"GET OFF THE BLOOD!" Ludwig howled and immediately began sprinting back toward the stone formation.
The shout tore out of him raw, not the measured bark of command he'd been using all morning, but a warning screamed from the gut. Ludwig didn't bother explaining; there wasn't time to explain, and he didn't wait to see who understood.
His boots slapped through mud and shredded reeds, momentum dragging him backward through the jagged maze he'd raised, shoulders twisting to avoid catching himself on stone points slick with gore.
The smell of blood was suddenly worse, like it had thickened, like the ground itself had started to breathe it.
Gale's retreat was a masterclass in violent discipline. One second he was inside a red orc's range, Oathcarver poised to finish; the next, he was gone, legs coiling and releasing in a backward leap that yanked him out of danger without giving his opponent the satisfaction of a hit.
