Chapter 9 - The Battle of the High Ridge
The mountain wind was a living thing, howling down the gorge like a pack of starving wolves.
Caelan crouched behind a jagged outcrop of black granite, his breath pluming white in the freezing air. Below them, tucked into the narrow neck of the southern pass, the campfires of the mercenary column flickered orange against the dark stone. They were clustered around the decoy wagons the king's decoy force had left rolling down the main road, completely unaware of the threat looming directly above their heads.
"Sir," whispered the captain of the light cavalry, creeping up beside Caelan. "The men are in position. We can drop the avalanche timber on their camp whenever you give the word."
Caelan looked down at the unsuspecting mercenaries. Then he closed his eyes for a fraction of a second, feeling the cold mountain air fill his lungs, feeling the ancient pulse of the bloodline that connected him to the tower, to the wolf, and to a sharp-witted maid back in the castle.
Gravale has woken up.
"Now," Caelan whispered.
The night exploded.
With a deafening crash, the heavy pine logs and boulders stacked along the high ridge were cut loose, thundering down the steep slopes like an avalanche of vengeance. Before the mercenaries could even scramble for their weapons, the cavalry poured down the ridge behind the falling timber, shouting war cries that echoed off the canyon walls.
It wasn't a long battle. Taken completely by surprise, surrounded by falling rock and screaming steel, the mercenary column broke within twenty minutes. Their commander was unseated by a swift blow from Caelan’s broadsword before he could even draw his blade, and the rest scattered into the dark timberlands like startled deer.
By the time the moon reached its zenith, the southern pass was secure.
Caelan sat on a boulder near the smoking campfires, wiping a streak of dust and sweat from his forehead. His shoulder ached from a glancing blow, and his boots were ruined, but as he looked out over the quiet gorge, a profound, unshakable peace settled over him.
The rot was cleared. The traitors were broken. Gravale was standing on solid ground at last.
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"My king!" shouted the captain, riding up with a grin splitting his bearded face. "The pass is ours! Lord Vane’s mercenaries are running for the lowlands, and we’ve captured their supply manifests. Vane’s signature is on every page."
Caelan nodded slowly, standing up and tightening his cloak against the wind. "Secure the perimeter. We ride back at dawn."
