raiding bands drew together fast, falling back along a plan already laid out.

Loot in tow, they carried little real worry that Locke's forces would catch them.

A large force, after all, moved slow by nature, and they'd equipped themselves with plenty of mules and horses precisely for a moment like this one.

A small pursuit force, on the other hand, was anyone's fight to win.

Locke's army might be the wolf here—but the barbarians were the lion.

When Derek pushed his pursuit fast, he ran into barbarian scouts a little over ten miles out.

Simon gave chase with a few riders, and the two sides fell into a running pursuit.

Derek climbed a rise to watch, seeing barbarian soldiers up close for the first time, and reading a great deal into what he saw.

"Scouts posted out this far means they're running a real military structure, not some rabble thrown together. And this rider handles a horse well—the barbarians carry a heavier build than we do too. Seems everyone's been far too optimistic."

Derek's mood darkened. He had expected an easy sweep, only to discover a far more dangerous enemy waiting for him.

Strong as the barbarian scout was, though, an Elite-rank knight was chasing him down, and it wasn't long before Simon knocked him clean off his horse.

"Keep on them. Rotate the men in shifts. I want every barbarian scout too afraid to move—make them blind."

Derek gave the order.

The cavalry moved fast, but his elite infantry trailed well behind, and between that and the rest needed along the way, holding the enemy up for at least a full day was the goal.

With just twenty-odd riders, that would be no easy thing to pull off.

The barbarians needed only to put their heads down and march to widen the gap fast enough.

But Derek split his riders into two groups, taking turns dogging the barbarian convoy.

Every so often, they'd flaunt themselves openly, feinting a charge at the wagons.

Barbarian riders gave chase, and Derek's men fell back.

Barbarians tried to march on, and Derek's men needled them again.

A few rounds of it, and the barbarians' patience began to fray past holding.

"Let me take the men and teach them a lesson. Give me every rider you've got—I'll finish off these damned Locke bastards myself."

A hulking barbarian bellowed the demand. A minor chieftain among the lower ranks, his own strength ran high enough.

Together, the barbarian bands could field at least forty or fifty riders—nearly twice the number of Locke cavalry in pursuit.

They'd seen Locke's cavalry up close these past days and judged them no stronger than their own—if anything, a shade weaker man for man.

The other minor leaders mulled it over. Getting harassed like this without end wasn't sustainable either.

So they agreed to hand their own riders over to him.

Leaders aside, fifty-two riders came together in all.

When Simon's riders swept in to harass them again, the barbarian cavalry came pouring out in answer.

This time, driving off these irritating Locke men wasn't going to be enough.

Simon broke away at once, but the barbarian riders chased hard on his heels, intent on swallowing his squad whole.

Derek had been resting with the second squad. The moment he saw Simon racing back in disarray, he swung into the saddle.

"Brothers. Here's our chance to make a name."

Better this than the barbarians hiding in their shell—having them charge out instead suited him just fine.

A small elite force could achieve both goals with a single strike and cripple the barbarian cavalry in the process.

Wage a real grinding fight against the barbarian main force later, and whether massing for a charge or covering a retreat, the losses either way would run steep.

Better to settle it now and spare his infantry the cost later.

Everyone had trained this long for exactly one shot at the barbarians.

Now the chance had come, and every knight mounted up—remarkably calm about it, all things considered.

"Circle wide. Circle wide."

Derek shouted.

Simon understood. He led his riders through a wide arc and circled behind Derek.

Derek had already claimed a low rise, and with Simon leading the barbarians' line to tilt just slightly, a narrow flank opened up right in front of him.

Perhaps they never imagined a mere ten riders would dare counter-charge—and now they were about to find out otherwise.

As the Northern warhorses surged into a gallop, their heavy hooves thundered against the earth.

Chainmail rang as the entire squad went from a dead stop to a full charge within seconds.

The barbarian riders caught sight of this reckless enemy, and their formation wavered.

Their quality showed even here—strangers to each other or not, they still managed to wheel around, however roughly.

But Derek moved faster, driving hard into the one gap that had opened.

He tore straight through the barbarian column from an angle, striking from behind and to the side.

An armored charge in full motion punched clean through in a single pass.

The barbarians suffered far heavier losses than expected. A dozen riders fell within moments.

Chaotic formation or not, a toll like that shouldn't have come this easily.

They realized too late that this was not the lightly equipped squad that had harassed them earlier. Even the horses wore armor.

Derek and Simon had split their men into two groups from the start—whichever squad harassed rode light.

Whichever squad rested stayed armored and waiting, prepared for exactly this moment.

The preparation paid off now, and paired with the raw strength of elite cavalry, it shattered the barbarian riders' morale in one stroke.

Simon, having circled back around, drove his own charge home right behind.

Still not recovered from the chaos, some of them still turned to face Derek's side, bracing to fight.

Caught trying to watch two directions at once, they took another blow clean through.

Derek and Simon linked back up, their twenty-odd riders mostly intact.

"Charge!"

The barbarian riders managed one last ragged counter-charge, and then broke entirely.

When only a dozen or so riders made it back to the wagon train, the barbarian soldiers there could scarcely believe their own eyes.

"You ran into an ambush?"

It was the only explanation anyone could think of.

But the surviving riders, red with shame, told the truth of it instead.

The remaining minor chieftains finally understood that they were in far deeper trouble than they had imagined.

Judging by how Locke's cavalry had fought, and the sheer boldness of their harassment, this was plainly no ordinary force.

Abandon the baggage train and run, or dig in where they stood and wait for relief?

The barbarians fell into disarray, and with night coming down fast, camp had to be made regardless.