The hungry wolves opened their maws, baring sharp teeth as they charged the traveling party. When they were only thirty meters away, the bald mercenary leader roared, "SHOOT!"
Dozens of arrows sliced through the air. The wolves at the front of the pack stumbled, pierced and wounded, only to be trampled by the tide of their brethren surging from behind.
At fifteen meters, a second volley flew, and another dozen wolves fell.
"To arms! Fight with me!" the mercenary leader bellowed, brandishing his spear.
The mercenaries behind him drew their weapons, steeling themselves for the impact. A moment later, the pack slammed into the wooden carriages with the force of a wave. Men standing between the wagons and on top of them met the charge with a clash of steel on fang and claw.
A brutal bloodbath began.
The air filled with the howls of dying wolves. Some of the animals peeled off from the main assault, circling the camp, but were met by the mercenaries guarding the flanks behind the makeshift barricade.
The cacophony of curses, shouts, and yelps, mixed with the spreading stench of blood, sent a chill of terror through the children huddled at the center of the camp.
Alaric couldn't stop his hands from trembling. He had never witnessed such gore. Back home, the most brutal thing he’d ever done was kill a wild boar on the outskirts of his village.
But this was a different kind of violence, a scale of savagery that overwhelmed him.
He shut his eyes, forcing himself to take deep, shuddering breaths to calm the frantic beating of his heart. When he opened them again, they shone with a cold determination.
I'll kill anything that slips past the blockade, he vowed silently. He wasn't foolhardy enough to charge into the main fray with the mercenaries. No, his place was here, in this pocket of relative safety, as the last line of defense.
It didn't take long for the mercenary line to falter. Only a few minutes into the battle, a scream was cut short as a young mercenary was dragged down, disappearing under a tide of gray fur. A grievously injured wolf, bleeding from a half-dozen wounds, scrambled over a corpse and broke through the blockade, rushing directly toward the children.
The sight froze most of them in horror, especially those near Alaric. The wolf was heading right for them.
In that crucial moment, instinct trumped fear. Instead of retreating, Alaric surged forward to meet the beast. His heart hammered against his ribs as he closed the distance.
In a fluid motion, he raised his sword and unleashed a horizontal slash as he ran past the wolf. The creature skidded to an abrupt halt. A beat later, blood gushed from a massive wound that ran from its neck all the way to its waist.
The wolf’s legs buckled. It struggled for a few seconds on the blood-soaked ground, then lay still.
"I… I did it," Alaric muttered in disbelief, gasping for breath. Adrenaline surged through his veins, a heady rush that made him feel invincible, like he was on top of the world.
For a fleeting instant, he felt the impulse to charge into the melee and fight alongside the mercenaries. But he quickly shook his head, banishing the conceited thought. He retreated to the center of the camp and took up his defensive stance once more.
Only then did the children around him seem to snap out of their shock.
"He… he… he actually killed it!" one of them shrieked.
Their disbelief was palpable. A few looked at him with open admiration, but for most, it was a bitter pill to swallow. They were meant to be the gifted ones, yet they had been shown up by a commoner.
Still, Alaric’s act had broken the spell of fear. A spark of pride was lit. As children with the talent to become Archons, they could not allow someone else to so completely outshine them. Most of them now gripped their own small weapons, ready for the next attack.
Joric, who had witnessed the entire exchange, was still frozen in place. He couldn't help but wonder, If that had been me, would I have charged forward? Or would I have just stood here and died?
The answer was painfully clear.
For a moment, he hesitated, a flicker of grudging respect warring with his animosity. But the arrogance ingrained in him quickly won out, and his expression twisted into an unsightly scowl.
That bastard deserves to die. The thought was venomous. He stole my money, he beat me in front of everyone. Not even my father has ever laid a hand on me!
To think that this peasant had the nerve.
Joric made a decision. He would use the chaos of the attack to kill Alaric. And if he couldn't kill him, he would at least injure him so badly that he could never become a Magus.
The mercenary line was crumbling. More and more ravenous wolves slipped through the gaps in the carriage wall to descend upon the children.
Two of the youths were quickly overwhelmed and killed, yet the Archons still made no move to intervene. Panic began to spread through the mercenaries and children alike.
Alaric fought on, a whirlwind of desperate action. He met every wolf that came his way with a vertical slash, a horizontal cut, a thrust, a stab—every technique he knew.
He was drenched from head to toe in blood, some of it his, most of it the wolves'. He had lost himself in the fight, thought giving way to pure instinct as he hacked and slashed like a madman.
Joric, who had been firing his crossbow from a relatively safe position, suddenly glanced in Alaric's direction. His eyes lit up. There was his chance.
He smoothly nocked a bolt and took aim. As he drew the string taut, he didn't forget to shout, his voice ringing with false righteousness.
"Alaric, let me help you!"
Joric fired the bolt, his lips curling into a wicked grin.