As soon as Rowan heard the bird’s whistle his head shot up. That was the call of a Thistler—a small bird that was common around Garronforn. It was not, however, common north of Nortara, and never at this time of year. Tanlor?! His heart immediately reached for the thought. Who else could it be?

Looking at the direction of the treeline, he saw the incoming projectile before the rakmen did. It arced in the air like a stone, but Rowan knew it was a small cloth pouch. Whoever the grenadier was that had thrown it had phenomenal accuracy because it impacted right at the back of one of the chiefs’ heads.

The chief didn’t even have a second to react before the hidden grenadier ignited the incendiary pouch, it exploded with a deafening boom. Four rakmen standing near the chieftain were thrown screaming by the blast. Simultaneously at the otherside of the camp, two of the largest rak warriors were knocked on their backs. Rowan’s head swivelled about, and he watched, amazed, as stonespear projectiles flew into the camp, taking rakmen in the chest.

Another incendiary pouch was flying overhead, this time towards one of the two remaining chiefs but the surprise was spent and the chief was quick to dodge out of the pouch's trajectory.

The other captives were all rising to their feet, some with confusion but many with open relief. They knew what this attack meant. It could be the death of them, or it could be freedom. Either way it was an end to their captivity.

“Hell’s gods,” Cru said from next to Rowan, indicating a moving dark shape. It looked too large to be a wolf, too small and fast to be a bear. It bounded forward on all fours, launching itself on one of the rakmen near the camp perimeter, taking him down in a tangle of claws and blood. Within moments, the beast was moving on, a new target in its sights.

Rowan heard the shouts of the largest rak chief, the one that wielded two great war axes. It bellowed something in their harsh tongue and Rowan saw those nearest to the chief form a defensive ring, but many did not heed their chief's call, instead rushing towards the attacking beast.

***

One of the chief’s had been quick on the mark, rallying those nearest to him. But the rest were charging towards Baroc, which was exactly what Tanlor had wanted. The beastman’s blood fury was high at the sight of the chained ferrax, and Tanlor saw no more reason for Baroc to restrain himself.

Tanlor himself was cutting a path direct for the captives, his blade singing through the air as he ran, he swung his anonymous steel in a deadly arc finding the throat of a rak who barely had time to notice him. The creature crumpled to the ground, gurgling out a few last incoherent words alongside its own gushing blue-black blood, he wondered briefly what it was saying, perhaps suggesting a name for the blade that had blessed it with death. But Tanlor wasn’t taking suggestions. He was already moving on, relentless in his forward momentum.

Another rak came at him, white teeth, stark against its jet-black face, bared in a snarl, but Tanlor’s swing was faster, surer. The blade bit deep into its leg, shearing it off in one clean strike. The creature collapsed, howling in agony, but Tanlor didn’t spare it a second glance. He pressed on, every step taking him closer to the prisoners, to Rowan.

Yaref was right on his heels, his war mace rising and falling with brutal efficiency. The downed rak’s howling promptly cut off with a yelp as Yaref’s mace caved in its skull, silencing its screams for good. Blood and brain matter splattered the ground as Yaref moved on, the heavy pack on his back jingling with the clatter of swords they’d scrounged from the garrison at Twin Garde.

Another rak leapt into his path, teeth bared in a vicious snarl. Tanlor didn’t break stride. His sword flicked up in a sharp parry, the clash of steel ringing out as he shoved the beast back with a hard shoulder. In the same fluid motion, he brought his blade up, slicing the rak clean from groin to neck. Blood sprayed in an arc splattering him blue as the creature crumpled, but Tanlor was already moving, eyes locked on the prisoners ahead.

Tanlor was running quickly, but not recklessly, it was important to reach the captives before the rak formed a proper defensive line, but it was all for nought if Tanlor was taken down because of brashness. So, he stayed as calm as he could, moving forward, but taking steps back when needed to dodge or parry an attack.

He took down another rak, but the second was pressing an attack when Tanlor noticed a third larger rak wielding twin greatswords in each hand. There was a blast, unlike that of one of Puck’s incidiaries. The dual-wielding rakman was thrown back and Tanlor knew that it had been Daegan with his pistol. Damn it Daegan, I told you to keep that in reserve for the chieftains.

All the same, Tanlor was appreciative of the now opened path to the captives. He pressed on and he could see now that Rowan was watching him, open relief on his brother’s gaunt and beaten face.

“Yaref!” One of the prisoners called out to them.

“Cru!” Yaref responded. “Can you fight?”

All of captives were now on their feet, their eyes scanning the unfolding battle. None of them had fear in their eyes. These were all trained soldiers. Men of Twin Garde that had spent years fighting against rakmen raiding parties.

“Get these chains off us and we’ll fight!”

Tanlor had known from Baroc’s surveying that the prisoners were all chained together. They’d considered, in their planning, to have Yaref and Tar make their way to the captives so that Taran could dissolve the chains with his aradium runestone. But Tar had admitted that he had little skill with metalshaping and that dissolving the chain links would take far too long. Daegan and Tanlor had agreed that Tar would be best suited playing to his strengths and distracting the enemy with stonespears.

“Brother,” Rowan greeted Tanlor weakly, “I’m glad you came.” Tanlor could see the resolve in him, but his brother was badly injured.

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“You thought I wouldn’t?” Tanlor grinned at him. Although there was a little shame in it. Without Daegan pushing him, Tanlor wasn’t certain he would have gone after Rowan alone.

“Cru, was it?” Tanlor asked the prisoner next to Rowan, he nodded. “We don’t have much time before the rak regroup, Yaref can heal those who are strong enough to fight with the healing surge.”

“How many do we have?” Cru asked.

“Six, including the beastman,” Tanlor answered. Cru’s shock was evident, “so few! How—”

“—there’s no time,” Tanlor cut him off, “hands down.” He pointed towards a nearby log. The prisoners moved quickly, laying down their manacled wrists. Yaref was already at work providing bloodstone healing to one of the captives.

The first chain Tanlor went for was the one binding Rowan to the poor bastard beside him, the block of a man named Cru. He’d brought the smaller handaxe for this, figured it’d be quick work. But quick never quite seemed to be in the cards. He set to hammering at the chains, the axe ringing out against the metal like a dinner bell.

“Tanlor!” Rowan’s voice cut through the noise, sharp with warning. His eyes flicked to something behind Tanlor. Tanlor snapped his head around and caught sight of a rak, a hulking brute, charging straight at them. Two more close behind him.

“Shit,” he spat, raising the axe again. He brought it down hard, the metal screaming as the link shattered. Rowan and Cru were free, stumbling back, but there was no time to enjoy the victory. Tanlor was already spinning on his heel, the rak nearly on top of them, its snarling face twisted with fury. Before Tanlor could even raise a hand, two sharp cracks split the air. Pistol fire. The flanking raks jerked mid-stride, their momentum carrying them forward before they collapsed face-first into the dirt, dead before they could blink.

With a desperate grunt, Tanlor hurled the axe at the leading rak. It spun through the air and buried itself deep in the rak’s forehead with a sickening crunch. The demon toppled backward, dead before it hit the ground, the look of surprise still frozen on its ugly face.

But now Tanlor was left without his axe, and there were still captives bound and helpless. His eyes darted to the pommel of his greatsword—a hefty counterweight, good for balance, but maybe, just maybe, good for something else too.

“Guess you’ll have to do,” Tanlor muttered, flipping the handle in his hands. He brought the pommel down on the next chain with all the force he could muster. To his surprise, the link cracked under the blow.

A smirk tugged at his lips as he smashed the pommel down again and again, each strike freeing another captive. “Chainbreaker,” he muttered to the sword as the last link gave way. “Might just be your name yet.”

Tanlor cast a quick glance at Rowan, who was now under Yaref’s hurried inspection. The healer's hands moved with practised urgency, his face set in grudging determination.

"Your infection’s bad, but you’ll live," Yaref muttered, fingers pressing into the dark, badly healed wound with no time for comfort. "I’m sorry, but you’ll need to fight, yes?"

Rowan gritted his teeth, barely flinching as Yaref applied the bloodstone to his chest, the sharp sting of the runewielding coursing through him.

"No issue there, healer," Rowan replied, voice tight with resolve. As the bloodstone did its work, Rowan’s body tensed, the rush of adrenaline clear in his sharp movements. Without a moment's hesitation, he reached for one of the blades Yaref had brought, his grip firm, and Tanlor could see he was ready for what was to come next.

Yaref’s face was a mix of concern and resignation, Tanlor knew that the healer’s instincts were at war with the reality of their situation. Tanlor knew damn well that pushing the healing surge like this was a dangerous game, skirting the edge of ethics, maybe even sanity. The bloodstone healing effect was potent, sure, but it was a double-edged sword. It would stitch Rowan back together, give him a jolt of strength and clarity—but that power came with a price.

The crash would be inevitable, a brutal backlash that would tear through Rowan’s body like a storm. When it hit—and all of them knew it would hit hard—it wouldn’t be a matter of mere exhaustion. It would be a collapse so total, so devastating, that Rowan wouldn’t stand a chance if any rakmen were left standing. The only hope was to finish the fight before the crash took him down, to end this bloody business before Rowan’s borrowed time ran out.

The camp had descended into utter chaos. Puck was in his element, hurling explosives into clusters of rak, each blast ripping through the air with a roar, plunging the scene into a hellscape of fire and smoke. The acrid stench of burning flesh filled the air, mingling with the cries of the wounded and the dying.

Tanlor’s eyes darted across the battlefield, catching sight of Tar in a bad spot, his position compromised as two rak bore down on him. Then Tanlor’s gaze shifted to Daegan, who had risen from the trench, calm as a man could be with death charging right at him. A half-dozen rak were coming for him, but Daegan didn’t flinch. He stood tall, unshaken, his pistol steady in one hand, the inlaid runestones glowing with a cold, ominous light. His bloodstone dagger was clutched in his off-hand. Guess it’s time to see if all that training paid off. He had drilled Daegan relentlessly the past few weeks. Now, surrounded by fire and death, it was time for the real test.

Daegan’s pistol cracked, the shot echoing through the chaos as one of the rak dropped. Daegan remained composed, moving with the lethal precision of a man who seemed to know exactly what he was doing. The battlefield was madness, but in that moment, Tanlor couldn’t help but feel a flicker of pride. Daegan was holding his own for now. Now they just had to survive the day.

Cru—who’d quickly taken charge among the newly freed—had whipped them into an offensive line with surprising efficiency. His voice was firm, steady, as he directed those who’d received the stronger healing, like Rowan, to fall back to the trenches. Their job was clear: hold the line, defend Puck, Tar, and Daegan while they unleashed hell on the rakmen below.

But the battlefield had shifted. A hulking rak chief, towering above the others with twin battleaxes gripped in his massive hands, had rallied what remained of his forces. His guttural barks carried over the chaos, pulling the rakmen into a tight formation. It was clear as day—that was where their makeshift battalion would need to strike, where the real fight was brewing.

But Tanlor’s attention was yanked elsewhere. Baroc, all raw fury, was making a beeline for the ferrax, still surrounded by no less than a dozen rakmen. And then there was Rowan, moving with grim determination in the same direction.

“Rowan! Where are you going? You need to fall back to the trenches!” Tanlor’s voice cut through the noise, sharp with urgency.

Rowan paused, turning to look back at his brother. There was something in his eyes—something beyond duty, beyond survival.

“I’m sorry, brother. This is something I have to do,” Rowan called back, his voice steady but filled with a quiet resolve that made Tanlor’s heart sink.

And with that, Rowan turned and kept moving, his steps resolute, leaving Tanlor with a cold knot of dread twisting in his gut. He glanced back to Daegan, he’d downed four of the oncoming rakmen, and was now slashing out with the dagger at one who’d come too close. The sixth was close. Shit! Fuck! Shit! Tanlor hesitated the briefest moment, unsure whether to follow his brother, or to help Daegan. The Prince was still his priority, wasn’t he? His primary mission was still to protect Daegan. He couldn’t forget that.

What the hells is Rowan thinking?!