The heavy rain continued to wash the blood from the riverbank, but it couldn't drown the stench of the massacre. While the exhausted rookies tore into dried meats scavenged from the untouched crates, Percival Kent did not rest.
He knelt in the mud beside the headless body of the wagon master. His thumb traced the jagged stump of the merchant's neck.
"Wolves didn't do this," Percival muttered. Bone hadn't been crushed by fangs; it had been violently hacked apart by crude, rusted iron.
He stood, turning from the ruined wagons toward the river. Deep, heavy hoofprints from the stolen horses cut through the sludge. They didn't lead into the deep woods they ran parallel to the rushing water.
A violent crack of lightning bleached the sky stark white.
In that split second of illumination, Percival saw them. A half-mile downriver, a sprawling mass of hunched, chittering silhouettes moved rapidly through the storm. Goblins. Dozens of them, making a direct line toward the nearby settlement.
"Commander?" Elara, the lead rookie, paused with a ration half-raised. He saw the Paladin staring into the dark. "What is it?"
"They never cared about the cargo," Percival said, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous growl. "The wolves were just a rearguard. Bait to bleed our stamina."
He tracked the horde's path. They were marching straight for the old stone crossing. It wasn't a raid; it was a slaughter meant to happen while the North Border Defense was tied down in the mud.
"On your feet!" Percival roared, his voice cracking like the thunder above.
He moved with brutal efficiency. Grabbing the reins of his massive destrier, he shoved them hard into Elara's chest. "Ride for the castle. Tell the mages to alert the Kingdom, and tell the garrison to prepare for war. Go!"
Elara swallowed hard, his face pale. He didn't waste time with salutes. He vaulted into the saddle and spurred the warhorse into the storm.
Percival turned to his remaining men. He left two to guard the surviving supplies, pulling the remaining six exhausted, bloodied militiamen into a tight circle.
"We intercept them before they cross the old bridge," Kent commanded over the howling wind. "Strip your armor. Now. All of it."
"Sir?" a rookie named Krag stammered, his grip slipping on his halberd. "Without plate, one arrow and we're dead."
"Speed over steel, Krag," Kent barked. "If we march in heavy armor, we arrive just in time to bury the villagers. Drop it."
The men were running on fumes from the wolf ambush, but they obeyed, shedding heavy iron and steel into the mud until they stood in just their padded gambesons and tunics.
"Closer," Kent ordered. "Stand in front of me."
The men gathered. Kent closed his eyes, digging deep into his depleted core. His signature golden aura flared to life, bright and violently hot in the cold rain. He pushed his hands forward, dividing the light into six streams that slammed directly into the chests of the exhausted soldiers.
The rookies gasped. The aching lead in their bones vanished. They stood taller, eyes wide as a rush of borrowed mana flooded their systems, restoring their vitality.
As the magic settled, Kent swayed. A sudden wave of intense fatigue hit him as he drained his own mana reserves to a dangerously low level. He locked his knees, forcing himself upright before the men could notice his trembling hands.
"The horde hits the bridge in twelve minutes," Kent said, his breath coming a little harder now. He pointed toward the raging water. "Channel my mana directly into your boots. Let it bear your weight."
The soldiers focused, the golden light surging down their legs.
"Run!" Kent bellowed, drawing his blade. "Run!"
Driven by the Paladin's magic, the unarmored squad sprinted straight toward the turbulent river. They didn't sink. The golden mana held them aloft, their boots splashing off the surface tension of the water as they dashed across the raging current, racing the goblin horde into the dark.