The Red Bridge

The Red River's deep blue waters flashed a formidable sight below the bridge suspended above it. The current was slow, like a mother cradling her newborn child. But below the blue sparkles and the calm current was probably one of the deepest rivers in the world. Fishermen and crabhunters have tried to put a number on the depth. They all came with different measurements of course, with the shallowest being the height of a palm tree and the deepest being tales of the Red River being bottomless.

Henry doesn't care about numbers. The fact is that the Red River is deep and wide. He severed his stare from the water below them. The Red Bridge was high and terrifying enough with its crumbling columns and tales of it being built with substandard materials. Now nearly thirty thousand pair of boots will cross the wooden bridge, probably at least two hundred men at a time. Not to mention the weight of horses, Henry prayed that the old bridge would hold.

A few clack of horse hooves and he reached the other end. Looking behind, their host was lined far. The Castonians were at the front like they always were, as if a more cheesy stereotype is needed. Henry's knights marched at the middle except those who were tasked to scout. Queen Emily was at the rear.

"You miss her sire?" A sudden question reached Henry's ears.

Henry looked at the knight who threw the question, with a frown of course as he didn't see the need for such a personal query.

"Ah... that Castonian Ambassadress. Our brothers have been talking about her and you" The knight added with an anxious smile.

"Gossiping you mean. The Omniscient warns about the dangers of the tongue brother"

"We are merely curious sire"

Henry fiddled with the reins. He took a quick glance towards the line still crossing the Red Bridge.

"Her name is Freya. And yes, I will be missing her. But she will stay in Bivon where she will be safe. That gives me a peace of mind"

"And after all of this sire? What then?"

"What?"

The knight's head lowered a bit. "Some of our brothers are worried that you'll go back with her to Castonia"

Henry jolted. His eyes squinted. He and Freya haven't discussed this complication yet. With him as the Grand Master now, he cannot leave Tulosa. Before the snow season, he had decided to live in Castonia for the rest of his life. But now that couldn't happen anymore.

Before Henry could provide an answer or even think of one, two riders went to him. With their black mails and the lion on their breastplates, they were Erik's men.

"The Marquis requests your presence Grand Master"

Henry formed a little and fleeting smile, amused by the words used. Because their ranks are now, to a certain extent, equal, Erik's words were tamer and less demanding. Henry rode with the riders to the front.

The Castonians formed in an arc that stretched for at least a mile from one end to another. Two men deep and with their halberds pointed to the blue sky, Henry could only feel bad if the enemies planned an ambush while they were crossing.

"Professionals, aren't they?" Erik said with an air of pride.

"You Castonians have that reputation. You yourself have that reputation"

Erik curved a smile "We have been here for a month right? How many battles have we won?"

"Three"

"Three in one month, a great feat. But that pales compared to King Timothy. Do you know the situation up north?"

Henry shook his head. He had been focused on the affairs here in Tulosa that news from the north eluded his ears.

"The King and the Queen are ravaging Canton as we speak. They have captured half of that kingdom. The Queen plotted for the ousting of the King of Canton and she was successful with the support of rebels and disgruntled nobles. Of course Wismar, Hadea and Inkit have sent support but Timothy just toyed with them, outmaneuvering their huge and bulky army left and right. In one battle, the Rooster legion routed a force five times their number. Guess how many engagements they have won?"

Henry shrugged "Three?"

"Fifteen" Erik said "Of course some of them are small skirmishes but that is still damn impressive. And how about Admiral Bisham and the Vanadian navy? Have you heard news about their exploits?"

Henry again shook his head but guessed vaguely, "They are winning right?"

"Better. The Calgarians are losing. It was a full blockade Henry. Calgari's trade is suspended. All their tea are just sitting in their warehouses. Admiral Bisham also captured the city of Hydas and many coastal towns"

"I appreciate the information Erik but I sense a greater reason why you're telling me of this"

Erik sighed loudly and produced a grin "I am losing against my peers. Although we have won three battles already, the civil war is still an ongoing affair. My achievements are far too little compared to them. It is too late now to catch up to Timothy's achievements in the north but I am not losing to Admiral Bisham. Well fear not for I will soon do something that could impress even Timothy. Future historians will remember the maneuver that I will do as The Marquis' Claws"

"I don't understand Erik. The Marquis' Claws?"

"Yes" Erik declared "We are the lion and we have a rat to hunt"

**********

Under the dark blanket of sky eight thousand Calgarians marched in silence. A sensible commander would pitch tents and gift his men rest after a long day of march. A normal Dux would dread a night march. But there was nothing normal or sensible about their situation. On one side were the enemies and on the other was the deep Red River. Neither would welcome them with loving arms. They must cross the bridge unnoticed.

Riding on his horse and at the front of the column, Dux Corwell held a waterskin. The leather had been damaged by time. Like his position, the waterskin belonged to his father and his father before him. Corwell doesn't want to gain the wrath of his ancestors for throwing the old thing so he kept it. His son, who would also be a Dux after his death or resignation, would inherit the battered waterskin.

Corwell took a sip and had a bitter smile after tasting the water. It inflicted a funny taste on his tongue. Clean water wouldn't taste sour, came a fleeting thought.

The footslog led them to a bridge just about eight leagues north of Bivon. He was told to burn the bridge after crossing. For that he had prepared barrels of oil. Vanadian Hellfire could have been better but the supply of smuggled Hellfire had dwindled for the last months. Those available in the black market were either too diluted to burn or just fake.

Oil would suffice though as Balian informed him that the Red Bridge is a product of corruption. The wood were old and easy to catch fire. The columns were thinner than in the plans.

'Just sprinkle oil' Balian told him back in Stonerider 'But make sure none of your men are still in the bridge or you will have to fish them from the Red River. Fish them drowned or dying and probably both for that river is deep'

"Send the outriders" Corwell ordered after finally catching sight of the Red Bridge from afar. A bridge crossing is a thing of danger especially when darkness is not your friend. Ambushes were a threat only fools would enjoy ignoring. Corwell prided himself for being a sensible man like his father and his father before him.

The scouts rode to all directions, spreading like sowed grains in spring planting. Eight scouts went ahead to the other side in case the enemies didn't cross after all and were actually waiting for them on the other side.

Corwell ordered a halt before crossing. His horse stood on the entrance of the Red Bridge. He looked forward and darkness met him. The moon hid behind the horizon and the stars snubbed the sky. He held the torch high, the buttocks of the scouts' horses made a show before fully merging in the darkness of the bridge. What awaited on the other side was beyond Corwell. The Red bridge itself was a little different from what he imagined. It was of a narrow deck with the pillars made of stone at first and then degrading into wood at the middle. The planks were black smutted wood, probably Cedar. The nails showed age through rust.

The sound of iron horseshoes tapping on the wood of the bridge demanded Corwell's attention. He knew then that something is wrong. The Red Bridge is long, some five hundred feet across that connected the two banks of the Red River. It should have taken longer for the scouts to return.

The eight horsemen's faces were pale as lime powder.

"What?" Corwell asked the closest rider, still quite a distance away.

"Dux Corwell" The rider shouted back "The bridge..." The tone degraded into a fearful show "It has already been destroyed"