Dust rose as the twenty men under the chief surged forward, weapons glinting, war cries ripping through the still morning air.
Harald's sixty warriors formed ranks immediately, hooves and sandels stamping the earth as they braced.
The clash was inevitable.
The chief's axe caught the first blow, blocking a spear that came flying from Harald himself.
Sparks danced where steel met steel.
Around him, his men fought fiercely, blood already darkening their leather and chain.
"Hold the line!" the chief bellowed, though doubt flickered across his eyes. His triumph had been hollow last night; now the fear of death sharpened his senses.
Harald was a storm. He moved among his men, striking, countering, anticipating. His arrogance had not left him but neither had his skill.
Every movement of the chief's men was met with a measured parry or sweep. He was not here to stumble into chaos; he was here to dominate it.
Steel rang against steel, men shouted and fell, dust and blood mingled. The chief swung his axe again, cleaving through the first line, but a momentary lapse left his side exposed.
Harald's spear grazed him, drawing a shallow line across his shoulder. Pain flared, but he gritted his teeth. But he kept in murmuring those inhuman words.
Inside the Xilan walls, those who had surrendered watched silently, unsure whether to flee or pray.
They knew that whoever won this clash will be their masters. Though after the events of last night most rooted against the Chief.
***
Far away, Ishar crouched behind a low ridge overlooking the Traven chief's house. His five men mirrored his movements, silent shadows.
The scouts he'd sent earlier confirmed the coast was clear.
Ishar's scarred face betrayed nothing, though his mind was alive with calculations.
"They are unprepared," he murmured. "We will strike before they know what is happening. Go!"
Inside the house of the traven tribe chief.
Three guards patrolled rigorously. Now that the other warriors were gone. They stood as last defense for their chief.
Ishar's men moved silently One by one, they slipped into the compound like whispers of wind.
On Ishar's count the kicked opened the door and moved in weapons raised.
***
Back at the Xilan gates, the chief fought like a man possessed, knowing each second counted.
As his axe found the head of an enemy, a wet crunch echoed through the day, and the corpse fell lifeless at his feet.
With each kill, his strength seemed to grow, unnatural, relentless. Of his original twenty men, only three including himself remained.
Thirty of the enemy troops still pressed forward.
He didn't care. He licked his lips, eyes turning pitch black, pupils vanished like voids.
A dark aura pulsed around him, thick as smoke, bending the air with each breath.
Every swing of his axe left a trail of black sparks that hissed against the cobblestones.
The ground beneath him seemed to warp, tiny fissures cracking and smoking under the impact of his strikes.
"Circle him!" Harald roared, fear apparent in his voice from watching his soldiers fall like wheat before a scythe.
The chief's laugh was low, guttural, and wrong a sound that carried no warmth, only the promise of annihilation.
He moved faster than any mortal should, a blur of shadow and steel.
When a man tried to flank him, the chief's hand shot out as if propelled by some unseen force, crushing the man's chest with a grip like iron. Bones cracked audibly.
The remaining soldiers staggered back, unsure of what to do. Soon the first began to run followed by the second soon everyone was running.
The chief gave chase everytime his axe into the air it took a life. But he wasn't satisfied. How could he be?
One soldier attempted to strike him, but the chief caught the blade mid-air with his bare hand; it broke in his grip.
A voice hissed in his ear not human, not entirely his own eat the voice said eat and get stronger.
This time he didn't use his axe rather he bit into the mans neck biting a chunk of flesh and began munching on it.
The men seeing this ran faster. Harald kicked on his horse to gallop faster. Whatever it was that faced him that was no man. The joy from being commander had left him.
"Pl...please...just kill me." Said the man whose neck had just been bitten into my tuff chief.
The chief stopped to stare at him for a while before bursting into laughter echoed across the village.
Then he stopped and without warning bit into the neck again.
***
Meanwhile, inside the Traven compound, Ishar moved with careful precision. A guard, startled by the intrusion, raised his weapon.
Before he could strike, a spear flew through his chest, pinning him to the wall. His thoughts ended as abruptly as his life.
The five men with Ishar moved swiftly, taking down the two remaining guards, leaving Ishar free to roam.
He crept through the compound, opening doors quietly, scanning each room. People stirred inside, frightened and confused, but none were who he sought.
Finally, he reached a door at the far end. He pushed it open.
There, seated calmly, was an old man, staff in hand, his gaze sharp and unyielding.
"I assume you are the chief of the Traven tribe?" Ishar asked, stepping inside, his hand tightening around his spear.
"I am," the old man replied evenly. "Who is asking?"
"Me? I'm nobody. I'm simply here to take you away."
The old man's eyes narrowed. "And what makes you think I would follow you?"
"I have your daughter," Ishar said, attempting a confident smile.
"Lies," the chief replied dryly. "I had her moved long before you arrived."
Ishar shrugged, and advanced, spear aimed at the man's legs. His goal was capture, not death.
The old man shifted with a sudden, fluid motion, nudging the spear aside with the flat of his staff.
He closed the distance in three measured steps, delivering a sharp kick to Ishar's chest.
Ishar stumbled back, barely avoiding the impact. He looked up just in time to see the staff arc toward his head.
The strike connected, knocking him backward, blood spilling from his nose.
He staggered to his feet, realizing the truth he had ignored until now: he had only learned the bare basics of spearmanship.
Fighting with his own hands had never appealed to him he preferred others to do his work.
Now, against a properly trained martial artist, his weakness was laid bare.
Every movement, every attempt to strike, was anticipated, blocked, or redirected. Ishar lunged and jabbed, but the chief moved like water calm, unhurried, and impossible to catch.
Each of Ishar's attacks met resistance, his spear deflected, his footing undermined, his confidence eroding with every second. He could neither touch nor predict the old man's rhythm.
Ishar dodged a spinning kick and jumped backward but the staff came down again, glancing off his shoulder, driving him to the floor. His breath was ragged, his nose still bleeding.
Before he could get up the staff poked into his chest keeping him in place. He looked up to see the Traven tribe chief speak.
"Checkmate."
Inside a wardrobe in the same room, a lady watched the fight with bated breath, her body pressed against the wooden slats, eyes peering through the slight opening.
Every clash of spear against staff, every grunt and scrape, made her chest tighten.
When she saw the old man deftly disarm Ishar and force him backward, a long, shaky sigh of relief escaped her.
The queen of the Xilan tribe had at first been frozen in shock at the sight of Ishar. She had thought him dead. But seeing his scarred face, she understood what had happened.
Stepping cautiously from the wardrobe, a smile spread across her face. "You've defeated him, Father. Finish him quickly."
The old man's eyes flicked toward her slightly annoyed. "Get back inside, now, before—"
His warning was cut short as the five men who had accompanied Ishar filled the room in an instant. One pressed a knife to her throat.
"Drop the staff, old man, and come quietly," one of them demanded, voice low and menacing.
Reluctantly, the chief let the staff fall. The men bound him quickly, then seized his daughter, holding her close and ensuring she could not struggle.
Ishar rose slowly, coughing out blood.
He wiped it away with the sleeve of his tunic and straightened, turning toward the bound chief.
He inclined his head slightly, a cruel, deliberate bow.
"What was it you said again?" Ishar murmured, voice rasped by exertion. "Ah yes… checkmate."