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Skyrim Spartan

Chapter Six

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Anske moved as fast as her legs could take her, which was nowhere near as quickly as she hoped. Behind her, she thought she heard Kratos say something, but the words were lost to the howling winds.

Strong gusts buffeted her body every few seconds, almost as if nature itself was trying to keep her from getting any closer to the chaos and fires that lay ahead. But she pressed on regardless. She needed to find her father. He was the only family she had left.

Of course, her father was more than capable of defending himself. The man was a true Nord, and a veteran of the Legion. If there was anyone in the village with the best chance to get through this in one piece, it was likely him.

And yet… And yet, for some reason she could not shake the terrible feeling that something bad was going to happen to him if she was not there.

Rorikstead was predominantly a farming village, which meant many open fields for crops, but instead of being all spread out, most of the houses and structures were grouped together along the main roads, with the crop fields surrounding them.

This was largely for protection. Nords were a fierce and hardy people who valued strength, family, and independence, but they understood that there was safety in numbers in the harsh and largely untamed land of Skyrim, especially when night fell.

However, eventually there was simply no more room in the village proper, which meant that the newer structures, like the home Kratos had just finished, were located on the outskirts, beyond the already established homes and some of the fields.

When Anske finally made it onto the main road that ran north-south through the village, she could already see in the distance to the north of her that Rorik's manor was aflame, and so too was the Frostfruit Inn not far from it. The fires covered much of the northern end of the village and were slowly spreading southward, marking the advance of the enemy.

The sight of the inn, her home, in flames only worsened the deep sense of foreboding within her.

She passed many villagers who were running in the opposite direction, fleeing from the attack. Some appeared to be wounded, while others were ill-equipped to weather the oncoming blizzard for long, not having had time to properly dress in their haste to flee.

A few of the villagers called out to her as she ran by, telling her to turn back, but she paid them no mind and they did not try to chase after her.

Not that she blamed them for that. They had their own lives to worry about.

A handful of Forsworn darted between the houses and across the fields to either side of her, probably hunting down the fleeing villagers. Somehow, they did not notice her as she ran straight up the main road towards the bulk of the fighting, perhaps too engrossed in their hunt for those who were running away.

She tried not to think of what the Forsworn would do if they caught up to the villagers. She needed to find her father first. Besides, it was not like she could have helped anyway, considering that she had no weapons on her at the moment.

Only then did it occur to her that she was utterly defenseless and would be more of a liability than help when she did find her father.

By chance she came across a dead guardsman sprawled in the dirt. There were deep bloody gashes across his back and fresh blood pooled in the dirt around him.

Unfortunately, someone else had already taken the fallen guard's weapons, although they left behind his round shield with its face painted yellow with a horse's head. The sigil of Whiterun Hold. Damaged from recent fighting, but still serviceable, the shield was better than nothing, so she picked it up.

It was heavier than she thought, made of dense wood and bands of iron, but she secured it to her left arm anyway with some effort. Immediately after doing that, she realized why it had been left behind by the earlier looter.

The broad face of the shield caught the constant wind easily, which in the midst of the storm bearing down on them was making it even harder for her to move around. As if it wasn't hard enough to move around with a shield that she wasn't used to wielding in the first place.

Gritting her teeth, she shook her head and forced herself to keep going. She would have to make do. It wasn't like she had anything else to defend herself with.

Her hair continued to whip all around as she briefly squinted at the fallen guard's face. She did not recognize him and felt somewhat glad, though a little guilty to feel that way. That it was not someone she knew. He was one of the reinforcements from Whiterun. How many of them were still alive?

It was not long before the road she was on finally intersected the main highway that ran southeast to northwest and connected Whiterun with Solitude. The intersection marked the center of the village, and there were still a handful of fights ongoing.

A handful of guardsmen and armed villagers were fighting against a similar number of Forsworn. They were too focused with each other to pay much attention to her arrival, giving her time to take stock of the situation.

Off to one side she saw Vors wielding a sword and shield, looking close to if not already fully recovered from the ordeal on the hill last week, judging from his movements. That was a good sign.

Another fight not far off from the sergeant involved Ennis, the Redguard farmer who was one of her neighbors. He had always been kind and soft-spoken, with not an ounce of anger or violence, so Anske did a double-take when she saw him covered in blood and skillfully dual-wielding curved swords.

Curved swords! She gaped for a few seconds as she realized the simple, kind, and hardworking farmer was actually a warrior of some skill. There were several dead Forsworn around him that could attest to that fact.

The rest of the combatants were villagers she did not know all too well. They fought fiercely to protect their home, as was to be expected. Most of them had swords, but others wielded axes, hammers, and even pitchforks; whatever they could scrounge up in a hurry.

When she did not see her father among the survivors, Anske felt a pang of dread shoot through her as she eyed the blood-soaked, unmoving bodies that littered the ground. After a quick survey of the dead, she realized her father was not among them either, much to her relief.

The inn was almost entirely engulfed in flames that danced wildly in the wind. The fact that it could blaze so strongly despite the conditions meant that it was either fire caused by magic, or by some alchemical compound.

She was willing to bet it was magic. The Forsworn were known to have mages in their ranks, though thankfully there did not appear to be any in the immediate vicinity. Hopefully, that meant they had already been dealt with.

Watching as her home was burning to the ground, Anske silently cursed magic and, perhaps more importantly, her inability to wield it. It was an incredibly powerful and dangerous tool, especially in skilled hands, but it was not something that anyone could simply learn. Not that she had ever tried to.

As far as Anske was aware, there were only two people in the village who were any good at the arcane arts. There was Jouane, the old Breton who had served with Rorik in the Legion and now lived with him, and then there was Reldith, the Altmeri farmer who lived and worked with Ennis.

She picked up an iron sword from one of the fallen Nords, swinging it around to get used to it before she set her jaw and rushed over to help Vors. The sergeant was engaged in a back-and-forth fight with one of the Forsworn warriors.

Anske approached from the enemy's blindside and waited for an opportunity to charge at the warrior with her shield up, ramming into him with as much force as she could muster. The subsequent violent impact nearly knocked her to the ground, but she managed to just barely stay on her feet.

The Forsworn warrior did not fare as well. He tumbled to the ground onto his side in surprise, and Vors was quick to step in and end him with a decisive strike from his blade.

"Anske!" Vors yelled above the gusting winds, "Thanks for the help, but that was damned reckless! What were you thinking?" Despite chastising her, he managed a tired smile that said he was glad to see her.

Anske moved closer to him so that she would not have to yell to be heard, her face serious. "Where's my father?"

The smile on the Nord's face was swiftly replaced with a slight frown as he studied her face for a moment, then he sighed and pointed to the northwest. "Last I saw him was in the fighting up that way, but—"

She immediately rushed off in the direction he pointed at. The bad feeling within her was getting worse, coiling itself tightly around her heart. She needed to find her father, fast.

"Hey, wait!" Vors yelled from behind her. But as he was about to follow, another Forsworn decided to appear at that moment and charge at him, forcing him to fight.

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Kratos watched Anske run off unarmed and alone towards the burning village. He had called out to her to stop, but she kept going anyway. He gripped the side of the doorframe hard enough that he would have heard the wood groan and creak in protest had it not been for the howling wind, though not so hard as to cause any serious damage. He had just built the place after all.

Clenching his jaw, he strode over and grabbed his woodcutter's axe from where it rested in the corner. He shook his head slowly. He had called out to the girl to not go rushing off blindly into battle, but either she did not hear him or did not care.

Foolish girl. She was bound to get herself killed.

The storm wind continued to roar through the gap of the open door and blew around his body as it sought out every corner of his home. The fire in the hearth billowed and flared at the sudden influx of fresh air.

Shutting his eyes, Kratos took a deep breath of the crisp icy air, and when he opened them again, he began to move. Stepping out into the elements, he shut the door firmly behind him and headed towards the village.

He saw villagers in the distance fleeing south into the wilderness, and he wondered where they would go. From what he had learned of this area, there were no nearby settlements in that direction to seek refuge in. But he supposed that braving the coming blizzard out in the wild was far better than the certainty of being cut down by the attackers here and now.

Kratos had quickly learned that the Nords were a hardy and stubborn folk who seemed well-acclimated to the frigid temperatures of this strange land. Even the cold fury of a blizzard would not find it easy to strike one down.

Speaking of striking someone down, Kratos caught sight of a few Forsworn running across a field to his left, chasing after a small group of escaping villagers.

One of the villagers stumbled and fell, and the others had not noticed as they kept going. Kratos frowned slightly as three Forsworn who were giving chase were suddenly on the poor soul as the Nord tried desperately to get back on his feet. He did not get up again.

Kratos tightened his grip on his axe and broke into a run, moving swiftly despite the biting wind that caught easily against his wide body. The wind was strong, but he barely felt it. When he appeared in front of the group of fleeing villagers, they stumbled to a stop, surprised and confused at his arrival.

There were three women and two men accompanied by two crying children.

The women held the kids protectively as the men got in between them and the towering Spartan. They held in their hands simple farming tools, while the women were armed with cooking knives. Despite the situation, their eyes were grim but determined.

They had decided that running was the best option since they had children with them, but now that they were caught between two foes, they would stand and fight. Kratos could at least appreciate their bravery.

Before any of them could even say anything, much less do anything, Kratos suddenly leaped over the whole group, easily clearing them by a few feet as he exploded off the ground with one powerful step. He roared as he landed on one of the Forsworn who was not far behind them.

The tribal warrior only had time to recoil in shock upon seeing the Spartan descending upon him like a pale meteor falling from the sky. Kratos practically crushed him underfoot as his chest gave in from the heavy impact of his landing. Blood sprayed into the air from the man's mouth as the wind scattered some of it across the ashen skin of the hulking warrior, anointing him with drops of crimson.

The two other Forsworn who had been a bit behind their comrade slid to a stop, dumbfounded at the sudden appearance of the giant musclebound warrior whose eyes burned with a cold fury. Kratos wasted no time as he lunged forward and effortlessly cleaved the head off of the closest one with a single swing of his axe.

A fountain of blood sprayed from the stump of the man's neck as the head went flying, tracing blood through the air.

The remaining Forsworn's eyes went wide, mouth hanging loose as he instinctively started to take a step back and turn to run the other way.

Kratos spun around, following the momentum of his first strike, and then launched his axe at the remaining enemy. The axe spun completely around twice in the air before lodging itself deep into the Forsworn's chest, the impact taking him off his feet and solidly into the ground, where he remained still.

The Forsworn Kratos had landed on was still somehow alive, gurgling on his own blood and wheezing with every breath. Without even sparing him a glance, Kratos stamped on his neck to end his misery.

Five seconds. That was how long the fight lasted, if it could have even been called a fight.

Overhead, the storm clouds steadily grew darker and thicker as the wind continued to blow and gust with growing force.

The villagers stared at him.

Kratos retrieved his axe and, after making sure the three Forsworn were really dead, turned and glared at the villagers.

"What are you standing around for?" he roared. They flinched, taking a step back.

They continued to stare at him for a few seconds.

"There is no time to waste. My house is over there and it will serve as safe shelter for you all." He pointed in the direction of his home. "Now GO!" his voice boomed loud enough to be heard over the din of the gathering storm.

They flinched again, but this time one of them finally nodded and yelled at the others to get a move on, snapping them all out of their stupor. They stuttered barely audible thanks before rushing off towards his house.

Kratos frowned as he watched them leave, unsure of why he had told them that. The words had come out in the heat of the moment. Now that he thought about it more, he was not particularly thrilled to have these strangers taking refuge in his newly built home.

Why did he tell them to do that, then? Was it because he had expended some effort into saving them and therefore did not want them to simply go off into the wilderness to die?

Or perhaps he wanted people there to make sure nothing bad happened to his home while he was out. Not that their being there would guarantee that, though he had no doubts they would defend the place if it came under attack.

Of course, Kratos was not going to allow that. With a sigh, he turned and saw more Forsworn in the distance. They were really starting to annoy him. Now where did that foolish girl run off to?

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Moving up the road as fast as she could manage, Anske hopped over a few corpses, and stepped around even more as she pushed north. From the looks of things, the fighting had been fiercest here, and there were many guardsmen, villagers, and Forsworn lying motionless and bloody in the dirt.

All the structures in this part of the village were ablaze, many already half-burned to the ground. The dark smoke from the fires was quickly carried off and dispersed into the sky by the strong winds. A small comfort given the death and destruction that surrounded her.

She stared at the bodies, hoping that none of them were her father. So far, that thankfully seemed to be the case.

Something bright flashed in the corner of her vision and her instincts screamed at her to move out of the way, so she immediately dove forward into the dirt as a bolt of pure fire flew through the space she was occupying only seconds before.

With a grunt, she pushed herself up to one knee and turned to see a painted woman with a staff of gnarled wood that was adorned with various bones, skulls, and feathers. A Forsworn shaman, and she was preparing another firebolt to hurl at her.

Anske had just enough time to brace herself behind her shield as the next firebolt flew through the air and exploded against it, pushing her back across the dirt a few feet.

The impact jostled her shield arm and shoulder hard, as well as the rest of her body, and she grit her teeth against the reverberating pain. The shield felt warm against her arm now, though the chilling wind was already cooling it down.

Peering out from around the shield, she saw another bolt of fire was loosed her way and she tried to stand and dodge to avoid taking the brunt of it again, but it ended up clipping the side of her shield as she moved a step too slow. The impact spun her and threw her off balance, sending her tumbling painfully into the cold dirt a few feet away.

Anske groaned, immediately regretting her decision to try and dodge. The weight of the shield, the force of the wind, and her aching body had all slowed her movements too much to attempt such a thing against a fast-moving attack like that.

Lying on her back, she turned her head and caught sight of the shaman walking towards her with the air of someone who knew they had an overwhelming advantage. A group of three Forsworn emerged from around the burning house that the shaman had appeared from. They followed close behind the enemy spellcaster, probably tasked with protecting her.

Gritting her teeth from the effort, Anske sat up and checked her shield and was surprised to find that it was still intact, though there were now a dark burn mark across its face. The sword she had picked up earlier was lying a few feet away, and she chastised herself for dropping her weapon yet again.

The shaman must have gotten tired of hurling spells because she said something and one of the three Forsworn guarding her rushed forward to attack while the other two flanked the shaman protectively.

Anske thought this was a stroke of luck. She would have been as good as dead if they all attacked at once, but the shaman was apparently wary of leaving herself unprotected in the midst of battle. Even with her strong magic.

Getting to her feet, she scrambled over to her weapon before she turned to face her assailant. Her heart drummed with excitement as the dull aches and pains of her body suddenly faded away.

There was no avoiding this fight even if she wanted to. The Forsworn was almost upon her by the time she had turned around. He was dressed in a random assortment of furs, feathers, and bones, with eyes that were wild and bordering on unhinged. He sprang forward once he got close enough, his jagged bone sword raised high.

Anske positioned her shield to take the blow, half-obscuring her vision as she prepared herself to counter as soon as the sword hit her shield. She felt the weight of it crash against her, bracing herself to keep her footing as she twisted around, bringing her own sword forward, but all she was able to slice through was the cold air.

Confused, she realized that it was not the Forwsorn's sword that had hit her shield, but his actual body, which was now on the ground next to her. She stared at it. There, sticking out from the side of his chest and ringed in blood, was a sharp bolt of bluish-white ice. She spotted another one that had pierced the Forwsworn's abdomen too, striking him dead before he could finish his attack.

Even after his death, the look of shock on the man's face remained.

Anske whipped her head around, searching for the culprit. She spotted a bloodied and partially hunched over Altmer woman looking both in pain and quite angry. It was Reldith. Half of her right ear had been chopped off, the bloody stump leaking red down the side of her head and neck.

Appearing to have just gotten back to her feet, the high elf clutched at a bloody wound at her side and bared her teeth. Whether it was to taunt the Forsworn or to smile at Anske, the young woman was not sure, but she smiled back at the elf anyway.

A bright light emanated from the hand over her wound, and when Reldith moved it away there was a patch of ice now covering that part of her body. At first Anske thought she might have healed it, but she actually only iced it over to staunch the bleeding.

Did that mean the elf couldn't cast healing magic? Or was there some other reason? There was little time to contemplate that mystery, however.

The Forsworn shaman flicked her staff towards Reldith several times in quick succession as bolts of fire spewed forth from the trio of skulls that adorned its top end.

Reldith did not bother trying to dodge and waved her arms around in a semi-circle as a translucent barrier large enough to shield her whole body shimmered into existence in front of her. The firebolts exploded against it harmlessly, the shield shimmering and flaring with magical energy with each explosion.

The two magic casters proceeded to trade spells back and forth. Fire against ice.

Anske watched all of this with awe as she and the other two Forsworn were reduced to spectators for a time. Magic really was amazing, and not for the first time she found herself wishing that she could use it too.

They continued their duel for another minute before abruptly stopping.

The Forsworn shaman leaned heavily against her staff, looking out of breath, while Reldith was down on one knee looking equally tired, if not more so. Though the Altmer was certainly at a disadvantage given her wounds, she had managed to fight on equal terms with the shaman so far, which improved Anske's respect for the elf.

The shaman barked some orders, looking furious, and the two Forsworn warriors advanced without hesitation. One began to move around to flank Reldith while the other headed straight for Anske.

Reldith struggled to her feet and looked like she was about to cast some spells towards the flanking warrior when the shaman engaged her again, forcing her on the defensive. The flanking warrior began to close the distance to the elf, though was slowed when Reldith managed to send a couple of icebolts towards him while still defending against the shaman.

This is bad. Anske realized what they were trying to do and knew that she had to act quickly to help Reldith. But first, she had to deal with her own opponent. She turned her attention to the approaching Forsworn.

It was a woman this time. She had black and white paint that looked like a mix of ash and paste under her fierce eyes and across her scowling face, making her look even more intimidating than she already did while wearing the furs and bones of animals. Maybe even humans.

With two crudely made bone axes, one in each hand, the Forsworn let out a war cry and rushed at her with the same reckless abandon that Anske had seen most of them exhibit thus far.

Anske had little time to think as she simply reacted, the wind making it difficult to maneuver the shield accurately, but thankfully it was large enough across that she had ample margin for error.

The axes swung one after the other as Anske retreated, shield held in front of her as a few of the swings smacked into it, jostling her arm each time. She grit her teeth as the blades of the axe chipped at the thick wood of her shield with jarring force.

Her opponent backed off a few steps, eyes narrowing at her. The woman smirked.

"Hiding behind your shield, Nord? I thought cowardice was practically a sin for you people."

Anske kept quiet as they slowly circled each other. She chanced a glance over at Reldith and could tell that the elf was nearing her limit trying to keep the other warrior at bay while simultaneously fighting against the shaman.

Anske's opponent rushed at her again, axes swinging, and once more she gave up some ground and held firm behind her shield. She tried to counter, but the Forsworn backed off in time and Anske did not press her, not trusting herself in a straight fight.

An idea formed in Anske's mind then. Her opponent was arrogant and overconfident. She was also simple-minded, having decided to continue hacking away at the shield in a straightforward attack instead of thinking of other ways to get past her defense. Perhaps it partly to toy with her. The thought irritated her, but she tried to ignore that.

Based on her behavior so far, the next attack would come straight up the middle again, with the Forsworn taking a big swing at the beginning to put as much force behind the first strike as possible. That was when Anske would strike. For now, she would wait.

It turned out that she did not have to wait long.

The third time her opponent rushed at her with axes extended to the side to take a wide and powerful swing, instead of stepping backwards under the assault as she had done twice before, Anske charged forward. The gap between them closed faster than her opponent anticipated, and Anske's shield managed to catch the first axe mid-swing, robbing the strike of much of its strength and jarring the warrior's arm enough to drop it.

Anske's own momentum, strength, and the weight of the shield, plus some luck in terms of better footing compared to the Forsworn warrior at the moment of impact, had the Forsworn falling backwards with Anske on top of her. Pinning her to the ground with her shield and body, Anske moved the shield aside just enough and plunged her sword into the now helpless woman's torso.

Her opponent gasped, eyes going wide and mouth agape from the shock as she struggled for a few seconds while the blade plunged deep into her abdomen. From where she was situated on top of the Forsworn, Anske looked directly into the woman's eyes and saw the fear and panic that swept across them, where once before there had been condescending fury and eager bloodlust.

They both knew this were her last moments, and the Forsworn woman writhed and struggled against her impending death. But already her protests grew weak, much of her strength leaving her body as swiftly as the blood flowed from the fatal wound.

"No…" the woman croaked, panicked eyes pleading.

Anske's face was hard as she withdrew the sword and stabbed one last time, higher up this time and into the woman's chest, putting her out of her misery. She had done this many times to the animals she had hunted over the last few years, but this was the first time she had ever done it to a human.

Blood spewed forth from the woman's mouth as she sputtered, head turning and body convulsing. Anske shut her eyes and a handful of seconds later, the woman stopped moving beneath.

When she dared to look again, the woman had glassy eyes that were cold and lifeless.

Anske shivered. She felt numb, and not because of the cold.

This was the first time she had ever killed a person. She had always known that she would need to do so eventually, given the path she had chosen to follow, but it was still not something she could have ever fully been prepared for, no matter how many times she might have thought she was ready.

Her hands shook as she tugged her sword out and stared at the blood dripping from the blade. Dark and red. And warm. She saw the faint wisps of steam that wafted off the blood as the cold wind dispersed it almost immediately.

She shivered again and made sure not to look at the woman's face anymore as she rolled off to the side and onto her back. With ragged breaths, she stared up at the ominous dark clouds that moved swiftly across the sky. The memory of the woman's eyes as she was dying played over in her mind.

Would her eyes be like that too when she was at death's door?

A pained cry off to her side snapped her out of it as she remembered Reldith. With some effort, she propped herself on her elbow and looked over towards the elf.

Reldith had apparently decided to deal with the flanking warrior first and had somehow managed to take him down, but in doing so left herself exposed to the shaman's magic. The cry that Anske had heard was when a firebolt finally smacked into the elf, burning her and sending her into the dirt. She writhed on the ground in agony as she rolled and tried to put out the flames.

From the way she was stooped over and leaning heavily on her staff, the shaman looked absolutely exhausted. Not once did she glance towards Anske, not noticing that she had won her fight, perhaps having forgotten about her, or written her off as not much of a threat.

With slow, hobbled steps, the shaman started to walk closer to the fallen elf. She wanted to finish Reldith off up close, perhaps to taunt her in her final moments, if Anske were to guess.

Anske willed herself to move as she pushed herself to her feet, swaying in the wind. Under labored breathing, and with bloody blade in hand and battered shield in the other, she focused her gaze on the shaman.

She was not about to let that happen.

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Reldith was not young by any stretch of the imagination, but she was young for an Altmer. Despite her supposed youth, however, she felt old. Especially in the company of Mer. She had lived for well over a hundred years now and had experienced more than enough of the world in that time to know that it was as cruel as it was unforgiving, rife with conflict and violence.

That was why she had settled in Rorikstead in the first place, to get away from it all. Sure, Skyrim was no peaceful haven or utopia, but at least here in the village things were, for the most part, much simpler. She worked the land, tended to the crops, and only spoke to a handful of people who knew well enough not to bother her overmuch.

Whiterun Hold was arguably the most peaceful hold in the province, and Rorikstead was small and insignificant enough not to matter much in the grand scheme of things, which meant it was largely kept out of any major crises or conflicts.

There were the occasional bandits, of course, and skirmishes with the Forsworn out in the wilderness, but the village itself was for the most part safe and secure. And the people, though fearful and suspicious of magic and those who wielded it, were nice and friendly enough to anyone who worked hard and kept their head down, which suited Reldith perfectly.

Toiling hard to make a living with her own hands and sweat was something she cherished, an appreciation she shared with most of the other villagers. Even Ennis, who at first did not seem like the farming type when he showed up to the village in tattered clothes and looking like he had been through hell. He had shared little of his past, but when he had sought shelter and work, Reldith had offered him a place at her farm and had not regretted it since.

To sum it all up, Rorikstead seemed to be close enough to an ideal place to settle down that she had thought it would go on like this until the end of her days.

That was why the major Forsworn attack today had come as a complete surprise. It made absolutely no sense. There should have been no reason for such a big offensive so far from the lands the Forsworn were contesting in The Reach, especially against a settlement of a jarl who had thus far made no intention of joining the fight against them.

After an attack of this scale, however, Jarl Balgruuf would have no choice but to marshal his army against the Forsworn. There was no doubt in the elf's mind about that outcome. The previous skirmish was a minor event by comparison. This was an outright declaration of war.

Not that she had to worry about that now that she was about to die. And what a way to go, too, she mused as she lay on the ground on her left side in a haze of pain.

The spell had hit her on her right side, the flames engulfing her entire right arm and part of her right torso, from the shoulder to the waist. Some of the flames had even burned the right side of her head. The pain had been beyond anything she had ever experienced in her life thus far, and she had been through her fair share of harrowing situations.

If only she had been wearing armor or even enchanted robes. She had sold all of her equipment to help pay for her plot of land here, as well as to build her home and to have all the necessary things to run a successful farm. She had not thought it necessary to keep any combat equipment, and now she was regretting that choice.

Reldith's family would have a lot to say about that if she ever saw them again. Actually, if they ever saw her in this state, she would probably die from the shame alone.

A fresh wave of pain erupted from her side and she grit her teeth. She managed to extinguish the flames, though the damage had already been done. Her burned right side was exposed to the harsh elements and in constant pain. The skin was varying shades of red, charred in some places, and covered with blisters and pus. She looked like she was already a half step into the grave.

It was a wonder that she was still conscious, if only barely. She saw the bottom of a staff hit the dirt in front of her eyes, followed by two feet covered with worn fur-lined leather boots. Barely able to focus, she looked up to see the Forsworn shaman, who despite her exhaustion looked down at her with a triumphant sneer.

The shaman was middle-aged, her wrinkled features covered in paint and chalk. Or was it ash? Her lips moved, but she spoke too softly and the wind was too loud, drowning out her words. Though Reldith understood what she was trying to say simply by looking into her eyes.

Her thoughts turned to the reason she was now in this position in the first place.

Hopefully, Mralki's daughter was able to survive and escape. After the first wave of the assault, Reldith had been hoping to conserve her energy and retreat to regroup with the surviving villagers, but when she saw the girl in trouble, she could not leave her to die. She was far too young to die in a seemingly meaningless battle like this.

As Reldith's vision began to fade, and the darkness called to her with a promise of relief from her pain, she thought she saw the shaman turn and then fall.

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