The southern wind blew hard against their faces, carrying the scorching heat that showed them no mercy under this southern part of Hmagol. Although the skin on their foreheads was beginning to peel and itch in pain from the burning sun, Drystan and Khawn's horses had not slowed down. The most important objective of their mission was still days away.
From their position, their next horse post was barely visible in the distance. Their bodies were completely drained of energy from having been awake for more than seven days, yet their eyes never once considered closing. They pushed their horses onward, driven by the extreme urgency of their task. They pushed their horses onward, driven by the extreme urgency of their task: to reach Mönkhbat at Lao-Da Pass before the conspirators' false orders arrived.
They slowed their horses when they reached about a hundred yards from the horse post. Drystan reached into his robe and pulled out a blowing whistle. He quickly blew it—three fast tones, repeated twice—signaling the soldiers at the horse post that they were in a hurried state and needed two fresh horses ready for their immediate transfer.
The sound of the whistle was sharp and desperate against the vast, quiet southern landscape. Drystan and Khawn knew that every minute counted, not just against the sun, but against the speed of the conspirators' messengers carrying the false decrees.
The two horses came to a complete stop, their flanks heaving. Drystan and Khawn dismounted swiftly, moving with the practiced efficiency of men who had done this dozens of times. They grabbed handfuls of dried bread from a small, dusty table near the hitching post, mounted the two fresh, fully prepared horses, and took off immediately.
They didn't waste a single word or a single breath. The entire exchange—dismounting, refueling (both themselves and their horses), and remounting—took less than a minute. They vanished back into the haze of the southern road, the dust cloud behind them the only sign of their frantic passage.
As the sun began setting, casting long, fractured shadows across the dusty plain, Drystan and Khawn came to their last horse post, situated strategically at a road junction.
Once again, their exchange was swift and silent. They dismounted their exhausted steeds, grabbed a final piece of bread, and vaulted onto the two new, freshly prepared horses waiting for them. They knew that from this moment until the completion of their mission, they were to ride alone, relying only on their horses' endurance and their own sheer willpower.
Drystan and Khawn looked at each other and gave a gentle nod, a silent sign urging each other to be careful on the last, critical leg of their journey.
"See you in Ntsua-Ntu," Khawn said, his voice ringing with a mix of exhaustion and resolve.
"You be careful, kid," Drystan said with a quick, paternal smile. He gave his horse a sharp kick and took off, knowing that between the two of them, he had the longer, more perilous road to ride toward General Mönkhbat's position at Lao-Da Pass.
"You too!" Khawn yelled after him. He then whipped his own horse, riding straight toward the towering mountain range, heading directly for the strategic Chono Gate.
As the dust had taken its final shape and the sun had completely set upon the horizon, plunging the road into deep twilight, Drystan realized that his horse had begun to show significant signs of fatigue. As much as he hated it, he knew he must stop for his horse to rest if he wanted to continue riding toward Lao-Da Village. He was counting on reaching the village by tonight; his warhorse was trained to ride at night, so he wasn't overly worried about the darkness. He knew he was approaching the water channel and the designated pavilion rest stop, and he intended to use it.
He slowed his horse and as he slowly approached, he realized that he was not alone on this stretch of the road. In front of him, he saw two groups of people sitting in two different pavilions.
The first group appeared to be simple merchants, likely traveling toward Hlu City to sell their goods. They seemed weary but harmless.
The second group, however, immediately drew his attention. It consisted of about ten men, all dressed in matching, severe black clothing. Their weapons were neatly rested beside them as they sat around a small campfire just outside their pavilion. These were not merchants; they were clearly professional soldiers or guards.
Drystan stared intently at the second group. He tried his best to ride his horse slowly toward the third, unoccupied pavilion as casually as possible, determined not to arouse suspicion or draw attention to himself. But because of his distinct foreign appearance and his golden hair, as he rode by, the eyes of the men in black were instantly locked on him.
Just as he rode towards the third pavilion, a burning piece of firewood flew straight at Drystan's face. Seeing the flying embers, Drystan instinctively bent backward to avoid the missile. The moment he pushed himself upright, a leg came flying at his face, aimed from the darkness of the second pavilion. He managed to block the kick with his forearm, but the force of the blow pushed him off the back of his horse and onto the ground.
Before he could properly recover, a sword swung at him from his left side.
With a swift, desperate action, Drystan pulled the small, sturdy axe that was strapped to his left thigh and blocked the sword's descent with a clang. He immediately swung his body forward, using the momentum to close the distance with his attacker. His right elbow slammed into the man's left jaw, causing the attacker to stagger back toward the other eight men, all of whom already had their weapons drawn.
Drystan scrambled back to his feet, his axe gripped tightly. The original ten men in black, along with the two who had just attacked him, now stood arrayed against him, twelve silent, deadly figures blocking his path to the water channel.
Drystan stared intently at the men, his eyes catching the distinctive, glimmering bronze tally hanging below their belt sashes. He scoffed, the sound sharp and bitter against the night air.
"Guards of the East Palace..." he said through gritted teeth. He instantly recognized the insignia of Prince Dzhambul's elite personal guard. The ambush wasn't a coincidence; it was a targeted assassination.
The lead man of the group of twelve, dressed entirely in black, pointed his sword directly at Drystan. "The Alhu is not to leave here."
The twelve men began to walk slowly toward Drystan, closing the circle around him.
Although his body was weak and exhausted from the lack of sleep and nutrition, Drystan was not about to back down from any fight. He knew that this was a mission he could not fail. Chinua's and Hye's lives, and indeed the fate of Hmagol, depended on him to deliver the message to Mönkhbat. So, even though his body was tired, his will to survive was now stronger than ever.
His golden hair caught the faint glow of the merchants' lantern light. He raised his axe, settling into a low, defensive stance. He had one advantage: he had to fight with the desperation of a man who carried the future of a nation, while they were merely mercenaries carrying out an order.
Drystan's eyes narrowed, not in fear, but in cold, calculated defiance. "Come then, dogs of Dzhambul!" he roared, his voice raw but unwavering. In his hands, he held two axes, having swiftly retrieved his second, ready for the dance of death.
The lead guard, a hulking man with a scarred face, lunged first, his broadsword arcing in a wide, powerful sweep meant to cleave Drystan in two. Drystan didn't block; he performed a deadly maneuver. He dropped low, letting the blade whistle harmlessly over his head. In the same fluid movement, he swung his left axe upwards, biting deep into the lead guard's thigh. A guttural scream tore from the man's throat as he stumbled, collapsing to one knee. Before the man could react, Drystan brought his right axe down, ending the threat instantly.
Two more guards rushed in, one thrusting with a spear, the other slashing with a short sword. Drystan spun, his dual axes a silver-and-steel whirlwind. He met the spear shaft with a clang of his left axe, deflecting it wide, then immediately used the right axe's blunted side to crash into the short sword wielder's temple. The man dropped like a stone, unconscious before he hit the dirt.
The remaining nine formed a tighter circle, their movements more cautious now. They had underestimated the golden-haired Alhu.
Drystan moved like a wolf, his dual weapons granting him both offense and defense in continuous motion. He ducked under a horizontal sword swing, the blade carving through the air where his head had been a second before, and drove the point of his left axe into the man's gut. The guard gasped, blood bubbling to his lips, before Drystan ripped the axe free and spun, using the right axe to deflect a spear with a shower of sparks.
He fought with an exhaustion-fueled rage, his movements fueled by pure will. A guard tried to tackle him, but Drystan used his momentum, twisting, throwing the man over his shoulder and into two others. Before they could untangle, Drystan's axes flashed in a deadly cross-pattern, cleaving through leather and bone. Three more fell within moments, their last breaths choked by steel.
But the numbers were still against him, and his lack of sleep was taking its toll. A hidden dagger flicked out from the shadows, catching him high on the shoulder. Drystan hissed, the pain a fiery burst, but he ignored it, slamming the head of his right axe down onto the dagger-wielder's head with a sickening crunch.
He was bleeding now, a warm stickiness spreading across his shoulder and down his arm. Another guard managed to slash his leg, a shallow but painful cut that made him stumble. His breath came in ragged gasps, his vision beginning to blur at the edges. But the image of Chinua and Hye, of Mönkhbat waiting, spurred him on.
He roared, a primal sound of defiance, and charged the remaining guards. He wasn't defending anymore; he was attacking with a single, desperate purpose. His axes became extensions of his will, striking down two more, then another. The last two, seeing the insane fury in his eyes, hesitated for a fatal second. Drystan capitalized, his left axe taking one, then his right axe taking the other, in a brutal, final flurry.
Silence fell, broken only by Drystan's heavy, ragged breathing and the faint sounds of the terrified merchants watching from their pavilion. Twelve elite guards, all dead. Drystan stood amidst their fallen bodies, his axes dripping, his golden hair matted with sweat, blood and dust, his chest heaving.
He stumbled, using the axes to steady himself. The wound in his shoulder throbbed, and his leg burned. With immense effort, he dragged himself towards his waiting horse. Mounting was agony, each movement sending a fresh wave of pain through him, but he managed it. He barely stayed upright in the saddle, gripping the reins with one hand, his right axe still clutched in the other. He let the other axe drop to the ground, a metallic clang in the quiet night.
"Lao-Da Pass," he muttered through gritted teeth, his voice a hoarse whisper.
He kicked his horse, forcing the weary animal into a gallop, disappearing into the dark night. He rode for what felt like an eternity, the warm night air doing little to ease the burning in his wounds. His vision swam, growing darker and lighter in turns. He could feel the blood seeping, steadily soaking his robe. He clung to consciousness, clinging to the desperate hope that he was close.
Finally, he saw the faint lights of Lao-Da Village. He urged his horse on, drawing upon the very last reserves of his strength. The horse, equally exhausted, staggered, but continued forward. As they reached the outskirts, just past the rough training grounds where soldiers would drill by day, Drystan's body gave out.
He pitched forward, losing his grip, and tumbled from the saddle, collapsing in a heap onto the cold, hard ground of the training field. The coded message from Hye, still clutched tightly in his mind, represented the finish line of his desperate mission. He desperately tried to crawl forward, dragging his broken, bleeding body toward the training grounds' perimeter, but his vision darkened, and with a final, defeated thud, his consciousness slipped away.