24
The Village
Y hkon strode calmly toward the Kaydorian station. Knocked twice. Waited. When the door opened, he grabbed it and thrust it into the soldier on the other side, simultaneously bashing the man’s head against the wall. He fell limp to the floor. Lazily, Yhkon stepped over him and entered the office, smiling at the stares of the five occupants.
There was the dangling rope of a bell to his right. If he moved now, he could reach it before they did, and keep any of them from ringing it. Instead, he held his ground and crossed his arms. “I’m here for the San Quawr prisoners. Let them go, and I let you live.”
Their stares became glares. One of them went for the bell, the other four came for him. He was ready.
Duck the first fist, planting his elbow into the gut of one, yanking the man’s head down and into his rising knee. Another had grabbed him by the shoulders. He jumped, flipping and hooking him with a kick on the way down, before crashing into one of the others. They went down in a writhing heap. A few fists and elbows landed blows that he hardly felt. He broke the knee of one man, silencing his scream with a hit to the head. The final of the four had been joined by the one that rang the bell, and managed to get Yhkon into a stranglehold, while the other punched him in the stomach. The pain only made hot anger pulse through his veins. He got a grip of the man holding him and used brute strength to yank him up and off, shoving him into the other. As they scrambled to regain their balance, he kneed the skull of one, and threw the other against the wall.
The clamor of the bell ended at almost the same moment. Yhkon pulled the ring of keys from the nearby cabinet and took the stairs to the lower level, lit only by a single torch. The flame was reflected on vertical iron bars. The nine Elikwai must have heard the commotion of the fight, because they were waiting expectantly. Grins lit their dirty, bruised faces. He jammed keys into the lock until one worked, then led them up and out.
They spilled out of the building just as soldiers began appearing from various parts of the village. “Go.” Yhkon faced the hesitating soldiers, flexing his hands. “Get out of here. I’ll take care of them.”
Though most of them were visibly injured, the Elikwai were all forming up on either side of him. “No way.” Their leader shook his head. “We can take them.”
Yhkon glared at him. “I said go.” The man only shook his head again, seeming confused by the refusal. Clearly Yhkon couldn’t intimidate them into obeying his order. Fine. He lowered his voice. “The other Wardens are hiding. I have all the help I need. You men have done enough, I want you to get to the outpost. Go.”
Though reluctant, they eventually all turned and retreated toward the forest, at the same time as the Kaydorians charged. Hopefully, none of the Elikwai would bother to look back and notice the absence of any hiding Wardens coming to his aid.
He waited motionlessly as the soldiers charged, only taking out his sword at the last moment. Their attack was disorganized, some rashly engaging without any form of strategy, others with a bit more intelligence trying to circle around and surround him. Those few with some wit would be the challenge. Yhkon met the flying swords with his own and kept on a steady backpedal, preventing them from getting behind him. With at least seven men fighting him at once, he could only parry and dodge, making it impossible to take any of them down. No doubt more soldiers were still rushing in from around the village—soon, he would have a lot more than seven to deal with.
Well aware that the move exposed his back, he gave up the defensive and instead pushed back, raining down blows. Hacking, cutting, stabbing. Letting the pulsing, boiling rage that fueled his muscles and tinged his vision red control him. Why resist it? Iron, flesh, and bone all gave way to the edge of his blade. He was soon stepping over bodies, mercilessly driving into the Kaydorians like a wedge being beaten into wood, steadily cutting down their numbers even as more poured in to join the fight.
The only problem was that the handful with a brain could now encircle him.
He knew they’d taken the opportunity when he felt the tip of a sword rip a gash down the back of his shirt, barely missing his skin. With a snarled oath, he whirled and focused his rage on them instead. The brief seconds he had before the rest of the knights caught up was enough for him to dispatch two of the cleverer opponents. Knowing that in so doing, he had allowed them to fully ensnare him.
Then the snare was sprung.
They rushed him from all sides. For one, terrifying moment, he knew they would cut him down.
But they didn’t. They attacked him with the pommels of their weapons instead of the blades, beating him to the ground and tearing his sword from grip. Multiple pairs of hands grabbed his shoulders and arms, restraining him. So they wanted him alive.
The men that weren’t holding him parted, allowing a single knight to advance. The captain. He had the weathered face of a man with plenty of military experience, and the smirk of a man satisfied to defeat a worthy foe. After considering Yhkon a brief moment, he slugged him in the gut, hard. The squeezing pain and the way all the air slipped out of his lungs told Yhkon that he was also a man who knew where to hit, and probably who knew how to handle himself in a fight. “So. You freed the San Quawr.” The captain shrugged. “No matter, I think you are the better catch. After all,” he leaned forward, eyes glinting, “the king has offered quite the reward for whoever brings in the Sanonyan rebel, Yhkon Tavker.”
Yhkon wore a smirk of his own. He decided that he would never give Kaydor the pleasure of capturing him. These men would either have to kill him, or he would win and go kill their king on his own terms. With a heave, he swung his legs up and into the captain’s chest. A few of the men holding him lost their grip, the others released theirs with screams when he threw his forearms up, the fin-like blades on his gauntlets stabbing or slicing those closest. Not bothering to regain his sword, Yhkon attacked the first to move with nothing but his fists and gauntlets.
It wasn’t the most efficient form of combat, but perhaps the most gratifying. They stood no chance against him. Fear was evident in their eyes, in their movements. All he felt was rage. Power. And satisfaction every time a body fell.
Until, there were no more bodies to fall.
Yhkon stood over the last man he’d struck down, rooted to the spot. Looking at the bodies strewn about him. The village that had been so serene before he’d entered was again silent, but the dusty paths were bloodstained, the sun glaring against the iron armor and weapons. The smell of death, of blood and sweat, surrounded him. It was a scent he was familiar with, yet he found it difficult to breathe.
All the anger was gone. The raw strength ignited by adrenaline, gone. The thrill…gone. The only thought or feeling he could grasp in the strange emptiness was that he wished it was him lying lifeless on the ground, not them.
“Yhkon?”
The voice sent a shiver down his spine. It was Jaylee, watching him from a few yards away. Her gaze swept over the corpses at their feet. He felt sick.
Why had this never bothered him before?
She pressed her lips together, walking the rest of the way to him and taking his arm. “Are you okay?”
He knew she was looking him over for injury. He knew the question deserved a reply. But he didn’t have one to give.