Alaric groaned, his voice a low, guttural sound filled with pain and discomfort. He rolled from his side over onto his back, each movement a jolt of agony that rippled through his body. It felt as if every bone, every muscle had been battered and bruised. With a monumental effort, he forced his eyes open, the lids heavy and resistant. At first, his vision was a haze of colors and shapes, a swirling miasma of confusion. Slowly, agonizingly, it began to clear. He was lying upon the ground, rough and uneven.
What happened?
The question echoed in his mind, a silent cry in the confusion. How had he gotten here? His thoughts were fragmented, pieces of a shattered puzzle that refused to fit together.
Confused and disoriented, Alaric sat up, his movements sluggish and uncoordinated. He was in a grass-filled field, the tall blades swaying gently in the breeze, whispering secrets he could not decipher.
A horse screamed, a piercing, desperate sound that cut through the fog of his mind. The clash of metal followed, a sword clanging from an impact, the sharp, ringing note reverberating in the air. Something hot and wet sprayed across Alaric’s face, droplets splattering his skin and into his open mouth. He tasted the copper tang of blood, rich and metallic. There was a heavy thud nearby.
That woke him up. The fog gripping his mind cleared, replaced by a sharp clarity that brought the world into harsh focus. Alaric’s eyes darted to take in the scene. Just feet away, a man in black leathers was engaged in a fierce duel, trading sword strikes with two other men. The sound of clashing steel was harsh and rhythmic. Next to Alaric lay a body, lifeless and bleeding.
Ezran was defending him.
The realization struck like a lightning bolt, jolting him fully awake. The ash man’s movements were fluid and precise as he battled, a dance of death amidst the chaos. Alaric scanned the ground frantically, searching for his own sword as he hastily pulled himself to his feet. The tall grass obscured his vision, each blade a barrier between him and his weapon.
Where was it?
Desperation fueled his gaze as it landed on the sword of the dead man at his feet. Without hesitation, he grabbed it, the hilt still warm. Straightening, Alaric took in the immediate battlefield. Ezran was still locked in combat, each strike and parry speaking to his skill and determination.
A handful of men were on their feet, their movements erratic and desperate. A horse lay nearby, its screams piercing the air, a haunting sound of agony. Alaric’s heart clenched as he recognized Maggie, her front legs grotesquely broken, the bone visible, along with a deep gash that ran along her side. Thick, oily blood flowed from the wound. Several other horses, bodies broken, lay still.
Thirty yards away, a mass of riders fought one another, a chaotic tangle of limbs and weapons. Staggering and still slightly disoriented, Alaric’s eyes caught sight of a standard lying in the grass a few feet away. The shaft had snapped in two.
Thorold.
The name echoed in his mind, bringing with it a flood of memories. The battle, the charge, the chase, the crash—it all came rushing back, a torrent of images and sounds that filled his mind. He gripped the sword tighter, determination hardening his resolve.
There was a massed shout that seemed to roll across the field like a wave, a deafening roar of defiance and determination. Alaric spotted his infantry, a disciplined wall of soldiers, slamming into the scratch line Thorold had hastily formed. The clash was brutal, bodies pressing against bodies, weapons swinging with deadly intent, shields blocking. Alaric felt a stab of pride strike his heart as his men pressed forward with unwavering courage and resolve.
But where was the king? Where was Thorold? The question gnawed at him.
A thundering of hooves drew his attention sharply. Alaric turned to find a horse charging right for him, its rider’s lance leveled directly at his chest. There was no time to think, only to act. With a desperate lunge, Alaric threw himself aside, the lance whistling past him, missing by a hairsbreadth. The near miss left him breathless, the realization of how close he had come to death sending a shiver down his spine.
The rider thundered by, pulling up sharply and swinging back around as Alaric regained his feet. The rider had raised the lance again, its steel point gleaming menacingly in the sun. Alaric’s eyes widened as he recognized the figure—regal and commanding.
It was the enemy king.
Thorold.
The revelation hit him like a physical blow. The battlefield narrowed in his vision, the chaos fading into the background as Alaric faced this immediate, deadly threat. He tightened his grip on the sword, his mind racing.
“Bastard,” Thorold shouted, voice a thunderous roar of anger and disdain. “You should have taken my offer. Now, you will die by my hand.” The words were like a curse, ominous in their promise, as Thorold leaned forward in his saddle, kicking his horse into a gallop and leveling his lance with deadly precision.
Alaric’s heart pounded, but his resolve hardened. Holding his sword tightly, he braced himself for the impending clash. The lance was aimed straight for his heart, a gleaming spear of death that glinted with malicious intent. Alaric stood his ground, his eyes locked onto Thorold, every muscle tensed and ready as the man closed the distance with frightening rapidity. The ground thundered from the pounding hooves.
Then Thorold was on him, and at the last possible moment, Alaric leapt to the side, swinging out with the edge of his sword in a desperate bid to unhorse his opponent. But Thorold, clearly expecting the move, adjusted his aim with a masterful flick of his wrist. The point of the lance struck Alaric’s armored shoulder with a force of a lightning bolt. The blow was magnificent. Simultaneously, Alaric’s sword connected with one of the horse’s legs, the blade biting deep and shattering the bone. The impact wrenched the weapon from his grip and sent him spinning violently to the ground. Thorold’s horse screamed shrilly, a high-pitched, agonized sound that pierced the din of battle. There was a heavy thud as the horse collapsed, slamming into the ground.
Alaric lay there, his shoulder radiating with pain, each breath a struggle. The world tilted and blurred around him, but he forced himself to move. Gritting his teeth against the pain, he dragged himself back to his feet. He’d lost his sword. Where it had gone, he had no idea.
Alaric spotted the king’s fallen horse. Badly injured, it kicked and flailed violently about. Thorold lay ten yards away, clearly disoriented and struggling to rise. His helmet had been ripped free by the fall, and a cut on his forehead bled freely. Gritting his teeth and tasting blood himself, Alaric drew his dagger and advanced upon his enemy.
Staggering, Thorold dragged himself to his feet, his movements sluggish and pained. He spotted Alaric closing the last few feet, eyes narrowing and fixating on the dagger in Alaric’s hand. He hastily reached for his sword, hand gripping the hilt. Alaric lunged, throwing his shoulder into it and slamming into the king’s chest with the force of a battering ram. The impact sent Thorold crashing back to the ground.
The king landed heavily on his back.
Alaric approached. Thorold, defiant and desperate, tried to stand once more, but Alaric was relentless. He kicked the king’s feet from under him, sending him down again with a grunt of pain and frustration.
“Behind you! Alaric, look out!” a voice cried, piercing the intensity of the moment.
The shout had come from Ezran. Alaric turned just in time to see a horse barreling down upon him. He barely had a chance to jump aside, his reflexes saving him by a hairsbreadth. The horse thundered past, its rider’s lance slamming into the spot where Alaric had stood a moment before. The end of the lance quivered with unspent force.
The rider wheeled his mount around, drawing his sword and digging his heels into the horse’s flanks. With a war cry, he charged again, the sword gleaming ominously in the sunlight. Alaric, armed only with a dagger, backed up, mind racing as he glanced around desperately. No weapons were close at hand, and he was painfully aware of his vulnerability.
Ezran stood ten feet away, his last opponent down at his feet, unmoving. A hand pressed against his thigh and the other holding a saber, Ezran began hobbling feebly toward Alaric, clearly injured but determined to help.
Alaric’s gaze snapped back to the rider bearing down upon him. He noted the man was right-handed as he raised the heavy cavalry sword. Holding himself still until the last possible moment, Alaric then dove to the left, throwing himself to the ground with a burst of desperate energy. The rider thundered past, his sword slicing through the air where Alaric had been.
The ground was hard and unforgiving, but Alaric’s quick thinking saved him once more. He scrambled to his feet, adrenaline coursing through his veins, ready to face the next attack with whatever strength he had left. The rider, having missed his target, circled back, gaze fixed on Alaric with frustration. Alaric steeled himself, knowing the fight was far from over, but determined to survive at any cost.
Out of the corner of his eye, Alaric saw Thorold was back on his feet. The king drew his sword and began advancing with grim determination. Alaric glanced around once more. No help was close at hand. Panting heavily and clutching his leg in pain, Ezran had collapsed near Maggie, who now lay still. Just yards away, the mounted melee continued, a chaotic scrum.
The rider kicked his horse into a gallop again. Alaric’s mind raced, panic threatening to overtake him. His dagger was woefully inadequate against a mounted and armored foe. He backed up a step, his foot catching on something hard. Glancing down, he saw it was Oathbreaker, lying partially hidden in the grass. The sight filled him with a surge of hope, but there was no time to act on it, as the rider was almost upon him.
In a desperate move, Alaric dove to the side once more, but this time, the rider’s blade connected. The impact struck him square in the back, the force jarring through his body. His armor absorbed the blow, but pain exploded across his back, a white-hot flare that threatened to steal his breath. He hit the ground hard, gasping for air, the taste of dirt in his mouth.
Through the haze of pain, Alaric forced himself to move. He had no other choice. He reached out, fingers closing around the hilt of Oathbreaker, the familiar cord grip a powerful comfort. With a guttural growl of effort, he dragged himself to his feet again, every movement a symphony of agony. The rider was turning for another pass, and Thorold was closing in, his eyes filled with cold determination.
Alaric’s grip tightened on Oathbreaker, and in that moment, the world seemed to freeze. The magic from the blade surged. The world brightened around him, and Alaric felt a lessening of his fatigue and pain.
Kill them all!
Then the world snapped back into motion.
Kill them all!
The battle was far from over, and though pain racked his body, his spirit burned with the fire of renewed defiance. He would fight, every ounce of his strength focused on survival and the hope of victory. He would not surrender or give up the struggle.
He would fight!
“Come on, you bastard!” There was no more time for thought. Thorold was upon him.
Sword in one hand and dagger in the other, Alaric moved to the right. With a surge of strength, he brought Oathbreaker up just as Thorold stabbed at him. The two swords met with a solid clang, the force of the impact reverberating through Alaric’s arm. His hand tingled from the impact.
Thorold drew back to attack, to stab at him again, his eyes blazing with anger and determination. Seizing the moment, Alaric twisted and stabbed out, lunging with his dagger. The move was desperate and swift. Thorold tried to dance back, but not before the blade sliced into the side of his upper thigh. The king hissed in pain, his face contorting as he staggered backward, a step taken in shock. He glanced at his leg, where a thin line of blood began to seep through his trousers.
“You will die for that and everything else you have done this day,” Thorold spat, his voice low and venomous.
Despite the pain that racked his battered body, Alaric forced a grin at his opponent. “If you keep telling me that, I might begin to believe it. That is, if I don’t kill you first.”
“Fuck you.” Thorold spat out a gob of blood. His forehead was still bleeding from the fall from his horse, dripping down onto his chest armor.
Alaric tightened his grip on Oathbreaker. He was in the fight of his life, against a formidable opponent. The rider was moving around to his side. Alaric glanced warily at him.
The battlefield around them faded into a background blur. All that mattered now was the man before him and the cavalry trooper, both of whom eagerly sought his death. Alaric’s heart pounded, each beat a reminder of the stakes. Drawing a deep breath, he readied himself for what came next.
There was a heavy crump off to the right, a flaring of orange light. Startled, both Thorold and Alaric turned. Several horses and riders had been engulfed in a blast of flame. Fully ablaze, men were burning to death, screaming out in agony.
Shocked, Alaric blinked.
On horseback, a man wearing a brown robe leveled a staff at another group of riders. Flame shot forth from the staff, consuming a man and horse in a jet of fire. Both screamed in pure agony as they burned. The horse galloped madly away, leaving the grass burning in its wake.
Then it hit him. Here was the wizard.
As the man turned his staff and unleashed more fire, Alaric’s other mounted soldiers dug their heels into their horses’ flanks and galloped off in flight. Thorold’s men fled too.
The wizard watched, then wheeled his horse around and spotted Thorold and Alaric. Tugging on the reins, he started his horse over in an almost leisurely walk. Alaric saw the man’s face was heavily tattooed. His eyes were dark and cruel, soulless. His head was bald and also tattooed. As the wizard neared, as if he’d eaten something bad, Alaric’s stomach did a flip-flop. He felt ill at just the sight of the wizard. He knew instantly he was facing pure evil.
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“You thought you had a chance, didn’t you?” Thorold barked out a harsh laugh. “And now, you will die.”
Eyes narrowing, the wizard stopped his horse a few feet from Alaric. He leveled the end of his staff at Alaric’s chest—then hesitated. He glanced over at Thorold. “The power of Eldanar flows in this one’s veins.” The wizard’s voice was heavy with a southern accent, one that Alaric had heard before, spoken by the locals of the coastal cities in the holy land.
“What?” Thorold asked, taking a hobbling step closer. “What do you mean?”
The wizard’s head tilted to the side as he continued to regard Alaric, as a child might a strange-looking bug. “He is beyond noble born. He is a child of the Ordinate, one of the last of his line, a man of destiny.” The wizard paused and licked his lips. “I can taste it.”
Thorold looked at Alaric, his eyes narrowing. “He is noble born. I knew that.”
“No, he is more… he is royalty,” the wizard said, “one of the few capable of restoring the Ordinate, a pawn of the gods.”
“Well, well, well,” Thorold said, eyeing Alaric. “I never much enjoyed the thought of a Second Restoration. Royalty, eh?”
Alaric took a step back and away from the wizard.
“Want me to burn him?” the wizard asked. “My gods fought the Ordinate and would certainly fight a second empire were it to come to pass.”
Raising his sword, Alaric took another step back. There was nowhere to go, nothing with which to shield himself against the wizard fire.
“I do,” Thorold said almost hungrily. “Burn him to the ground.”
The wizard, his gaze still fixed upon Alaric, grinned at that, showing Alaric rotten and blackened teeth. Clearly enjoying the moment, he gave a sick chuckle.
“I am going to find pleasure in this,” the wizard admitted.
There was a deep rumbling thunder off in the distance. Thorold looked toward the sound, and his face visibly paled, mouth falling agape. The wizard looked as well. Alaric followed their gazes and saw the rest of his cavalry, the bulk of it, charging the far flank of Thorold’s army. Keever had reformed the cavalry and now led them in a grand charge. At the same time, Alaric’s infantry were pressing heavily against the enemy’s main line. They had broken through the thin line of defenders that Thorold had thrown against them. Now, Thorold’s army was being squeezed from both sides, caught in a deadly vise, and this was before Keever had even arrived and begun his charge.
Alaric took it all in in a glance.
Keever drove his cavalry charge home with unrelenting force and violence. There was a deafening crash as horse collided with man, the cavalry punching deep into the flank of the unprepared enemy ranks, traveling several dozen yards before the horses began to slow. As the charge lost its strength, the horsemen set into the enemy with their swords, the blades flashing with reflected light. They hacked and chopped away with brutal efficiency as they cut down those who stood against them.
Alaric turned his gaze back to the wizard and made a step to charge, only to have the wizard’s attention snap back to him. He gestured with his staff, shaking it. The threat was clear. Alaric froze. The wizard grinned madly at him.
“He may have lost the battle this day,” the wizard said, gesturing at Thorold, “but you will lose your life.”
Thorold staggered a step, clearly rocked by the sight of what was happening to his army. The ranks began to shatter. Where they could, men were beginning to break and run.
The reality of Thorold’s defeat loomed large, an inevitable tide, one he could not stem. His eyes, wide with a mix of fear and rage, fixed back upon Alaric. He pointed an accusing finger, his voice trembling with fury. “This is your fault.”
Alaric, still clutching Oathbreaker, straightened himself, the pain in his back and shoulder momentarily forgotten in the face of victory, even if he was about to die. The tide of battle had turned, and the resolve that carried him through the chaos now steeled him further. He met Thorold’s gaze levelly.
“You brought this upon yourself,” Alaric replied, his voice steady and cold. “You only have yourself to blame. And, yes, I did this to you, and I would readily do it again given the opportunity.”
The trooper who had attacked him from horseback had ridden around Alaric and up to his king. “Your majesty, it is time to go,” he urged. “You must get to safety.”
Thorold looked from the trooper to his crumbling army and back to Alaric, his face a mask of conflicting emotions. Face coloring with fury, he turned his attention to the wizard. “Burn him. I would see him die before I go.”
“As you wish,” the wizard replied.
Alaric’s gaze snapped back to the wizard. The staff was still pointing straight at his chest. He suddenly thought of Rikka, the love he felt for her and all he was about to lose. He’d never get to see his unborn child…
“God forgive me.”
The wizard’s grin only grew wider at that, seeming to savor his moment of triumph. Then he gave the staff a vigorous shake. Alaric sucked in a breath as magical flame shot out for him in a jet of scorching fire. Only, there was a concussive boom that blasted at the ears and knocked Alaric back a step.
He blinked, not quite believing what he saw. The flame was being deflected to the sides and away from him. There was a glowing shield of light between him and the flame. The jet of fire ceased as the wizard turned his gaze to the right, his eyes widening.
Rikka was galloping toward them. Her sword was burning with white as she closed the last few yards between them. The wizard wheeled about his horse to meet her attack, bringing his staff up to block. Sword and staff met with a heavy crack. Light flashed outward and thunder rumbled, causing Alaric to look away.
He took a step back as Rikka and the wizard battled. Alaric watched as Rikka held forth a hand. A white dart of light shot outward. The wizard, with a hand, batted it away. Then, he swung his staff for Rikka’s head. She met it with her burning blade. There was a brilliant flash of light that startled both horses.
The animals, skittish, separated, backing away from one another. The wizard’s horse bucked, nearly throwing the man. He pulled back on the reins and was able to get her under control again, while at the same time creating more space between them.
“I sensed you… but who are you?” the wizard asked Rikka. “Who are you really, girl?”
“Do you want to know just what you face?” Rikka slid from her horse and slapped the animal’s rump, causing it to gallop away.
“I do. Who are you?”
Rikka dropped her disguise, showing her true self, her elven side. “I am Rikka Akan’Sol, lumina to Alaric Set’Tangenica, true heir to the throne,” Rikka breathed. “As Eldanar is my witness, I will remove your stain from this world, filth.”
The wizard’s face paled considerably. Where before there had been confidence, now there was uncertainty within his eyes. He held forth a hand and uttered something.
A bolt of lightning shot outward. It struck an invisible shield, a sphere that flickered into being around Rikka and shot off and into the ground with a thunderclap. The wizard launched another bolt with the same effect, this one shooting off into the sky.
Thorold was staring at the wizard and lumina, his shock plain. The mounted trooper was still with him.
“My king, you must go,” the man insisted, slipping from his horse and holding out the reins, which the king took. “There is enemy cavalry coming. Take my horse and go. Flee now, before it is too late.”
Turning his gaze from the magical battle, Alaric knew he could not let the king escape. Summoning every ounce of strength he had left, he started for Thorold, determination etched into his every move.
“Go!” the man repeated, turning to face Alaric, his sword raised, prepared to battle. The loyalty in his eyes was fierce, his stance unyielding, even as there was a series of concussive magical blasts behind them as lumina and wizard actively fought one another.
Thorold hesitated, torn between the urge to flee and to kill Alaric. The moment stretched out. Alaric attacked the enemy soldier. Their swords met with a ringing clang, the sound harsh and piercing. The man launched a furious flurry of strikes at Alaric, each blow swift and precise.
Their swords met repeatedly, the clash of steel against steel echoing with relentless intensity. Alaric found he had to focus all his attention on his opponent, for the man was quite skilled, his movements fluid and deadly. For several moments, they were locked in a dance of blades, each trying to gain the upper hand.
Frustration gnawed at Alaric, a burning desire to reach Thorold fueling his resolve. He launched a series of rapid strikes, shoving his way forward with sheer determination. His opponent began giving ground. Then, in a critical moment, he saw a gap on the right. Feinting to the left, he forced his opponent into a hasty block, opening the gap wider. Alaric shifted the aim of his strike, and the point of his dagger blade found purchase in the man’s thigh, digging deep.
The enemy soldier grunted heavily and staggered back, blood gushing from the wound in a terrible rush. The artery had been cut. Alaric had delivered a mortal blow. In a flash, beyond the soldier, he saw Thorold mounting the horse, ready to escape. Four of Thorold’s cavalry were riding quickly their way, hooves thundering and just yards off. Behind them came more than ten of Alaric’s men, riding hard, amongst them Kiera and Eld.
“My king. Go! I will hold him.” The man’s voice was strained with pain and determination. Staggering, he threw himself at Alaric, who easily blocked the attack.
Mounted now, Thorold wheeled his horse around and, digging his heels into the animal’s flanks, galloped away, leaving his loyal defender to face Alaric alone.
The man attacked again, this time more feebly, for he was clearly weakening. Alaric met the man’s blade with his own. He forced the sword aside. As he did, the soldier’s leg gave out. Panting, he dropped to a knee, the blood continuing to flow in a gush from the wound Alaric had inflicted.
The determination in the man’s eyes wavered as his strength ebbed. Alaric stood over him, breathing heavily from the fight. The man dropped his sword into the grass; he had fought bravely.
For him, the battle was over.
Then Alaric recalled Thorold’s horsemen. Turning and prepared to defend himself, Alaric took a step backward and away from the man he’d just battled as the four mounted soldiers closed in. But they had no interest in a fight; in fact, they angled slightly away from him. All they sought was flight. That became abundantly clear as they thundered past in a rumbling flash. A heartbeat later, Alaric’s men galloped by in hot pursuit, Ganister leading them.
Kiera and Eld pulled up as a sudden cheer erupted from across the field toward the heart of the battle. Taking another step back from the man he had brought low, Alaric looked and saw the enemy army in the process of fully breaking. Hundreds of men were fleeing, running from the field, even as other portions of the army held, fighting desperately. Alaric had seen it before. The fight was over, but the slaughter was just beginning.
Kevahn would win this day. That much was plain. Alaric had made that happen. The thought brought a grim sense of satisfaction.
Then there was a flash of brilliant light. It drew him back to the magical battle being waged just yards away. Both of Rikka’s hands were glowing. The wizard was off his horse and lying upon his back on the ground. He held his hands up in a warding, almost pleading gesture to Rikka. Blood flowed from his ears and nose.
“Send my regards to your vile god,” Rikka said. Rays of light from her hands shot downward, striking the man firmly in the chest. He arched his back in clear agony and gave a terrible, haunting scream. It was as if his soul was being ripped from his body. The light grew so brilliant, Alaric was forced to avert his gaze. Then, after a moment, the light faded and disappeared altogether. When he looked back, the wizard lay lifeless at her feet, his body smoking slightly.
It was over.
Alaric looked around. Kiera was gazing on Rikka’s true form with anything but surprise. Alaric suddenly realized she had known all along. Eld, however, appeared thoroughly shaken. Rikka turned her almond eyes upon him and tilted her head to the side.
“Do we have a problem, sir knight?”
Eld did not immediately speak. Still in clear disbelief, he shook his head slightly.
“Do we have a problem?” Rikka asked again, her tone hardening. “I would know now.”
“No, my lady lumina, we do not.” The knight bowed his head respectfully to her. “Elves are holy to Eldanar. Yours are the chosen people. I—I just never thought to meet one.”
“Now you have.” Rikka’s shoulders slumped. Alaric could read the exhaustion in her manner. In the magical battle, she had clearly used much of her strength.
Kiera rode her horse over and dismounted next to Ezran, her face filled with concern. Alaric wondered what had happened to Thorne. In all the chaos, they had become separated. Surely he was around somewhere, fighting his own battles, perhaps, helping where he could.
Alaric looked back toward the soldier who had given his king an opportunity to make an escape. He had paled considerably. Hand pressed tightly to the wound in his leg, he was kneeling but wavering slightly, the loss of blood clearly taking its toll. His breath came in ragged gasps, the strength in his body ebbing away with each passing moment. Alaric approached him, a mix of respect and pity in his eyes.
“What is your name?” Alaric asked, his voice steady yet gentle, betraying a hint of the compassion that lay beneath his hardened exterior.
“Ontarus,” the man rasped, his voice barely more than a hoarse whisper, each breath labored and rapidly becoming a struggle. His eyes, though dulled by pain, held a flicker of defiance mixed with resignation. It was clear he knew the end was near. “I did not expect the day to go this way.”
“Neither did I,” Alaric admitted.
Ontarus gave a grunt of amusement. It was laced with pain. He winced from the effort. Sweat had begun to bead his brow.
“You have my respect, Ontarus,” Alaric said, his tone sincere. “Die in peace, for I will not kill you unless you wish otherwise. If so, I will make your death a quick one. You have earned that much.”
“Thank you, my lord.” Ontarus managed a faint, weary smile and glanced upward. “I want to look at the sky for a time,” he replied wearily, his voice softening as he lay down on his back in the long grass. “I’ve always enjoyed the sky, the shapes the clouds make. Long has it been since I looked…”
Alaric glanced skyward. There were no clouds in sight. He thought that a pity.
“Very well,” Alaric said, his heart heavy with the knowledge that the man had little time left.
Weary and spent, he turned away and walked over to Ezran, whose pallor was a contrast to the vibrant green of the grass. He too had lost a lot of blood. Kiera was kneeling beside him, her hands deftly tying a bandage tightly about his leg. An open saddle bag rested next to her. Her face was a mask of concentration as she worked.
“How is he?” Alaric asked, his voice tinged with concern as he knelt beside Ezran.
“It is a deep wound,” Kiera said, her brow furrowed with worry. “He’s lost a lot of blood, but the artery was not cut or nicked. Only the muscle was damaged. He will need to see Father Ava and have it cleaned out and sewed shut. Then he will require much rest.”
“I’ve had worse,” Ezran said, his voice tight with pain but laced with a stubborn resolve Alaric only knew too well.
Thorne rode up, his horse snorting softly as he dismounted. He looked at Rikka for a long moment, blinking rapidly, his expression a mask of self-control. Then he nodded respectfully to her before turning his attention to Ezran, worry plain on his rugged face as he took in the ash man. The two had long been the closest of friends.
“I will be fine.” Ezran forced a reassuring smile despite the pain that he clearly felt.
“Is that right?” Thorne asked Kiera, looking to her for confirmation.
“I believe so,” Kiera said. “He needs Father Ava, though, or a good surgeon.”
“I am a bit tired,” Ezran admitted wearily, his eyes fluttering. “It’s been a long and trying day. I—I think I am going to pass out for a bit. A nap sounds just grand. I hope you don’t mind.”
“If you had wanted a break from guarding Alaric,” Thorne said, “all you had to do was ask. There was no need to get so dramatic about it that you had to go and take a wound.”
Ezran shot Thorne a weak smile and then closed his eyes. A moment later, his body relaxed, his chest rising and falling evenly as he dropped into a sleep.
“He will be fine,” Kiera reiterated to Thorne and Alaric in a reassuring tone. “He is strong. He will recover.”
A few more of Alaric’s horse soldiers cantered up and fanned out around them, their horses snorting and pawing at the ground. They eyed Rikka warily, but also with wonder, as she stepped closer to Alaric.
“My lord,” one of the men said, “Keever sent us to watch over you.”
Alaric gave a weary nod.
“What is she?” the same man asked, eyeing Rikka. “She is clearly not human.”
“An elf,” Alaric said simply. He was too tired to say more.
“She’s an elf,” one of the other horse soldiers hissed to another. “Can you believe that? An elf. A true elf. Eldanar must have sent her.”
“I guess the cat is out of the bag,” Alaric said to Rikka as she moved over to him.
“As it should be,” she replied wearily and gave him a fierce hug. “No more hiding my true self.”
“No more hiding,” Alaric agreed. “I like it better this way.”
“I almost lost you.” There were unshed tears in her eyes.
Recognizing the truth in her words, he pulled her tight and kissed her long and hard. She returned the kiss passionately. They held each other for several moments before Alaric pulled back and turned his gaze to the battle—or what was left of it. The disintegration of the enemy army was nearly complete, with men streaming away from the battlefield in nearly all directions, the soldiers of Kevahn cutting down all they could catch. The scene was one of chaos and bloodshed.
Thorne broke the silence that had grown around them. “I would imagine Roderick should be grateful. He should be damn grateful for all we’ve done to pull his bacon from the fire.”
“He should be,” Alaric agreed as he looked back where the battle had taken place. Had the king even been on the field? Alaric considered the real possibility that the man fled back to the other side of the river, where it was safe, for his banner had not been present. Alaric had not seen it once. The thought made him more than a little angry. Then Alaric’s gaze went back to the ridgeline he’d ordered his men down. The weight of leadership pressed down upon his shoulders as he took in the bodies lying scattered across the field.
How many had he lost this day? How many died due to his orders? How many had been injured in some way, crippled for life? How many had his king lost through miscalculation and pure incompetence, not to mention arrogance?
“This is your victory, none other’s,” Rikka said firmly.
“I know it,” Alaric admitted, his voice gruff. “I well know it.”
“It might be easier if you just acknowledged who you are—what you are destined to do,” Rikka said. “What Eldanar desires of you. Others would follow such strength as you demonstrated this day. Acknowledge it.”
Alaric felt the ring on his hand warm considerably. He glanced down at it before looking back at her, marveling at the sheer beauty of her natural form, her almond-shaped eyes, the high cheekbones. His heart warmed more than the ring ever could.
She was right, of course. He had resisted long enough. He glanced at the wizard’s body and then in the direction Thorold had gone. He’d not seen the last of that man, for Thorold now knew the truth. There was no hiding it. Thorold had more men too. The war was still on and far from over.
“I am Alaric Set’Tangenica,” Alaric said, his voice firm and loud so those nearest could clearly hear, “the true heir to the imperial throne.”
The End
Alaric and Rikka’s adventures will continue…
Stay tuned for more!