Amidst the shrubs and bushes, the beginnings of Larswood cropped out. He glanced around the carnage, sword still in hand. The steel drank deep into the blood of their foes. Closing his eyes, he winced; there had been no quarter asked or given, no mercy conceived or shown. Two more of their number had fallen; he should have urged Vai to fall back, but he knew in his heart she would not be dissuaded. Each death only fuelled her anger, her resolve. They were her men. He didn't know, couldn't know… yet he felt the same; felt each loss as keenly as she. He couldn't explain how, but as they fell, it was as if their life-force cried out to him: both allies and foes, gasping as they left this world, this life. Her eyes had hardened with each kill.
There had been twelve of them, archers and brawlers both. Without their scouts, they might have been taken unawares; now they only had one. Ric, the younger of the pair, had fallen, taking an arrow through the eye. A lucky shot; a tragic waste. The second had been a guard at the rear; his horse brought down, peppering the poor beast until it reared, crushing its rider under the weight. His death had been less instant, but swift enough. He sighed. Had they been fully fit, rested and ready, without prior wounds, would they have taken casualties? Twelve foes on foot were no match for armoured horse; yet even the strongest plate could not rule out a stray arrow between the eye; there were always weak spots, the joints, the throat…
The dozen corpses met his sight. It had been quick, brutal, final. He had not so much as taken a scratch; he had been lucky, his steel weaving in as though the blade were apart of him, sliding in under his foe's guard and drinking deeply. The throat of the first; the skull of the second, trampled under his steed's hooves. A single strike, and the man went down. The horse was a weapon in itself. Two more had fallen to Vai before he had slain the third, the rest falling to her men. Their eyes had held hate; recognition of whom they faced. If it were these that were responsible, their deaths were long overdue. Justice had been delivered. Somehow, it wasn't enough.
Tazok was nowhere to be found.
"Aurifyr," Vai called, "look at this."
Standing over one of the fallen, she stared down from her steed, "What is it you see?" he heard himself ask, "these men don't seem to be any different to those we faced at the camp."
"Do you not recognise the markings? They are from the same group. Gareth," she called, "Check there are no more lurking in the bushes. You two, see to our dead. Their steel is not to be picked by scavengers. Load it onto the horses."
"Vai," Aurifyr frowned, staring at the corpse, "Not all of them have the scent of smoke."
"You can tell through the stench?" Surprise, then she spat, "They have the stench of death on them."
"If these are not those we seek, there will be more ahead." He voiced his thoughts aloud, "We have six left, not including you and I. How many more–"
"We shall hunt them all, or fall trying, Aurifyr. There can be no other choice."
He inclined his head, "Then let us proceed. We shall flush them out of their holes." Neither needed to say that they would be at a disadvantage within the woods; the horses would hinder more than they would help. No one said a word, but silently readied their crossbows. As he strung his own bow, the elf gazed upon the distant wood he had hoped he had seen the last of. What if there had been more than one camp? If so, they could not possibly hope to storm it and survive.
If Vai had the same though, she did not show it, wearing only grim determination. She uttered a single word: "Forwards."