When Ryan and his hundred warriors stormed into the valley, the scene before him was a vision of carnage.
The guards of House Dulod had been torn into scattered knots of men, fighting back against foes that outnumbered them severalfold. Their armor was scarred and torn, many plates caved in where blades had bitten to the bone. Yet still they stood, shields raised, teeth clenched, refusing to yield.
The hillfolk came like wolves, their hides soaked with blood, their eyes mad with the frenzy of the kill. A hammer struck one guard's chest; his breastplate folded in upon itself, and he flew like a broken doll against the stone wall. Before he could cough the blood rising in his throat, three hillfolk leapt upon him and beat him into stillness.
At the fore, Isabel stood clad in silver mail, now crimson with gore. Saur, their chief, drove a boot into her side; she flew like a rag swept up by stormwinds and struck the wagon laden with weapons. Blades spilled in a cascade, and one brushed her cheek, cutting three furrows across her skin. Blood rolled down her jaw to drip upon the knuckles of her hand, clenched so fiercely about her sword.
She staggered upright, her shoulder-plate hanging askew, her arm bared where a deep wound cut to the bone. Yet she stood tall, back unbent, as her father Grinwald once had stood upon the gates of his keep—armor shattered, but sword still raised.
"Mad wench!" roared Saurl. His hammer spun in his hand, the rust and dried gore scraping with a shriek. Step by step he came, each footfall a tremor, intent to crush her skull in one blow.
But as the hammer fell, an arrow shrieked from the air. It tore through his shoulder-plate, the barbed head burying deep in muscle. Saur bellowed in pain, spinning with a warrior's instinct. His shield came up, and three more shafts thudded into it, the force numbing his arm. One arrowhead quivered but two fingers from his eye.
Snarling, he ripped the first shaft free, blood welling black-red. His gaze lifted, and across the chaos of the gorge he met the eyes of a tall figure, dark hair whipping in the wind, a longbow in hand,Ryan.
Saurval's howl shook the gorge. His hammer smashed the ground, stones exploding upward, and he roared to his men: "Kill the archer!"
Dozens of hillfolk turned, weapons raised, rushing the gorge's mouth.
Ryan lowered his bow, calm as steel, and his hand fell to the sword at his hip,lamdring, the King's Blade. As it cleared the scabbard, sunlight struck its edge, dazzling all who beheld it. His voice rang steady:
"Loose!"
The Rangers moved as one, bowstrings singing. Even the green recruits, hands trembling, loosed their shafts. A storm of arrows swept forward, felling a score of foes. Yet others closed fast, within thirty paces—too near for another volley.
"Hold fast! Spears out, advance!" Ryan commanded.
At once, the new-formed soldiers lowered bows and braced long spears. Though their steps wavered, when they saw Ryan, Erken, and Alaina striding ahead without fear, their own fear hardened into resolve.
"Kill!"
Steel clashed as the lines met. Ryan struck first, Glamdring's stroke crashing upon an axeman's guard. The sheer might split wood and bone, the blade carving him from shoulder to hip. Blood spattered Ryan's armor.
Erken's war-axe spun like a stormwind, splitting a man open belly to back. Alaina's short-blade flickered quick as serpents' fangs, always seeking the gaps between mail and bone. Arion held the line, sweeping his longsword to bar the foe from breaking the spear-wall.
The recruits fought their first true battle. One lad drove his spear through a chest, only for the dying foe to seize the shaft and vomit blood upon his face. He gagged and faltered, yet another soldier snatched up the bloodied spear and drove it deeper. Another boy froze in terror—until a hammer crushed his comrade's skull beside him, painting him with gore. His fear turned to fury, and with a scream he drove his blade into the killer's spine.
This was war—no time for hesitation. Live by the blade, or lie among the dead.
The narrow gorge was a slaughter-yard. Blood pooled at their feet, and the air choked with iron and screams.
Then Ryan saw him—the brute himself, Saur. He crushed a guard beneath his hammer, then turned, madness blazing, and charged Ryan.
The hammer whistled down; the wind alone seared the grass black. Ryan sidestepped, Glamdring's edge scraping sparks off the iron head. The shield slammed for his ribs, jarring his arm numb, but he twisted with the force and lashed at Saurval's neck.
The hill-chief ducked, ripping the hammer upward to shatter Ryan's wrist. Blow met blow, steel shrieking, again and again. Saur's strength was monstrous, but his fighting was crude, wild as a beast. And blood poured from his wounded shoulder, slowing him, draining his might.
Ryan saw the falter. As the hammer swung again, he ducked low, rolled beneath, and slashed. The blade opened Saur's thigh, driving him to one knee. Ryan leapt, both hands on the hilt, every sinew pouring power into Glamdring. Down the blade fell, like the doom of kings.
"No!" roared Saurval, heaving his hammer up in desperate guard.
Steel rang on iron. The crash echoed like thunder. Saur's arm wrenched from its joint, the hammer spinning from his grasp. He stumbled back, chest and throat bare.
Ryan's eyes flashed cold. He spun with the recoil, and in one sweeping arc Glamdring sang upward.
The edge bit deep.
Saurval froze, his hand touching the line across his throat. Blood spurted hot, pouring down his chest. His eyes bulged, and he reeled three steps before crashing lifeless upon the earth.
Ryan steadied himself. Then he raised the severed head high upon Glamdring's point, his voice a thunderclap over the gorge:
"Light shall always prevail!"