Tearing his sword from the dead elf’s flesh, Ceredon ran after the remaining four combatants. The clang of swordplay echoed throughout the darkened forest.
The two pairs battled it out on either side of a wide maple tree. The one on the left seemed to be faltering faster, so Ceredon ran in that direction. The ranger hacked down with his khandar, driving the rebel to his knees and shattering his sword. Just as the ranger lifted his sword to land the finishing blow, Ceredon took a deep breath and swung. An audible swish sounded just before his khandar pierced the back of the ranger’s neck. The blade sunk in until it hit the elf’s spine. The vibration shook Ceredon’s hand from the hilt. He splayed out his fingers as he pitched forward, leaping over the prone rebel.
The ranger gurgled blood, his body going limp. The rebel scooted out of the way, and then his eyes turned to Ceredon. They shimmered, even in the sparse moonlight. Before he could say a word, Ceredon put a finger to his lips and shushed him. Grabbing the dead ranger’s khandar, Ceredon slipped around the maple to where the final two elves battled.
The last rebel was in horrible shape, bleeding all over, half of his left forearm dangling by a thread. Yet he fought on, parrying each block he could, going so far as to slam his attacker on the side of the head with his flopping, half-severed arm. The blood loss had obviously made him weak, and one solid strike sent the khandar tumbling from his hand. The final ranger, Teradon, the biggest of the three and the only one Ceredon knew by name, grunted in anger and reared back, preparing to drive his sword into the haggard elf’s belly.
“Stop!” Ceredon shouted.
Teradon, taken off guard by the sudden cry, stumbled as he thrust forward. He collided with the maimed elf, and they both careened to the ground and rolled around, arms flailing. Ceredon ran up to them and tried to grab the ranger by his tunic and pull him off, but at the last moment Teradon flipped onto his back and threw out his sword arm. He missed slicing Ceredon’s throat by mere inches.
The bloody ranger rose slowly to his feet, twirling his khandar to keep Ceredon at bay.
“Traitor,” he spat through blood-dripping lips. The rebel elf lay dead on the ground, the hilt of a dagger protruding from his mouth. Ceredon grimaced and bounced on his feet, ready for the much bigger Teradon to make the first move. He remembered his fight with the human Joseph Crestwell at the Tournament of Betrothal, which felt like ages ago. If not for the human purposefully throwing the match, Ceredon would have been bested. He’d taken Joseph lightly, allowing carelessness and impatience to override his speed and skill.
He would not make that mistake again.
Dancing to the side, he jabbed with short, quick thrusts, pushing Teradon into a constant defense. The ranger grunted, his breathing labored, as his huge khandar struggled to match Ceredon’s much faster strikes. Ceredon was a blur in the forest’s near darkness, landing tiny cut after tiny cut on his opponent’s wrists, forearms, and sides. If he kept this up, Teradon would eventually bleed out.
The ranger had a different idea. He made a massive head swipe with his sword, forcing Ceredon to duck beneath the swing, and then rushed headlong into him, accepting Ceredon’s khandar as it pierced his side. They plunged to the ground, the larger elf on top, landing blow after blow with his meaty fists. Ceredon, the wind knocked from his lungs, did all he could to avoid being struck with the full brunt of the blows. Yet even glancing strikes took their toll, and his vision began to spin. Teradon’s bloody spittle bathed his face, the raging elf muttering curses beneath his breath.
Teradon leaned back, straddling Ceredon’s chest, his hands clasped together over his head to deliver the final deathblow. It was then that his left eye exploded, splattering clear liquid all over Ceredon. The shaft that had obliterated his eye protruded from the socket like a post in a lake of red, the arrowhead dripping gore. Teradon’s expression was one of dumb shock as his fingers clutched the shaft, and then he collapsed.
Ceredon helped his descent, shoving the large elf off him. He lay there panting for a moment, relieved to be free of the oppressive weight on his chest. When he finally gathered the strength to sit up, he found the lone surviving rebel kneeling by the base of a maple tree, an arrow nocked and pointed at him.
“I won’t hurt you,” Ceredon said, struggling to his feet.
“Of course you won’t,” said the rebel. “I could pierce your heart in a second if I so wished. Now stay still.”
There was confidence in the elf’s voice, but Ceredon also heard fear there. He ignored the rebel and bent over, picking up his sword.
“Nice shot,” he said, kicking Teradon’s corpse. “You saved my life, and for that I thank you.” He turned to the rebel and glared. “Should you not be saying the same to me?”
The rebel’s mouth opened, then closed. His steady aim wavered ever so slightly.
Ceredon shook his head, sheathed his khandar, and walked toward the rebel that had been killed by Teradon. He knew without looking that the survivor watched his every movement, but he didn’t acknowledge him. Instead, he knelt beside the body, ripped the dagger from its mouth with a spray of red spittle, and proceeded to saw away at the dead rebel’s neck.
“What are you doing?” asked the elf, keeping his voice a harsh whisper. “Leave him alone.”
“Shut your mouth,” Ceredon retorted, casting a glance over his shoulder, the gravity of which stopped the rebel cold. “I do what I must.”
“But-”
“But nothing. Had I not stumbled upon you, you would have shared your friend’s fate.” The dagger finally did its job, and the head of the dead elf tore away from its body. When Ceredon gripped it by the hair and lifted it, a small bit of spine dangled from the severed flesh of the neck.
Ceredon showed it to the rebel.
“This could have been you,” he said. “I hope you appreciate the gift I gave you.”
“But…why?” the elf asked.
“Because I wanted to,” he answered. “Now not another word-just listen. Tell your people you have a friend within the Quellan. Tell them I will protect as many as I can so long as I am able, but never say my name, if you know it. Should that happen, your only ally will be lost. Do you understand?”
The rebel nodded.
“Good. Now leave.”
The elf, wide eyed, finally lowered his bow. He twirled around and darted between the trees, disappearing into the dark recesses of the forest. Ceredon watched until he could no longer see the rebel’s outline, then stood, rolled his shoulders, and licked blood from his lips. His face and neck were sore from the beating Teradon had laid on him, but he was otherwise in one piece. He lifted the severed head, stared at the empty eyes for a moment, and then broke into a light jog.
It wasn’t long before he ran across the scene of a massacre, stepping into a small clearing to find a battalion of ten rangers of the Ekreissar surrounding a heap of headless corpses. The heads were stacked in their own pile a few feet away. Aerland Shen, the chief ranger, stood in the center of the carnage. His tight-fitting armor, made from the black scales of swamp lizards and waxed to a sheen, glistened in the meager blue light. He held his two great swords, Salvation and Condemnation, out wide. Both blades dripped blood by the cupful.
Aerland’s head was huge and nearly square, and his wide set eyes flicked in Ceredon’s direction when he emerged from the thicket around the clearing.
“Master Ceredon,” the chief ranger said, his speech slow and deliberate, his tone deep like a grunting bullfrog. “Where have you been? You were supposed to be with us.”
Ceredon reared back and tossed the head he’d hacked from the rebel’s corpse. It bounced twice and rolled, coming to a stop at Shen’s feet.
“I heard fighting,” he said, “so I followed it. The advance party fell under attack by a group of insurgents. I arrived too late to save your rangers, but I was able to kill two of the traitorous bastards before they fled.”