The Old Woods did not smell like pine or damp earth. They smelled like copper.
Kael stopped at the treeline, his boots sinking into the grey moss that carpeted the forest floor. The trees here were different from the scrubby growth near Hollow Creek. These were black, their bark smooth and hard like cured iron, their branches leafless and twisted into sharp angles that snagged the mist.
"Go back," the silence seemed to whisper.
Kael tightened his grip on the sharpened shovel handle hanging from his belt. "No."
He stepped into the gloom.
He dragged his feet. Hunger had become a sharp pain in his gut, a constant reminder of the two days since the village fell. He had eaten nothing but some bitter berries and muddy water. But he kept moving. West. Always West.
The tracks were easy to follow. Not beast tracks—those were sloppy, tearing up the earth. These tracks were measured. Heavy boots. A horse that moved with discipline.
Ser Elric.
They said the old Knight patrolled the Black Reach alone because no one else was stupid enough to do it. They said he had lost an eye to a Warlord and a soul to the bottle. They said a lot of things. Kael didn't care about the rumors. He cared about the steel.
A snap echoed through the woods.
Kael froze, dropping into a crouch behind a thick root. He held his breath.
A shape emerged from the fog ahead. Massive. Dark.
It was a horse, but it looked more like a plow beast armored for war. And on its back sat a figure that seemed carved from the same stone as the fortress that had ignored them.
Ser Elric.
The Knight wasn't wearing shining armor. His plate was dull, pot-marked with rust and dents. A fur cloak, matted and grey, hung heavy over his shoulders. He didn't look heroic. He looked tired.
He stopped the horse ten paces away. He didn't look at Kael. He looked at the trees.
"You're loud," the Knight rumbled. His voice sounded like gravel grinding together. "And you smell like smoke."
Kael stood up slowly. He didn't bow. "I am smoke."
Elric turned his head. His left eye was covered by a leather patch, sewn directly into a scar that ran down his cheek. His right eye was grey and utterly unimpressed.
"Survival reflex is high," Elric noted, looking at how Kael held the shovel stake. "Combat form is garbage."
"Teach me," Kael said.
"No."
Elric kicked his horse into a walk, passing Kael as if he were a stump.
"My village is dead," Kael said, turning to follow. He forced his voice not to shake. "Hollow Creek.
The beasts took everyone. I lit the fire. You didn't come."
Elric stopped. He didn't turn around. "The fire was seen."
"Then why?"
"Because five knights cannot stop a horde of three hundred. If we rode out, the fortress would be undermanned. The horde would take the wall, and then the towns behind it." Elric looked back then, his gaze heavy. "Math, boy. Just cold math."
"My family is dead because of math?"
"Yes."
Kael felt the rage heat his blood, burning away the hunger. "That's not good enough."
"The world doesn't care what you think is good enough."
Elric nudged his horse again. "Go South. Find a refugee camp. Beg for bread. Live."
"I don't want to beg," Kael shouted. He ripped the shovel stake from his belt. "I want to kill them. All of them."
Elric sighed. It was a long, weary sound. He halted the horse and slid out of the saddle. He hit the ground with a heavy metallic clank. He was huge—a head taller than Kael, broad as a door.
He drew his sword.
It wasn't a noble weapon. It was a slab of iron, cross-guard chipped, grip wrapped in worn leather.
He held it with one hand, point resting in the moss.
"You want to kill monsters?" Elric asked softly.
"Yes."
"Try to hit me."
Kael didn't hesitate. He screamed—a raw, broken sound—and charged. He swung the sharpened stake with everything he had, aiming for the Knight's unarmored neck.
Elric didn't even move his feet. He just tilted his wrist.
The flat of the greatsword slapped the stake aside. Kael stumbled, off-balance. Elric's gauntleted fist blurred.
CRACK.
Kael hit the ground. The world spun. His jaw throbbed where the backhand had connected. He tasted blood.
"Dead," Elric said.
Kael scrambled up, spitting red. He attacked again. Lower this time.
Elric stepped sideways. He caught Kael by the back of the tunic and threw him. Kael slammed into a tree.
"Dead," Elric repeated.
"I'm not..." Kael wheezed, pushing himself off the roots.
"You are. You're dead because you're angry. You're dead because you're weak. You're dead because you think a sharp stick makes you a soldier."
Elric sheathed his sword. "Go home to your ash, boy. Revenge is a luxury. You can't afford it."
He mounted his horse.
Kael lay in the moss. Every inch of him hurt. He wanted to cry. He wanted to quit.
Acceptable loss.
Kael grit his teeth. He grabbed the shovel stake. He forced his shaking legs to stand.
"I'm not leaving," he whispered.
Elric didn't look back, but he didn't ride away fast, either. He just walked his horse deeper into the woods, leaving a trail in the mist.
Kael spit a glob of blood onto the black roots. Then, he started walking. Following the tracks. Following the steel.