Chapter 402
So this is what it feels like to march to battle, Torghan thought, adjusting his grip on the hilt of his short axe, his shield pressed firmly against his chest. The cold morning air bit at his skin, but he hardly noticed. His heart pounded in his ears, not from fear, but from something else entirely—anticipation.
Excitement.
The warriors had moved faster than he’d imagined possible. Just last night, the summons had gone out, carried from fire to fire, from home to home. By dawn, the warriors stood ready, their weapons sharpened. It was a sight Torghan had dreamed of since he was a child, watching the men return from raids, bloodied and triumphant. And now, at long last, he was among them.
How could he not be eager? This was his chance—his only chance probably —to prove himself, to become more than just the third son of Varaku, more than just a boy. A single kill would mark him as a warrior, would elevate him from the ranks of those who could only watch, listen, and obey. He would no longer be dismissed, no longer be a child in the eyes of the tribe. His voice would matter.
But for all the excitement coursing through his veins, it was not the thought of glory that sent warmth surging through his chest. It was something far smaller, far simpler—a moment so fleeting that had he blinked, he might have missed it.
His father truly looked at him.
It was barely there, just the faintest look of approval of Varaku’s lips when he had seen him walk out of their house with weapons, a moment so brief it might not have existed at all. And yet, to Torghan, it was everything. A silent approval. A recognition that, for the first time, he was not just a son, but a man.
And he would not waste it.
Tribes that lived far from the reach of civilization were many things, but cravens were never one of them. To endure centuries beside the ever-expanding Sultanate of Azania while holding lands rich with silver and iron was proof enough of their resilience. A weaker people would have long been crushed, but the tribes had survived—and not just survived, but thrived.
Unlike the rigid feudal kingdoms that surrounded them, where armies had to be raised through levies and reluctant peasants were dragged from their fields, a tribe’s warriors were always ready. Every able-bodied man wanted to fight, for in their world, battle was not just survival—it was status. A man’s worth was measured by his courage, his kills, and the blood he shed for his people. To prove oneself in war was to claim honor, a voice in the tribal council, and the right to stand among warriors as an equal.
And when war came, they did not waste time. While feudal lords required weeks, sometimes months, to muster their banners and gather their armies in one place, the tribes needed only days. A call to arms spread like wildfire, and within hours, men were sharpening their weapons, painting their faces, and singing war songs around the fire. By the time their enemies had even begun to assemble, the tribes were already on the march, ready to spill blood before the first battle horn was sounded.
The sultans of Azania had, on three separate occasions, sought to bring the tribes beyond the mountains to heel. And three times, they had failed. Each attempt had ended in defeat, and not because the tribes possessed greater numbers or superior arms—no, their greatest weapon was the land itself. The mountains and hills they called home were a fortress no foreign army could conquer, a treacherous maze where even the most disciplined soldiers became little more than lost men awaiting their doom.
In truth, the tribes only counted two true invasions, for the first barely deserved the name. That campaign never even reached their lands, collapsing under its own arrogance before a single proper battle was fought. The Azanian nobles, drunk on their own might, had sent an army filled with horsemen, believing they would crush the scattered tribes with swift cavalry charges. But within a week, the invaders found themselves in ruin. The rugged terrain shattered their supply lines—carts snapped and splintered along jagged paths, food and water became scarce, and the very horses they relied upon began to starve.
And then the ambushes began. Warriors hidden among the cliffs sent boulders crashing down onto marching columns, turning roads into graveyards. Arrows rained from unseen perches high above, striking men down before they even glimpsed their attackers. When soldiers rushed to scale the rocky slopes in pursuit, they found nothing but empty air—their enemies had already vanished, melting into the mountains as though they had never been there at all.
The campaign ended not in battle, but in disgrace. Demoralized and exhausted, the noble lords of Azania soon realized there was no glory to be had in such a war. There were no cities to sack, no wealth to plunder—only an endless march through a land that refused to be tamed. With their men starving and their tempers flaring, they abandoned their ambitions and turned back, retreating without ever having laid eyes on the true heart of the tribes’ lands.
Beyond the unforgiving terrain, another reason for which the Azanian campaigns crumbled was the tribes’ ability to mobilize at a moment’s notice. The very instant an enemy force set foot in the mountains, the call to arms had already been sounded, and warriors stood ready to defend their homeland—a homeland that, to the frustration of the Azanian nobles, was everywhere. There were no grand cities to besiege, no strongholds to conquer—only endless hills, valleys, and forests, where the land itself seemed to shift and swallow invaders whole.
Without a central target to subdue, Azanian armies found themselves wandering blindly, chasing shadows and phantoms through the highlands. The tribes rarely offered open battle, for why should they? The invaders were foreigners in a land that despised them, and the mountain warriors knew all they had to do was wait.
Days turned to weeks, and as the invading armies pushed forward, their supplies thinned.
Foraging parties sent ahead never returned. Columns left behind to guard vital passages were discovered, weeks later, to have been slaughtered to the last man. Every attempt to establish a foothold was met with the same grim fate. And without fertile land to sustain them, any garrison left behind would wither and die—either from starvation or at the hands of warriors who knew these lands like the backs of their hands.
And so, the question loomed over the minds of every strategist in the sultanate:How do you conquer such inhospitable land?
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Torghan adjusted the grip on his axe, feeling the rough leather of the handle press into his palm. The crisp morning air carried the scent of damp earth and the distant smoke of the campfires where the last of the warriors were preparing to march. He turned to Jandari, his childhood friend, who stood beside him, rolling his shoulders as if trying to shake off the stiffness of sleep.
“Are you excited?” Torghan asked, his voice barely containing his own anticipation.
Jandari gave a short nod, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Of course I am. I just never thought our first battle would come this soon.” He exhaled sharply, his breath misting in the cold air. “Feels strange, doesn’t it? All those years listening to the elders and warriors talk about war, and now we’re finally here.”
Torghan grinned, his fingers tightening around his axe. “Strange? I’d call it long overdue.” He turned his gaze toward the warriors ahead of them, seasoned men who had fought in countless battles. “Do you think we’ll get to fight in the front?”
Torghan grinned, his fingers tightening around his axe. “Strange? I’d call it long overdue.” He turned his gaze toward the warriors ahead of them, seasoned men who had fought in countless battles. “Do you think we’ll get to fight in the front?”
Jandari chuckled. “That depends. If you keep running your mouth, they might throw you in first just to shut you up.” Torghan joined too in the laughing .
Jandari scoffed. “”But in all seriousness you are the leader’s son; he will certainly make you fight….As for me I think if the gods are watching, they’ll send me an enemy too slow to dodge.” His smirk faded slightly, and he looked ahead, where their fathers and elder warriors stood, their expressions grim with the weight of experience. “You know, I thought I’d be more afraid.”
“Me too,” he admitted, his voice quieter. Then he shook his head, forcing the doubt away. “But it doesn’t matter. By the end of this, we’ll be warriors. That’s all that counts.”
Jandari met his gaze, and for a moment, there was no bravado between them, no nervous jokes—just the silent understanding that neither of them would ever be the same after this day. Then Jandari smirked again, clapping Torghan on the shoulder.
“Just don’t die before I get to see you kill someone,” he said.
Torghan smirked back. “I should say the same to you.”
And with that, the two of them stepped forward, ready to take their place in the march to battle.Not knowing whether or not a week from now, any of them would still be able to talk to each other.
War after all had always a price to pay