Chapter 3 — Terrors of Wars Past
Arsanguir's arms shook, but the grin on his face only grew. One more act. One more piece of madness. He yanked up his ruined pitchfork and hurled it at a straggling bandit.
The wood spun awkwardly through the air, end over end. Somehow it struck true, smashing into the man's shoulder. The prongs punched through leather, dragged him forward, dropped him screaming to the dirt.
The bandit's name was Trevor.
Trevor had always thought of himself as a survivor. No big dreams, no loyalty to anyone but himself. He'd spent his life drifting from side to side, throwing in with whoever fed him best. Joining the gang had seemed smart—coin, drink, women, a blade to wave. But right now, clutching his shoulder as blood pumped between his fingers, it felt like the worst decision he'd ever made.
He tried to stand. His ankle snapped under him as he scrambled, and he went down again with a howl. He left his sword behind. Not worth the weight. Not worth the pain. He just needed to run. Limp, crawl, anything. Get away.
No knight chased him. He checked twice, wheezing in relief.
Leaning on a tree, Trevor gritted his teeth and yanked the pitchfork free of his shoulder. He stared at it a moment, dazed. What sort of knight carries a farm tool? A spear, sure. A halberd, fine. But this? He let out a short, pained laugh.
That was the last sound he made.
A shadow moved, and he barely turned before steel cut clean through his neck. For a heartbeat his eyes still worked; he saw his chest, his feet, his ankle bent the wrong way. He winced. Reflex.
Then the ground rushed up to meet him.
Trevor died.
Arsanguir stood over the body. His chest heaved. His hands shook. For a moment pride swelled in him—pride and exhilaration, fire in his veins.
Then came the other thing.
The sight of the headless corpse, the blood soaking into earth, the silence that followed. It pressed down on him like a stone. His stomach twisted. His mother had told him tales of glory, of valour, of heroes standing tall on battlefields. None of them had smelled like this. None had spoken of the bodies left cooling in the dirt.
He imagined, just for a moment, if the knights hadn't come. The village gone. The old men torn open, the women butchered. Itzima among the dead, her blood mixing with his own. The thought left him shaking.
Nichard watched from horseback.
Thirty years as a knight. Nine as a captain. He had seen miracles, horrors, and worse, but very few things gave him chills anymore.
This boy did.
His mind reached back to the war of the Northern Gate. To the first time. The creature that swelled into a giant of bone and pale skin, eyes upon eyes upon eyes. Teeth in places teeth had no business being. He remembered the screams of men swallowed whole.
The second time. The third. More twisted shapes, men and women turned inside-out by powers they were never meant to hold.
The fourth? His wedding day, when his new wife raised a knife at the feast table and told him she'd geld him herself if he ever strayed. The memory still made him sweat more than any battlefield.
And now, this.
The boy standing over a corpse, eyes alight not with terror but with bloodlust. Not a soldier. Not trained. Yet something in him was raw and wrong and frightening. Nichard made a note in his mind: this peasant must not be forgotten. If handled badly, he could become a danger not just to himself but to nations.
Arsanguir finally noticed the knight staring at him. A tall man on a massive horse, armour polished so bright it caught the last of the light, crest of a green plant engraved into his breastplate. Emerald stones gleamed on the edges.
Arsanguir bowed too low, his voice breaking into a shout.
"THANK YOU, SIR KNIGHT, FOR SAVING A LOWLY PEASANT VILLAGE!"
The man's expression didn't shift. He gave only a curt nod and turned away to survey the field.
Another knight walked over instead, voice calmer. "You are welcome, young man. Now gather your things. Get back to your village before the bandits think to regroup."
Arsanguir obeyed. He walked among the trampled grass, gathering what little was his. His pitchfork lay shattered, prongs broken into jagged pieces. He gathered them anyway, cradling the ruined tool like something sacred.
The walk back to the village felt longer than it ever had before.