To the west, a small grove of black walnut trees rustled quietly, as if to say they would rather be somewhere else. To the east, the main camp was the proverbial beehive of activity that you would expect to find from an army at war. Soldiers marched. Sergeants shouted. Swords clashed with shields as recruits practiced in hopes of living through their first engagement. Several blacksmiths hammered and twisted pieces of metal as they practiced their art in the pursuit of war. Pots and pans clanked and clanged as cooks worked to keep the soldiers fed. Here, between the grove and the main encampment, there were three tents. These tents were dark green instead of the tan color found in the main camp. The canvas flap on the center tent stirred slightly in the breeze. Dust lay heavy and thick across every visible surface in this distant corner of the camp.

A heavy silence filled this small group of tents, broken only by the slow and steady scrape of the whet stone dragged across a sword edge. In the middle of the tents sat a small, dark haired woman and an enormous rock troll. She stared into the distance, a small smile playing across her lips as she remembered some personal secret from the past. The rock troll slowly dragged his whet down a sword that would be much too large for any normal man to use. A third soldier slept fitfully in the middle tent.

A slight path led from the camp to this small group of tents. Up the path ran a messenger. His long legs carried him swiftly up the slight incline. Small puffs of dust and dirt swirled where his boots struck the ground. His gleaming buttons looked like flickering lights against his dark blue dress uniform. A hat sat atop his dark hair set at just the perfect angle to satisfy even the most stringent commander. A slight grimace twisted the messenger's otherwise handsome face.

He strode into the camp circle. He glanced at the note in his hand. A series of wooden camp chairs sat in a semi-circle around a fire pit. In two of them sat the most unlikely soldiers the messenger had ever seen. A short, dark haired woman sat in the farthest chair. A giant rock troll filled the closest chair to overflowing. The chair seemed close to collapse as the four legs splayed uneasily in the soft dirt.

"What?" the dark haired woman asked. The Rock Troll didn't even glance up at her sharp tone.

The messenger noticed the Roc Rider patch on her arm and the single gold claw that marked her as a Major. She outranked him by a lifetime. He saluted and then swallowed uneasily. "I'm here with a message for Brigadier Wilson." He glanced down at the note in his hand, as if to make sure it was still present and accounted for.

"Give it," she said. Her voice cracked like the short riding crop that sat on her right hip. A right shapely hip at that, thought the young messenger. He looked up and swallowed again at the gleam in her eye. Her predatory and knowing smile looked exactly like the smile of a Roc. Her right hand extended in anticipation of obedience.

"Sorry sir, uh ma'am, uh sir," he muttered.

"Soldier," she snapped. "Proper salute to an officer is sir."

"Yes sir," he replied.

"Yes sir, what?" she asked, motioning to the note in his hand.

"Can't sir. It's for his eyes only."

The Black Oak Sword

Chapter 1: Part 1
Chapter 1: Part 2
Chapter 1: Part 3

Chapter 2: Part 1
Chapter 2: Part 2

© 2017, Stone Golem Publishing

**All pictures used are labeled for reuse. They come from Max Pixel

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