The sound and chaos of battle filled the air, underscored by the sharp, metallic clash of steel on steel coming together with unyielding force. Somewhere close, a horse let out a pained scream, the animal’s cry slicing through the tumult. A man howled in pain and clear agony before abruptly being silenced.
Disoriented, Alaric struggled to regain his bearings. His vision was blurred. He blinked furiously, trying to clear it, to see what was going on. He went to groan, only he couldn’t. The impact had knocked the wind from his lungs, leaving him gasping and struggling for air.
Clutching his chest, Alaric rolled from his back onto his side, the ground hard and unforgiving beneath him. Each attempt to draw breath was met with a terrifying emptiness, as if the very air had forsaken him. His heart pounded against his ribcage like a drum of war. Panic clawed at his chest.
After what felt like an eternity of struggling, a sharp gasp broke from him. Air rushed into his lungs, filling them with the sweet breath of life.
Relief washed over Alaric in waves, his body trembling as he embraced the precious, life-giving air, sucking it in. The sound of battle continued to rage around him, but for that fleeting moment, as Alaric lay upon his back, the simple act of breathing was like a hard-won victory.
Still dazed and sucking in the sweet air, Alaric rolled and pressed the side of his face against the rough roadbed, feeling the cold, gritty texture of the gravel against his cheek. His vision swam dangerously, blurring the edges of his reality before it snapped back into painful clarity with a suddenness that was almost shocking. Lying on the ground, he became acutely aware of the intense pain radiating from his back.
Confusion still clouded his mind.
What had happened?
Suddenly, a glint of metal caught his attention as it flashed downward, targeting his exposed side. Instinctively, Alaric moved, rolling away and onto his back just in time to see a sword point slam into the road where his body had been a heartbeat before. Shock coursed through him.
He was under attack!
Lifting his head, Alaric found his eyes meeting those of his assailant, a grim-faced soldier wielding the sword with deadly intent as he stepped forward.
One of his own militia was trying to kill him.
The man stood over him, drawing back his sword arm to strike yet again. The sword descended, its blade stabbing viciously toward Alaric. With a burst of desperation, he rolled to the side and away. The sword’s point hammered into the road again, just barely missing its mark. Alaric quickly rolled onto his hands and knees, preparing to stand, to defend himself, when a sudden, fierce kick from his opponent struck him hard in the side.
The blow landed squarely against his chest armor, and a metallic clunk resounded on the air. The impact of the kick had its intended effect, sending Alaric tumbling down again, this time to the edge of the road’s embankment and into the drainage ditch that ran along its side.
Alaric winced, more from shock than pain, but heard his attacker curse—a clear sign of pain. The man’s foot had met the hard, unyielding metal of Alaric’s steel armor, turning the force of the kick back upon the attacker.
Coming to a stop in the ditch, he pushed himself back to his hands and knees and then struggled to his feet, his body protesting each movement with a chorus of aches and pains. The ground was slightly muddy.
Breathing heavily, Alaric steadied himself and looked up, his gaze scanning for his foe as his hand reached down to his side, fingers wrapping around the hilt of Oathbreaker, still sheathed at his side.
As Alaric’s fingers closed around the comforting cord grip of the sword, time itself seemed to halt. A surge of magic erupted from the blade, coursing through his veins with an almost violent intensity. He felt it all—the insatiable hunger of the sword, its deep-seated desire for blood, and the overwhelming flood of anger and rage boiling within. The very notion that someone dared to end his life ignited a fiery resolve to retaliate—a need for vengeance. The pain and discomfort faded and he suddenly felt invigorated.
Send these infidels on their way, a voice hissed through the chaos, the sword itself speaking, thirsting for blood. Send their souls to Eldanar. Send them on to judgment!
The sword’s hunger intensified, and as it did, the world snapped back into motion around Alaric. With a fierce yank, he freed Oathbreaker as he climbed from the culvert to the forest side of the road. He wanted to assess things before joining battle. As he found himself standing three feet below the raised roadbed, with the dense brush and looming trees at his back, Alaric studied the scene before him.
The road was a whirlwind of violence and chaos. Dozens of men fought in a brutal melee, their shouts and the clash of steel filling the air. Mounted riders cut through the fray where the knights’ men-at-arms fought against the enemy. The cavalry swords rose and fell with rapidity, slashing and hacking with lethal precision at the men who had masqueraded as militia. Amidst this tumult, Alaric spotted Torrin, now afoot. The knight’s greatsword swung with deadly efficacy, bringing down the very man who tried to take Alaric’s life, almost cutting him in two with his great blade.
A fleeting memory flashed through Alaric’s mind—the shadowy figures he glimpsed earlier, lurking amongst the trees. As the thought surfaced, a sudden rustle from behind snapped him to alertness. Instinctively, Alaric spun.
Sword raised, a man charged forward through the brush. Alaric brought Oathbreaker up in a defensive arc, just as an enemy’s sword descended in a vicious, sweeping motion aimed directly for his neck.
The collision of the two swords produced a resounding clang that echoed through the forest and sent a shower of sparks erupting from the point of impact where the two blades grated against one another. The force of the blow reverberated down Alaric’s arm, testing his grip and resolve. He stood firm, locking eyes with his assailant—a grim-faced warrior whose expression twisted with surprise and fury as he realized his strike had been thwarted.
For a mere heartbeat, the two combatants were locked in a stalemate, each assessing the other, swords interlocked, muscles tensed for the next move. Alaric’s opponent, with a fierce snarl distorting his face, uttered something in a language laden with guttural tones. It took Alaric another heartbeat for recognition to dawn upon him as he identified the language. He’d not heard it uttered in over two years. As realization set in, his enemy drew back, gathering strength for another vicious slash.
The man spoke Ashani—the language of the ash men.
Alaric did not afford him another opportunity to strike. With a rapid thrust, he extended his sword toward his adversary, hastily jabbing at him. The ash man, caught off guard, leapt backward, attempting to evade the deadly point of Alaric’s blade. His foot caught in the brush, causing him to stumble and fall backward with a crash.
Seizing the moment, Alaric was upon him in an instant. He stomped down hard on the ash man’s sword arm, pinning it. The man cried out. Alaric raised Oathbreaker high, then drove it downward with unrelenting force.
The sword’s point pierced the ash man’s left eye socket. Alaric felt the blade scrape against bone as it drove deep into the other’s skull. Almost instantly, his enemy’s body went slack.
A fierce, triumphant yell tore from Alaric’s throat, a raw expression of survival and victory in the heat of battle. He stood back, pulling Oathbreaker free from the now lifeless body of his foe. However, his moment of triumph was abruptly interrupted by a hard impact against his side. The force of the hit came with a sharp metallic crack, jarring him roughly a step to the left.
Instinctively, Alaric whirled around to face this new threat, his eyes quickly focusing on a bowman who was kneeling less than five feet away in the trees. This archer had just loosed the arrow that struck Alaric, impacting his armor and shattering to pieces from the force of the strike. Now, the bowman was reaching for another arrow, his hand moving toward one of several missiles he had planted in the soft forest floor.
With a defiant shout, Alaric surged forward, driven by raw urgency and desperation. The ground beneath his feet barely seemed to touch his boots as he charged toward the bowman, pushing the brush aside. The man’s eyes widened in alarm, his movements betraying a sudden panic as he clumsily attempted to set an arrow to his bowstring.
But time was not on the archer’s side.
As he nocked and drew the string back in a desperate bid to defend himself, Alaric had closed the distance between them. The archer’s fingers had barely begun to pull the string taut when Alaric brought Oathbreaker down hard, in a chopping cut.
The sword hammered into his enemy’s shoulder near the collar, cutting deep, the force of the blow knocking the man backward to the forest floor. The arrow released harmlessly away into the trees. Without hesitation, Alaric pulled the blade free, the metal slick with blood, and with a grim resolve, he stabbed down. The blade punched into the archer’s chest, slipping between ribs, driving deep, into the heart, killing his enemy instantly.
Alaric pulled his sword free and stood over the fallen bowman, the fury of battle still raging behind him and along the road. He paused momentarily to catch his breath and take stock of what was happening around him. His chest heaved with each breath.
Alaric’s awareness caught the subtle motion to his left amidst the undergrowth five yards off, a rustling. A figure in the brush moved toward the road. Another man with a bow was just feet away. Without hesitation, Alaric charged through the dense undergrowth, his eyes fixed on the emerging threat.
The man, sensing the imminent danger, turned to face Alaric. His movements were rushed as he clumsily attempted to aim his already nocked bow. With desperate speed, he drew back the string and released the arrow. Alaric, still moving forward, swiftly dodged to the left. His shoulder collided with a tree, the impact jarring him as the arrow hissed past. Its lethal point buried itself in another tree trunk behind him with a solid-sounding thunk.
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Ignoring the pain in his shoulder, Alaric was moving again, charging this new enemy. The bowman discarded his bow and scrambled for his sword, attempting to draw the weapon. But he was too slow, and Alaric was already on him.
With a precise and ruthless thrust, he drove Oathbreaker deep into the man’s stomach, the blade sinking almost to the hilt and punching out the man’s back. A choked gasp of pain and agony escaped the man’s lips, his face contorting in a grimace of acute suffering.
Seizing the man by his clothing, Alaric gave the sword a vicious twist, then forcefully shoved him backward and away as he pulled his blade free. The man’s hands went to his ruined and torn stomach, where they struggled to hold in his entrails. Eyes wide with shock, he staggered back a step, then collapsed to the forest floor.
Curling into a fetal position from the overwhelming pain, he was clearly incapacitated and now out of the fight, but Alaric could not afford to take any chances. He stabbed downward into the side of the man’s neck. The sharp blade sliced with ease through flesh and cut the artery, unleashing a torrential outpour of thick, oily blood that flowed onto the forest floor. Gagging and choking briefly, the man tensed, then relaxed, twitching for several moments before going utterly still.
Alaric’s chest heaved as he scanned the surrounding woods with a sharp, vigilant gaze, hunting for any further threats from hidden bowmen. Seeing no immediate dangers, he turned his attention back toward the clamor of battle emanating from the road. The sounds of combat were intense—a cacophony of metal clashing, men shouting, cursing, and screaming at one another. However, his view was obstructed by the dense brush that separated him from the main fight. He had no idea what was going on. Alaric had to get back to it, for his men were fighting for their lives.
Determined, he pushed through the underbrush with purposeful strides. Within moments, he emerged from the brush and the chaotic scene on the road, separated by the ditch, came into view. His guard and the men-at-arms, far superior in terms of armor and armament, had torn into the ambushers with unrestrained violence after the initial shock. He took that in in a flash.
The initial advantage of surprise that the enemy enjoyed had now been thoroughly negated, especially since his force had badly outnumbered the attackers. His men were overwhelming the last stands of resistance. The enemy, though fighting back fiercely, was clearly faltering under the relentless onslaught and sheer numbers of Alaric’s party.
Standing on the edge of the culvert, with the battle’s conclusion inevitable and imminent, Alaric let go a relieved breath, releasing the tension bound within him. Both mounted and on foot, his men were pushing the remnants of the enemy back up the road and away from where he stood. Alaric jumped down into the ditch. It was still somewhat muddy from the recent rains, and his boots sank down an inch.
He pulled himself up onto the road, his body aching as the madness of battle began to recede, replaced by a terrible weariness, along with the ache of discomfort from his back and shoulder. In fact, his entire body seemed one big ache. As he steadied himself, Ezran emerged from the brush just a few yards to his right. The relief in the former ash man’s eyes was unmistakable as he, too, jumped into the ditch and clambered up onto the road beside Alaric, brushing off the leaves and dirt from his dark clothes. His saber was bloodied.
“Are you all right?” Ezran adjusted his stance, his eyes scanning Alaric for any signs of serious injury. “I went looking for you. I saw you after you killed that last man and followed you back to the road.”
“I am fine,” Alaric said.
In a futile attempt to salvage their lives, the last five of the enemy on their feet abruptly turned and broke into a run, heading for the safety of the trees, fleeing. Their sudden flight was met with immediate pursuit by Alaric’s mounted troopers.
“After them!” Ganister shouted as he galloped forward. More than half a dozen horsemen responded, chasing the fleeing figures, rapidly overtaking and cutting them down with ruthless and unforgiving efficiency.
Alaric’s gaze ran across the road, which was littered with bodies, at least twenty men, the majority of whom were enemy combatants who had posed as the militia. Amidst the carnage, Torrin stood out distinctly. He had an arrow lodged in his collar, just above the lip of his chest armor. Yet he was on his feet, his bloodied sword still in hand, his eyes burning with an unquenched rage as he surveyed the fallen enemy around him, clearly wanting another opponent.
Nearby, Eld had already sheathed his sword. He began moving toward Torrin, his expression one of concern. Just as Eld reached him, Torrin took a shaky step forward and then staggered, his strength faltering under the pain and loss of blood, which ran down the side of his armor. He fell to one knee, his sword clattering onto the road, the sound echoing ominously in the sudden stillness that followed the battle’s end.
“We’re going to need to get that out, my friend,” Eld said to the other knight as he reached him and knelt at his side.
“I suppose so.” Torrin grimaced from pain. “It hurts bad, but I’ve had worse.”
“Next time, try dodging,” Eld said.
Torrin, having paled considerably, simply grunted in reply.
The transition from the chaos of fighting to the eerie quiet of its aftermath was jarring. Alaric had always found it so. Three of the knights’ men-at-arms lay dead. Nearby, two of Ganister’s horsemen were in agony on the ground, while a third was ominously still. Men were by the sides of those injured, already tending to their needs. Among those who’d been injured, one soldier arched his back, a final gesture of struggle, and cried out for his mother. It was a pitiful sound that tore at the heart. Then, he went limp and relaxed, falling still for all time.
A short distance from the main skirmish, beyond where the fighting had been fiercest, lay Fire. Alaric took several steps toward his horse, who was motionless, legs sticking out rigidly. A wave of sadness swept over him; Fire had been more than just a mount. He had been a loyal companion and a good horse, one he’d become attached to.
The horse had clearly bolted after unseating Alaric and, in his panic, had trampled an enemy. Now, that very man was pulling himself painfully away toward the shelter of the trees, his legs dragging uselessly behind him. He left a trail of blood across the road, moving away from the horse. It was a desperate bid for survival as he clawed at the roadbed, pulling himself forward one bit at a time, the trees so close and at the same time so far away.
As Alaric absorbed the somber scene, Thorne approached the injured enemy. Standing over the man, Thorne’s silhouette cast a short shadows across the ground, the sun now almost directly overhead. The air was thick with the scent of blood; the road fairly drenched with it.
“I want prisoners,” Alaric called to Thorne, his anger flaring at being ambushed. Whoever orchestrated this attack and assassination attempt had made a grave mistake. “I need questions answered, and he will do nicely for that.”
Thorne glanced back at Alaric, then turned back to the injured enemy and regarded the struggling man for a protracted moment. He stabbed down into the back of the man’s neck, ending his life.
“Thorne, I wanted prisoners!” Alaric roared, his rage exploding at the defiance. “Did you not hear me?”
“There was no point in taking prisoners.” Thorne looked back at Alaric before kneeling next to the man whose life he just extinguished. He picked up the enemy’s hand and showed the palm to Alaric, revealing the dark tattoo. “They won’t talk, no matter what we do to them.” He dropped the hand, then stood. “You know this as well as I.”
Alaric’s heart chilled as he gazed around the road-turned-battlefield. This was not just a mere band of mercenaries, nor hired assassins, but religious zealots, bound by a cause and willing to die to a man for it. The mark symbolized their allegiance to their brotherhood, to their faith and master.
“The Black Hand,” Ezran hissed, looking around the battle site with fresh eyes. “They are a long way from home, a very long way…”
“They won’t talk,” Alaric echoed, a grim acceptance in his tone. The presence of the Black Hand changed everything. They weren’t simple assassins, but the enemy, one Alaric had faced before, and a dogged one at that. His attention shifted back to Torrin, the knight still on one knee, Eld by his side offering support. Alaric felt a stab of sadness for the man. The wound, though normally merely grave, was likely mortal.
“Sunara’s assassins,” Ezran declared, his eyes meeting Alaric’s with the depth of shared experience. “It seems he’s not done with you yet.”
Alaric gave a weary nod and glanced around. Several of the men-at-arms had begun to loot the enemy dead, searching for coin and whatever treasure they could lay their hands on that would purchase drink. Even a few of Ganister’s cavalry had dismounted to rifle through the recently deceaseds’ clothing. His look shifted to Torrin, and the sadness grew. He raised his voice so all could hear his next words, “Be careful with the enemy weapons, boys. The Black Hand are known for poisoning their blades. One inadvertent nick may be your last.”
Eld looked sharply over at Alaric, understanding dawning in his eyes. Alaric moved toward the two knights. As he reached them, Torrin slumped forward, falling unconscious. Eld caught his fellow knight and carefully laid the other down upon his back. The arrow stuck out at an awkward angle to the side.
“Poison, you say?” Eld asked, looking up at Alaric, his worry and fear plain.
Alaric gave a nod as Ezran knelt at Torrin’s side. Eld’s face hardened as his gaze shifted to Ezran. The former ash man ignored the knight and leaned forward, checking Torrin, placing a hand by his for several heartbeats before feeling for a pulse.
“He’s still alive,” Ezran said. “The pulse is strong, which I find surprising. The poison may not have taken hold yet or… he’s just strong and stubborn.”
“I would have him live, if possible, my lord,” Eld said to Alaric. “Torrin is not only my brother by our order, but also my friend, one of the few I have. If you could see to his care…”
Ezran straightened as he looked at Alaric. “You know well enough few survive beyond mere moments when exposed to their poison. He might live if we can get the arrow out and we are careful about it… to avoid spreading the contamination further.”
“Do it,” Alaric said. “Do it now.”
“A fire will be needed to cauterize the wound,” Ezran said.
“Ganister,” Alaric looked over and called. The man rode back to them, his sword still dripping blood. His horse’s flanks were spattered with blood as well, along with the trooper’s boots and sword arm.
“My lord? How can I help?”
“Gather wood for a fire,” Alaric snapped. “Hurry.”
“You heard the earl,” Ganister shouted. “I need a fire and I need it yesterday!”
Half a dozen men immediately stopped what they were doing and moved for the trees. The knights’ men-at-arms had begun to gather around. Alaric could read the plain worry in their gazes. That told him that Torrin was a respected man, a leader these men did not wish to see pass from this world. Several fell to a knee and bowed their heads, praying silently.
“Hold him still,” Ezran said to Eld as he drew his knife. “I need to cut the shaft before I attempt to pull the arrow out.”
Eld reached out and took Ezran’s wrist in a firm grip. He shook his head. “Not you.”
“Unhand me,” Ezran said coldly, his gaze locking with Eld’s.
“No,” Eld said. “You will not touch my friend.”
“Ezran is skilled at this sort of thing,” Alaric said plainly, drawing Eld’s attention. “He has removed arrows before, including from me. If Torrin is to live, you will let him do what needs to be done. He knows what he is doing.”
Still, Eld did not release the ash man’s wrist.
“Trust me,” Alaric said. “If anyone can increase Torrin’s chance at life, it is Ezran.”
Grudgingly and with heat in his eyes, Eld released Ezran a moment later.
“If he wakes up while I work,” Ezran said, “I might injure him worse. We can’t have that—the wound is serious enough as it is. No matter what, you need to hold him down, to keep him from moving, understand?”
Eld gave a nod and leaned over Torrin, placing both hands upon the unconscious man’s upper arms. Without another word, Ezran went to work with his dagger.
“First, as I said, I will cut the shaft down,” Ezran said. “Then, when the fire is ready, we will remove the rest and cauterize the wound, with luck burning any lingering poison away.”
Alaric looked to the forest that ran along both sides of the road. He turned toward Thorne, who had approached and was looking down sadly on Torrin. His gaze shifted to the men-at-arms, all of whom had taken a knee and were now praying.
“Thorne,” Alaric said, “take some men and check the woods around us for more of the enemy. Make certain none are lurking just out of sight with a bow, though I doubt they are.” He nudged his chin toward the nearest of the men-at-arms. “Give them something to do.”
“As you command, my lord,” Thorne said and started calling out orders.
As Thorne set the men to action, Alaric turned back to watch Ezran work with his knife.