In a one-on-one duel, any regular soldier of the Golden Order could rely on superior plate armor to ignore the crudely fashioned bows of the demi-humans. The pitted, uneven bone-tips of their arrows would struggle to bite through leather, let alone steel; under normal circumstances, they caused little more than superficial harm.
But the circumstances in Sunset Pass were far from normal. The rebel alliance held the high ground, their ranks bolstered by Misbegotten archers whose powerful arms drew bows of reinforced yew. The air filled with the rhythmic hum of vibrating strings and the terrifying shriek of arrows cutting the wind; it was a swarm of locusts sweeping low across the canyon floor.
Large swathes of the Karen Guard were cut down in an instant, their bodies riddled like sieves. The narrow terrain left no room to maneuver; only a handful of spear-men with heavy shields managed to brace themselves. A fine, pink mist of atomized blood rose from the chaos, punctuated by a cacophony of dying screams and animalistic roars. The pass had become a living purgatory.
The moment the arrows fell, Clavell reached into his robes and produced a crystal perfume bottle. With a flick of his wrist, he shattered it in the air. A cloud of glittering, scale-like powder enveloped his frame, coating his skin, his robes, and his horse in a shimmering film of light. Stray arrows that struck him let out sharp, metallic clinks, deflected as if they had hit solid granite.
Aromatic: War Fever.
This ancient concoction granted a layer of protection as hard as steel while flooding the Perfumer's body with unnatural vigor. It was the primal, undiluted version of the combat arts that would later degenerate into the "Ironjar" and "Uplifting" aromatics of a fallen age. Though the Golden Age Perfumers were famous for their healing arts, they were born of the Unification Wars; they were battlefield physicians whose combat prowess rivaled that of elite knights. To these progenitors, the combat perfumers of the future were mere children playing with fire.
Across the clearing, Hektov finally snapped out of his shock. Seeing his personal guard being butchered like cattle, a tidal wave of fury surged through him. Veins like spiderwebs burst in his eyes, turning his vision red.
"Clavell! You traitorous cur! You apostate!" he roared. He spurred his horse forward, drawing the massive, hand-and-a-half greatsword from his back. The blade cut through the air with a terrifying whistle as he swung for the Perfumer's throat.
Suddenly, a violent shriek tore through the air, drowning out the sounds of the melee. A projectile as thick as a young tree, trailing spirals of displaced air, hammered into the space between them. It struck Hektov's horse squarely in the chest.
Hektov, acting on raw instinct, kicked free of his stirrups and leapt. Below him, his noble steed was instantly vaporized into a spray of gore and shattered bone.
On a ridge hundreds of yards away, a massive Troll warrior slowly lowered a greatbow. He reached for another arrow from the quiver on his back, but this time he did not aim for the Baron. Instead, he targeted a cluster of shield-men who were attempting to form a defensive square.
Beside him, more Trolls appeared, their five-meter frames silhouetted against the sun. They drew their massive bows to the shape of full moons, launching heavy bolts that suppressed what little resistance the Karen Guard could offer.
Hektov landed in a clumsy stumble, his heart sinking as he looked toward the ridges. This was the first time the tribes had deployed Trolls in an organized formation. Combined with the overwhelming numbers and the terrain, his death was no longer a possibility; it was a certainty.
At the rear, the supply train had barely entered the gorge when the rebels triggered a secondary landslide. Boulders and logs crushed the few ballistae units in an instant. The soldiers, panicked and blinded by the rain of arrows, trampled over each other. Shattered wagons and cooling corpses quickly piled up, sealing the only exit.
After several more volleys, the rebel alliance launched their final charge. Led by Misbegotten warriors carrying wooden shields, they poured down the slopes toward the broken, demoralized survivors.
Hektov abandoned the idea of killing Clavell. His only hope now was to capture the man and use him as a hostage to negotiate a path out of the slaughter.
But before he could move, Clavell moved first. The Perfumer launched himself from his saddle, his body blurring into a dark, shimmering streak of speed.
Startled, Hektov swung his greatsword in a desperate arc. There was a thunderous crash of metal on metal as a force of impossible magnitude struck the center of his blade. The impact rattled Hektov's internal organs, sending a jolt of agony through his chest as he was blown backward.
"What?!" Hektov spat a mouthful of blood, his eyes wide with genuine terror. He had never imagined a "clerk" could possess such raw, violent power.
He scrambled to find his footing, but a new, bone-chilling intent erupted from behind him.
Hektov spun around just as a cold, gleaming Kaiden blade slid out of the shadows like a silver tongue. Turak appeared behind the steel, his movements fluid and feline. In a single heartbeat, the mercenary closed the distance and unleashed three savage, surgical strikes.
The first strike hammered the crossguard of Hektov's sword, knocking the massive blade aside and leaving the Baron's chest wide open.
The second strike saw Turak step inside the Baron's reach with a reverse-grip. The edge carved upward, splitting Hektov's steel breastplate and gorget as if they were made of parchment.
The third strike was a horizontal sweep. A flash of cold light, and then a geyser of crimson. Hektov's unprotected neck was severed clean. The look of confusion in his eyes lasted for only a fraction of a second before his head rolled smoothly into the dirt.
In this sudden, brutal duel, the Baron who believed he stood at the threshold of heroism did not last three exchanges against a nameless sellsword. He was dismantled and slaughtered with practiced ease.
Clavell watched from across the clearing, his eyes narrowing. He had known the third-in-command of the Shivering Wind was formidable, but the sheer lethality of Turak's swordsmanship was beyond his expectations. Even accounting for the surprise attack, a man who could end Hektov in three moves was not someone to be trifled with.
With the commander's head in the dirt, the last remnants of the Karen Guard's morale collapsed. The elite knights who held the rank-and-file together had already been lost to the initial ambush. The remaining soldiers dropped their weapons, falling to their knees in a desperate plea for mercy.
But the demi-humans and misbegotten had no mercy to give. These were the men who had burned their villages and murdered their kin. Ignoring the pleas for surrender, the rebels moved in small packs, systematically purging the valley of every living thing that wore the Governor's colors.
Twenty-five minutes after the first explosion, the last scream fell silent. The Karen City Guard had ceased to exist.