Moving like a gale, Corvus landed silently atop a tree, his figure hidden in the dense canopy. He waited for his teammates to take their positions while observing the scene below.
In the centre of a makeshift arena, an old man sat on a throne of corpses.
Massive as a bear and marred with scars, the old man casually adjusted a soldier's body beneath him to find a comfortable spot. The corpses were mangled beyond recognition, as if toyed with for the amusement of some abominable tyrant—and indeed, they had been.
"Those brats better not be fooling around," the old man sighed. "At this rate, the boredom will kill me before the spears do."
Just a few hours earlier, over seventy captives had been forced into a brawl within this arena. Their hands and feet were bound with ropes to prolong the match and heighten its cruelty. The arena had been so packed that even breathing was a struggle.
Yet now, the ground was clear for meters all around the old man. Only the corpses of captives and soldiers filled his vicinity. Beyond the dead stood two dozen soldiers, neither properly armed nor entirely sober, surrounding the old man.
Though the soldiers wielded spears and swords, none dared approach, at least not anymore. After suffering heavy casualties in the earlier skirmishes, they had settled on a new plan: contain the old man until the reinforcements arrived.
In a secluded corner of the arena, fewer than twenty captives remained alive. They cowered in silence, now forced to witness the brutal spectacle.
A sharp glint atop the fort caught the old man's eye.
Finally, his lips curled up.
He stood up, cracking his neck, and tossed a strand of rope—the very bindings he had snapped—toward the trembling guards.
"Well?" The old man raised an eyebrow. "You boys look like you need help tying me up again. I found these spare ones lying around, they might come in handy, right?"
The soldiers seethed at the old man's contempt—resting atop their dead, and now mocking their command—yet, they contained their rage. They knew better than to let sentiments prevail. So, they endured.
But the old man's next act broke some of their restraint. He grinned.
Four soldiers broke ranks, humiliation outweighing their survival instinct as they charged at the old man. Rage blinded them to their clumsy coordination.
The old man made the first move. He grabbed a captive's body and flung it toward them. One of them dodged, stumbling into his comrade—their momentum broke in an instant.
By the time the soldier regained his senses, the world had turned upside down. He blinked, confused by the inverted sky. No. It was only his head that had been twisted upside down, while his body remained upright.
From that inverted angle, he watched the old man hurl a dagger—his dagger. It whistled through the air and sank into the eye of the very comrade he had shoved aside.
The old man turned to him with eyes gleaming with wicked delight.
"Thanks for the toy," the old man said. "You may die now."
But death had already claimed the soldier, for it awaits no one's permission. His body, however, fell only afterward.
The remaining two soldiers froze at the casual display of violence. Yet pride moved their feet. Better to trade limb and life than suffer humiliation.
Before another clash could ensue, the officer in charge barked, "Fall back, you imbeciles! Who told you to engage? Reinforcements are on the way. Hold your ground."
Disgruntled by the order to retreat, the two soldiers lingered for a moment before finally yielding to reason—or perhaps to something else—and began to withdraw with wary steps.
"No arrests!" the officer spat. "Only death for this fiend!"
From the shade of a nearby canopy, Corvus observed with intrigue. Can't say I envy these fools.
He drew his double-bladed glaive and let out a sharp, birdlike whistle—the signal to his band to begin their onslaught.
Dawn crept across the plain, cutting through the last shreds of mist and darkness.
With the light came the reinforcements, closing in around the old man from four sides. Five ranks of well-armed troops fortified each section of the enclosure.
The soldiers seethed to strike, holding themselves back with bated breath. Yet a flicker of doubt crossed the officer in charge's mind: why had barely half the men he summoned arrived?
Dismissing his concerns as mere fancy, he turned his attention to the array of soldiers.
The bulk of the formation consisted of night-duty soldiers and fort guards; men drawn here to place wagers on the match. Most were weary and sleep-deprived, but adrenaline dulled their fatigue, keeping it from becoming a critical impediment.
The officer in charge deemed the preparations sufficient. Climbing a low scaffold, he commanded, "Bring me his head!"
The soldiers responded in drilled unison: "Yes, sir!"
"At my signal, get—"
A flash of sunlight caught the officer's eyes, forcing him to squint. Through the glare, he glimpsed dozens of figures smeared in scarlet, closing in fast.
His hands trembled. He tried to shout. But instead of words, an arrow shot out of his throat.
The officer fell face-first, the arrow still lodged in his skull. He squirmed in agony and cried for help, but only blood spurted out instead of words.
Corvus quietly gauged his band's performance, while watchful for any formidable foe.
Two squads stormed the rear corners of the soldiers' box-like formation, annihilating the first rank on each side in the blink of an eye. At the same time, two other squads struck the front corners, unleashing havoc that rivalled, if not exceeded, the rear assault.
Having made quick work of the first file, the assailants engaged the second—one that offered a semblance of resistance.
The soldiers were aware of the assault by now. They would have rallied to overwhelm the attackers with their superior numbers, till complete decimation. Or so it might have transpired, if not for the young man, Corvus Ashford, who leapt into the midst of the enemy enclosure.
With his back pressed against the old man's, Corvus said, "The cold better not have fractured your brittle bones, Cap Elric."
The old man, Elric Ironbough, twitched at the jest and retorted, "My bones went brittle ages ago, tidying up after your lot. Just make sure I don't accidentally stomp you flat, brat."
Elric grabbed two bodies like toys—one in each hand—and dashed forward, while Corvus shot off in the opposite direction.
Elric and Corvus circled the formation, striking at its innermost file.
Corvus wove through the melee like smoke—silent and elusive. His glaive did not clash against steel; it hissed through the gaps in armor, finding soft flesh with surgical cruelty. His victims were left no room to scream, let alone react—only a spray of crimson marked where he had been.
In stark contrast to Corvus's insidious precision, Elric was blunt and unrestrained.
Elric did not fight; he pulverized. Roaring gleefully, he swung the two corpses like flails; the cries of the dying muffled under shattering bones. He lacked Corvus's grace, but his devastation was absolute.
He was a calamity whose coming could be foreseen, yet the only path to salvation lay in avoidance. For once beset, there was no fighting; only surviving.
One a scalpel; the other a sledgehammer.
Together, they raced on, exacting their toll in blood and bone. Then circling back a heartbeat later to demand more of the same.
But their bottomless appetites never sated.
The soldiers, gripped by chilling dread, descended into chaos as their numbers dwindled by the second.
While, the onslaught from the band of warriors from the other side, further deepened their despair. The ghastly spectacle played on until, at last, the soldiers fell to their knees—begging mercy from those who knew none.
***
Illuminating Thornridge, the sun revealed a stark contrast between the plain and a patch of land filled with barracks—the bailey. Drunk on blood, the earth had taken on a deep scarlet hue here.
Yet the blood-soaked bailey was far from mournful. In fact, it teemed with life, its current inhabitants were all too familiar with the carnage around them.
Sitting at the center of the arena was Corvus Ashford. Drenched in scarlet, he appeared more ghoulish than human. He cleaned his slender double-bladed glaive with a measured calm. Yet upon a closer look, his eyes betrayed a faint sign of weariness.
He did not relish killing, but he had long stopped questioning it.
He was nearly done with his chore when a soft voice called out to him.
"Vice-Cap Corvus, you've been summoned. It looks like Squadron Leader Cedric has caught someone interesting." It was the young boy, Felix Wyndham, who had spoken to Corvus back at the fort.
Corvus replied evenly, though with a trace of cordiality, "Thanks, Felix. I'll join them in a minute."