“That brainless idiot, Humphreys! That dimwit, Seligman! What were they doing?!” As he gathered an understanding of the situation from what information he could get out of the injured, Heatley had been enraged at the incompetence of Seligman and the main force, who they had been completely cut off from and were no longer able to contact. “Those fools! Useless!” The young knight cursed his colleagues out of a twisted sense of responsibility and passion. The adventurers in front of and behind him continued on silently, unwilling to engage him.
They had triggered two primitive traps so far on their march, and one fighter had been forced to drop out due to injuries to his legs, but otherwise their march was going well. Since they were following the river, there was no chance of them losing their way, and they weren’t walking through a sea of traps like their comrades who had been lured into the forest. They just walked along, accompanied by the occasional sounds of breaking twigs or leaves and the odd thud of a fist against a tree. It was some time before they encountered the enemy.
“Waaah!” The line all turned at the scream. It had come from a young adventurer near the rear of the procession, who had just happened to turn around. When he did, he’d caught sight of a swordswoman lying against a tree, her throat ripped out. Two other men had been behind her in the line, but they were nowhere to be seen. The adventurer who had screamed soon joined his comrades in death when a length of steel lashed out to cave in the side of his head. Heatley’s whole squad understood instantly that this had been the work of the man who had suddenly appeared, bloodied cleaver in hand.
The next person in the line, a sorcerer, immediately turned around to run, but the cleaver hacked down into his shoulder, smashing his ribcage and hewing through the man all the way into his internal organs. The archer behind him began to string his bow, but while he was taking aim, the cleaver slashed through his torso, snapping his bow like a twig as it went. A warrior with a short spear and a tattooed face flailed with her weapon in a panic, and the butt of her spear got caught against a nearby tree. While she was distracted by this, the tip of the faussar plunged into her face. The man mowed down foe after foe, making his way up from the end of the line like a forest worker casually walking through tall brush.
Gaius Beldarus had hidden in wait for the line of adventurers to pass him by, and began his assault on the rear of the line, where the formation’s attention was lowest. Heatley’s impatience meant all his focus had been on what was before him, and Gaius had taken advantage of that.
Heatley’s response was quick, however. “Fall back! You can’t handle him! I’ll do it!” The young knight pushed past the adventurers and headed straight for Gaius, taking up his sword and declaring, “I thought I’d find you on this side of the river, Black Rose of Igris! You managed to shake off Seligman with an underhanded trick, but your luck’s run out now that you’ve run into me!” If the fact that this brute had taken out Homer, Matthew, Chas, and Melinda all at once had gotten back to this young knight, he might have taken slightly different action, but unfortunately for him, it hadn’t.
“I won’t be taking you alive. I’ll cut you down and end you right here, Beldarus!” Heatley’s sword shone. Its blade was curved, waving almost like a flickering flame, so elegant it could have been a work of art. It was a large sword of a style known as a flamberge. He stood facing Gaius with the sword in a high “head” stance used by those who favored large, two-handed blades.
“Ever seen one of these, Black Rose of Igris? It’s not just for show. Wounds caused by this blade end up twisted and torn. The scars are terrible. The flesh will never heal back to the way it was.” He twirled the tip of the sword slowly as if to provoke Gaius.
Gaius went quiet for a moment and then scratched his chin with his free hand as if this were nothing more than a casual chat. “Mhm. I was cut by one in the past. It hurt.”
Heatley was taken aback by that response, but quickly bared his teeth in irritation. “You bastard! Are you making light of me?!”
“...Hey, meathead, you think this fellow’s all right in the head?” The old kobold popped out of Gaius’s rucksack, cutting off any further shouts from the young knight.
“Put your head back in there, old man. This is hardly a safe time.”
“I’m just sayin’, if the man intends to kill you here, why all this fuss about your wounds healing and scars and such?”
“Oh, you shouldn’t say things like that...”
“Don’t you dare mock me!”
Heatley sent a rage-filled swing at Gaius. Gaius held up his faussar with both hands to catch the blow, then released his right hand from the grip, continuing to push up with his left hand as he took a great step forward. The shape of the flamberge made it more difficult to keep the blades locked than other swords would, but Gaius skillfully maintained contact while shifting his blade to keep Heatley’s sword engaged. There was the screeching sound of sharpened steel scraping against steel as he guided the faussar down the length of the knight’s longsword before twisting his own sword to the side and plunging the tip of the faussar into the Heatley’s throat. As he’d stepped in, Gaius had stretched his body and arm forward. Holding his faussar by the very end of the grip with one hand had extended his reach much farther than the range the young knight had been expecting of him.
Thud. The double-edged blade of the faussar pierced Heatley’s chainmail gorget and split his throat open vertically. The knight staggered back and Gaius pressed forward, both hands back on the grip of his sword. A slow, wet gargle came from the knight’s throat as the steel buried itself deeper. As the blade passed through his neck, Heatley’s body spasmed, until the tip of Gaius’s weapon could be seen jutting out of the back of his neck. Gaius pulled the blade out, and the young knight’s eyes rolled back into his head as he collapsed face-up on the ground.
“Huff...” The Black Rose of Igris let out a breath like a growling beast as he shook the blood from his blade. Although it was summer, the adventurers could have sworn they saw the breath come out white and hot.
“Twenty-something left? That’s still a fair few,” muttered the elder, sticking his head out of the rucksack again to survey the situation.
“Indeed,” Gaius answered him, lifting his head and nodding. “Though I don’t think it’s going to be enough to stop us, the Slayers of Sixty.”
＊
The Command Center was still hard at work directing combatants.
“Squad Three has managed to lure two stray adventurers into traps, but one was wounded in the process. That squad’s down to one now.”
“Have the remaining soldier meet up with Squad Four after getting the wounded soldier to safety. Squad Two will take over Squad Three’s territory.”
“Enemy group still heading north,” a housewife repeated a scout’s report, then moved a black stone on the map with her stick.
“Don’t engage them yet,” advised the redheaded general. “Have Squads One and Two hold them there if they can get clear shots.”