The wagons and infantry of Valeria’s army sank deep into the mud after a day of relentless rain.

  The sun was setting beyond the horizon. Troubling reports were coming in from Gyrd, and the fortress was still many hours of march away — perhaps more.

  Rumors of orcs advancing from beyond the river and hobgoblins from the eastern tribes burning villages and settlements east and south of the stronghold gave the vampiress no peace. She had to push her goblins forward. For the first time, she stepped down from her palanquin and mounted a wolf, determined to reach the battlefield as quickly as possible.

  Gyrd’s men reported the first clashes between the forward scouts of both goblin armies. The first arrows had been loosed, the first bodies fallen — mostly among the surprised eastern goblins, who quickly returned the favor. The glow of burning nearby villages was already visible in the distance, and the initial counterattacks of Valeria’s vanguard had the expected effect. Over two thousand goblins bearing the red sigil of a serpent devouring itself marked their armor and skin as they encircled the fortress of Isma, forming a wide line among the trees on the hills surrounding the valley from the west.

  For the first time in her life, Valeria personally commanded an army in a full-scale, bloody battle. By the river, she had fought alone with Artax at her side — who was not here now. When attacking the village of Hakku, she had acted almost independently, aided by rebels whose uprising she had helped provoke. She had defeated the troll tamer with cunning.

  But here, the enemy was competent — and strong. All reports pointed to that. New movements were constantly being reported. Gyrd’s light units could not break the enemy lines — they could only sow confusion. Valeria’s main forces were delayed — exhausted, scattered, hungry, and covered in mud.

  Riding her wolf, feeling the fear and uncertainty spreading among goblins who could barely drag their feet forward, she knew she had to make a bold, unexpected decision. As her old military tutor used to say:

  "An army fights at the front — but it almost always dies from the flank."

  The old vampire, Aurevian Blackthorne, had once been one of her father’s three Blood Generals. He knew what he was talking about.

  Valeria smiled faintly at the memory of the old man who had once risked his life to help her escape the Misty Isles, after her uncle framed her for her father’s murder and seized power. After all this time, she preferred not to know what had become of him...

  Borg’s shout snapped her back to reality.

  “Your Highness! Those cowardly snake-lovers are storming the city! Gyrd calls for aid! She won’t break through on her own! We must attack before it’s too late!”

  Valeria remained silent for a moment, taking in the chaos around her. Behind her stretched a weary army, a long, muddy column. Beyond the hills ahead, buildings burned, and thick smoke filled the valley. In the distance, countless torches flickered, accompanied by the roar of thousands of throats, the pounding of drums, and the blare of war horns.

  The enemy army — possibly much larger than her own — had fortified the passage south of the White Stone River, leaving no gap to break through.

  And reinforcements were coming. From the north came the growing noise of heavy boots — an unknown number of orcs was approaching.

  Goblins could be deceived, outplayed. They were weak in strategy and planning. Orcs were something else entirely — true, brutal infantry, making up for lack of discipline with sheer ferocity.

  Valeria knew that if she struck now, less than half her forces would hit well-prepared hobgoblin defenses and traps. If she waited for the rest of her army, Isma might not withstand the siege. The fortress would fall and burn to the ground with everyone inside.

  Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  Her hand tightened on the hilt of her sword.

  She remembered her tutor’s lessons — she had to act outside the expected. Such tactics worked best against goblins and orcs. Knowledge was on her side. So was ambition.

  She made her decision.

  “No!” she shouted. “Gyrd is to harass the enemy and hold position. Mago will regroup and threaten a frontal assault. You and Zoggo — take two hundred wolf riders each and follow me! We circle around!”

  Borg grumbled under his breath but obeyed. Mago rallied the goblins with shouts, organizing them for battle. From beyond the hills came alarm calls — horns, drums, shouting. The enemy army shifted, preparing its defenses.

  The silver-haired vampire rode south at full speed. The wolves panted heavily, exhausted, the cold air hurting their lungs. Mud splashed beneath them, though the ground grew firmer the farther they moved from the river.

  Valeria sharpened her senses. She heard branches snapping, felt every shift in the air, sensed the breathing of wolves — and the movement of enemies. She dictated the pace, carving a path for her riders. Night was approaching — and with it, her true strength.

  In the distance, she sensed the aura of a scout — about three hundred meters ahead of a massive enemy column.

  She veered into the brush, leapt from her wolf, and in an instant dissolved into mist — twice — closing the distance before he could sound the alarm. Her blade cut cleanly through his neck, and his body fell into the mud.

  The fifth enemy rider she had silenced before he could raise the alarm. Aura sensing and speed were proving invaluable.

  This time, several well-armed hobgoblins appeared behind him.

  Zoggo charged without hesitation, cutting down three armored warriors alone, their bodies rolling through the mud. Borg crushed one, then cried out as a blade struck his side — but his counterblow shattered another’s skull.

  Valeria leapt into the fray.

  The goblins were completely unprepared. The side of the enemy column — wagons, light infantry, reserves, and several war boars — was cramped and disorganized. They were larger than her goblins, marked with tribal tattoos and fresh scars. Torches flickered everywhere. Panic spread.

  The sudden assault of her riders unleashed chaos.

  Blades severed limbs. Spears pierced through bodies. The hobgoblins’ strength gave them no advantage in such confined space. Valeria herself cut down over fifty enemies, wounding many more.

  An arrow whistled past her face by inches. A charging war boar tried to trample her — but her hypnotic left eye seized its mind. The beast crashed into one of its own and toppled over.

  Hobgoblins barely reached her chest. Goblins barely her waist.

  Anyone who dared think they could kill her ended in a pool of blood — drowning in it, writhing, calling for help.

  Valeria — of a race that cherished purity and order — now reveled in slaughter. Mud-covered. Blood-soaked.

  She moved like a storm among the wagons, cutting the ropes that bound them together and setting them ablaze. Arrows, spears, and clubs flew around her. Wagons overturned, spilling food, arrows, and supplies. Smoke filled the air.

  The enemy was utterly stunned.

  Soldiers tried to regroup, but panic made it impossible.

  The wolves howled — exhausted, enraged, wounded — tearing into enemies. Valeria, lost in the frenzy, struck again and again, every movement precise and lethal. The sound of breaking bones, screams of the dying, crashing wagons, and roaring flames blended into a single, terrible symphony.

  It took a long time for the enemy to reorganize. Some fled in panic. Others tried to save the supplies, dragging the wounded, calling for reinforcements.

  The losses were enormous on both sides.

  Just four hundred wolf riders had slain well over a thousand enemies, wounded hundreds more, destroyed supplies, and shattered the enemy column.

  Breathing heavily, Valeria drove her forces southward, maintaining a pace that pushed many beyond their limits.

  Some fell. Others barely clung to life. Arrows pierced flesh. Armor was torn. Faces were bloodied.

  They rode for hours — fighting skirmishes, evading pursuit. Every breath tasted of mud, blood, and smoke. Exhaustion burned their muscles, while adrenaline drove them on.

  Only after long hours of fighting and flight did they reach the southern hills.

  From the heights, Valeria saw the enemy withdrawing from the siege.

  The infantry that had blocked the approaches was retreating in disorder. Flames and smoke marked the aftermath of battle. Mago’s army, now reorganized, finally entered the fortress — greeted by the cheers of soldiers and citizens.

  The valley was filled with corpses — goblins, hobgoblins, wolves, boars — burned, crushed, scattered.

  Funeral pyres were lit. No one celebrated, for the harvest of death was too great.

  Valeria dismounted. Her hair and cloak were soaked. Mud streaked her face.

  Even in the chaos — she felt triumph. Her plan had worked.

  At great cost, she had outmaneuvered the enemy, forced them to retreat, and saved the fortress.

  For a moment, she wished Artax were here. With him, she always felt certain. Together, they survived anything.

  She lowered her head — but then realized something.

  She had accomplished a miracle. Her father would be proud. So would Lord Blackthorne. She took a deep breath, feeling the pulse of her own blood. The battle was won. But the war… The war had only just begun.

  The vampire’s daring would be needed again.