Chapter 8

It took almost two hours for Zelroth and his company to reach their camp. The sun had reached the apex when the labyrinth of trees parted to reveal a large clearing littered with tents and half doused fires. Most of his unit lazed and grovelled in the grass, scattered about like victims of a windstorm.

Zalmer and Cain stood beside the tethered steeds.

“Welcome back, Captain.” Cain straightened. “I see you succeeded.”

Zelroth sighed. “You can say that.” He jumped down from his saddle and gestured at one of the unconscious men. “What’s wrong with these fools?”

“The ‘crates of weapons’ from North Warren turned out to be barrels of ale from Appleby,” Cain said, a wide grin plastered on his face.

“I don’t think their condition will improve any time soon.” Zalmer sighed. “Just our luck these spineless newbies got assigned to our unit.”

“As if my pride hasn’t been dragged through the dirt already,” Zelroth muttered, trying not to clench his jaw.