Nidhogg watched the rout unfold below, a cold clarity settling over him. The Midland forces were broken, their remnants scattering like leaves before a storm. The Black Iron Boar Lancers, true to their heavy cavalry doctrine, did not pursue into the forest. They began to methodically divide their forces, preparing to sweep the area and ensure no one escaped. Their target was clear: the high-value commander the fleeing knights had been so desperate to protect.
This was not his fight. His mission was Doldrey, not meddling in a skirmish between border forces. He had a schedule to keep, a city to infiltrate. Every instinct told him to turn Torrent away, to skirt the battlefield and continue on his way.
But then he saw them.
The remnants of the Midland cavalry burst from the tree line on the far side of the valley, their horses lathered and blown. They were no longer fleeing in a cohesive group, but as scattered individuals, each man now responsible for his own survival. Most of the Boar Lancers ignored them, focused on securing the main prize. But a smaller, faster contingent broke off, giving chase to the fugitives.
One rider, slightly ahead of the others, was clearly the priority target. His armor, though battered and covered in mud and blood, was of finer quality than the rest. His horse, too, was a magnificent beast, even in its exhausted state. This was no ordinary knight.
As Nidhogg watched, the fugitive's horse stumbled, its strength finally giving out. The rider was thrown clear, landing hard and rolling to a stop. He struggled to his feet, drawing his sword, ready to make a last stand. The pursuing Boar Lancers, perhaps a half-dozen of them, slowed their advance, forming a loose semicircle around him. They were in no hurry. The fox was cornered. They could take their time.
The fugitive knight ripped off his dented helm, casting it aside. Even from this distance, Nidhogg could see the flash of blonde hair, the defiant set of his shoulders. He was young. Too young to die here, alone, in a nameless valley. But in his eyes, beyond the despair, there was still a flicker of burning anger.
Nidhogg sighed. So much for staying out of it.
"Torrent," he murmured, patting the spirit steed's neck. "I think we just found a reason to be late."
Torrent snorted, a sound that might have been agreement or might have been impatience. It didn't matter. Nidhogg urged him forward, not down into the valley where the Boar Lancers would see them, but along the ridge, using the terrain for cover. He needed to get closer, to assess the situation.
He found a vantage point behind a large outcrop, overlooking the scene below. The Boar Lancers had dismounted. Four of them. They were toying with the young knight, their heavy lances discarded for swords and axes. They circled him, laughing, making crude jokes. The knight held his ground, his blade steady, but his eyes held not only despair, but a flicker of burning defiance.
They were going to kill him. Slowly. For sport.
Nidhogg had seen enough. He drew his Lordsworn's Greatsword, the familiar weight settling into his hands. He didn't have a plan, not really. He just knew he couldn't watch this happen.
"Torrent. Quietly."
The spirit steed moved like a ghost, picking his way down the slope with uncanny silence. The Boar Lancers were too focused on their prey to notice the shadow descending upon them. Nidhogg was among them before they knew he was there.
The first lancer never saw the blow that took his head. The second had time to turn, his eyes widening in shock, before Nidhogg's greatsword swept through his midsection. The remaining two spun, raising their weapons, but Nidhogg was already moving, Torrent responding to the slightest pressure of his knees.
He feinted at the third, drawing a wild parry, then pivoted Torrent on his hindquarters and brought the greatsword around in a devastating arc that caught the fourth lancer across the chest, hurling him to the ground. The third lancer, recovering, lunged with his axe. Nidhogg leaned back in the saddle, the blade whistling past his face, and then thrust his greatsword forward, the point taking the man in the throat.
Silence fell. It had taken perhaps ten seconds.
Nidhogg wiped his blade on a dead lancer's cloak and looked at the young knight. The man stared back, his mouth open, his sword still raised. He looked from Nidhogg to the four bodies and back again.
"Who..." he started, his voice cracked. "Who are you?"
Nidhogg didn't answer. He was looking at the knight's surcoat, barely visible beneath the grime. A white tiger, rampant. The emblem of the White Tiger Knights.
"You're with the White Tigers," Nidhogg stated. It wasn't a question.
The knight's jaw tightened. "I am. Sir Arvin of House Tarkus. And I am in your debt." He lowered his sword, but didn't sheathe it. His eyes were wary, but grateful.
Nidhogg nodded. "The Boar Lancers are sweeping the area. They'll find these bodies soon. Can you ride?"
Sir Arvin glanced at his dead horse and shook his head. "My mount is gone."
Nidhogg hesitated for only a moment. He reached down and offered his hand. "Then you ride with me. For now."
Arvin stared at the offered hand, then at the strange horned horse. He didn't ask questions. He grasped Nidhogg's forearm and swung up behind him.
Torrent snorted in protest, but settled quickly under Nidhogg's calming hand.
"Hold on," Nidhogg said, and urged Torrent forward.
They didn't head deeper into the forest, where the Boar Lancers would expect them to flee. Instead, Nidhogg guided Torrent back up the slope, using the spirit steed's incredible agility to scale terrain no normal horse could manage. They emerged onto the ridge and disappeared into the gathering dusk, leaving the battlefield and the bodies behind.
They rode in silence for a long time, putting distance between themselves and the pursuit. Finally, as the stars began to appear, Nidhogg found a sheltered spot—a shallow cave hidden behind a curtain of brush. He dismounted and helped Arvin down.
The young knight collapsed against the cave wall, exhaustion finally claiming him. Nidhogg offered him water and some dried meat from his pack. Arvin took them gratefully.
"Why?" Arvin asked after a long silence. "Why did you save me? You're not Midland. Your armor, your horse... I've never seen anything like it."
Nidhogg sat across from him, feeding Torrent another wild fruit. "Does it matter?"
Arvin considered this. "I suppose not. But I owe you my life. I would know the name of the man who saved it."
Nidhogg looked at him for a long moment. The knight's eyes were clear, his gratitude genuine. There was no guile in him, only the straightforward honor of a young man who had faced death and been given a second chance.
"My name is Nidhogg," he said finally. "And I'm heading to Doldrey."
Arvin's eyes widened. "Doldrey? That's suicide! The city is a fortress. You'll never get in."
Nidhogg allowed himself a thin smile. "I have a way. And now," he added, looking at the knight with new interest, "I might have a better one."