I explain the plan on the way. We stick close to each other, my breathing fast as I talk and creep. On the previous times I’ve done this, I was loose, excited, curious. Now I’m tense. My hands clutch my bow, my shoulders are up to my ears. I’m not sure if the others feel it too or if it’s just my mood that filters how I see them. Rworg is muttering something, a litany of words and sounds I can’t understand. Mandollel’s steps are light, but there’s an affected quality to them that I haven’t noticed before. He’s even more relaxed than normal. Finna spins and rolls the daggers in her hands. She’s not trying to hide being anxious, and I’m grateful for it for some reason.

  “All clear?” I ask when we reach the spot where we’ll have to split up. The forest is thick around us, the lights of the camp just on the other side of the trees. The camp has no fortifications, but there’s a natural entrance where the path enters the forest from between the tents.

  “Eminently,” Mandollel says.

  I test the string of my bow, nudge my quiver to make sure the arrows are loose. A ritual I always do. “Be careful, everyone.”

  Finna keeps her eyes on the lights of the camp. “You’re the one who always dies.”

  “Brutal.” Rworg says, slapping Finna on the back. “Good banter, thief.”

  Finna stumbles forward for two steps and growls at Rworg.

  I chuckle, nervously, quietly. We’re close and I don’t want to make any extra noise. My hair stands on end. Something cold presses on my chest. No one is going to die this time. Not even me. The Kertharians aren’t expecting an attack and don’t have any guards posted. Still, no more allowance for stupid risks.

  If you don’t count this attack in general.

  Rworg circles back to the path, then marches to the entrance of the camp. He starts shouting. The deja vu feels like vertigo. I have been here before. I have. I haven’t.

  Rides are the worst. The sooner I can forget everything about them and be as surprised by everything as everyone else, the better.

  We’re watching from the same place we always have been. Mandollel against the tree, Finna next to him. We have clear view to the entrance where Rworg is shouting and to inside the camp. There aren’t even any guards. The Kertharians seem to be completely focused on attack, not in the least bit worried that someone might attack them.

  They gather around Rworg. I’m expecting four, but there are more this time. Two of the warmages, six soldiers. The camp has twelve soldiers in total. Half of them are still somewhere. One of the warmages is also missing. In the command tent, in the forest, who can say.

  “The timing is off,” Mandollel hisses. His eyes move from the soldiers surrounding Rworg to the camp and back. Lines crease his face. “I’m going. Finna, with me.”

  I thumb the point of the arrow and nock it. “I’ll get the mages.”

  “I trust them to you,” he says and bolts toward the camp. He moves so fast it’s stupid. I wonder if he could take the whole camp by himself.

  Finna curses and scrambles after him. She doesn’t care about stealth anymore, only runs as fast as she can. Branches rustle as she pushes through the trees and vanishes into the nearest tent. No one will pay any attention to them, with Rworg shouting and making a spectacle of himself at the entrance of the camp.

  The Kertharian wail hasn’t started yet. They are still listening to him. I know exactly what will happen. The Kertharians will attack.

  The mages are too dangerous. I breathe in, hold the breath, let it go.

  In a single motion I draw back the string and shoot the arrow. It punches through the throat of the mage closer to me. Before he has fallen to his knees, I have the next arrow ready. The other mage turns toward the sound and me. The arrow strikes her in the middle of her chest, a bit to the side.

  Lille never taught me about shooting humans, but we did our own research, me and Lien and Bann. We listened to all the stories, looked through Gran’s books on anatomy and medicine and war. In the stories, a hunter pinned two men on a tree with a single arrow. That’s ridiculous. Just punching through the chest to get to the heart is hard enough. Not to me. I’ve taken down an elk with a single arrow.

  The mage clutches at her chest, stepping back from the force of the strike, toppling over. I’m half excited, more than half terrified, disgusted and shocked. A slightest pause follows. Then the Kertharians explode in screaming. Their war cry is an unending litany of guttural growling sliding into piercing falsetto and back. The six soldiers still standing around Rworg start it. Inside the camp, a single voice rises up but cuts off immediately. Probably one who noticed either Finna or Mandollel. The rest of the camp will follow soon enough. The expectation is enough to send shivers down my spine. Their song, if you can call it that, is mad. Like distilled hate spat out at anyone listening, thick with spittle and rage.

  Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.

  Rworg killed at least ten of the Kertharians on the previous times we attacked the camp. Yet this time, the six soldiers are surrounding him. His style of fighting might be more suited to that kind of fight than any other. The wide and unpredictable swings, tremendous force behind the strikes, he can handle all of them.

  Turns out he doesn’t have to, as two of the soldiers turn toward me and I realize that Finna left with Mandollel. I have no one to guard me this time. The Kertharians have to push through the trees or circle along the perimeter of the camp to get to me, but these men have armor and the other has a shield. I lick my lips and nock an arrow, backpedaling gingerly. Can’t trip over anything. The one with the shield is harder to take out, but he’s also much more dangerous if he gets near me.

  I shoot. The other soldier raises his shield. The arrow thunks into its upper edge. The shield jerks, but he holds on to it. His eyes gleam over the shield’s edge, even this far away their look frightens me. The soldiers start screaming even louder and rush into the trees separating us, pushing through branches, skidding on rocks. They scramble like madmen.

  I turn and run. No way, no way, no way! I burst out of the forest and run straight into the camp. Somewhere in there Mandollel and Finna are fighting. If I can get close to Mandollel, he can protect me. There’s one more mage to worry about, but maybe they have killed her already.

  Rworg bellows and his voice drowns out the voices of the soldiers for a moment. He sounds confident, like a real hero. I’m running as fast as I can. A woman steps out from a tent, light and smell of food pouring out from behind her. She sees me and screeches, raising a large ladle above her head. Middle-aged, wearing an apron, a cook. Instantly furious at me, teeth gnashing together, the Kertharian warcry on her lips.

  I run at her and shift my grip on the bow. Using it like a staff, I smash her ladle aside as I go past. The bow catches her in the temple as well and she falls. Any normal cook would crawl back into the kitchen, but I know she’s going to crawl after me, blood in her eyes, on all fours, with a butter knife if she has nothing else. The madness in all of their eyes is terrible to see.

  I run ahead, hoping to find Mandollel or Finna. I readjust my grip on the bow and glance back. One of the soldiers steps out of the woods. The one without the shield. I stop, nock an arrow, fire. I turn back to run before the string has stopped vibrating. Behind me, the arrow thuds and rips through something, someone. A voice cuts out. Otherwise the screaming continues, now all around me, from every direction.

  I reach the clearing in the middle of the camp. Tents have been set in a circle, surrounding a large fire pit. The command tent is to the right, but it’s empty, dark. The final mage is not there this time. Remains of the fire smolder in the middle and four corpses lie on the ground around it. It’s like they’ve fallen asleep, lying on the ground, swords in their sheats, spears and shields balanced against each other further out. Mandollel or Finna or both caught them completely by surprise. Only the blood trickling out from under the fallen bodies tells me that they aren’t sleeping.

  Men move and shout everywhere around the camp. I’m alone in the middle of a roiling storm of noise. The racket is deafening. The Kertharians bang their shields, scream and shout and die, their hate unending, unabating. It sounds like two armies are fighting, even if it’s actually the four of us and out of those four, three aren’t making any noise.

  Rworg does, though. He’s already inside the camp, after probably killing the four Kertharians that stayed to fight with him. He yells at the skies, the challenge or rebuke booming over even the constant wailing. A wild swing of his sword cuts down a tent, felling it on the path and tangling up two Kertharians rushing toward him.

  On the other side of the camp, Mandollel’s sword whistles. He barely seems to touch the ground as he rushes from one soldier to the next, his long hair streaking behind him. The sword is a needle, its blade leaves a shining arc in the air where it passes. I can’t follow the strikes as they are too fast, but the pattern hangs in the air, leading from the neck of the man clutching at his throat to the other’s chest, blood staining the front of his shirt.

  Both fall over at the same time. Mandollel stands between them, and swipes his sword to clean it. “Have you found all the mages?” he shouts at me.

  The last mage! I spin, sweeping my eyes over the camp. There’s no blue glow or anyone in a robe, gesturing. There are remarkably few Kertharians left alive in general. Finna is nowhere to be seen, but that’s probably for the best.

  The soldier with the shield jumps over the corpse of his friend. He took a moment longer to arrive from the forest. Maybe he waited until I looked away, not wanting to be shot down right after the other soldier. He rushes forward, holding his shield in front of his body. It’s not a large shield, but enough to cover his whole upper body when he ducks his head behind it.

  I have an arrow nocked. It’s not a pleasant thought, but I can shoot him in the leg. I hesitate for a moment and lose my opportunity. Finna crashes into the man from the side. She appears from behind a tent, tackling the man. His screaming turns into a surprised snarl and then a splutter. Finna’s dagger stabs at his side one, two, three times. She bounces away, like she even wasn’t there for real. The man takes two more faltering steps, his face as surprised as mine. He stumbles and falls to lie on top of his shield.

  “Thanks!” I shout toward the place where Finna disappeared.

  From behind, I register a thumping run, the final stomps of someone charging at me. A huge force pushes me. I’m wrenched off the ground, shoved, thrown away in an arc. I hold on to my bow, my only weapon and protection, twist my body so as to not to land on top of it. I sail in the air, crash on my side, slide on the coarse ground.

  Rworg stands where I stood, hand reached out. Light shoots through him. Three darts of blinding white, sizzling and sparking. Side, chest, shoulder. The exit holes are the size of my fist, black and smoking. The darts hit the ground between us, throwing gravel into the air. Dust and dirt land on my face and in my eyes.

  Rworg grunts. The sword drops from his hand as he falls to his knees, then lands on his face on the ground.

  the chapters on Patreon. The Patreon will run 7 chapters ahead of RoyalRoad.

  The Mountain Ride on Goodreads! The current average is 3/5 from two reviews, so I would really appreciate some more reviews to make the average swing less wildly.