The horsemen moved deeper into the northern reaches of the Greendark Forest, following an old earthen road blanketed by needles from the densely packed pine and fir trees. The late afternoon sun lurked behind a bank of steely gray cloud and struggled to penetrate the gloom. The column of twenty-five horses moved at a walk and the riders were silent. Only the jingle of harness and an occasional snort from one of the horses betrayed their passage.

Conor Flynn fidgeted in the saddle, soaked by the recent rain. He was looking forward to a warm campfire, food and rest. The damp quilted jerkin beneath his chain mail hauberk was beginning to chafe, adding to his discomfort from the minor wounds he had received in battle the previous day. He and his men had attacked a Royal Merchant caravan that was supposed to be transporting gold ingots and other precious cargo to the capital, Eralon. Instead it was a trap and the wagons carried only soldiers, commanded by an Ironguard knight and a black robed wizard of Eralon. A fierce battle had followed and most of his men were now injured. Seven had not been so lucky and had been left dead on the road behind. Now he and the rest of his bandit company rode back to their forest base, with only wounds and sunken spirits to show for their efforts.

The failed raid and loss of seven of his men weighed heavily upon Flynn. Until recently, the attention of the king’s soldiers had been more of an annoyance than a serious threat. Casualties had been rare. Using inside information and careful planning to carry out well executed raids, until yesterday his company had lost only four men in the last two years. He wondered if his luck was finally changing for the worse.

Flynn pushed back the cowl of his sodden cloak and ran a hand through his damp, tangled hair, a mass of dark waves falling past his shoulders. Though in his thirtieth summer, his thick black beard and mustache made it difficult to determine his exact age. His face was tanned and weathered. Premature lines creased his brow, tangible evidence of the stress of command, and his green eyes were cold and hard. A threadbare gray surcoat bearing a black embroidered wolf’s head covered his chain mail hauberk. One hand rested on the hilt of his longsword as he rode, the other loosely held the reins. A crossbow, dented steel shield and a bedroll were slung behind his saddle, between empty saddlebags he had hoped would be filled with a small fortune.

The light was fading as the sun slowly sank below the heavy clouds and Flynn knew they would have to find a place to camp for the night soon. He would be relieved when they reached their permanent base around noon tomorrow. He sighed and shifted in the saddle, his thoughts drifting back to the men they’d left as food for the ravens. He recalled their enthusiasm during the ride out of the forest, on their way to sack yet another Royal Merchant train. A very different mood lay upon the battered and bruised company now. There was none of the usual banter or rowdy jests, just sore bodies and sour attitudes.

The gentle rocking motion of his horse lulled Flynn into closing his eyes, stress and exhaustion catching up with him. The forest was quiet and it wasn’t long before he began to doze in the saddle.

Flynn jolted awake again as his chin dropped to his chest. The company had rounded a sweeping bend in the road, skirting the base of a large, rocky slope to the east. On the western side the slope dropped away sharply. The road stretched out in a relatively straight line as far as the eye could see, leading further into the gloom. They had traveled this same lonely stretch of road in the past, but this time something felt different. The forest was eerily quiet. It was as if the forest held its breath, waiting for something to happen. He held up his hand, calling the column of riders to a halt.

Telleran, his closest friend, and Neruk, his second in command rode up on either side, their eyes sweeping the trees and road ahead.

“What is it?” Neruk asked, a frown creasing his coarse half-goblin features.

“I’m not sure. Probably nothing, but go back and tell the others to be on their guard,” Flynn said, scanning the road ahead. He reached for his shield, slipped his forearm through the straps, and eased his sword out of its scabbard, resting it across the front of his saddle. This far into the forest he didn’t usually send scouts ahead, as there were things prowling the Greendark that could easily pick off a lone man and it was safer traveling in numbers.

Flynn glanced back at Neruk as the half-breed moved back down the column of riders, quietly issuing instructions. Some of the bandits drew swords and hefted shields, while others loaded crossbows or nocked arrows.

Flynn raised his sword and waved his men to follow slowly. He nudged his horse forward, searching for any evidence for the cause of his unease. Telleran rode half a horse length behind him, his longbow ready with an arrow nocked as he controlled his mount with his knees. The rest of the bandits followed, spread out and wary, scanning the forest now for any sign of danger.

Flynn led the bandits along the straight stretch of road ahead. Heavily forested slopes flanked the road, broken up by large, rocky outcroppings. He could see nothing to either side in the trees, though the fading light wasn’t helping. The steady dripping of water from the trees from the recent downpour and soft footfalls of the horses on the muddy, needle strewn road were the only sounds.

Keeping his horse moving at a slow walk, Flynn continued on. When the company had reached the halfway point of the straight section of road, he thought he saw a flicker of movement to his right, up on the slope. He peered at the undergrowth in the shadows of the slope, but could see nothing. He was about to give the order to turn and ride back to the south when an armored figure on horseback appeared from behind a massive rock outcropping forty yards ahead and stopped in the middle of the road. Flynn heard Telleran curse behind him. This was even worse than he had feared.

The armored warrior was as an Ironguard knight, member of an elite order that served King Teirnyon and protected Balliron’s borders. The knight wheeled his armored warhorse around to face the bandit column and it reared, neighing a challenge. The knight was clad in polished full plate armor from the neck down and he waved a bright broadsword flaring with sorcerous light toward Flynn and his men.

“I will say this only once! Throw down your arms, dismount and surrender, or you all die!”

The knight’s booming voice shattered the silence and he smiled as he clanged his enchanted broadsword against his shield, all arrogance and polished steel. His armor bore no markings, meaning he was a knight of less than fifty battles, but that was small comfort to Flynn. The knight with the caravan the day before had also been a relatively inexperienced member of his order, but he had killed Haakon and Merrick with ease and wounded several other men before Neruk slit his throat from behind.

Flynn knew this knight posed a serious threat, and he was surely not alone. Where there was an Ironguard knight there was usually also a wizard of Eralon, every bit as dangerous as their armored counterparts. Again Flynn thought he glimpsed a flicker of movement in the trees on the slope and now his blood ran cold. He suddenly realized what it was - some kind of cloaking sorcery, probably hiding soldiers. His heart sank and he glanced back at Telleran. The tracker shook his head almost imperceptibly and drew his bow. Flynn nodded. They had no choice but to fight. If they were captured they would be hanged, then drawn and quartered. Flynn took a deep breath, kicked his horse’s flanks hard and screamed back to his men. “Ride, ride for your lives! It’s a trap! Watch the trees, they have a sorcerer with them!”

Telleran loosed an arrow at the knight and Flynn felt it speed past his head. The Ironguard knight deflected it easily with his raised shield and charged.

A massive thunderclap sounded behind Flynn and a bright flash of energy lit up the forest as lightning lanced from the trees, striking the bandits in the rear half of the column. The air sizzled and crackled and Flynn heard horrifying screams. Dull thuds sounded as crossbows fired and quarrels hissed forth from the trees. Some were turned by armor or shields, but many found their mark. Horses screamed, whinnies of fear and pain sounding behind Flynn as he hurtled toward
the knight.

Bandits fell from their steeds, wounded or dead. Mounted soldiers in white surcoats charged down the slope toward the bandit column, the cloaking illusion broken as they surged into violent motion.

A second later Flynn and the Ironguard knight clashed. Flynn caught the knight’s blow with his shield as he passed, but it was well placed and the enchanted steel of the knight’s broadsword cleaved straight through the top half of his shield and wrenched his shoulder before the blade came free. Flynn reeled back in the saddle from the impact. Spooked by the noise and flashes of sorcerous lightning, Flynn’s horse pulled up and skidded sideways, then stopped and reared. Already off balance from the knight’s strike, Flynn did his best to hang on, but he slipped from the saddle and landed heavily on his right side. His breath exploded from his lungs and his longsword was jarred from his grip. His right foot was still tangled in the stirrup and he was dragged along the muddy road as his horse bolted north, away from the battle.

Flynn frantically shook his foot loose as fast as he could, but he was now disoriented, unarmed and cut off from his men. Encroaching blackness and stars obscured his vision as he struggled groggily to his feet. He looked back toward the battle swirling between his men and the soldiers. With no escape in sight his men fought as if possessed, but the outcome was already looking grim. He saw the Ironguard knight wheeling his horse back and forth as he hacked and hewed with his sorcerous broadsword. The knight severed the sword arm of one bandit with a single brutal strike, then turned his heavily armored destrier back toward Flynn.

As the knight turned back toward him, Flynn took a deep breath and looked for his sword. He spotted it and staggered toward it, rolling forward as the knight’s blade swept over his head. He grasped the muddy, slippery leather of the hilt and got to his feet again. In his peripheral vision dancing bolts of violet energy arced and flared, sorcerous chain lightning that left charred bodies wherever it struck. Steel and iron melted into skin and the stink of burning flesh saturated the air as men and horses fried. Some of the horses survived the strikes and bolted every which way, trampling wounded men in their terrified flight. Flynn estimated half of his men were already dead. The rest fought on, the ring of steel on steel and crackling bursts of lightning punctuated by screams and shouts.

Flynn had no more time to see how his men fared. The Ironguard knight had wheeled back and dismounted and now closed in on foot. Flynn barely parried the first flurry of sword strokes and was forced back by the ferocity and skill of the knight’s attack. The knight was probably ten years younger than him, but his skill with his enchanted broadsword was daunting. His blade found Flynn’s sword arm, drawing blood, then next struck his left thigh, below the mail hauberk. The next slash opened up his surcoat, severed the chain mail links and quilted jerkin beneath and opened a bloody line in the flesh across his chest. Flynn barely caught the next two strokes on his blade, the knight’s enchanted broadsword flaring with energy and threatening to cleave right through the blade of his longsword. The knight was frighteningly fast and struck again, opening another rent in the bandit leader’s already damaged shield.

Flynn was outmatched and he knew it. The only thing in his favor was the knight’s apparent desire to take him alive. The knight’s eyes flickered with amusement, matching his cocky smile as he drove forward again, his broadsword further carving up Flynn’s shield and numbing his arm with the force of the blows. Flynn tried desperately to counterattack, but his sword arm was injured and the knight was too good a swordsman. He could not break through the knight’s guard no matter what he tried. Flynn was still rattled by the fall from his horse and his body was screaming in protest with every movement. Blood flowed from the numerous wounds inflicted by the knight’s broadsword. None were very deep, but they were sapping his energy rapidly. Flynn continued to circle away from the knight’s sword and frantically defend, looking for an opening and trying to conserve what strength he had left in the slim hope that he might be able to at least strike one effective blow.

“Put up your sword,” the knight said. “You must know you can’t win.” He looked past Flynn and smirked, pointing with his glowing rune carved blade. “There are only a few of your men left alive and my troops will finish them soon enough. Don’t be a fool.”

Flynn took advantage of the knight’s slight lapse in concentration as he glanced down the road. He lunged hard and with a quick thrust struck between the plates of armor protecting the knight’s extended sword arm. The strike was not deep, but it did draw blood. The knight grunted in surprise.

“Last chance, dog! Throw down your sword or I will forget the king wants the pleasure of executing you and do it myself!” the knight spat, his face darkening in fury.

Flynn could still hear fighting behind him, though there were no further bursts of lightning. Either someone had taken the wizard out, or he had temporarily exhausted his power. At least some of his men were still alive. If he surrendered, the effect on their morale could make the difference between life and death. Regardless of the knight’s threat, Flynn was fairly sure the knight would try to disarm him and take him alive. Perhaps he could at least buy the other bandits some precious time by fighting on.

“No thanks, spike,” Flynn replied, using a derogatory slang term for the Ironguard, who all wore their short cropped hair spiked with lime. This only infuriated the knight further, and try as he might, Flynn failed to strike him again.

Flynn was no slouch with a sword after his year of compulsory service in the Ballironian army, but the Ironguard knight was a master swordsman, like all members of his order. The knight soon turned Flynn’s already damaged shield into a crumpled ruin with his enchanted blade, carving through the steel like a hot knife through lard until Flynn was forced to toss the twisted remnants aside. Flynn drew his long dagger with his left hand, but the knight soon swatted it away and Flynn was lucky not to lose his hand in the process. The knight struck his right thigh a crushing blow with the flat of his broadsword and his leg buckled momentarily, throwing him off balance.

The knight’s next stroke smashed Flynn’s longsword down and as Flynn’s blade dropped, the knight stepped in and slammed his polished shield straight into the side of his face. The blow knocked Flynn flat on his back. Again he lost his grip on his sword and his vision exploded with stars. When his vision began to clear he saw the tip of the knight’s broadsword flaring with sorcerous light, leveled at his throat as the knight stood over him. The knight stared down at him with a mixture of anger and contempt and Flynn was suddenly unsure if the knight was going to finish him.

The air behind the knight flickered, much like the ripples in the trees as the soldiers started to break the cover of the wizard’s cloaking spell. There was a scraping ring of metal on metal and the young knight’s eyes and mouth opened in shock. He made a strangling sound in the back of his throat as his broadsword fell from suddenly unfeeling fingers and he dropped to his knees, then slowly toppled forward to crash face down in the mud right next to Flynn. Blood welled up from a deep blow to his lower back, tainting the polished perfection of his steel armor. The flickering in the air intensified and Neruk reappeared, both hands gripping his gory black battle axe. Flynn knew the silver torc around Neruk’s neck could cloak him from sight for brief periods. It was the half-breed’s favorite tactic and he had done the same to the Ironguard knight who slew Haakon and Merrick during the raid on the Royal Merchant train yesterday.

“You owe me,” the half-goblin said with a sneer, glaring down at Flynn as he towered over him, six feet and four inches of bloody violence. His sneer revealed inch long tusks thrusting up from his protruding lower jaw and emphasized a long scar that ran from his lips up to his left eye. Fresh blood was spattered over the studded black leather gauntlets covering his scarred, muscular arms from wrist to elbow and his black boiled leather cuirass was scorched from what Flynn guessed was a close call with one of the wizard’s lightning strikes.

Flynn didn’t respond as he dragged himself to his feet, pulling his tangled cloak from beneath the heavy armor of the dead knight. It was certainly not his finest hour, but at least he was alive and he’d kept the knight busy for a while. He picked up his sword and dagger and turned to see how the rest of the men fared as the sounds of ongoing battle rang through the forest.

Unfortunately he could see the knight had spoken truly. It was a bloodbath. Only three other bandits fought on, two on foot and one on horseback, trading blows with five mounted soldiers and two who had been unhorsed. The wizard was nowhere to be seen and numerous bodies of men and horses were strewn up and down the road in pools of blood. The screams and moans of the dying drifted on the cold breeze along with the stench of burned flesh. Flynn took a deep breath, swallowed down hard and started toward the fighting, his face still throbbing from the impact of the knight’s shield. Neruk charged past him, howling like a madman and whirling his bloodied axe over his head with both hands.

Neruk ran straight at the nearest mounted soldier, felling his horse with a single blow and dumping the luckless fellow to earth. Before the soldier could get up Neruk buried his axe in his head. Flynn watched as Bront, a massive half-ogre warrior swept off a mounted soldier’s sword arm at the shoulder with one strike of his two handed sword. The half-ogre parried another soldier’s desperate attack, then turned and decapitated a third as the soldier leaned down from his horse to try and strike Telleran, who had stumbled down to one knee after tripping over one of the many battered bodies of the fallen.

Neruk blocked an overhand sword strike with the haft of his axe and engaged another soldier, while further down the road, the last remaining bandit on horseback clashed with two opponents in a deadly dance. Neruk continued swinging his axe in a blurred arc that cleaved a soldier’s leg at the knee and also dropped the horse he was riding. As the soldier screamed and his horse staggered and fell, Neruk leaped on the downed horse’s side and swung his axe again, lodging it deep in the soldier’s chest with a sickening crunch.

By the time Flynn reached the fighting there were only four of the king’s soldiers left. Bront cleaved one of the foot soldiers almost in half with his greatsword and the last soldier broke and ran, trying to reach his remaining two fellows farther back down the road. Telleran hefted his broad bladed spear and after two steps threw it with all his strength, taking the soldier in the back of the neck and dropping him instantly. Flynn could see now the last mounted bandit was Arion, an exile from across the western sea. Telleran snatched up his bow and loosed a well placed shot, taking out one of Arion’s foes. Arion parried a sword blow, turned his horse around his final opponent and skewered him with his longsword.

Flynn looked around for any further threat, but it looked like the battle was over. He stopped to take in the full extent of the carnage. Dead and mortally wounded soldiers in white surcoats emblazoned with the red griffin emblem of Balliron and a motley assortment of bandits lay contorted along the road. Two dozen horses had also been killed and the rest had fled. The nauseating smell of burned flesh, coppery blood and voided bowels made Flynn want to gag. In less than ten minutes twenty of his men and a like number of soldiers had been killed. Crossbow bolts had dropped some of the bandits, but many more had been burned beyond recognition by the sorcerous lightning. The rest had fallen in combat with the soldiers who had charged down the slope. The bandits who had survived the crossbow volleys and lightning strikes had acquitted themselves well, but they were then outnumbered and caught in a terrible position. Weight of numbers and injuries from the battle the previous day had taken their toll. Flynn’s lips narrowed, his heart caught in the grip of a frigid fist. A score of his men, slaughtered in minutes. Disbelief and shock washed over him as he took in the full extent of the massacre.

The devastated bandit leader looked around to see if any of his fallen men were still alive. He watched as Neruk combed the road for wounded soldiers, finishing off several with his axe. The half-breed sensed his gaze and sneered, pointing to a body in black crumpled halfway up the slope on another rock outcropping. It was obviously the wizard of Eralon responsible for cloaking the soldiers and unleashing the lightning strikes.

“While you were busy getting your ass whipped by that spike oh great leader, I was actually doing something useful,” Neruk said. “That black robe dog concealed the troops and wiped out half of the company, until I stopped him. If not for me, none of us would still be alive. As it is, we’ve lost twenty-seven men in two days. Quite an achievement.”

Flynn met the half-breed’s blazing eyes with the iciest expression he could muster. “Go and find our horses. Take Arion with you. Do it now,” he ordered, refusing to rise to the half-breed’s baiting. Neruk stared back at him disdainfully, then snorted and turned away.

Flynn heard an agonized groan from one of the fallen bandits and immediately moved toward him. He stepped over two charred corpses and picked his way through the churned up mud and puddles of rapidly congealing blood. He knelt down beside the groaning man. It was Aidan, a young swordsman from Slate City, Flynn’s birthplace. He was trying in vain to hold in his intestines. Aidan managed to look him in the eye and even tried to smile through blood covered lips, but before Flynn could try and utter a few last words of comfort he was gone. The bandit leader tried to ignore the rising lump in his throat.

Flynn limped over toward Telleran and Bront, his right thigh aching with every step after the knight’s blow and the other bleeding steadily from a sword strike. The tracker and half-ogre had moved out of direct sight of the road behind the rock outcropping at the base of the slope, from which the knight had first emerged. Telleran was dressing a shallow but bloody gash on Bront’s upper arm as Flynn approached. Flynn guessed it was the result of a glancing strike from a crossbow bolt, as it was almost unheard of for anyone to land a blow on the half-ogre. Bront’s upper body was protected by a dull steel cuirass and his legs were covered by thick leather leggings and a long mail hauberk falling to his knees, but his massive gray arms were bare save for heavy steel wrist bracers.

“Seems you could use some attention as well,” Telleran said as he looked Flynn over. “Just give me a minute to fix up the big fellow here and I’ll have a look.”

“Make it quick. We need to move. Neruk’s rounding up horses and as soon as he’s back we’re riding the hell out of here,” Flynn replied as he stepped back and looked up and down the road, praying there were no more soldiers nearby. The forest was still again and the birdsong and chirping of insects had returned with the approach of dusk. Within an hour it would be dark. They needed to put some distance between themselves and the ambush. There were probably more troops searching the forest for them, but that wasn’t what Flynn was most worried about right now. There was no time to bury the dead and the grisly slaughter was sure to attract the Greendark Forest’s predators and scavengers, especially once night fell. The bandits were too few now to tangle with a roaming pack of moss trolls, a green drake, or something even worse. Flynn knew there would not be much evidence left of the ambush by morning. They needed to get as far away as possible, and soon.

Flynn leaned against the rock outcropping and looked on as Telleran cleaned Bront’s wound. If Neruk was intimidating, Bront was downright terrifying. The half-ogre was seven and a half feet of hardened muscle. Like Neruk, he was a half-breed goblinoid, Flynn assumed the product of a union between a male ogre and Sarulka female. Bront’s rough, dry, gray skin, two inch lower jaw tusks and wide, flat features meant he’d never pass for a human, though he was obviously not a pure blood goblinoid either. His legs were like pillars of rock and his frame was much heavier built than most men, but not as large a full blood ogre. A throwing axe dangled by a leather thong looped around the wide studded leather belt around his waist, and an old, worn bear hide cloak was thrown over his shoulders. The chain mail skirting around the rim of his horned steel helm clinked as he raised his head, sensing Flynn’s gaze. Bront’s deep-set eyes with their pale orange pupils and purple irises seemed to peer straight into Flynn’s soul as he briefly made eye contact and nodded. Bront rarely spoke, but he did growl low in his throat as Telleran splashed some kind of fiery concoction across the gash on his arm.

Flynn was enormously relieved Telleran had survived the ambush. They had been friends for years, first meeting during a year of conscripted military service on the border with Vursak. Telleran was never short of female company with his short blonde hair, bright blue eyes and frequent smile, all of which seemed to have a remarkable effect on women. Like Flynn, Telleran also sported a beard, though Telleran’s was always meticulously trimmed. A gold ring in his left ear caught a flash of the fading sunlight and several more gleamed on his fingers. Neruk often taunted Telleran about his vanity, and Flynn had to admit there was fair cause. If that was Telleran’s worst fault Flynn could live with it any day. He was a great asset to the company, a skilled woodsman also knowledgeable in herbalism and healing, and an excellent hunter and cook to boot.

Telleran slapped Bront on the shoulder after finishing the dressing to his arm. The half-ogre grunted his thanks and lumbered out to keep watch over the road. Flynn was thankful for the half-ogre’s presence, as he’d no doubt felled a large number of their attackers. Flynn had never seen Bront seriously challenged in combat, though he often wondered how the half-ogre would fare against a high ranking Ironguard knight. Bront’s size and strength were obvious assets, but it was his skill with the greatsword strapped across his back that really made him such a fearsome warrior.

Flynn removed his mud covered cloak and tossed it to one side. He winced as Telleran started cleaning out the gashes from the knight’s sword, but bore the treatment without complaint. He felt a bit light headed and focused on just staying upright.

Neruk returned with their horses as Telleran finished cleaning and wrapping Flynn’s wounds. The half-breed had found his original mount, and had another horse’s reins tied to his saddle. Arion returned a moment later, riding his white gelding. Bront’s horse had been killed by crossbow bolts, so Arion had brought a big bay stallion that had belonged to a Jartorrian berserker and would be strong enough to carry Bront. Flynn’s mount also trailed behind.

 Neruk dismounted and walked over, regarding Flynn’s fresh dressings with amusement. Although Neruk was liberally sprayed with blood, none of it was his own. He was the only one to emerge from the battle unscathed and was quick to point it out.

“It’s hardly surprising, since you always skulk around unseen whenever there’s a fight,” Telleran scoffed, before Flynn could answer.

“I see you somehow avoided a timely death, pretty boy. How did you manage that?” Neruk replied, glaring at the tracker. Telleran didn’t bother to answer, so Neruk fixed his baleful orange eyes on Flynn instead.

“Any time you’re ready, we’d best be off,” Neruk said. Flynn nodded as he buckled his sword belt back on and replaced his cloak. He rubbed the nose of his returned mount and hauled himself up into the saddle with a grunt, his corked thigh screaming in protest. “Any sign of more soldiers?” he asked Neruk.

The half-breed shook his head, then nodded dismissively toward Arion and Telleran. “No. Probably a good thing, too. The dead fairy and pretty boy here couldn’t be so lucky in battle again.”

‘The dead fairy’ was Neruk’s nickname for Arion, who stared off into the distance through violet eyes devoid of emotion. His long, ashen, spider silk fine hair drifted in front of his face with the cold westerly breeze. He was tall and slim and relied on speed and skill in battle rather than brute strength, but he was a capable fighter despite Neruk’s views to the contrary. Flynn didn’t know much about his background, other than he was an exile from Girond, an island across the sea to the west, home to a reclusive race known as the Illumined, who were rumored to have achieved immortality. Those of Arion’s kind who ended up in Balliron were known as either Shades or The Faded, for the soft white luminescence that usually emanated from their skin slowly disappeared once they were banished from their homeland. The skin of exiles took on a bluish pallor that resembled that of the dead, with prominent veins. Flynn didn’t know whether the Illumined had really learned how to cheat death, but once they crossed to Balliron he had seen them age just like any other man. They were feared and reviled by most, but Flynn had no such qualms.

“All right Neruk, that’s enough. Let’s go,” Flynn said as he shifted his aching body in the saddle.

“Wait,” Neruk said. He swaggered back along the road to claim the dead Ironguard knight’s broadsword for his trophy collection. The knight’s armored destrier stood guard over its fallen master and reared and lashed out at Neruk with its hooves, but the half-breed was ready and avoided it easily enough. Neruk picked up the knight’s sword, kicked the knight’s body with his steel capped black leather boot and laughed. He dodged the destrier’s hooves again and brandished the sword over his head in triumph, laughing as the destrier nudged the knight’s lifeless body with its nose. Neruk remounted his horse and stowed the broadsword alongside the one he had taken the day before. He wheeled his horse off to the north and took off, the other bandits falling in behind.

Flynn watched them go but lingered back for a moment, still in shock. He took one last look at the scene of the ambush, sweeping his eyes over the wrecked bodies of his men and their attackers. The setting sun’s last light glowed briefly through a gap in the clouds, bathing the gory scene in dappled, rosy gold light for a single moment. Flynn drew his sword and raised it in silent salute. When the sun vanished again behind the gloomy clouds, he sighed, his breath steaming in the cold air. He pulled his horse around, urged it into a gallop and thundered past the others, taking the lead as they fled deeper into the Greendark Forest.