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. "
The argument escalated swiftly, the lawless nature of the mercenaries boiling over like a pot left too long on the fire.
Garr, the burly one, waded in, his massive fists clenched.
"Split it? Bah! The one who claims it gets the coin.
And that should be me—I felled two of those knights myself.
" He lunged for the bundle, grabbing a fistful of the bloodied fabric.
Loric slashed at his hand with his dagger, drawing a shallow cut across Garr's knuckles.
"Touch it again, and I'll gut you like a fish! "
Chaos erupted. The fight broke out in earnest, a frenzy of shoving, cursing, and flashing steel amid the swirling snow.
Skarn drew his sword, swinging wildly at Loric, who dodged and countered with a thrust that grazed Skarn's arm.
"Traitorous scum—it's mine!" Loric snarled.
Garr roared, tackling Loric from behind, the two tumbling into the snow in a tangle of limbs and blades.
The cloak fell between them, trampled underfoot as punches flew and daggers glinted.
Other mercenaries circled, some cheering, others joining the fray for a chance at the prize.
A stocky hireling named Thorne elbowed his way in, snatching the amulet from the ground.
"Forget the rag— this trinket's proof enough!
" But another mercenary, a scarred woman called Vira, kicked him in the knee and snatched it back. "Not yours, fool!"
Proudlock watched for a moment, his blood boiling.
These fools were squabbling like children over scraps, blind to the bigger game.
The cloak wasn't just loot; it was leverage, a ticket to the nobles' inner circle.
He had orchestrated this betrayal, fed the information, led Thorgrin here.
The glory was his by right. As the brawl intensified—Garr pinning Loric while Skarn stabbed at them both—Proudlock drew his own sword, the blade that had once sworn fealty to the king now hungry for mercenary blood.
"Enough!" Proudlock bellowed, his voice cutting through the din like a whip crack.
He strode into the melee, shoving Thorne aside and kicking Vira's legs out from under her.
Loric, scrambling free from Garr's grip, lunged for the cloak again, his eyes wild with greed.
"Stay back, lieutenant—or whatever you are now. This is mine!"
Proudlock moved like a shadow, his veteran instincts honed from years in the Silver.
He parried Loric's clumsy thrust with ease, then drove his elbow into the man's jaw, sending him staggering.
"You forget who planned this," Proudlock hissed, his scarred face twisting in contempt.
"The king trusted me— I led him here. The proof is mine to claim.
" Loric recovered, spitting blood into the snow, and charged with a feral yell, dagger raised high.
The clash was brief and brutal. Proudlock sidestepped, his sword flashing in a precise arc.
The blade bit deep into Loric's side, just below the ribs, piercing leather and flesh with a wet crunch.
Loric gasped, eyes widening in shock, his dagger dropping harmlessly.
He clutched at the wound, blood bubbling between his fingers, staining the snow anew.
"You... bastard," he wheezed, collapsing to his knees.
The other mercenaries froze, the fight draining from them as Loric toppled face-first into the drift, his body twitching once before going still.
Proudlock stood over him, breathing steady, his sword dripping.
He bent and retrieved the cloak, shaking off the snow and folding it carefully, along with the scattered effects—the pack, the sheath, the amulet.
"Anyone else care to challenge?" he asked, his voice low and dangerous, eyes sweeping the group.
Garr rubbed his bleeding knuckles, muttering but backing away.
Skarn sheathed his sword, averting his gaze.
The others grumbled but held their tongues; Proudlock's kill had reasserted the hierarchy, reminding them who had the nobles' ear.
The wind howled louder, the blizzard closing in like a curtain.
Proudlock tucked the bundle under his arm, the blood-soaked cloak heavy with promise.
Thorgrin was as good as dead—wounded, alone, in the merciless wastes.
No one survived that. And with this proof, the reward—and the power—would be his.