The silence before the charge was the heaviest sound Aris had ever heard.
Below the ridge, the Westvale heavy cavalry sat poised, their polished breastplates gleaming dully in the morning sun—hundreds of armored knights ready to shatter the desperate Northwatch line at the Thornwood Crossroads.
Aris and Doran descended the steep slope in a fast, controlled slide, covered by the last lingering pockets of valley fog. They moved not toward the Northwatch barricade, but toward the enemy's exposed flank, where a small group of Westvale scouts and support infantry were guarding the rear of the cavalry formation.
"Thirty yards to the nearest scout," Aris whispered, his breath shallow and controlled. He could feel the chaotic energy of the coming battle pulling at him, threatening to unravel his concentration.
Focus. Detail. Survival.
"He sees us," Doran hissed, planting his heavy pike shaft.
A Westvale scout, a young man armed with a crossbow, had turned and spotted the two sewage-stained children moving through the fog. He looked more confused than alarmed.
"Doran, five seconds," Aris commanded. "Draw his attention. I take the flank."
Doran didn't question the order. He knew what he was—the wall. He let out a primal, mountain shout—a raw, terrifying noise forged in the depths of the Shadow Pits—and charged.
The scout flinched, startled by the sheer sound and the sight of the huge, ragged boy hurtling toward him. He raised his crossbow, but before he could aim, Doran was upon him.
The scout's training kicked in. He dropped the crossbow and drew his short sword. He saw only the large, clumsy target.
Doran didn't swing his pike. He didn't thrust. He simply planted the thick shaft into the dirt and used the sheer mass of his body and the length of the wood to check the scout. It was a massive, controlled collision. The scout went flying, his head smashing against a nearby root.
Just as a second scout spun around to react to the noise, Aris was there.
Aris moved like a striking snake. His small size was now an advantage, allowing him to evade the heavier soldier's sweeping vision. He used his short spear, thrusting low, hard, and fast.
He struck the soft, unarmored underside of the scout's armpit. It was a messy, horrifying sound. The scout gasped, his eyes widening in shock and disbelief that a ten-year-old child had delivered the killing blow.
Aris pulled the spear free, the slickness of the warm blood momentarily paralyzing him. This was not the stick game. This was real.
Focus. Move.
He didn't allow himself to look at the body. He grabbed the dying scout's short sword—a piece of gleaming, high-quality Westvale steel—and tossed his own short spear aside. The sword was a far superior weapon.
"Aris! The cavalry!" Doran yelled.
The cavalry general, recognizing the chaos in his rear ranks, decided the time for waiting was over. The horns blared a thunderous, terrifying chorus.
The Westvale heavy cavalry began its charge.
Aris and Doran had achieved their goal: they had created a tiny pocket of chaos in the Westvale flank, drawing the attention of the nearest support infantry. But they were now trapped between the Northwatch line and a tidal wave of polished steel.
"The trench!" Aris screamed, pointing toward a shallow, dry runoff trench just ahead of the main Westvale line.
They scrambled into the trench as the ground began to tremble beneath the hooves of the charging knights. It was the sound of the end of the world—a thousand tons of armored muscle and iron speeding toward them.
The noise was deafening. The trench offered meager cover, but the massive warhorses, trained to leap small obstacles, thundered directly over their heads. They felt the wind of the horses' passing, the sting of dirt kicked up by the hooves, and the smell of fear and horse sweat.
As the main cavalry wave passed, Aris scrambled out of the trench. The cavalry had punched a massive hole straight through the center of the Northwatch line. Chaos erupted as the defenders scattered.
"Now!" Aris shouted. "The barricade!"
They charged toward the broken Northwatch barricade. The remnants of the Rear Support Corps—the slaves, the children, the logistics workers—were fighting back with shovels and rocks, led by a handful of desperate, veteran infantrymen.
Aris and Doran plunged into the melee. They were no longer two lone children; they were two concentrated points of violence.
Doran, using the heavy pike shaft as a club and a defensive pole, became the immovable wall. He blocked a desperate thrust from a retreating Northwatch cook who mistook them for Westvale agents and then used the heavy wood to smash the helmet of a dismounted Westvale knight.
Aris, armed with the lightweight, elegant Westvale short sword, was lethal. He focused on the exposed joints and the thin mail gaps, moving beneath the larger soldiers and striking with the cold efficiency of the assassin he never meant to be. He didn't use technique; he used sheer, brutal survival instinct.
He saw a group of young girls—Mira and Tova's age—huddled behind an overturned wagon, clutching spears that were too heavy for them.
"This way!" Aris screamed, cutting down a Westvale footman who was trying to flank the barricade. "Move to the center! Dig in!"
He reached the wagon. Tova was there, her eyes wide with terror, but still holding her spear.
"Aris!" Tova screamed, her voice breaking. "How—"
"No time!" Aris snapped. "Where's Mira?"
"She's with the medic wagons—the command post! Back there!" Tova pointed further into the Northwatch position, toward a cluster of white-marked tents.
A lone Westvale knight, having dismounted to finish off the fleeing Northwatch cook, spotted Aris. He raised his broadsword and charged, recognizing the boy as the one who had struck the rear flank.
Aris knew he couldn't beat the armor. He didn't try.
Doran launched himself into the path of the knight, hitting him with a full-body tackle that sent both of them sprawling into the mud. The knight roared in frustration.
"Go! I got him!" Doran grunted, wrestling with the man in the muck.
Aris didn't hesitate. "Tova, stay with Doran! Follow me!"
Aris plunged through the remaining Northwatch survivors, slicing through the chaotic center of the battlefield. He was covered in mud, soot, and the blood of his first kills. He didn't look like a savior; he looked like a miniature, feral revenant.
He reached the medical tents just as the commander of the Rear Support Corps—a panicked, middle-aged officer—was ordering his people to abandon the wagons.
And there she was. Mira.
She was helping an older woman bandage a wound, her face smeared with dirt, her mind focused entirely on the task. She looked up and saw Aris—covered in blood and holding a knight's sword.
"Aris?" she whispered, stunned.
"They're abandoning you, Mira," Aris said, grabbing her arm. "We're taking the wagons. We're getting out."
Mira, seeing the battle collapsing around them, nodded once. "Lenn is here! He's with the supply commander's records!"
"Bring him," Aris commanded. "We are retreating north. Now."
The unit was reforming. The Shield and the Blade were together again. But they weren't running home.