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Sagas of Blood and Tears
Chapter 23- Initial Skirmish (13)

Chapter 23- Initial Skirmish (13)

Blood-warmed earth welcomed him as he rolled, shards of broken armor and jagged stones tearing at his flesh, though he barely registered the fresh wounds among the constellation of injuries already marking his body.

Curled into himself, he watched a mounted knight thunder past, the beast's mercy alone carrying its hooves over rather than through him. Lannord clutched his head, his body twisting to avoid the chaos of stamping hooves. How pathetic you've become, Lannord. Unhorsed like some common footman. He began dragging himself toward the roadside. Is this how my first battle ends? His eyes traced the wounds already beginning to seal themselves. At least I won't be branded a deserter.

The crawling ceased abruptly as a familiar yet loathsome scent invaded his nostrils. Lannord drew two sharp breaths, his features hardening. The smell of blood and decay filled the air.

Rising to his feet, he spotted a knight approaching - a straggler at the column's end, effectively isolated. His mount must be spent, Lannord reasoned. The knight, moved by either curiosity or misplaced compassion, slowed his tired horse, hesitating as he tried to make out the figure by the roadside.

Those precious seconds were all Lannord needed. He lunged for the saddle, intending to drag both knight and tack to the ground, but the rider clutched his reins with desperate strength. Seizing the moment, Lannord vaulted onto the horse's back, his arms coiling around the knight's throat like iron bands. The knight clawed at Lannord's grip but couldn't budge even a finger. His curses devolved into guttural sounds, their vulgarity clear despite the language barrier. As the knight's hand crept toward his sword, Lannord wrestled with the man's throat guard. Cursed thing - why now? Time was slipping away like sand, that scent growing stronger. After one final sweep of his surroundings confirmed all other riders were ahead, he made his move.

Bracing his left forearm against the knight's nape, he seized the helmet with his right hand and wrenched backward. Metal screamed against leather, harmonizing with the knight's strangled groans. Some dark power seemed to flow through Lannord's right hand, leaving ever-deeper impressions in the steel helm as it dragged both the knight's screams and soul toward oblivion. The groaning ceased with a wet crack as the head tore free.

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May Goria forgive me.

He cast both head and body aside, the scent now overwhelming. Pinpointing its source, he whispered to his borrowed mount, "Friend, can you run faster?" The black gelding surged forward briefly before faltering, casting him a remorseful glance through labored breaths. "Ah, you're spent," he soothed, stroking its lathered neck. "Then perhaps you could call Moar? She should be following."

The gelding's call rose and fell in careful cadence. An answering neigh echoed from the herd ahead, and soon a white mare dappled with black spots broke free, racing to match their pace. The seamless mount-switch brought him astride Moar. "Thank you, friend," Lannord told the gelding. "Now that your master has... departed, you should run free through meadow and forest." He carefully removed the saddle. "But first, tell me your name. My family never forgets a debt."

Two soft whickers and a gentle head-shake answered him. "What? He never named you?" Lannord's incredulity rang clear. "What did he call you - 'Blackie'? Such knights know nothing of respect." He continued, "Well then, shall I name you? How about Moar?"

Both horses protested immediately. "Peace, Moar," he chuckled to his bucking mare. "No need for jealousy." To the gelding, he added, "And you - my imagination may not match a human's, but criticism from a horse still stings." His smile softened. "Farewell then, friend. May you run free across these lands, never again to know bondage. Go - with Goddess Goria's blessing!"

The black horse reared, trumpeting its freedom before vanishing into the roadside forest without a backward glance.

"One problem solved," Lannord murmured, embracing Moar's neck. "Now for the next. Run, girl - we must stop that fool before he loses himself, or I'll have no explanation to offer."

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He convulsed with rage, his claws elongating and his fangs sharpening, signs that his restraint was at its breaking point.

"Stellan! Stop!" The familiar shout rang out behind him. "Lothar! Order the retreat!"

"Shadowgreen Knights!" Lothar's voice carried like thunder. "Mission complete! Disengage from enemy reinforcements - we withdraw!" The cloaked riders wheeled at their leader's command. Retreat? Stellan's thoughts froze to ice. After such humiliation, you expect me to simply leave?

His roar split the air as he reached for Carl with killing intent. "Stellan! Hold! 'Keep your passion burning, but stay your hand from bloodshed!'"

Stellan's claws retracted slowly. Using the old man's words against me? He spat bile, burning eyes fixed on Carl's retreating form before yanking his reins to rejoin the withdrawal.