The battle raged on, the gorge floor slick with blood and churned snow turning to crimson slush.Thorgrin's dwindling company fought with the desperation of cornered lions, their skill buying precious moments.Thorgrin channeled his power, summoning a gust of wind that hurled three archers from their perches, their bodies shattering on the rocks below.But the mercenaries' numbers told, especially in such a cramped and confined arena; for every one slain, two seemed to take their place.A heavy mace blow from a burly assailant caught Thorgrin on the shoulder, the impact jarring his bones and sending a stinging numbness down his arm.He retaliated with a thrust that pierced the man's heart, but not before a sword sliced across his thigh, opening a deep gash that burned like fire.Blood flowed freely now, soaking his leggings, his vision blurring at the edges from pain and blood loss.
"Break through!To the east!"Thorgrin commanded, spotting a narrow side path leading out of the gorge into the frozen wilderness beyond.Reece and Erec cleared a path, their swords a deadly duet, while Kendrick supported Alistair, who leaned on him, her energy spent.The remaining mercenaries closed in, sensing victory.Proudlock descended now, his sword drawn, aiming for Thorgrin."Your reign ends here, druid pretender!"he snarled, lunging forward.
Thorgrin met him blade to blade, the Destiny Sword clashing against Proudlock's with a shower of sparks.Proudlock's strikes were fueled by years of resentment, but Thorgrin's power overwhelmed him.With a roar, Thorgrin disarmed him, the traitor staggering back."Why, Proudlock?After all we've fought together?"Thorgrin demanded, his voice hoarse.
Proudlock's laugh was bitter."The nobles promise a return to true rule—no more shepherd kings or druid whims.Gold and glory for those who serve."He lunged again, unarmed but desperate, but Thorgrin sidestepped, delivering a pommel strike to the temple that dropped him senseless.
Despite everything, he couldn’t bring himself to finish him off, instead choosing to leave his unconscious, but still breathing body in the crimson snow.
“You go,” Reece shouted, pushing Thor towards the path.“We will give you the time you need to get away, then we’ll follow.”
“Never!Thor barked, spinning back towards the fray.I have never run away from a fight in my life.I have never left my friends and comrades in their time of need!”
"Thor, you heard him," Reece hissed back."It is you they are after.If we all go now, they will follow, hunt us down like dogs.Our only hope is for you to escape, while we hold them back.It will confuse them, they will split up.They will be weakened."
Thor looked at his oldest friend.Over his shoulder, he could see Erec desperately holding back three bandits.
He knew what Reece had said was right.He was the target.The mercenaries had one aim, and that was to capture him.Anyone with him was in danger.Even more danger.Even though it pained him more than anything to flee the battlefield, to leave his beloved comrades in arms, he realized it was what he had to do.
He gave Reece a last look, an unspoken message going between them, a message of love, of valor, and loyalty, then he wheeled around.
The path was clear, but the cost was grievous.Thorgrin's wounds throbbed—ribs cracked, thigh gashed deeply, shoulder dislocated—each step a torment."For the Ring!"he shouted then hobbled and ducked towards the pathway, cut into the gorge’s sheer side.Arrows whizzed past, one grazing his cheek, drawing more blood.
A mercenary dropped behind him, followed by another, dropping from a ledge a dozen feet above him.Reece and Erec and his remaining men had their back to him, desperately holding back the rest of the hordes.
Thor swung the his sword in wide arcs, felling the two pursuers, but exhaustion clawed at him and the effort send bolts of pain down his back and chest.Two more mercenaries ready to follow hesitated, wary of the blade's glow, giving him a moment to retreat.
Stumbling into the wilderness, Thorgrin discarded his blood-soaked cape, the fabric heavy and trailing a crimson path that would lead trackers straight to him.He tossed his pack next—rations, maps, all non-essentials—lightening his load to outrun pursuit.The frozen wastes swallowed him, snow whipping in a sudden blizzard, his figure vanishing into the white void, grievously wounded but unbroken, fleeing into the unknown.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The gorge lay silent now, a frozen tomb under the relentless assault of the northern blizzard.The wind howled like a vengeful spirit, whipping flurries of snow across the blood-streaked ground, where the crimson stains were already crusting over with ice.Bodies littered the narrow pass—knights and mercenaries alike, twisted in their final agonies, limbs akimbo, faces frozen in masks of shock or fury.Gradually, the snow claimed them, blanketing their final moments, hiding them, almost as if the world was ashamed of the actions of man.
The sheer cliffs, once echoing with the clash of steel and the cries of the dying, now amplified only the mournful wail of the storm.Steam rose faintly from the warmer corpses, mingling with the falling snow to create a ghostly mist that clung to the rocks like a shroud.The air reeked of iron and death, undercut by the sharp, metallic tang of spilled blood freezing solid.
The surviving mercenaries—ragged survivors of the ambush, their numbers whittled down to perhaps two dozen—moved among the fallen like scavengers in a graveyard.They were a motley crew, drawn from the fringes of the Ring and beyond: Highland outcasts with scarred faces and grudges against the throne, former Empire soldiers who had fled the Blood Lord's fall only to sell their swords for coin, and opportunistic thugs from the Wilds' border towns.Their armor was patchwork—leather reinforced with mismatched plates, cloaks tattered and stained.They rifled through the dead with practiced efficiency, pocketing rings, daggers, and pouches of silver.Laughter, coarse and triumphant, punctuated the wind's moan as they boasted of kills and tallied their spoils.
"Look at this one," grunted a burly mercenary named Garr, his beard crusted with frost and blood.He kicked the body of Sir Kel, the hawk-eyed knight whose crossbow had claimed several of their comrades before he fell."Fancy armor, but it didn't save him.Strip it—worth a fortune in the markets."His companion, a wiry man called Skarn with a missing ear and a perpetual sneer, nodded eagerly, kneeling to unbuckle the dead knight's greaves.Around them, others did the same, their breath fogging in the cold as they worked.The storm was worsening, visibility dropping to mere feet, but greed kept them rooted, unwilling to abandon the field until every valuable was claimed.
Proudlock, the king’s former lieutenant, stood apart on a low ledge, his face etched with a mix of satisfaction and wariness.His head ached from the blow from Thor, but he barely noticed it.He had other things on his mind more pressing.
He had discarded his Silver emblem hours ago, replacing it with a plain cloak to blend with the hireswords.His betrayal still burned hot in his veins, a fire kindled by years of resentment.Thorgrin, the shepherd boy turned king, had risen from nothing while Proudlock, a veteran of the old wars, had been relegated to patrols and platitudes.The nobles' promises—gold, land, a seat at a new council—had been too tempting to ignore.He had led the king into this trap, blown the horn that summoned the ambush, and now...victory tasted bittersweet.Thorgrin had escaped, wounded but alive, vanishing into the wastes.But the king was finished; no man could survive those injuries in this hellish cold.
Even Thor.
Though a twinge of doubt remained.He would not be fully satisfied until he saw the king's dead body himself.He had seen him do some remarkable things in the past.Things no man should be capable of, so until he laid his eyes and hands on Thor's cold, lifeless corpse, he would not be truly at ease.
Proudlock clutched his sword tighter, scanning the gorge for any sign of pursuit or miracle.The expedition's remnants had fought like demons, buying their leader time.What became of them after Thorgrin's flight was a blur of steel and snow; Proudlock had been too focused on the king to track every fall.It didn't matter now.They mattered little in the scheme of things.
A shout cut through the wind, drawing all eyes.It came from a lanky mercenary named Loric, a former smuggler from the Southern Isles with sharp eyes and a greed sharper still.He had ventured eastward along the narrow side path where Thorgrin had fled, following the telltale smears of blood on the snow—dark red trails now half-buried under fresh powder.Loric knelt at the path's edge, his gloved hands digging into a drift."By the gods, look what I've found!"he crowed, pulling free a sodden bundle.He shook it out, revealing a cloak—Thorgrin's druidic robe, heavy with blood, the fabric torn where arrows and blades had struck.Embroidered runes along the hem, symbols of ancient power, were crusted with frozen gore.He picked it up, clutching it like the trophy it was, then he stumbled forward, his legs hardly working in their eagerness as he raced over to what he had espied further up the trail.
Nearby, scattered in the snow, were other items: a discarded pack with maps peeking from a ripped seam, a broken dagger sheath, and a small amulet on a chain, its stone etched with the MacGil crest.
As he grabbed the booty, he was joined by others he had just fought beside.The mercenaries converged like wolves on a fresh kill, their scavenging forgotten.Loric held the cloak aloft, the wind whipping it like a banner of victory."The king's own!Soaked in his lifeblood.He ditched it to run lighter, but mark my words—he's done for.No one bleeds like this and lives through the night in these wastes.The cold'll finish what our blades started.You can be sure of that.And the wolves will gorge on him before his blood has cooled."Murmurs rippled through the group, a mix of awe and avarice.Proof of Thorgrin's death—or near enough—meant riches beyond imagining.The nobles who had hired them, whispering through intermediaries in shadowed taverns, had promised a king's ransom for evidence of the deed.Visions of gold, estates, and glory danced in their eyes.
Proudlock leaped down from his ledge, his boots crunching on the icy ground as he pushed through the throng.His heart pounded; this was his prize, his vindication.But Loric clutched the cloak tighter, his eyes gleaming with possessive fire."I found it—it's mine to present.Imagine the reward!Bags of gold, maybe a title.'Loric the Kingslayer'—has a ring to it, eh?"He laughed, a harsh bark that echoed off the cliffs, but his stance was defensive, hand drifting to his dagger.
Skarn, the wiry one with the missing ear, stepped forward, his sneer twisting into a scowl."You found it?We all bled for this ambush.I took an arrow to the shoulder holding the line—share the glory, or I'll take it."He reached for the cloak, but Loric jerked it away, his free hand drawing his blade in a flash."Back off, you mangy cur!Finder's rights—law of the wilds."
