Chapter 207: THE NARROW VALLEY
Three days after the Solari spies were apprehended in Iron Hearth, the southern route of Oakhaven was intentionally left hollow.
There were no patrols. No tanks. No infantry stationed at the observation posts. Only the wind whistled through the dry trees, and dust danced over the dirt roads. To anyone watching from a distance, the path looked like an invitation—a gap in the Sudrath defense that shouldn’t have existed.
Rianor Sudrath stood atop a small hill overlooking the path. Beside him, Elara sat in her wheelchair, a crystal tablet in her lap displaying a map with sensor dots intentionally deactivated in that area. The morning breeze brushed against their faces, carrying the scent of dry earth and wild grass.
"Are you certain he’ll take the bait?" Elara asked, her voice soft.
Rianor didn’t look back. His eyes remained fixed to the south, toward the horizon where dust clouds were beginning to rise. "Alistair has no choice. His spies have been captured. He’s blind. The only information he possesses is the last report his spies sent before we took them—that this path is our weak point."
"And he’ll believe it just like that?"
"He has no reason not to." Rianor finally turned, looking at his wife. "His spies operated inside Northreach for three months without being compromised. They provided him with accurate intel all this time. He has no way of knowing we’ve turned the tables."
Elara nodded slowly. Her eyes returned to the tablet, monitoring the movement in the distance. Red dots began to appear on the screen—one, five, ten, dozens, hundreds. Cavalry. A massive force.
"They’re coming," she whispered.
Hundreds of kilometers to the south, Alistair Solari spurred his horse at the front of the column. The wind buffeted a face etched with lines of fatigue—three days of travel without proper rest, sleeping in the saddle, eating while riding. But his eyes remained sharp. Still hungry for victory.
Beside him, Sir Romeni rode with one hand on the reins, the other tightly bandaged against his chest. The wound in his shoulder from the eastern route battle had yet to fully heal, but he had refused to stay behind.
"My lord," Sir Romeni called out, his voice hoarse. "The path ahead is empty. Our scouts see no patrols. No tanks. No infantry."
Alistair narrowed his eyes, peering ahead. From here, he could see the path bisecting two low hills—a dirt road wide enough for cavalry to move with speed. To the left and right, stone cliffs loomed, creating a natural corridor that shielded them from aerial view.
"Exactly as our spies reported," Alistair muttered. "This path is unguarded. Rianor Sudrath is too focused on the main front."
Sir Romeni hesitated for a moment. "My lord, isn’t this too easy? A path this vacant..."
Alistair turned, fixing his subordinate with a piercing gaze. "You doubt our own intelligence? Our people have been inside Northreach for three months. They know the patrol schedules. They know where those tanks are moving. If they say this path is empty, then it is empty."
Sir Romeni lowered his head. "Forgive me, my lord. I was only being... cautious."
"Caution is good." Alistair looked ahead again. "But too much caution makes us miss opportunities. Leonardo is stuck at Torshavn. If we can cut Rianor’s retreat from here, we can strike them from the rear before they even realize what hit them."
He raised his hand, signaling the entire column.
"Move fast! Once we enter, do not stop. Straight through until we clear the valley. At the end, Oakhaven will be right in our sights—and that is when we crush them."
Thousands of cavalrymen roared in unison. Hooves thundered against the earth, kicking up a massive dust cloud behind them. Alistair spurred his horse faster, entering the path that split the two hills.
They had no idea that atop those cliffs, hundreds of eyes were watching.
Khulafa lay prone on the cliff’s edge, his Gauss Rifle mounted before him, the scope aimed below. Beside him, three other Ghost Squad members—Ruslan, Naya, and Orva—did the same. They had been there since dawn, blending into the rocks, silent and motionless.
"Target entering," Khulafa whispered into the Vibro-Comm. His voice was flat, as usual. "Cavalry. Estimate four thousand. Leader at the front. Alistair himself."
Rianor’s voice crackled in his ear. "Wait until they are all inside. No one fires until the mines detonate."
"Understood."
Below, the Highgarden cavalry continued to flow like a river of steel. Great warhorses, riders in gleaming armor, swords and spears unsheathed. They moved with speed and discipline—a loose but orderly formation. Elite troops. The pride of Highgarden.
Alistair was at the lead, his eyes fixed on the end of the valley. He could already see the light there—the exit, and beyond it, a defenseless Oakhaven. A thin smile began to form on his lips.
Then, the ground beneath him exploded.
It wasn’t just one explosion. Dozens. Hundreds. Mana mines planted along the path detonated simultaneously—not with fire, but with shockwaves of pure energy that ripped through the earth and hurled everything into the air. Horses whinnied hysterically, thrown aside, crashing into cliffs, trampling fallen riders. Armor buckled. Bones snapped. Blood was everywhere.
Alistair stumbled atop his horse. The beast shrieked, its legs struck by mine shrapnel, but it managed to stay upright. He pulled the reins, trying to command the chaos. "Formation! Stay calm! Do not—"
Before he could finish, a brilliant blue beam swept from the cliffs above.
Mana Laser.
The beam struck the middle of the cavalry column, melting armor and searing flesh in an instant. Horses collapsed, riders fell, and those still alive scattered in every direction—but there was nowhere to run. Cliffs to the left, cliffs to the right. The only way out was forward or back.
But in front, mines were still detonating. Behind them, the troops who hadn’t entered yet were pushed forward by those behind them, creating a horrific pile of meat and metal.
"An ambush!" Sir Romeni screamed, spurring his horse toward Alistair. "My lord, we must retreat!"
Alistair didn’t answer. His eyes were fixed on the cliffs, searching for the source of the blue light. He saw shadows there—Sudrath infantry, standing on the edge, firing down with weapons that spat lead relentlessly.
They had been waiting. From the very beginning.
"He knew," Alistair whispered, more to himself. "Rianor Sudrath... he knew I would come this way."
Sir Romeni pulled his horse’s reins, turning it around. "My lord, we have no time! Retreat now or we all die here!"
Alistair clenched his fist. Anger, shame, and something more bitter—defeat—swirled in his chest. But he was no fool. He knew when to fight and when to run.
"Retreat!" he roared, his voice breaking amidst the thunder of explosions. "All of you, retreat! Back to the entrance!"
The remnants of the cavalry that could still move turned, galloping toward where they came from. But the exit was narrowed by corpses and debris. They had to leap over the bodies of their own comrades, dodging riderless horses.
On the cliff, Khulafa tracked Alistair’s movements through his scope. His finger was on the trigger. He could take the shot now. One bullet, and the Duke of Highgarden would be dead before reaching the exit.
"Lead target in range," Khulafa whispered. "Permission to fire?"
There was silence on the other end. Then Rianor’s voice: "Negative. Let him go."
But Khulafa had already pulled the trigger.
The Gauss bullet streaked out—silent, fast, lethal. But Alistair, with a veteran’s instinct honed on dozens of battlefields, leaned his body just as his horse tripped over a corpse. The bullet struck his left shoulder instead of his head. His armor crumpled, and blood gushed out. Alistair fell from his horse, his body hitting the ground with a heavy thud.
"My lord!" Sir Romeni turned his horse, grabbing Alistair’s arm. With his remaining strength, he hauled his superior onto the saddle behind him. Alistair’s blood soaked the back of Sir Romeni’s armor.
They galloped as fast as they could, leaving behind a valley now filled with corpses and smoke. They didn’t look back.
On the cliff, Khulafa lowered his rifle. No expression crossed his face. He had disobeyed an order. But that didn’t matter now.
Rianor’s voice sounded again, flat as ever: "You shot."
"Yes."
A brief pause. Then: "Good. He is wounded. That is better. Now, withdraw."
Khulafa didn’t answer. He simply began to crawl backward, disappearing into the shadows.
Apost the hill, Rianor lowered his binoculars. His face was stoic, showing neither victory nor satisfaction. Only calculation.
"How many survived?" he asked.
Elara checked her tablet. "Sensors detect roughly a thousand exiting the valley. The rest... did not."
"A thousand." Rianor nodded slowly. "Enough to keep him dangerous. But not enough to threaten Oakhaven again."
Elara looked at her husband. "Why did you let him live? Khulafa could have killed him."
"Because I need him alive." Rianor turned, walking down the hill. "A defeated and fleeing Alistair will tell Leonardo what happened. He will sow doubt in the royal camp. Fear. A fearful enemy is easier to defeat than a desperate one."
He stopped, turning to Elara. "And I want him to know. I want Alistair Solari to remember that I am the one who defeated him. Not through luck. Not through numbers. But with intellect."
Elara didn’t respond. She simply pushed her wheelchair to follow her husband, leaving behind the hill that was beginning to be shrouded in dust.
That night, in the Oakhaven command tent, Rianor sat at his desk, writing a brief message on a small slip of paper. His handwriting was neat, concise, and to the point.
Alistair is finished. A thousand remain. I am heading to Torshavn.
He folded the paper, placed it in a small tube, and handed it to a courier.
"Send this to Riven. Use the express route."
The courier nodded and departed.
Elara pushed her wheelchair closer. "You’re going to Torshavn?"
"Yes." Rianor stared at the map. "Leonardo still has over forty thousand troops. Riven cannot hold him alone forever."
"And you think you can?"
Rianor offered a thin smile. "I don’t need to defeat him. I only need to make him think that he cannot win."
He stood up, walking to the tent’s entrance, gazing east—toward Torshavn.
"Tomorrow, we depart."