CHAPTER ELEVEN
The piercing wail of Proudlock's horn echoed through the narrow gorge like the death cry of some ancient beast, reverberating off the sheer cliffs and sending cascades of snow and loose rock tumbling down in a deadly hail.
Thorgrin felt the sound pierce his very soul, because he knew what that sound meant.
A betrayal that cut deeper than any blade ever could.
The air, already thick with the unnatural chill of the northern wastes, seemed to thicken further, charged with malice.
Shadows stirred in the alcoves and crevices above, materializing into armored figures—mercenaries, their faces obscured by dark visors and cloaks stained with the grime of long campaigns.
These were no wild bandits; their movements were disciplined, their weapons gleaming with professional care.
Hired swords, Thorgrin realized with a surge of fury, bought by the whispers of conspiracy that had festered in the Ring's noble houses.
Proudlock's cold smile confirmed it: this was no random assault, but a calculated strike, orchestrated by those who chafed under his rule.
By those who cared more about their own pockets and how full they were than they did about the Ring. How soon people forgot that it wasn't long ago that they had nothing.
"Traitor!" Thorgrin roared, his voice booming like thunder as he drew his sword.
The blade ignited with an inner light, its ancient power surging through his veins, banishing the frost's bite and sharpening his senses.
The sword hummed in his grip, eager for battle, as if it too sensed the perfidy.
Reece was at his side in an instant, his own sword flashing free, his face twisted in rage, feeling the sting of betrayal every bit as much as his friend.
"Form up! Shields high!" Reece bellowed, rallying the company.
Erec wheeled his horse, his ancestral blade singing through the air as he parried the first arrow that whistled toward them.
Kendrick, ever the steadfast commander, barked orders to the border knights, his half-brother's loyalty a rock in the storm.
Alistair raised her hands, her druidic robes glowing faintly as she wove a protective ward, a shimmering barrier that deflected the initial volley of shafts raining from above.
The gorge erupted into chaos. The mercenaries—three dozen strong, at least—poured from their hiding spots like rats from a sewer.
They were clad in mismatched armor, pieced together from different clans and Highland forges, their sigils obscured to hide their patrons.
Bows twanged from the ledges, arrows slicing through the air with lethal precision, while others descended on ropes or leaped from low outcrops, swords and axes raised.
Thorgrin's company, elite though they were, was caught in the perfect kill zone: the narrow pass limited their maneuvers, the high walls turning the gorge into a deadly funnel.
There was no doubt about it. The ambush had been planned to perfection.
Sir Brom, the burly knight with the scarred brow, was the first to fall.
An arrow punched through his gorget as he raised his shield, dark blood bubbling from his throat.
He toppled from his horse with a gurgling cry, his body crumpling against the frozen ground.
"Brom!" Sir Kel shouted, his lean frame twisting as he loosed a bolt from his crossbow, felling one archer who tumbled screaming into the abyss below.
But the mercenaries pressed on, their numbers overwhelming.
Dren, the young scout, spurred his horse forward in a desperate charge, his sword cleaving into a descending foe, but two more piled on him, axes hacking mercilessly.
His scream echoed briefly before silence claimed him, his blood staining the snow red.
Thorgrin charged into the fray, the Destiny Sword a blur of radiant steel.
He parried a thrusting spear from a mercenary on foot, the blade's power shattering the weapon like glass.
With a backhand swing, he cleaved through the attacker's armor, the man's body crumpling in a spray of crimson.
"For the Ring!" Thorgrin shouted, his druidic heritage fueling his strikes, each blow infused with ethereal force that sent shockwaves rippling through the air.
Reece fought beside him, his lean build belying his strength and ferocity; he dodged a swinging axe and countered with a precise thrust to the throat, dropping another foe.
"These curs fight for coin, not honor!" Reece spat, his mischievous grin replaced by a warrior's snarl.
Erec, the iron knight, dismounted to anchor the line, his presence a bulwark.
His sword —forged in volcanic fires—clashed against a mercenary's mace, the impact ringing like a bell.
He twisted, delivering a knee to the gut and a downward slash that ended the threat.
"Hold the center!" he commanded, his weathered voice steady amid the din. Kendrick flanked him, his border patrols had kept his warrior’s eye sharp, and he anticipated attacks almost before they had begun, parrying a flurry of blows from two assailants before dispatching one with a riposte to the chest. Aiden, heart pounding, parried an almighty blow, the impact reverberating through his arms, shoulders, and back.
He crouched down and swung his sword, striking his assailant behind his knees, sending him flailing to the ground.
Alistair stood behind them, her hands weaving intricate patterns; bolts of azure energy lanced from her palms, striking mercenaries and hurling them against the cliffs with bone-crunching force. "The wards weaken—there's dark magic here!" she warned, her light blue eyes glowing intensely.
But the ambush was relentless. Sir Torv, the scowling knight, fought back-to-back with Sir Alric, their swords a whirlwind.
Torv's axe bit deep into a mercenary's shoulder, but an arrow from above pierced his eye, felling him instantly.
Alric roared in fury, avenging him with a savage overhead strike that split a helm, but three more piled on, overwhelming him.
His final cry was lost in the clash as blades pierced his defenses.
Cal, the other young scout, tried to break free on horseback, aiming to ride for aid, but a lasso from the ledges yanked him down, mercenaries swarming him like wolves.
Sir Kel, seeing the tide turn, loosed his last bolt before drawing his sword.
He fought valiantly, dropping two foes, but a spear from behind impaled him, his body slumping against the gorge wall.
Thorgrin's heart ached with each loss—these were his men, loyal knights who had ridden into peril on his command. They had fought nobler foes than this, it seemed even more terrible that they should succumb to turncoats and those with no honor.
Proudlock's betrayal burned like acid; his former lieutenant now directed the assault from a high ledge, his scarred face twisted in triumph as he shouted orders. "Take the king alive if you can—his head's worth a kingdom's gold!" Proudlock called, his voice dripping with venom.
How long had he carried that hatred around in him, Thor wondered. And how had it gone undetected? He chided himself at worrying that others had become soft and complacent in the years of peace and tranquillity. Yet he was as guilty of that as anyone.
Proudlock’s war cry had the desired effect, and the mercenaries redoubled their efforts, focusing on Thorgrin.
A group of five charged him, their axes raised in unison.
Thorgrin met them head-on, the Destiny Sword blazing.
He parried the first, countering with a slash that severed an arm; the second he impaled through the chest, the blade's light cauterizing the wound in a hiss of steam.
But the third grazed his side with a dagger, the blade slicing through his druid's robe and drawing a line of fire across his ribs.
Pain flared, hot and sharp, but Thorgrin pressed on, dispatching the fourth with a spinning cut that opened the man's throat.
Reece leaped to his aid, tackling the fifth mercenary and driving his sword home.
"Thor! Your side!" Reece gasped, noting the blood soaking Thorgrin's robe.
Erec and Kendrick formed a protective ring around Alistair, their blades a barrier against the encroaching horde.
Alistair unleashed a burst of energy, blasting a cluster of attackers back, but the effort drained her, her glow dimming.
"We can't hold forever!" Kendrick grunted, blood trickling from a gash on his arm as he felled another foe, his eyes going to another band of bandits jumping down from a ledge to join in the fray.
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.