Kael's hip burned as he pushed through the dense undergrowth. Each step sent a fresh jolt of pain. Dirty bastard. Like gutter scum.

  Fury simmered beneath the icy professionalism that had kept him alive through a dozen border skirmishes. Around him, the remnants of Garrick's force moved with grim silence. Twenty-five men, their polished gear now scraped and stained.

  "Scouts ahead," Kael commanded, his voice tight but controlled. "Two pairs. Wide spread. Check the flanks, look for ropes, disturbed ground, jars hidden in bushes. Anything." He pointed two grizzled footmen towards the denser thickets on either side of the wider game trail they now followed.

  He wouldn't be funneled again.

  The scouts melted into the shadows. Kael scanned the towering pines, the snow-laden branches. Silence. Oppressive, watchful silence. Eirik's rabble had vanished after the last ambush, leaving only trampled snow and groans of their "dead" behind.

  He wants me to think he's running scared, luring me deeper into his domain.

  Kael's mind replayed the last minutes. Eirik's unnatural speed during their brief duel. He planned this. All of it. He knew the terrain, he knew Garrick's impatience, and he used it. Respect warred with disgust. Fighting without honor was beneath a knight, but Kael couldn't deny the bastard's effectiveness. He's dangerous. More dangerous than Garrick or his mother ever imagined.

  Garrick spurred Silvermane closer, almost knocking a footman aside. "What are we waiting for, Kael? They're running! We need to run them down before they disappear!"

  Kael kept his gaze fixed on the forest ahead. "They aren't running, Lord Garrick. They're repositioning. Setting another trap. Charging blind is what they want."

  "Another trap?" Garrick scoffed, gesturing at the open woods around them. "Here? Look at it! No bottlenecks, no boulders for logs! Where would he hide his jars? Up the trees?" His laugh was harsh. "They broke after you charged them! They're finished! That bastard knows he can't face us man-to-man!"

  He faced me well enough, Kael thought grimly, the phantom pain in his hip throbbing in agreement. But Garrick had a point, superficially. This section of forest was more open. Wider spacing between trees, less thick underbrush. Ideal for maneuver… and for an actual fight.

  Is that it? Is he banking on his numbers now?

  The scouts returned moments later. "Sir Kael," one reported, breath misting in the cold air. "Found signs to the left. Broken branches, footprints heading deeper, towards that rocky ridge. Looks like a whole group went that way in a hurry. Dropped this." He held up a dented Fenrir helmet.

  The other scout nodded. "Right flank's quieter, sir. Fewer tracks. But found this near a clump of holly." He produced a crude sling, the kind used to carry those accursed jars. It was empty, but the implication was clear.

  Kael took the helmet, turning it over. Fenrir make. Likely one of Leif's men. The dropped gear screamed 'hasty retreat'. Too obvious. Trying to draw us towards that ridge. He looked at the sling. Or maybe towards the holly thicket? Split our force?

  "See?!" Garrick hissed triumphantly. "They are running! Scattering like rats! Left flank, Kael! To the ridge! We cut them off!" He started to turn Silvermane.

  "Hold!" Kael barked, the command sharp enough to freeze even Garrick. He pointed at the sling. "One empty sling on the right. Obvious footprints and dropped gear on the left. It's bait. Both are bait."

  He met Garrick's furious gaze. "He wants us to chase down one of these trails. Into another prepared killing ground. Probably has spearmen hidden in the rocks above the ridge, or more clouds waiting in that thicket."

  Garrick's face contorted. "So what?! We just stand here? Let him dictate the pace? He's a bastard leading thieves!"

  "No," Kael said. "We change the game. He wants us in his traps? We deny him. We push straight through the center, through this more open ground." Kael’s voice dropped to a low growl. "If he has men here, we force the fight here, in the open woods where his tricks are useless. Where our armor and skill win. No surprises."

  He saw confidence flicker in the eyes of some footmen. Kael raised his voice slightly. "We move as skirmishers – pairs, covering each other! Bren, take point! Garrick, stay behind the front line!"

  Kael's plan relied on speed and aggression to overwhelm any ambush before it could be sprung. The bastard knew dirty tricks, but he wouldn’t anticipate this level of adaptation. He pointed his sword straight down the widest path through the trees, towards the distant glimmer of open frostmire beyond the thinning forest edge. "ADVANCE! FAST AND SHARP! FOR STORMCROW!"

  Eirik crouched behind a screen of snow-laden fern. He heard the muffled clank of armor, the harsh breathing, the crunch of boots on frozen ground growing steadily closer. He turned his head slightly, meeting Leif's gaze.

  "Can you do it? Can you draw Garrick out? Make him reckless? Make him see you?"

  Leif bared his teeth. It wasn't a smile. "Give me a sword I can hold left-handed. And get me close. I'll make everyone see me."

  Eirik nodded curtly. He drew a sturdy shortsword from his belt and handed it to Leif. The young noble hefted it clumsily but determination hardened his grip.

  "Olaf," Eirik commanded without raising his voice. "Signal the flanks: Hold position until my shout. Center rank: Look scared, look like you're bracing for a slaughter. When they commit, hold the line. Just for a moment."

  Olaf grunted, a fierce light in his eyes. He muttered commands down the line. Shields shuffled nervously. Men hunched lower. The facade of desperate defense snapped into place.

  Eirik focused inward for a split second, visualizing the Storage Ring on his finger. He pictured one of Fisk's volatile clay bombs – the Cloud Bomb. It materialized instantly in his free hand, cool and heavy. Insurance. He slipped it inside his cloak, within easy reach.

  The sounds were unmistakable now. Through the last screen of trees, Eirik saw flashes of blue and silver, the glint of polished scale. Kael's vanguard – Sergeant Bren and three others – emerged cautiously into the small clearing just before the final tree line opened onto the vast expanse of the Frostmire.

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  Bren's eyes swept the shadowed tree line where Eirik's force lurked. He saw the ragged shield wall, the spears held with shaking hands, the fear etched on dirty faces. He saw the numbers.

  Bren barked a sharp laugh.

  "Found 'em! Cowering in the tree! Looks like they finally ran out of holes to hide in!" He raised his shield, signaling back to the main force pushing through the woods behind him. "FORM UP! LINE HERE!"

  Kael emerged beside Bren, his eyes narrowed, instantly suspicious. He scanned the tree line, the ranks of mismatched shields and spears.

  Why aren't they deeper in the woods? Why hold the very edge?

  He looked left and right, into the thicker woods just inside the tree line. Where are his reserves? His flankers? He saw nothing but shadow and snow-laden branches. Is this another trap?

  Garrick pushed through the forming Stormcrow line, Silvermane snorting. He saw the pitiful formation and sneered. "FINALLY!" he yelled, his voice ringing with vindictive triumph. "Ready for your beating, bastard? Done hiding behind trees and jars?"

  His gaze swept the line, hunting for Eirik. Then he froze. His eyes locked onto a figure standing slightly apart from the main Talon line, near Eirik.

  Leif Fenrir. Pale as death, clutching a shortsword awkwardly in his left hand, his right arm bound uselessly. But his eyes… His eyes burned with pure, unadulterated hatred.

  Garrick's face flushed crimson.

  "FENRIR!" he roared, spittle flying. "You sniveling traitor! Hiding behind the bastard who broke your arm?!"

  Leif took a shaky step forward, putting himself slightly ahead of the Talon line. His voice, though strained, cut through the cold air. "Say that to my face, Stormcrow! Without your knights holding your hand! Or are you too cowardly to fight your own battles? Just like you were too cowardly to duel Eirik yourself?"

  The insult struck Garrick like a blow. "COWARD?! I'LL GUT YOU WHERE YOU STAND, CRIPPLE!"

  He wrenched Silvermane's reins, preparing to charge straight at Leif. The Stormcrow line tensed, ready to follow their heir's impulsive rage.

  "GARRICK! HOLD!" Kael's roar was a command forged in desperation. He saw the trap unfolding. Leif was bait. Perfect bait for Garrick's temper. Charging straight at a seemingly isolated target screamed 'ambush'. "IT'S A TRICK! HOLD THE LINE!"

  But Garrick was beyond reason. Leif's contempt, Eirik's defiance, the humiliation of the ambushes – it was too much. Kael's warning was an insult. "THAT CRIPPLE IS MINE!"

  Garrick screamed, digging his spurs into Silvermane. The big courser lunged forward, straight towards Leif. Several young knights, caught up in the heir's fury, surged forward with him.

  The Stormcrow line, disciplined moments before, fractured. Kael's heart sank. Fool boy! He had no choice. "ADVANCE! SHIELD WALL! PROTECT THE HEIR!"

  The order was a concession to disaster. His beautiful, controlled skirmish advance disintegrated into a ragged charge focused on Garrick's impulsive trajectory, straight towards Eirik's waiting center.

  "OLAF! NOW! CENTER HOLD!" Eirik bellowed. His voice carried command. He raised his practice sword high and brought it slashing down in a signal the hidden units couldn't miss.

  Chaos erupted.

  Garrick and his knot of knights slammed into the Talon center shield wall just as Olaf roared "BRACE!" The impact was brutal. Wood splintered. Men grunted and staggered. Talons went down, but others pushed back, spears thrusting awkwardly at the knights' armored mounts and legs. Leif scrambled back into the relative safety of the line, still clutching his shortsword.

  But before Kael could try to organize the press, two sharp whistles split the din –

  Screee! Screee!

  From the thicker woods to the left and right of the charging Stormcrows, the hammer groups exploded out of concealment. Ten men from each side, a howling tide of scarred faces, spiked clubs, and rusty axes. They hit the flanks and rear of Garrick’s force like a pair of avalanches.

  "FLANKS! FLANKS!" Bren screamed, trying to turn his shield. Too late. A spiked club slammed into his side, cracking leather and ribs. He went down with a cry.

  Panic, the kind that only comes from being suddenly attacked from the sides and behind by screaming maniacs while already engaged to the front, ripped through Garrick’s men. Their charge stalled instantly, collapsing into a confused, vicious melee.

  Knights on foot found themselves swarmed. Footmen tried to form small knots of defense but were overwhelmed by sheer numbers and ferocity. The Talons and Fenrir guards in the center, heartened by the flank attacks, pushed forward with renewed savagery.

  Kael hacked down a Talon trying to get under his shield. "FORM CIRCLE! BACK TO BACK!" He bellowed, desperately trying to rally the shrinking pocket of Stormcrows. But the chaos was too great. His hip screamed in protest as he pivoted to block a blow aimed at Garrick, who was frantically trying to control Silvermane as the horse reared amidst the press.

  Eirik moved through the edge of the chaos, his eyes scanning.

  It ends. Now.

  His hand dipped into his cloak and closed around the cool clay of the Cloud Bomb. He focused, visualizing the space right in the thickest knot of struggling Stormcrows, slightly behind Kael and Garrick.

  Store. The bomb vanished from his hand. Instantly, he visualized its reappearance – not in his hand, but arcing through the air from the mental position he'd fixed, landing exactly where he aimed, behind the Stormcrow commanders.

  It happened almost simultaneously. One moment, Kael was deflecting a spear thrust. The next, a clay jar materialized out of thin air, tumbling end over end before smashing onto the frozen ground just behind him and Garrick.

  Kael's head snapped around. His eyes widened in utter disbelief. What in the frozen hells?!

  HISSSSSSS-SHHHH-CRACK!

  The dense, choking yellow-white cloud exploded upwards, instantly engulfing Kael, Garrick, Silvermane, and half a dozen nearby Stormcrows. Men screamed, coughing violently, clawing at their faces. Horses reared wildly, eyes streaming. Visibility dropped to zero in a heartbeat within the expanding plume.

  The unexpected, impossible attack from within their own shrinking circle shattered the last vestiges of Stormcrow resistance. Talons pressed the attack, shouting, kicking, and disarming the blinded, choking men.

  "CAPTURE GARRICK!" Eirik's voice roared above the din. "DISARM THEM! THEY'RE DONE!"

  Olaf's recruits didn't need telling twice. They surged into the dissipating cloud, ignoring the stinging air. Garrick, blinded and choking, was dragged bodily from Silvermane, who bolted into the forest in panic.

  Kael, stumbling, swinging his sword wildly at phantoms in the fog, felt his blade wrenched from his grip and a dozen hands shove him hard to the ground. He landed heavily on his injured hip, the agony white-hot, stealing his breath.

  Within moments, it was over. The last Stormcrows, disoriented and overwhelmed, dropped their weapons or were forced down. The chaotic melee stilled into pockets of harsh coughing and the groans of injured men. Talons stood panting, covered in mud and blood, weapons pointed at their prone enemies.

  Eirik walked forward, stepping over a groaning Stormcrow footman. He stopped before where Garrick knelt in the churned snow, held firmly by two burly Talons, his fine blue-and-silver armor smeared with mud and vomit, his face contorted with rage and humiliation.

  Kael lay nearby, gritting his teeth against the pain in his hip, his fierce eyes locked on Eirik with a look of utter, defeated incredulity.

  The bastard met Kael's gaze, his expression unreadable. Then he looked at Garrick. "Yield," Eirik stated, his voice flat and final, carrying across the sudden quiet of the battlefield. "Your forces are neutralized. Your command is broken. Yield, Lord Garrick. Or do you need another demonstration?"

  Garrick opened his mouth, perhaps to curse, perhaps to refuse. But the pressure of the Talons' hands on his shoulders, the sight of Kael pinned, the stinging remnants of the impossible gas in his throat… the fight drained out of him, replaced by a trembling, impotent fury.

  He stared at the ground, unable to meet Eirik's cold eyes or the hundreds he knew were watching from the ridge. The word was a choked whisper, barely audible.

  "Yield."

  Weapons thudded onto snow. Shields dropped. Hands went up.

  "Secure them! Disarm completely! Olaf! Take your men, gather the horses!" Eirik commanded.

  Olaf grinned. "Aye, Lord Eirik! Gather the prizes, lads!" His recruits surged forward with renewed energy, stripping swords from hands, unbuckling expensive armor, pulling shields from snow. Others ran after the panicked, riderless coursers.

  Kael closed his eyes, a wave of crushing defeat washing over him. It wasn't just the battle lost. It was the way it was lost.

  He spat blood onto the snow.