The darkness still held the forests like a tightened blanket. The sun had not yet been announced on the horizon when Edric woke with pain in his ribs and an iron taste in his mouth. His hands were tied with rough rope, thrown in a line with twenty more survivors from Ravenrock. Processed. Bound. Captured.
"Untie me!" he shouted, pulling the rope until he bled. "Where are you taking us?!"
The guards of Ashkar remained silent. Only the sounds of hooves, iron and wagon wheels on wet soil filled the air. The captives were being loaded, tied in pairs, led toward the wagon and the horses.
A bit farther ahead, on a dark horse, rode an older man with short yellow hair and a gaze sharp as a blade — Lord Varyn Thornevald of Ashkar. He only briefly turned back to make sure his cargo was in place.
"Whoever asks — gets the same answer," said one of the guards without looking at Edric. "No answer."
The column packed and moved. Toward Ashkar, though no one told them.
The story returned to Ravenrock — or at least to what remained of it.
The boy woke from the sound of four riders rushing through the northern streets, leaving behind an empty town with no living voice. No people, no guards of Ashkar. Only ash, smoke, and broken towers.
The skin on his head was burned, and the flesh on his right shoulder was red and cracked. The fire that swallowed the city had reached him too — enough to mark him, but not enough to take him.
The child — ten years old — did not try to speak. He lived only because silence had been his ally. He followed the tracks of the great wolf that saved him the night before.
But before he entered the forest, two knights cut his path.
"The order is clear," said the older one, lowering his sword toward the boy's face. "No survivors."
They grabbed him by the arms and began dragging him through the shattered streets. A small sword fell from his hip and rang against stone — "Needle sword."
"Faster," said the other. "If we stay longer, Serpentis will chase us."
The boy tried to scream but had no air. When one of the knights raised his sword to finish the job, the forest howled. The wolf stood before the forest and stared into the eyes of the knights.
Both knights turned.
"You stay, I'll deal with the beast."
But in that moment the boy caught the opportunity. Fast as a heartbeat, he grabbed his mother's knife and plunged it into the knight's kidneys. The man fell to his knees, choking out a scream, and the boy cut him a second time — across the throat. Blood splashed his face and returned his sight to the world.
He took the sword "Needle" from the mud and ran into the forest. The wolf was gone. Tracks of paws and blood led deeper, but the knight did not give up — he followed.
After long wandering through the wet forest, the boy found the wolf — lying, bleeding from the side. He grabbed him under its paws and tried to drag him, but the wolf stood, lifted himself and continued with him, broken and afraid.
They fled deep into the forest and when they believed they were finally safe, they stopped to rest, hiding near a big tree.
When they believed they were saved, the knight stepped before them with a sword in hand. He smiled. He toyed with them.
The boy closed his eyes. He was exhausted. He awaited the end as all others in Ravenrock did. Hope died within him.
In that moment a sword opened the knight's chest. Blood splashed onto the boy. The man fell to his knees, then forward.
Behind the sword — stood a stranger.
"Stand," the man said, pulling the blade from the body. "You managed well for a child."
The wolf growled, hostile. The boy said nothing.
"What is your name?" the stranger asked him.
"Lorian," the boy said quietly. "Lorian Vaelthorn… son of the prince of Ravenrock."
"Ravenrock?" the stranger halted. "What are you doing in the forest so far from home?"
"Last night they attacked it. Everything is burned… there's no one left. I… am the last."
Lorian touched his burned head — the skin was rough and dark. The wolf stood between him and the stranger, like a guard.
"If you want to survive," the stranger said, "come with me. Only the dead are safe alone."
He walked through the forest without turning back. After a few steps, the sound of paws and small steps joined him. The wolf and the boy.
The people who greeted them were refugees, criminals and warriors with lost homes. All stared strangely.
"Lost, boy?" one laughed.
"Or is the wolf leading you?"
They laughed. The stranger — Rhydan Ashvale — looked at them with an eye that did not laugh.
"The child is under my protection. Whoever has a problem, say so."
A man stood.
"There is no food for another mouth. We don't take children."
Rhydan rose, calm.
"Last warning."
The man drew his sword. In the next moment Rhydan drew both of his. One pierced the man's heart. The other cut off his head. The head rolled like a ball toward the fire pit.
"One mouth less," he said. "Who else has something to say?"
Nothing.
Lorian sat with Rhydan beside the fire. The wolf lay beside him. Rhydan gave him a cloth to wipe the blood, water and bread. The leftovers he threw before the wolf.
Meanwhile, on the snowy slopes of the north, Alaric Thornewood sheltered beneath a rock. Four knights followed the trail of footprints and blood. They arrived while he slept.
But his knife was faster than their command. The first fell with a knife thrown into his skull. The others drew their swords. The battle was harsh and silent. The archer shot him in the leg. He fell. He pulled the second small knife and plunged it into the leg of the knight with the sword. When the knight dropped to his knees, Alaric stabbed him from jaw to skull with the sword.
There remained a swordsman and an archer. He hid behind the corpse so the arrow wouldn't pierce him. He pulled the knife from his leg and plunged it between the swordsman's legs. When the knight knelt with a scream, he shoved him with the body he hid behind and he fell. Alaric threw the small knife and struck the archer in the shoulder.
He moved forward, but an arrow hit him in the shoulder. The archer stabbed him in the stomach, but Alaric cut his throat. Both fell. The last knight crawled toward him. Alaric took a bow, crossed an arrow and drove it into his head.
He stood, bloody, pulled the arrow from his leg and from his shoulder, mounted the horse and headed through the mountains. Blood dripped. His sight blurred. When he finally reached the gates of Fortress Frosthelm in the kingdom of Skeldor, he barely spoke.
"Who goes there?!" shouted a guard from the tower.
Alaric tried to answer, but collapsed into the snow. The horse fled. The guards' arrows were drawn — just as they would shoot, the gate opened and knights rushed out. They took him and dragged him into the fortress. They drained the blood, bandaged his wounds… and threw him into prison.
Because they recognized he was from Serpentis.
Edric and the other captives were led along a stone road, tied and exhausted. They were slaves. He did not want to be a slave.
"I want to know where we're going!" Edric shouted.
A man from Ravenrock whispered:
"To Ashkar… they're taking us to Ashkar…"
Edric grew angry.
"Tell me!"
Lord Varyn Thornevald turned on his horse.
"To our kingdom of Ashkar. To the capital Khar'Zun. You will fight to entertain our king."
"Kill me now," Edric shouted. "I am no entertainer and I will not die for someone's amusement!"
Varyn smiled coldly.
"Everyone says such things until it concerns their own life."
The road lasted three days. At midday they saw the gate of Khar'Zun — black stone, enormous and wrapped in torches. Inside — roars, screams, iron and the smell of blood.
They brought them straight into the colosseum.
Where the other fighters were already waiting.
End of Chapter Three.