[b]Chapter 2: A letter[/b]

Leofric stepped out of his tent and tugged on the black leather gloves before lowering his hands to his sides, concealing them behind his ebon cloak draping down over his shoulder. Night had settled since a few hours passed and darkness now surrounded him on all sides. His tent had been raised on top of a small cliff and he stopped just by its edge to narrow his gaze to the northern horizon and the storm that was brewing. He saw frequent flashes light up the darkened clouds but the sound of thunder never reached his ears. He idly worked his jaw to either side in thought, though his attention was stolen by a hoarse laugh coming from below, followed by a collection of angry clamour. Hundreds of grey tents spanned out to the left and right at the bottom of the cliff, campfires and braziers had been lit up around the vast camp and men sat huddled around the fires, some occupied themselves with idle chatter and others had brought out dice and cards for a friendly set of games. The king smirked as a certain group of men stood out from the rest - the shouting that he had heard came from them, and what from he could gather it was related to money betting over a game of dice.

Still, he was pleased that they were able to entertain themselves after the bloody day that had passed. Not that they had reason to not celebrate in their own ways, they had not lost a single man when they rode down the undead horde earlier that day. Leofric turned his gaze south and stared out into the darkness, knowing that the Black Marsh was out there. He could see its mist, and a handful of dim, flickering lights within it, coming from the stubborn fires that were still burning the piled up corpses of the dead.

The sound of heavy footsteps and clattering armor sprung the king out of thought and he twisted slightly on the spot to look to his left. Sir Arthur, one of his officers, came trudging up a thin road leading to the top of the cliff. The knight walked up next to his liege and bowed respectfully. “Your Grace.”

“Sir Arthur.” Leofric replied, his gaze had shifted back to the camp below and the mirthful banter and conversations sounding from it. “They appear to be in good spirits.”

“Yes, Sire. Morale is high in the camp, the men rejoice over their decisive victory against the dead. Well, excluding a few, pale young lads, but they’ll come around. Told a few men to bring out the ale, see if that can’t get their humours up.” Arthur said with a grin, the knight was evidently in a good mood himself.

“Good. Just make sure they don’t fall into a drunken stupor, I need them ready at first light for our march northwards. Give the order, Sir Arthur.”

The knight bowed once again and spun on his heels, soon disappearing down the cliff. Leofric huffed out a breath of cold air and turned around to walk back into his tent. A table stood in the center with a small lantern by its edge, illuminating a map of the Northlands rolled out across it, as well as a small bundle of letters. A single chair clad in various pelts stood next to the table and Leofric circled around it to take a seat. He had not told Sir Arthur why they were to march back north. He could not risk telling anyone while in the field, not even his own trusted knights. He reached out for a specific letter and reclined into the back of his chair to look through it. It had been delivered by a rider in the night, and even though he had read it a few times already, a deep frown etched upon his features as he reviewed the message again.