The heavy flail swung down hard. The panic-stricken Hols man tried to block it with his sword held across him, but the silver chain wrapped around the hilt. Its heavy head swept through a short, tight arc and struck his wrist. With a dull crack, the hand gripping his sword sprang open.
A hard tug pulled the Hols man to the ground. The wrapped chain dragged him down, then came completely loose, flail head and all.
The swaying flail, covered in blood and scraps of flesh, rose a little, ready to smash down hard.
"I surrender, I surrender! Please spare me! I'm Hils, the lord of Alpos! ...His son! You can get a huge ransom for me. I promise my father will give you more money than you could spend in a lifetime!!"
Perhaps people really could draw out their full potential when their lives were at stake. The Hols man before him rattled off that entire speech in just two seconds. Every word was clear and fluent, without a single letter mispronounced.
Alka frowned at the Hols man. He had no idea what had gotten into him... He had challenged Alka himself, only to surrender without the slightest hesitation... If he was afraid of dying, why hadn't he surrendered in the first place?
Still, Alka glanced at his opponent's shattered wrist. If the man really was the city lord's son, then he did need to be kept alive.
Alka unfastened his whip and used the supple leather to bind the man's injured wrist and arm tightly together. Then he seized his arm with one hand and dragged him toward the end of the valley.
...
As he was dragged along, his bright green cloak was soon soaked in fresh blood. Piercing screams and hopeless wails never stopped. The thunder of warhorses' hooves rose in wave after wave, each bringing still more agonized, chilling screams.
This little valley among the mountains had become a terrifying slaughterhouse. The Hols cavalry, lured here by the trail left along the way, were the prey being butchered...
The terrible cataphracts were like a sharp knife, slicing pieces off the edges of what remained of their formation. What was left grew ever weaker and more helpless. Each pass left a mass of severed limbs and desperate screams in its wake.
Blood had washed over the warhorses' hooves several times already. Any resistance the Hols offered was crushed head-on by the cataphracts, utterly and without mercy. Again and again. No mercy. No way to fight back.
The dense rain of arrows from both sides of the valley had been reaping their lives from the very beginning, never once stopping. Like the scythe of Death, each volley took a great many lives.
Under cover of the cataphracts, these heavy arrows struck with such deadly accuracy that they seemed to have eyes. Again and again, a man would take an arrow in the face and topple silently from his saddle. His terrified warhorse could escape the jaws of death. Only the riders were mercilessly shot down in the hail of arrows.
He did not know how many were still alive, but he knew how many had died... Bodies in green cloaks filled the whole valley. Death was leaning close to whisper in his ear.
Those terrible cavalrymen tore through them again and again in a storm of blood. The sounds of blades entering flesh and blunt weapons breaking bones never ceased. Horrible screams drove into his ears like sharp wooden splinters, each making his heart clench violently. The young man was almost broken by sheer terror.
His knees dragged over the stony ground. His mail kept them from hurting, but they had gone numb, as though frozen solid. The humiliation of being dragged around like a pig or sheep, the despair of being trapped with no way to live, the terror that shattered his mind, the grief of seeing almost all his soldiers killed or wounded: all these tangled feelings battered his heart...
His emotions burst through like water from an opened floodgate. Tears washed through the crusted blood on his face and spattered the ground, sending ripples through pools of blood that had yet to dry. Overwhelmed by fear and grief, he bit down hard on his lip. He did not want to make a sound. He was trying to preserve the last of his dignity...
Only yesterday, they had charged through the city gates with such high spirits, flaunting their power... Back then, he had almost believed nothing in the world could stand in his way. Riding his fine white horse, he had drifted across the fields like the wind...
Yet in the blink of an eye, their bodies had piled up across this barren ground. Hungry beasts would fill their bellies with their flesh. Tangled weeds would grow on their blood. They were like a flock of frightened sheep that had fallen into the clutches of hungry tigers...
How he wished this journey could last a little longer. Better still, if he never arrived for the rest of his life, he would never have to face such a terrible sight again.
But the hand gripping his arm suddenly shoved him forward, sending him crashing onto the stones. A tall, dark shadow engulfed him all the same...
The agony of his shattered wrist and the crushing shock left him unable to stand. He tried several times to get up, but only scraped his forehead raw against the stones. Tears mixed with blood dripped steadily onto the ground.
Like an ugly maggot, he struggled desperately for the hope of staying alive. He had never felt so shameful and lowly. He was just like those wretched slaves.
Seemingly tired of this display, the large hand seized his cloak again and hauled him off the ground. His legs were still stiff and numb. He could barely stand, and it took all his effort to keep from falling.
At last, he saw the man before him...
...
This is the master of the lions...
That was the Hols man's first thought when he saw those eyes, gleaming as coldly as blades...
What terrifying authority and presence! The mere sight of those eyes made his knees go weak. Only by falling to his knees and bowing low could he escape that pressure. He could not summon the slightest courage to oppose this man.
Something in his heart suddenly eased a little... Now that he had seen the kind of man who had destroyed them, it no longer seemed quite so hard to accept. Just as sheep were born to scatter before a lion, their defeat seemed only natural...
...
After their terrible losses, only one hundred and eighty-three Hols prisoners remained. Every one of them had lost the courage to resist. They wailed and begged for mercy, pressing their faces hard into the dirt. Their weapons lay discarded beside them, and they let the cavalrymen and highlanders bind their hands and feet.
Tesolys walked through the pools of blood with a slight smile on his face. He was like a child who had found a perfectly straight stick and could not wait to try it out.
Author's note: I'd already finished writing this chapter, but then I accidentally pressed Ctrl+W and closed the page. I hurried to open it again, only to find every word gone →)╥﹏╥). ...I was so angry I nearly died. Even my Daoist resolve crumbled... I can't write directly on the website anymore. It's just too dangerous.
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