Chapter 18

  Two days on the road had been surprisingly smooth.

  We'd made good time heading south toward Oakenford, stopping only for food and sleep and occasional rest in between journeys. The weather held—no rain, just overcast skies that kept the sun from being too harsh. My monsters handled the occasional threats without breaking a sweat. A few razor-rabbits here, some oversized boars there. Nothing we couldn't handle.

  I was starting to think maybe this whole traveling thing wouldn't be so bad after all.

  I should've known better.

  On the third night, something jolted me awake.

  I woke up to a sharp mental tug cutting through my sleep like a knife.

  My eyes snapped open. Both Nox and Orion stood in front of me, their massive forms silhouetted against the dying firelight as they faced the dark forest beyond our camp.

  Above, I could hear Fei's wings cutting through the air.

  I sat up carefully and noticed Henrik was already awake too, his weathered face tense as he gripped his walking stick. His old adventurer instincts had probably kicked in the moment my wolves went on alert.

  “You noticed?”

  I nodded.

  The rest of the group remained fast asleep—Emil curled up like a small ball against Marta's side, the other survivors scattered around what remained of our fire's warmth, completely unaware of the danger lurking beyond the trees.

  There was something out there.

  Or someone.

  Before I could react, the sound of arrows whistled through the air. One shaft buried itself in the dirt inches from my hand, another struck the dying embers and sent sparks flying.

  Bandits?

  "Get up! Everyone get up!" Henrik shouted, scrambling to his feet despite his bad knee. "We're under attack!"

  The camp erupted into chaos. Marta screamed, clutching Emil to her chest as the little boy started crying. The other survivors stumbled awake, confused and terrified as the raiders poured out of the forest like hungry wolves.

  But my monsters were already moving.

  Nox and Orion launched themselves forward like black shadows, their massive forms covering the distance to the first bandits in seconds. Fei dove from above with a piercing cry, talons extended.

  "How many are there?" I gasped, rolling away as another arrow whistled past my head.

  "Too many!" Henrik grabbed my arm, hauling me to my feet. "We need to run. Now!"

  There were at least fifteen of them, maybe twenty—a full bandit gang spreading out to surround our camp. These weren't desperate thugs either. They moved with coordination and experience. They were professional killers.

  I hurriedly commanded my monsters through our mental link. Fight them! Distract them! Kill them!

  G1 and G2 lumbered into the battle, their stone fists crashing into bodies with bone-crushing force. The sound of bones snapping echoed through the night as they sent bandits flying like ragdolls.

  But there were so many of them.

  "Run!" I screamed at the survivors. "Get to the road! Go!"

  Marta didn't need to be told twice. She clutched Emil tight and sprinted toward the road, the other villagers stumbling after her in panic. Henrik tried to follow but his bad knee gave out, sending him crashing to the ground with a pained grunt.

  "Henrik!" I started toward him, but a bandit stepped into my path, rusty sword raised high.

  Orion slammed into the bastard from the side before he could swing, but two more took his place immediately.

  We were being overwhelmed.

  This wasn't like fighting forest monsters. Besides me and my creatures, none of our group knew how to fight. Henrik could handle himself under normal circumstances, but his knee injury made him more liability than help in a real battle.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  Then my heart sank as I spotted their leader—a scarred man with cold eyes directing his men from the edge of the fight.

  "Shit," I breathed, watching as he barked orders to his men, positioning them to cut off every escape route.

  "Vera!" Henrik shouted from where he'd fallen. "You have to get them out of here!"

  One of the bandits had gotten hold of a torch from our fire and was using it like a weapon, swinging flames at G1's cracking stone body. Another group was coordinating attacks on G2, hammering at weak points with axes and maces.

  My monsters were struggling. Even with their strength, they were way outnumbered. G1 and G2 were taking heavy damage—they weren't built for combat, their stone bodies cracking under repeated strikes.

  A bandit with a crossbow took aim at me. I dove behind a fallen log just as the bolt whizzed past my ear. I tried defending myself, but I was completely out of my depth. Fighting monsters in the forest was one thing—that was mostly just staying alive while my creatures did the actual killing. This was different. These were experienced fighters who knew how to work together.

  A bandit broke through my defenses, his notched blade raised high. I had nothing but my bare hands.

  Then Orion appeared from nowhere, slamming into the man's side like a black missile. But he was already wounded, blood streaming from cuts across his flank where other bandits had gotten lucky strikes. More attackers converged on him immediately.

  I watched in horror as three blades found their mark. Orion let out a pained howl that cut straight through my heart before collapsing to the ground, his ember eyes dimming.

  The bandits cheered, thinking they'd broken our defense.

  No…

  No, no, no...

  "NOOOO!!!"

  Something inside me shattered.

  The grief, the rage, the helplessness—it all twisted together into something dark and burning. My vision went red around the edges. These bastards had killed everyone. Everyone I'd tried to save. And now they'd killed Orion.

  My Orion.

  The warm feeling in my chest suddenly felt like molten fire, spreading through my veins like poison.

  Then everything went black.

  ======

  Gareth's POV

  Gareth had been leading the Bloodfang Raiders for twelve years, and he knew easy prey when he saw it.

  A small group of refugees with barely any guards, traveling the main road with whatever scraps they'd managed to salvage. Perfect targets—desperate enough to be carrying anything valuable they'd saved, but too weak to put up real resistance.

  His scouts had spotted them two days ago, a pathetic little band heading south toward Oakenford. Maybe eight people total, including what looked like a kid and an old man with a limp. And a few women who might be worth keeping alive for a while, if she was pretty enough under all that road dirt.

  Easy pickings.

  The only complication was the monsters on their side. His scouts had mentioned D-rank Great Wolves and D-rank Stone Golems. Impressive, but nothing the Bloodfangs couldn't handle—they'd hunted C-rank monsters for breakfast.

  His men were seasoned monster hunters—they'd taken down C-rank beasts that could level villages. A couple of D-rank wolves? Child's play.

  Still Gareth's expression had grown more serious when he'd first heard that detail. That meant there was a tamer in the group—or maybe even a mage. Most tamers could only handle one monster at a time, maybe two if they were really skilled. But four monsters? It was the first time he heard that.

  But nevertheless even if there was a tamer or mage involved, they were still outnumbered twenty to one.

  Gareth smiled. After twelve years of raiding, he'd learned that most people rolled over the moment they realized they were outnumbered. A few arrows, some shouting, and these refugees would be begging to hand over whatever they had.

  He raised his hand, signaling the archers positioned around the camp. Twenty men, all veterans of the bandit life, armed with whatever they'd been able to steal or buy with their ill-gotten gains over the years.

  The attack started perfectly, sending the refugees scrambling for cover. The old man went down immediately when his bad leg gave out. The woman with the kid started screaming and running just like he'd expected.

  Even the monsters reacted predictably at first. The two Great Wolves charged his men head-on—aggressive but straightforward. Exactly what he'd expected from mere beasts.

  But something was wrong.

  These weren't just D-rank monsters. The wolves moved with intelligence that made his skin crawl—intelligence he'd only seen in A-rank beasts. And their speed... gods, they were faster than the D-rank Great wolves from his memory. One of them took down three of his veterans in seconds, flowing between his men like shadows.

  And those golems weren't the basic constructs his scouts had described either. They moved with smoothness and coordination, pounding his raiders into the ground easily as if they were ragdolls.

  "Regroup!" Gareth shouted, his confident smile fading fast. "Take down the animals first!"

  But his men were already panicking. The sight of stone golems and giant wolves tearing through their ranks like paper was more than most of them could handle.

  Still, they were managing to do some damage. The smaller wolf was bleeding from multiple wounds, and both golems were showing cracks where his men had gotten in good hits with axes and maces.

  Then one of his veterans managed to get a spear through the wounded wolf's ribs. Two more raiders joined him, driving their blades home.

  The beast went down with a howl that made Gareth's teeth ache.

  That's when the real nightmare began.

  The young woman screamed, but the scream wasn’t human.

  It was something primal, filled with rage and power that made the very air around them tremble.

  Dark energy began swirling in front of her, growing larger and more solid with each passing second. Scales materialized, then massive coils, then a serpentine head the size of a wagon wheel with eyes that glowed like green fire.

  "Oh shit," Gareth breathed, his sword suddenly feeling very small in his hands.

  A basilisk.

  A gods-damned B-rank basilisk, forty feet of scales and venom and death.

  "RUN!" he screamed at his men. "EVERYONE RUN!"

  But it was too late. They'd picked a fight with something way out of their league.

  For the first time in years, Gareth felt pure terror course through his veins.