"Lord Governor," an officer shouted, spurring his horse to Hektov's side as the column pressed forward. "The scouts report the pass itself is clear. However, they found traces of demi-human wolf-riders twenty miles to the north. The enemy appears to be retreating toward the Mt. Gelmir highlands."
Hektov yanked his reins, shielding his eyes with a gauntleted hand as he surveyed the jagged, limestone walls of the natural gorge ahead. He let out a sharp click of his tongue. "We moved too late. If we had pinned those vermin south of the pass, not a single one would have escaped my blade!"
"Pass the word," he barked. "Cavalry in the vanguard, infantry to follow. Keep the supply wagons at the rear and pick up the pace. We hunt!"
Within fifteen minutes, the Karen City Guard shifted their formation. The riders and light infantry surged ahead, widening the gap between themselves and the heavy shield-bearers. The ballistae and pack mules fell even further behind. The army stretched thin, a narrow serpent of steel slithering headlong into the shadows of Sunset Pass.
In Hektov's experience, crushing demi-humans was a simple matter of logistics. Even when the creatures managed to bring a Troll to the field, the lumbering beasts were nothing more than target practice for his disciplined shield-walls and crossbowmen. The only true obstacle to peace in the region was the terrain itself.
The rebels usually broke at the first sign of a formal charge, scattering like minnows into the vast, brown barrens. Even with his elite light cavalry, they would eventually vanish into the sulfurous heat of northern Gelmir. It was a cycle of frustration that had repeated for three years.
But today felt different. Based on the intelligence his scouts had gathered, he was certain he had hooked a massive catch. The rebels had gathered nearly a thousand strong, emboldened enough to strike deep into the south. Hektov had spent weeks tightening his defenses, starving them of opportunity while their supplies dwindled.
Now, as they retreated in desperation, he saw his chance to end the rebellion in a single afternoon. With his superior equipment and morale, he was confident he could reap a grand harvest of heads with minimal losses.
The cavalry entered the gorge at a blistering pace. With the Governor leading from the front, the men rode with a fierce intensity, their hoofbeats echoing like thunder against the narrow stone walls. They were minutes away from the northern exit.
The pass was a natural funnel, wide at the entrance and narrowing sharply toward the exit. Two years ago, Hektov had proposed building a permanent fort here to block the southern migration of the tribes. However, the climate was too harsh; the winters were bone-chilling and the summers were a sweltering furnace. Maintaining a garrison for the sake of a few "inferior" tribes had been deemed a waste of coin.
The thunderous gallop filled the valley, the armored knights swaying in their saddles like arrows aimed at the heart of an enemy. Hektov looked around, feeling the rush of imminent glory. He wanted someone to witness his brilliance, but he found only one man riding close to his flank.
"Tell me, Clavell," he said, pulling his horse closer until they rode stirrup to stirrup. "What do you think of this battle?"
Clavell gave him a sidelong glance, his voice hollow. "I do not understand the nature of your question, My Lord."
Hektov's smile stiffened, a flicker of malice crossing his eyes. "I simply mean that you should be pleased. Today we wipe out a significant number of those rebellious beasts. It should bring you some satisfaction."
His lip curled into a cruel sneer. "After all, this is justice for your little 'daughter,' is it not?"
The words had barely left his mouth when Clavell violently yanked his reins. His warhorse reared back, letting out a piercing, panicked neigh as it came to a dead halt.
Hektov, carried by his momentum, charged ten meters further before sliding to a stop. He turned his horse around, looking at the man who had always been so submissive and quiet with genuine confusion.
He knew his words were vicious. He knew how the Perfumer felt about that demi-human brat. That was precisely why he chose to rake the wound. Back in Leyndell, he had always loathed the Perfumers for their lack of dignity and their tendency to associate with the "polluted." Clavell's behavior in Karen had been even more nauseating.
To be a Golden Person, born at the foot of the Erdtree and blessed by the Elden Ring, and then to live among such filth was a sacrilege. Every time Hektov had seen that demi-human child running through the streets of his city, he had felt the urge to strike her down and throw her carcass to the dogs.
One year ago, his wish had been granted. A small tribe had raided a farm, and Hektov's guards had executed every one of them. Among the heads brought back was Monica, Clavell's adopted daughter. Clavell had claimed she was merely delivering medicine to a sick old woman. Hektov had simply told him it was a "misunderstanding."
Since the Governor said it was a misunderstanding, it had to be one. At least, that was how Hektov viewed the world.
"What is the meaning of this?" Hektov demanded. Clavell sat frozen on his horse, radiating a cold, bone-deep hatred that made the Baron feel an instinctive prickle of unease.
"One year ago, on the twenty-eighth of April, you ordered your guards to murder my daughter."
"I told you, it was an unfortunate mistake."
"The farmer told me the truth later," Clavell said quietly. "His mother held Monica in her arms. She wept and begged your captain, telling him the child was the daughter of the Internal Affairs Officer. But that butcher tore her away anyway. He took her life without a shred of humanity."
"Watch your tone, Clavell!" Hektov sensed the air changing, his voice rising in an attempt to maintain control. "Are you truly going to accuse your superiors based on the word of a peasant?"
"Be silent, you bastard," Clavell said softly. His face looked tired, like an actor finally removing a mask after a thousand performances.
The soldiers continued to stream past them toward the narrow exit, forced to slow down as the terrain constricted. The clamor of armor and shouting horses filled the gorge, so loud that Hektov almost thought he had misheard the insult.
"What did you... say?"
"I have had enough of you," Clavell said, his voice flat. "Your narrow, hollow laws. Your rotting noble pedigree. It is no wonder Leyndell produces such disgusting things as you." He shook his head, looking bored. "Your fifty guards are here. Your three hundred new recruits are here. Even the knights I left in the city have been... dealt with."
"And so, I ask that you all die."
As the final word left his lips, a deafening explosion shattered the peace of the valley. The cliffs at the exit of the pass, rigged with heavy charges of black powder, groaned and collapsed. A waterfall of earth and jagged stone buried dozens of vanguard riders in an instant.
Hektov looked up in horror. Atop the ridges on both sides of the gorge, a sea of demi-humans and misbegotten appeared. Thousands of bows were drawn, and thousands of bone-tipped arrows were aimed down into the panicked, trapped ranks of the Karen Guard.
A second later, the strings snapped. The sky turned black with rain.