Leybound Chapter Thirty-Six | Five Paces (Patreon)

Price nudged the rock with his foot; it wasn’t the worst weapon he had killed with; it had a sharp point at least.

Confused reports of battle floated up from the ravine. The sharp crack of leybound charges, the flitting whine of faelen darts, the thrum of crossbow bolts, and the last echoes of shouted orders. Price blocked them out, reducing his world to the fight before him.

Drone-del stared down the ravine, tracing the path of Tarir-del and the others as they picked their way down to attack the rear of the leybound.

He would give Drone-del two paces. Less than was honorable, but he was hungry, and the brand on his chest itched and tugged his skin painfully when he moved.

Still, Drone-del was injured. The bandage around the big Faelen's head was bloodied, and he had limped all day on the march after the beating Tarir-del had inflicted on him for the loss of his horse.

Price took another step back. Three paces. He shook his head. The fact that these miserable hills were a pale imitation of the great peaks was no excuse to shame himself. He took another step back. Four, barely enough to make it fair, but his hands were bound to his sides.

“Drone-del, I give your flesh to the beasts of this place.”

The big Faelen turned and blinked, taking in Price, standing exactly four paces behind him. “What?” he said.

“I will not bury you. Your bones will tell the tale of your dishonor.”

Drone-del took one lumbering step forward, and Price moved.

In three paces, he was as unstoppable as the water pounding in the river beside them, and he breathed deeply, filling his lungs with the chill air that swept down from the hills.

Drone-del swung his arms to trap him, but Price slipped past, fluid and flowing, and exhaled as he drove his head up into the Faelen's chin, snapping his head backward, breaking his jaw, and shattering some of his fat teeth.

Price took four precise steps back and let the black spots fade from his vision. His hands still bound tightly by his sides.

Drone-del let out a primal scream of rage that was muffled by his destroyed jaw, then drew his short sword and lumbered forward.

Price stepped around the wild swings, his eyes flickering to Drone-dels feet, hands, elbows, and the tip of the blade, watching its progress calmly. Drone-del was as clumsy a swordsman as he had ever encountered. Price made a half- step and twisted, letting the tip of the swinging blade sever the rope that bound his right hand.

Five steps back. Not that he deserved it.

Drone-dels sluggish thoughts clamored for attention in his massive head, and he hesitated, casting a glance down the ravine for his departed allies.

“You have started, so you will finish,” Price said, bending down to pick up the rock.

Drone-del tried to speak, his face screwing up in a spasm of pain from his ruined jaw.

“There is nothing you can say; the death oath must be honored.”

Price took four neat steps, slipping past the clumsy, desperate swipe of the sword, and whipped the rock across Drone-del’s throat, carving out a chunk of flesh. The Faelen fell to his knees with a thump, his big hands waving desperately as he tried to pull in air through his ruined neck. He toppled backwards, and a few final bloody flecks fountained out of his neck before he was still.

Price slipped the knife free from Drone-dels waist and cut the bonds on his left hand. Then he allowed the ley power to pour through the empty valleys and ravines he had raised to contain it. Stinging and sweet arcane power flooded the dry channels in his body, and he drew it in until he was almost choking. Then he banished the ley line, back beyond the black mountains.

Ley power misted from the deep scars on his forearms. In the past, he had worn great names—unbowed, unbroken, and many other things—but he knew he was a slave to this power, and the knowledge created a wave of self-loathing inside him.

The sounds of battle were furious now—shouts, screams, cracks, and whines crashing on the high ridges on either side of the river canyon.

Tarir-del and the four Faelen officers were strung out before him.

The first Faelen was called Lanon’dal; his cruel, pinched face had sneered as Tarir-del had branded Price. Price let the ley power form in his cupped hands, the scarred runes burning as he crushed the power, forcing it into a small sphere. Four paces.

“Lanon’dal.”

The Faelen turned, his mouth forming an ‘O’ of surprise as he fumbled for his sword. Price took three steps and pressed his hands to the Faelen officer's chest, letting the arcane charge burn through his body.

The next Faelen officer caught sight of Price and tried to run, forfeiting an honorable death. He fell forward on his face, a burning hole in the back of his skull.

The last one froze in terror at the sight of him and voided his bowels. Price approached him unopposed and buried Drone’dal’s knife in his chest.

The Faelen Leutenant, who had led the main force of riders around the road, had mounted his ambush well. Faelen blocked the ravine where the river flowed out to the forest, and more of them were stationed high on the ridge to the left.

The Leybound and those who wore the green and white had put up a strong defense, but Price saw that they would fail. The trap was set, and it was strong. They would likely surrender, but Tarir-del would not be alive to see it.

The Faelen colonel was ahead of Price. His uniform was stained and ragged, beaten by the hard road through the hills. His spirit had been broken by the death of his beloved horse, and his forces were divided and dead. Now was the time to strike.

Price let the ley power bleed from his hands, emptying the channels in his body. This would be done correctly.

“Tarir-del,” Price called, stepping out from behind the rocks and striding toward him.

The Faelen captain spun around and threw out his hand, a red glow forming in his palm. Twelve seconds.

Price began to count softly as he stepped forward, watching as the dart in the Tarir-del's hand took on a more solid form, the dark red ley power burning.

Closer now, close enough to see the strain on Tarir-del's face as he forced the working to complete, the strain turning to fear as he realized he was too slow.

Ten seconds. Price stared calmly at the burning dart inches from his chest and the bead of sweat which dripped from Tarir-del's face.

“The workings can be broken, Tarir-del, but you lack discipline.”

Price slashed with the long knife and Tarir-dels hand spun in the air, flecks of blood pinwheeling off as the red dart vanished. “Would you look at that? The hand that strikes at the Prior really shall be cut off,” Price murmured as the Faelen captain screamed and fell to his knees, clutching at the stump on the end of his arm.

Price reached forward and pulled free Tarir-del's blade. It was a weapon made in the echo, heavy and strong, and he held it to Tarir-del's throat.

“Spare me,” Tarir-del wept.

“When we defeated the orcs, I sent my men home and prepared a message for my enemies. It took me a long while to master the technique, but I had plenty of practice.”

The steel blurred and two fine cuts appeared on Tarir-del's face, making an inverted V shape.

“Wait for it,” Price murmured.

Tarir-del tried to blink, but each of his eyes had been sliced in half, and his piercing scream cut through the sounds of battle and the pounding of the river.

“I made them crawl home. They say only three of them made it.” Price stepped behind the sobbing Faelen and sliced the tendons of his ankles, and Tarir-del flopped to the floor and began to crawl, scrabbling at the dirt on the road.

“How far will you get, I wonder?”