Chapter 1396: Long awaited dues(3)

They stood motionless behind a thick screen of oak and pine, cold mist curling from their mouths with every shallow breath.

Vilon glanced back at Owen. If the lad was terrified, he hid it behind a hard, steady jaw. The squire’s chainmail, his only true defense, gifted to him just before the host marched, hissed softly with every subtle shift of his body against the winter brush.

Saron raised his arm, his gauntleted hand closing into a tight fist. Then, with a flick of his wrist, chaos broke over the clearing.

The eerie stillness of the woods shattered instantly into a chorus of war-cries and the sharp, lethal hiss of iron. Four broad-headed javelins cut through the pale light, streaking toward the unsuspecting party below. Three found meat immediately. Two brigands collapsed without a sound, one taking an iron point square through his throat, the other taking it deep into his chest. A third dropped into the dirt with an animalistic howl, clutching a mangled leg as blood pooled into the rotting leaves.

Before the survivors could even process the sudden rain of death, a second volley of javelins tore through the canopy. Two more outlaw foot-soldiers went down, while a third, panicking as he scrambled down the slick shale, hissed his footing and tumbled headlong, his leg snapping with a crack upon the rocks below.

He did not scream, as his neck found its way on a potruding rock.

In a span of ten heartbeats, a party of twenty had been butchered down to fourteen capable fighters.

"A FOX!" Saron roared, hauling his massive frame out of the brush as leaves scattered around his iron pauldrons. "A FOX IN THE TREES! "

Down the steep slope the captain thundered, his axe raised high, his buckler held tight to his chest. Mariol, Selm, and young Tamar surged right behind him, their voices joining the terrifying battle-cry.

A fox! A fox! A fox!

Vilon and Owen dropped into the charge right on their heels.

"THE YARZATS!" an outlaw screamed, his voice cracking in sheer panic. "THE KING’S DOGS ARE HERE!"

The Hounds hit the ditch like a sudden, iron-clad avalanche. The remaining bandits, caught straddling the shale and the ravine floor, had no time to form a line. The two men still stranded near the top of the ridge took one look at the charging wall of steel , then another at their side , turned tail, and fled blindly into the deep woods.

Twelve men left. three that were still climbing down, against six.

They might have had the numbers, but their side held the discipline it seemed.

The two lines slammed together with the crunching thud of iron hitting flesh and bone. There was no grand martial art here, no chivalric ceremony, only a desperate, filthy brawl beneath the ancient oaks, men stumbling over mossy roots and slick mud as blades flashed through the dim light.

The Hounds fought like the beasts they were named for, barking, howling, and pressing the offensive without a single second’s pause. Saron reaped the first life, burying the bit of his hand-axe straight through a brigand’s collarbone, tearing the head free with a spray of crimson before stepping over the corpse to parry another bandit’s sword.

Beside him, Mariol’s shortsword bit deep into an outlaw’s belly, while Selm’s mace caved in a iron cap.

Vilon cast one last anxious glance over his shoulder at Owen before plunging into the fray. He would have preferred the lad stay back, but in a cramped, savage scrap like this, every active blade was the difference between living to see tomorrow and dying in the mud.

A tall,though not as tall as him, gaunt brigand came lunging at Vilon, howling a curse as he thrust a long hunting spear straight for his chest.

Phantom flashes of the creek rushed back into Vilon’s mind, he cold water, the sudden surprise, the agonizing bite of steel. But last time he had been caught flat-footed; this time, he was ready on his two feet.

Vilon braced his footing, keeping his eyes locked on the iron point. The moment the spearman committed to his lunge, Vilon sidestepped to the right, letting the long shaft scrape harmlessly past his ribs with a harsh, metallic screech. Before the man could recover his balance, Vilon swept his longsword upward.

The steel bit clean through cloth and then chest, a fountain of hot blood splattered across the cold winter air.

The spearman collapsed onto the damp earth, he laid about in the dirt , howling in agony as he clutched a shattered shoulder, his fingers slick with crimson.

Vilon stepped over the fallen shaft, his longsword raised for the killing blow.

"Wait! Wait!" the man gasped, scrambling backward into the mud, his free hand raised. "In the name of the gods, wait—"

Vilon rammed down without a word. The steel sank deep, and the man went still.

No singer would ever compose a ballad for this bloody scrap, nor would its memory ever grace the pages of a grand chronicle. They fought in the silent gloom of the deep woods, harvesting the scattered leftovers of a far greater slaughter.They risked their life and no one would know.

Still even this fight mattered.

A towering brute with a heavy woodsman’s axe loomed over Vilon , bringing the rusted iron down in a wild, two-handed arc with a fury-fueled howl. Vilon didn’t bother trying to catch the heavy blow on his blade; he slipped smoothly to the left, letting the axe bury itself harmlessly into a mossy root, before bringing his own sword around in a flat sweep to the back of the thigh.

The brute’s howl took on a sharp, wheezing note as he crumpled to his knees.

Vilon spun on his heel, only to find another bandit charging him behind a notched wooden shield. The rim of the shield slammed hard into Vilon’s midsection, driving the breath from his lungs. He felt a sudden, sharp pressure against his hip, a dagger catching the rings of his mail, harmlessly skewering the padded tunic beneath without breaking the skin.

Biting through the sudden flare of old pain, Vilon brought his lead elbow down, like a hammer , onto the back of the bandit’s neck.

It worked better than he gave it sense.

The man stumbled forward, spluttering spit and dirt, and Vilon finished him with a short, heavy swing of his pommel to the temple.

He paused just long enough to snatch up the fallen man’s shield, slipping his left arm through the leather straps. His side flamed like a hot iron as he bent down, but the wooden board felt comforting against his chest.

He cast his eyes across the clearing.

Selm was casually counting the bodies as he felled them, his voice rising above the clatter of steel. "TWO!" he bellowed, smashing his mace through a man’s collarbone. "THREE!" he added a heartbeat later, catching another through the throat with a short jab followed by an overhead that split his skull.

Vilon whipped his head to the right, his heart leaping into his throat as he saw Owen locked in a fierce exchange with an agile, sword-wielding brigand. Vilon made to pounce on the man, but before he could take two steps, Owen shifted his stance. The lad feinted an overhead strike with one hand, and with a brilliant flick of his wrist, spun his shortsword around the bandit’s waiting guard, bringing the steel up from an angle that shouldn’t have been possible.

A shower of teeth and a piece of jawbone flew into the air.

He then ended the exchange with a fist straight to the man’s crushed chin. The bandit went down like a sack of grain and didn’t move again.

A fierce spark of pride bloomed in Vilon’s chest.

The battle was going far better than Vilon had dared to hope. The Hounds were turning the skirmish into a swift, methodical culling.

Vilon’s eyes darted toward the center of the clearing, where Mariol was trade-for-trade with the heavily armored command, the Vulture Lord himself. Mariol was a blur of motion, driving his hand-axe forward in a relentless, brutal rhythm.

Crack! Crack! Crack! The axe bit into the steel breastplate and pauldrons, denting the fine plate and forcing the armored lord onto his backfoot, his heavy sword swinging wildly just to keep the Hound at bay.

Mariol let out a feral grin, raising his axe for a finishing blow to the visor.Probably already tasting the glory of killing the Vulture Lord himself.

Then Vilon saw it, and his heart dropped straight into his boots.

He broke to a run, the pain on his side forgotten.

Stepping silently from behind a wide pine, a surviving outlaw, his face slick with blood, a long hunting knife held low, was closing in on Mariol’s blind side. Mariol, utterly fixated on breaking the Vulture Lord’s armor, didn’t see the shadow creeping up behind his back.

"MARIOL!" Vilon screamed, his voice tearing his raw throat.’’BEHIND YOU!’’

His limping sprint came faster, throwing his shield up to charge, but even as his boots tore through the mud, he knew in his gut he was too late.

He saw it happen despite his best attempt to stop it.

The dagger went in, and out, and then in back again with an howl.