The spear-hawks re-formed once more, circling the Volarian centre in a dense mass. They were fewer in number now, but their ferocity seemed undimmed as they rose and fell in a ceaseless, deadly spiral, raining blood as eyeless men staggered from the ranks, Free Swords screaming and Varitai lashing out at thin air in dumb obedience to their conditioning.
Vaelin saw them then, a knot of men at the heart of the Volarian ranks, flickering glimpses of red amidst the roiling black. He angled Scar towards them, the wolves massing around him to tear a hole in the wall of Varitai. He struggled through it, parrying spear-blades and hacking down any who strayed too close.
The first two red men appeared before him as he slashed his way clear of the throng, both mounted on tall warhorses and wheeling in a tight circle, their swords blurring as they cut spear-hawks from the air. Vaelin charged straight for them, the closest whirling towards him, face livid with hate-filled recognition. He spurred his horse to the left whilst his companion went right in a coordinated attack. Vaelin leaned low, half-hanging out of the saddle as they closed, parrying the stroke from the left as the other missed by inches. He regained the saddle and wheeled, hauling Scar to a halt as the two red men turned for another charge. They paused, seemingly puzzled by his immobility, staring back as he waited, meeting their gaze in turn, fixing them.
Iron Claw reared up with a bellow, both claws raised high. The red men tried to spur their horses aside but too late as the claws came down, digging deep into the spine of both animals. They screamed and thrashed as blood fountained, the red men rolling clear of the carnage, coming swiftly to their feet before being brought down by Astorek’s wolves. They struggled in silence, each held fast by four wolves, their jaws clamped on each limb. They stared up at Vaelin with all the malice he remembered, malice that turned to outright terror as Wise Bear climbed down from Iron Claw’s back.
They begged and screamed in unison, both uttering the same pleas and guttural exhalations as the shaman knelt and pressed his hands to their foreheads. The shuddering ceased in an instant, both red men falling silent, then blinking in confusion as Wise Bear removed his hands and retreated. They gaped at each other then at Vaelin . . . then the wolves.
“Brother . . .” one said, looking up at him in white-faced entreaty.
Vaelin turned Scar about as the wolves did their work, deaf to the brief screams rising above the chorus of snarls. Mishara was at his side once more, nose pointed to a dense mass of battling figures near the western edge of what remained of the camp. A brief survey confirmed most of the field was now in their hands. The southern flank had been completely shattered under the weight of the Wolf People’s numbers. He could see the warriors moving through the mist, long spears held low, bunching occasionally to deal with small clusters of resistance. To the north the tribesfolk had surrounded what appeared to be the remnants of the Volarian cavalry, a few hundred mounted men hemmed in and trying vainly to break free. He watched rider after rider falling to the mountain people’s flailing axes, their ingrained disunity seemingly forgotten now.
“My lord!”
Vaelin ducked instinctively at Orven’s shouted warning, something flickering past his head too fast to see. He dragged Scar about to face three men running towards him through the haze, each lightly armoured and bearing a sword in each hand.
Orven blocked the charge of the leader, crouching low to sweep his sword at the slave-elite’s legs. The Kuritai leapt the blade easily and whirled in midair, his blade aimed at Orven’s neck. The captain, however, was no novice and parried the blow, jabbing his own sword into the Kuritai’s face, then bringing the sword up and around in a swift and near-perfect riposte that left the man staggering with a gaping throat wound.
He turned to engage another as the third dodged past them and made for Vaelin, leaping with twin swords raised high. Mishara met him in midair, fastening her fangs on his head and bearing him to the ground, shaking him until his neck gave an audible crack.
Vaelin spurred Scar forward, seeing Orven being hard-pressed by the remaining Kuritai, the twin swords delivering a swift and complex pattern of blows that forced the guardsman to his knees. Vaelin was still ten feet short of them when the Kuritai sent Orven’s sword spinning from his grasp and raised his blades for the final blow, then abruptly stiffened, head snapping up as Lorkan blinked into view, arm extended to thrust a dagger into the base of the slave-elite’s skull.
The Gifted withdrew the blade with a distasteful grimace and looked up at Vaelin as he trotted closer. His face was streaked with blood from a cut somewhere in the dark mane of his hair, obliging him to continually wipe it from his eyes.
