Arthur's path turns from quiet streets to open road, where the first true test of his power and resolve waits amid steel and blood.
Chapter 3 – Road of Iron and Dust
Arthur left Arnach at dawn.
Mist lay low over the fields, softening the edges of stone walls and bare-branched trees. The town still slept save for a few early risers and Elder Bram, who stood by the eastern gate with his cloak drawn tight against the chill.
George's breath steamed in the cold, ears flicking as Arthur tightened the last strap on the saddle. The horse nudged his shoulder lightly, an almost human gesture.
"You're certain about this?" Bram asked. His voice held no accusation, only the weight of a man who had seen too many departures end badly.
Arthur settled his helm under one arm. Today, he chose to leave his head bare—the wind in his hair helped him think, reminded him he was still human beneath the steel. "You need a road north, a safe one," he said. "Minas Tirith is the heart. If I want to find where I belong in this… world, I should start there."
Bram studied him, gaze lingering on his eyes. Still gentle, the elder thought. But there's steel behind them now. Not just in his armor.
"You've done much for Arnach in a short time," Bram said. "Reset bones, stitched wounds, cooled fevers that had no right to break so quickly. The folk talk."
Arthur's lips curved faintly. "Hopefully they say something kind."
"They call you the Black Healer," Bram replied. "Some add 'blessed.' Others—'unnatural.' But even those come to you when their children burn with fever."
Arthur looked back briefly at the town—the smudge of smoke, the crooked roofs, the narrow lane where he'd first set a broken leg in this new life. He felt a faint tug of attachment he hadn't expected.
"I'm only doing what I always did," he said. "Just… wearing more armor this time."
"See that you remember which part of you came first," Bram answered quietly. "This world has enough men who know how to kill. Not enough who remember why they should protect."
Arthur inclined his head. "I won't forget."
He mounted George in a smooth, effortless motion. The horse shifted its weight, eager.
As Arthur turned toward the road, he heard whispers from the gate's shadow—villagers who'd slipped out to watch him go. A child's voice piped, "Will he come back?"
Another answered, "He has to. He's the only one who can fix Ma's hands."
Arthur pretended he hadn't heard, but the words lodged in his mind like sutures.
The road from Arnach to Minas Tirith wound southward through scrubland and low hills. Stone markers, worn almost smooth by time, jutted from the roadside at long intervals. Birds circled high in the pale morning sky.
Arthur rode at an easy pace, more for George's comfort than his own. His body felt as it always did now—calm, tireless, ready. Muscles responded smoothly to every slight shift; no dull ache crept into his back, no stiffness in his shoulders.
Once, he would have killed for that feeling after a forty‑hour shift. Now, it unnerved him.
How long could I ride like this? he wondered. A day? Two? A week?
He suspected the answer was "until George gave out," and perhaps longer still if he went on foot.
Hours passed. The sun climbed and dipped behind drifting clouds. Now and then, he passed lone travelers on foot or in simple carts. They always stared first at the armor, then at his face—surprised by the gentleness that lived there.
Most simply nodded from a distance. A few gave him a wider berth, muttering about "knights and their business."
Near midday, Arthur dismounted by a shallow stream to let George drink. He knelt beside the water, cupping it in his hands. The reflection that looked back at him was the same as in Arnach: a man who looked younger than he felt, eyes shadowed by experience.
But now, beneath the surface of his own gaze, he sensed something else—like a slow‑turning current of power, coiled but patient. Sequence 9: Warrior.
He flexed his hand, watching water drip from his fingers. In his old life, these hands had known scalpel handles, clamps, suture needles, the weight of a chest compression. Now they curled easily around a longsword hilt, around reins, around the edges of steel and leather.
"Still mine," he said softly to his reflection. "No matter what you call me."
George flicked water at him with a playful snort. Arthur smiled despite himself.
They continued.
The hills grew rockier as afternoon deepened. Bushes huddled along the road, leafless and thorny. The air cooled, taking on a sharper edge.
That was when he heard it.
A faint shout. A clatter of wood. Then the unmistakable ring of steel on steel.
George's ears snapped forward. Arthur straightened in the saddle, every sense sharpening at once. The world narrowed—the whisper of wind, the scrape of gravel under hooves, the distant echo of struggle.
He nudged George into a canter. The horse responded without hesitation.
They rounded a bend and came upon a scene of chaos.
A merchant wagon lay half‑across the road, one wheel shattered, crates spilled open. A handful of men in mismatched leather and rusted mail—brigands by the look of them—circled it like crows. One already lay in the dust, not moving.
Two more pressed in on a man with a short sword and a battered wooden shield—the caravan's guard, judging by his stance. His arm shook with fatigue. Sweat plastered dark hair to his brow.
Behind the wagon, a woman clutched a small bundle to her chest, huddled with an older man whose leg was twisted unnaturally beneath him. Their fear hung in the air like smoke.
Arthur assessed all of it in a heartbeat. Angles. Distances. Where blood flowed, where it hadn't yet.
One of the brigands saw him first. "Rider!" he shouted, pointing. "Armored!"
Six heads turned toward Arthur as George slowed to a trot, then a walk. The road stretched wide and empty around them. No one else would be coming soon.
Arthur dismounted without hurry, every motion smooth. The brigands watched him warily, weighing his armor, his sword, the calm in his eyes.
The one who looked most like a leader—a scar down one cheek, chain coif stained at the throat—stepped forward, smirking. "Well now," he drawled. "Didn't expect the road to bring such a fine guest."
He eyed Arthur's sword. "That there worth more than this whole wagon, I'd wager."
"I'm sure it is," Arthur said evenly. He glanced past them at the guard, whose shield arm sagged. "You should let them go."
A few of the brigands laughed. The leader's smirk widened. "That a warning, knight?"
Arthur shook his head once. "A suggestion."
He rested his hand on the mithril hilt. The sensation was startlingly natural, like reclaiming an old tool he'd set aside for a time.
The guard, panting, stared at Arthur with desperate hope. Please, his eyes begged. Intervene.
The woman behind the wagon clutched her bundle tighter. Arthur caught a glimpse of small fingers in the folds of cloth. A child.
The leader spat to the side. "We're six to one, stranger," he said. "And your horse doesn't count."
Arthur tilted his head slightly. "You miscount," he replied. "There are six men who might yet walk away."
Something in his tone—flat, unhurried, devoid of boast—made a few of the brigands shift uneasily.
"Enough," the leader snapped, irritation flickering. He lifted his hand. "Take him."
They rushed as a group, blades raised.
Time did not slow. Arthur simply moved faster.
The first brigand reached him, hacking downward in a crude overhand chop aimed at Arthur's head. Arthur stepped in, not back. His left hand caught the man's wrist; his right hand rose, not to swing his sword, but to drive its pommel into the attacker's throat.
The man collapsed, choking, clutching his neck. Arthur pivoted, letting the falling body drag the sword arm off balance. In the same flowing motion, he twisted, pulled, and let the man's momentum tear the weapon from his grip.
The stolen blade was in Arthur's hand before it clattered to the ground. He flipped it into a reverse grip and used the flat to hammer the next brigand's knee. Bone gave with an ugly crack. The scream barely registered before Arthur's mithril longsword lashed out, slicing the haft of a spear in two.
His movements were not wild or showy. They were clean. Precise. Like incisions.
The guard had fought half a dozen such men struggling to stay alive. Arthur dismantled three in as many breaths.
One attacker managed to swing at his exposed side. Steel rang against Arthur's armor with a sharp clang. He felt the impact as pressure, nothing more. No sharp pain. The mithril runes under the black plates hummed faintly, accepting the blow like rain on stone.
Arthur's body reacted before he the thought formed. His elbow smashed backward into the man's jaw, sending him sprawling. Sequence 9 sang through his nerves, guiding force, balance, and timing.
This is too easy, a part of him observed distantly. These are men, not monsters. Don't forget that.
The leader cursed and lunged, sword aimed low for Arthur's thigh, hoping to slide under the armor. It was a clever move—one a veteran might attempt.
Arthur met his charge head‑on. Their swords struck with a shower of sparks. The leader grunted, muscles straining. Arthur's expression barely changed.
To the brigand, it was like pushing against a locked gate.
Arthur stepped in, shifted his weight, and rolled his wrist. The leader's blade was torn from his hand and spun away into the dust.
Fear finally cracked the man's bravado.
He staggered back, eyes wide, hands raised. "Wait—"
Arthur's sword point stopped a hair's breadth from the man's throat.
Behind him, the remaining conscious brigands froze, chests heaving. Two groaned on the ground. One crawled, clutching a ruined knee.
The guard stared, chest heaving, shield hanging useless by his side. He had never seen anyone fight like that. Each strike had been deliberate, nothing wasted, no visible effort bleeding into ragged motion.
"Please," the leader gasped. "We'll go. We'll leave them. Just—"
Arthur looked into his eyes. There was no glory there. No grand villainy. Just small, hungry cruelty and the willingness to spill blood for coin.
In another life, he might have seen a patient who chose vice over health, who ignored every warning and came back worse each time.
"I believe you," Arthur said quietly. "You'll leave them."
Relief sagged the leader's shoulders. It lasted less than a heartbeat.
"But you won't forget what you tried to do today," Arthur continued. "And you'll do it again somewhere else, to someone who has no help coming."
The man swallowed hard. "You don't have to—"
Arthur shifted the blade just enough that its edge grazed skin. A thin line of red welled there.
"I'm not killing you in anger," Arthur said, voice almost gentle. "I'm removing a threat. There's a difference."
He had thought that saying it aloud might reassure him. It didn't.
The leader's last sound was a choked, wet noise as Arthur's sword cut cleanly across his throat. The body fell. Dust puffed around it, then settled.
The road was quiet again but for the whimper of the man with the broken knee and the ragged breathing of those still conscious.
Arthur turned, sword dripping a thin arc of blood that he wiped on the dead man's cloak. His heartbeat remained steady. Breath calm. There was no tremor in his hands.
The guard stared at him with a mixture of gratitude and unease. Merciful, he thought, but… merciless.
One of the surviving brigands tried to crawl away. Arthur's gaze flicked to him. The man froze.
"Gather your wounded," Arthur said. "Walk north. If I hear of you on this road again, we will finish this lesson."
They scrambled to obey, half dragging each other. None looked back.
Arthur sheathed his sword. The sound of metal sliding home felt final.
He walked around the wagon to the older man on the ground. The leg was a mess—bones broken in multiple places, likely before the attack began. The woman still clutched her bundle, eyes wide, cheeks wet with tears.
"Are you hurt?" Arthur asked her.
She shook her head, unable to find words.
He knelt beside the older man and assessed quickly. The fractures were bad, but not beyond hope—especially with his current strength and stability.
"I can set this," he said. "But you'll need a proper splint and time. You won't be walking far on it for some weeks."
The merchant—because that's clearly what he was, by clothing and calloused hands—grimaced. "Better than not walking at all," he rasped. "You… you move like a captain of Gondor, sir. Or better."
"I'm no captain," Arthur said. "Just a healer who's learning to live with a sword."
He went to work. Muscles that had just dealt death now reset bone and bound it carefully. His hands moved with that same strange, unshakable steadiness. The guard watched, helmet under one arm, brow furrowed.
He kills and mends with the same calm, the younger man thought. What kind of life makes a man like that?
As Arthur finished tying the final knot, the woman finally spoke, voice quiet. "Will they come back?"
He paused, then shook his head. "Not these," he said. "They believed their numbers and steel would keep them safe. Today, they learned otherwise. Fear will carry them elsewhere."
He rose, feeling no strain in muscles that seemed carved from tireless stone.
The guard stepped forward, clearing his throat. "I—thank you, sir," he said. "I've seen knights before. None like you."
Arthur met his gaze. "My name is Arthur," he said simply. "I'm heading to Minas Tirith. If you can still move, you should either return to Arnach or continue with others on the main road. But stay together. Don't travel alone while the hills are lawless."
"You're going to the White City alone?" the guard asked, incredulous.
Arthur glanced at George. The horse stood calmly amidst the bodies and blood, unafraid. "Not alone," he replied.
As he mounted again, the merchant called after him, "Arthur! If you reach the City and find men who still listen, tell them this road needs more like you."
Arthur looked back once, nodding. "I'll tell them."
The road stretched ahead, colored by the sinking sun. Behind him lay a small stack of choices—mercy, restraint, and one clean, necessary execution. In his old life, he had taken oaths to preserve life wherever possible.
Now he walked a narrower edge: deciding which lives must end so others could continue.
As George's hooves carried them onward, Arthur's thoughts turned inward.
Today, I killed a man because I believed he would only harm more if spared, he reflected. How many times did I choose not to cut, only to watch someone die because I hesitated?
The memory of a young patient's flatline monitor flickered at the edge of his mind. No sword, no brigands. Just a heart that wouldn't restart, and a tired surgeon whose hands had done all they could.
He looked up. Far to the south, barely visible in the haze, something pale gleamed against the sky—a suggestion of towers, of stone stacked in impossible layers. Minas Tirith, distant but real.
"Maybe there," he said softly to George, "we'll find a better way to balance these scales."
The horse snorted, as if unconvinced but willing to try.
Together, man and mount continued along the road of iron and dust, leaving behind the first true test of what a tireless healer might become when forced to bear a warrior's strength.