Chapter 18 Nelrish #2
Rokkan mirrors my movement, producing a weapon that gleams with the kind of professional maintenance that marks a career warrior. His smile reveals filed tusks sharpened to predatory points, an affectation that speaks to deliberate cultivation of intimidating appearance.
"You should have stayed dead, Nelrish." His voice carries the conversational tone of someone discussing weather rather than imminent violence. "Sareen's poison would have been quicker than what I'm going to do to you."
So he knows about the assassination attempt. Probably planned it, if Sareen's alliance with Redmoon runs as deep as circumstances suggest. The confirmation settles something cold and final in my chest—this isn't just clan warfare anymore. This is personal.
We circle each other with the patient wariness of experienced killers, each seeking advantage while denying opportunity to the other.
Rokkan moves well, his footwork displaying the kind of trained competence that comes from surviving countless battles, but there's something theatrical about his posture that suggests more concern with appearance than pure efficiency.
He attacks first—a testing strike designed to gauge my speed and defensive capability rather than achieve immediate resolution. I deflect easily, countering with a thrust that forces him to give ground while revealing the reach advantage my slightly superior height provides.
"Getting slow in your old age," he taunts, though sweat already beads on his forehead from the effort of avoiding my counterstrike.
I don't respond verbally. Words are a distraction in serious combat, energy better spent on reading subtle shifts in stance that telegraph incoming attacks. Rokkan talks because he needs the psychological advantage—beneath the bravado, he knows he's facing a superior opponent.
His next assault comes as a combination—overhead strike followed immediately by horizontal slash, both delivered with the kind of brutal power that would end the fight instantly if either connected cleanly.
I step inside his reach, accepting a shallow cut across my ribs in exchange for a position that allows my pommel to connect solidly with his temple.
The impact staggers him, disrupting his balance enough for me to follow with a knee strike that doubles him over. But he recovers quickly, spinning away from my attempted finishing blow and creating distance that allows him to reassess tactical requirements.
Blood runs from the shallow gash on my side—painful but not debilitating, the kind of injury that can be ignored until more pressing concerns are resolved. Rokkan's temple sports a rapidly swelling knot that will affect his vision and reaction time, but he's still mobile and dangerous.
We engage again, trading strikes in rapid succession as combat intensity escalates beyond preliminary testing.
Steel rings against steel in staccato bursts that echo through the valley like irregular heartbeats.
Rokkan fights with the desperate fury of someone whose entire future depends on this single encounter, throwing himself into attacks with suicidal commitment.
But desperation makes warriors predictable.
His need for quick resolution forces him into increasingly risky gambles, seeking the single decisive blow that will end the contest before accumulated damage reduces his effectiveness further.
It's exactly the kind of tactical error that experienced fighters learn to exploit.
When he overcommits to a thrust that would split me from sternum to spine if successful, I step aside and let his momentum carry him past my guard.
My blade finds the gap between his ribs with surgical precision, sliding between bone and cartilage to pierce lung and heart in a single economical movement.
Rokkan's eyes widen with shocked recognition of his mortality, blood frothing from his lips as he tries to speak final words that emerge only as wet gasps. The strength leaves his legs, and he collapses forward against my blade, his weight driving steel deeper into vital organs.
I withdraw my weapon and step back, allowing his body to fall with the boneless finality of sudden death. Around the perimeter, the last sounds of combat fade into silence as surviving Redmoon warriors recognize the implications of their leader's defeat.
"Surrender!" Korrash's voice carries absolute authority, backed by the implicit threat of immediate execution for anyone foolish enough to continue resistance. "Throw down your weapons!"
The response is immediate and universal—steel clatters against stone as surviving enemies abandon hope of continued resistance.
Some raise empty hands above their heads, others simply fall to their knees in postures of submission.
The fight drains out of them like water from broken vessels, leaving only the hollow exhaustion of comprehensive defeat.
But I know Korrash's methods, developed through years of frontier warfare where mercy represents potential future threats. His next words confirm expectations.
"No prisoners."
The execution proceeds with swift efficiency—single blade strokes that sever spinal cords, quick thrusts that pierce hearts, the professional elimination of enemies who might otherwise regroup and resume hostilities when circumstances favor renewed aggression.
It's brutal but necessary, the kind of absolute solution that prevents future generations from inheriting unresolved conflicts.
Within minutes, the valley falls silent except for the soft sounds of my warriors cleaning their weapons and conducting final sweeps for overlooked survivors. The Redmoon clan ceases to exist as an organized threat, their ambitions and territorial expansion ending here in blood and moonlight.
I stand over Rokkan's corpse, feeling nothing resembling satisfaction or triumph.
This represents necessity completed rather than victory achieved—the elimination of cancer that threatened Wintermaw's continued existence.
But the personal cost of Sareen's betrayal and the weeks of escalating violence leave bitter residue that success cannot entirely wash away.
Korrash approaches, his scarred features bearing the grim satisfaction of a warrior who's seen justice delivered through superior force. "It's finished, Chief. Redmoon is no more."
I nod, already turning my thoughts toward the journey home and the problems that await resolution there. Sareen's fate. The integration of refugees from destroyed human settlements. The long work of rebuilding after weeks of combat and resource depletion.
But first, a reunion with Mara and Eira. The thought of them waiting in the safety of Wintermaw territory pulls at something deep in my chest—not just relief at their protection, but genuine eagerness to share this victory with people who matter beyond tactical considerations.
"Time to go home," I tell Korrash, cleaning blood from my blade with practiced efficiency.