The conversation trailed away suddenly when Ksintaxes diverted their undivided attention towards a sudden disturbance that somehow manifested itself in the clearing. Just as Anhs thought they were slowly gaining advantage and nurturing understanding in their adversary.

Almost unconsciously, the tanai followed their gaze and gasped.

The subservients scrambled frantically to make sense of the scene.

There was Brandt, standing right next to one of the soldiers. As Anh watched, he yanked the man's weapon off him. It was a kind of spiked axe on a very long shaft. The bodyguard slowly crumpled to the floor, as if his weapon was the only thing keeping him upright. There was a metallic object buried deep in his face.

Other soldiers scurried towards Brandt and prepared their swords. At the same he was already rushing in, becoming a blurred shape. He took a vicious swing at one of the men and hit him. Deafening clang of a struck metal resonated and the armor dented right at the connection between the plate covering the chest and the shoulder. The soldier stumbled backward, tripped, and fell heavily, gasping for breath, his sword halfway out of the sheath.

The nor was already half done pivoting toward the third opponent. Like a circus gymnast he capitalized the momentum of the rebounding axe. It propelled him and prepared the weapon to stab the other knight as if it was a spear. The long spike pierced deep. Metal, cloth, and flesh alike.

Brandt let go of the polearm, as it seemed stuck. Immediately he yanked a longsword out of the man's hands. The soldier kept gurgling something incomprehensibly through blood spouting out of his mouth. The fourth Ordo was already close by, weapon drawn and ready. The Nord turned to face him, holding the sword's handle with his right hand, and gripping the blade halfway across its length with his left. What happened next was almost too quick to register. The sword in Brandt’s hands turned into a silvery blur and only multiple ringing noises in quick succession denoted contact between the blades or armor. The fight ended as suddenly as it began. The stolen sword found its way deep into the soldier's throat, pushed upward at a steep angle with enormous force. The man fell backward with a clatter.

There was a pause, and then Brandt turned his head and looked straight at Ksintsax. She met his gaze, confidently floating a little bit higher. Then she raised her hands in preparation for defensive hexergy. A faint metallic smell filled the air. Some of it could have been a scent of blood.

Zerster sprung towards the Courser, but his progress was countered almost immediately, slowing him down. It was as if he was forced to move through water. There was a sharp crack, and the hoomin slowly fell to his knees, struggling under an immense weight.

A trickle of blood flowed under Ksintsaxi’ nose and ran to her chin and goatee in a meandering stream. She started to scream, determined to stop the man, drops of sweat forming on her forehead, rolling down and joining the blood.

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And yet, despite all the Cursor's hexergic might, Brandt slowly stood back up, every cimer punctuated by a pained grunt.

And then he made the first step.

Then another.

And another.

One foot before the other, slowly and deliberately. Every step was more grueling than the one before it. Veins on his neck and forehead bulged, indecipherable words rolled from between gritted and barred teeth. He seemed to be powered by intense anger and hatred emanating from his suddenly bloodshot eyes.

The tanai did all she could and harnessed every drop of her formidable craft. It didn’t seem to be enough. Red patches of burnt skin started to appear on her cheeks and hands. A trickle of blood turned into a stream. Her screams turned into a shrill noise when his muscular arms reached her throat and clasped her neck like a vice.

There was a sickening crunch. With the last wheezing breath Ksintsaxi' head fell limp to the side, an expression of sheer terror and shock etched on her face, her spine and airway crushed.

Brandt remained in that position for a few uncomfortably long drips, breathing heavily. Then his muscles visibly relaxed and the Cursor's lifeless body fell like a ragdoll to the ground with a muffled thud.

It was over.

Up to this moment, Anh was looking at the bloody spectacle with awe and shock, frozen in place, babbling unrecognizable syllables and noises, but very much and very painfully, conscious of what was happening.

What followed seemed more like a nightmare. One of these where he dreamt of a library on fire or tanai laughing whilst reading one of his publications. It wasn't like a nightmare. It was a nightmare, lived vividly during waking hours.

Like through a thick mist of sheer horror and panic, he saw Brandt hammering a dagger between the joints of the armor of the only soldier still alive, despite his ever-weakening gurgles of protest and pleas for mercy.

When the Nord started searching for the Purifiers' pack horses, Anh, carefully avoiding looking at any corpses, especially that one of the High Cursor, floated closer by.

There was an enormous cacophony of shouts, shrills, and screams ongoing in his head. The kinfolk were panicking and talking over or to each other and to him, save for Greoo who was nowhere to be found. He shut them all off like he was drawing a curtain.

Not triskol passed before he allowed them all back in. The brief period of silence allowed all the carnage that lay before him to fully drizzle into his consciousness. The prospect of facing the situation alone grew more terrifying with each drip he spent alone.

Brandt was saying something, which slowly filtered through to his brain. Something about new maps and the second site and that he was right, and about the horses and the cart.

Mechanically, like a puppet on strings, Anh helped him unload the cart and repack everything on the horses. It all seemed unreal, the world was blurred, the sounds muffled. But there was this one detail that etched itself in his mind, and brought a dose of sanity back to the entire situation - Brandt's hands were shaking so much, that he struggled to tie a knot on the netting securing their belongings.

Anh helped.

He calmed down only after they'd left their campsite behind, a column of smoke from the burning cart billowing high into the darkening sky, naked corpses of the murdered ordos left for bears and wolves, and their belongings buried hastily in the woods.