At that singular, blood-chilled cry, the gates of hell swung wide upon the road.
Every carriage the outlaws had eyed with greed, thinking them laden with soft soaps, sweet ciders, or vintage wines, burst open with a violent, synchronized roar. The canvas was shredded from within like the womb of a woman birthing a new life, revealing only the sharp steel and blackened iron of a trap meticulously set.
The three riders who had lingered at the rear, leering at the supposed "wealth," were the first to receive the day's dividends. They were plucked from their high pedestals as if by the hands of vengeful spirits.
One moment they were kings of the road; the next, they were screaming in the dust as the Mashki, Valakii, and Aranuai, the newest savage hounds of the Yarzat new frontier, tasted their first draft of foreign blood.
They found it to be to their liking, visibly enough from their smiles.
