Humanity had no place here—for no humans were present.
A bunch of hairs had piled upon a branch with some falling off the bark. These were the remnants of a duel history will not glorify or remember, but it would go down as an unforgettable event in the collective memories of the duelists—and one spectator.
I can't believe it came so close... Corvus thought while rubbing his head.
Elsyn's eyes had become teary, My precious beautiful hairs... Mama will miss you...
Lea picked a strand of hair and peering at it, she asked, "Who's hair is it? It's kinda white."
"Such a dirty thing can't belong to me," Elsyn replied.
"Or maybe it got dirty when you touched it with your slimy hands," Corvus retorted.
Elsyn locked eyes with him, and snapped, "My hands aren't slimy—take that back."
Corvus, welcoming the challenge smirked. "Do your worst."
Another—inane—battle was about to erupt when Lea questioned, "Corvus are you hiding your age? Why is the base of your hair white?"
"He must be. Look at that old Mundukar over there; how else do you explain someone so young attaining Unity? Do you feel good about yourself, plucking a young girl’s hair like this? You brute!" Elsyn interjected.
"Funny, I can barely see a single strand of your hair. Let me guess—they’re buried somewhere within my locks. I’ve heard stress turns hair white... perhaps that explains the color of some of mine."
A staring contest had almost begun when Lea yanked their clothes, and pointed at the unfolding battle in front of them. Their quarrel died instantly.
The old Mundukar kept cutting down swathes of enemies like dry leaves. That remained unchanged. Swords and spears jutted from his limbs and back, yet they failed to hinder his movements—disciplined and deadly. That, too, remained unchanged.
However, what caught Lea’s eyes—and soon Corvus’s and Elsyn’s—were two columns of riderless horses in wedge formation, charging at the old Mundukar from opposite directions.
The old Mundukar was too embroiled in battle to notice the looming threat. All he could see were mounds of corpses of his making, and all he could hear was the tumult of voices—some shouting in rage, others screaming in agony.
In the blink of an eye, the two charging horse formations came dangerously close to the old Mundukar's location. Yet neither slowed down.
"Why aren't they slowing down? They will crash at this rate!" Lea asked.
Corvus focused on the speeding horses and noticed something disturbing. "They are blindfolded."
Before the meaning behind Corvus's words could dawn on the siblings, they witnessed the consequence—the two columns of horses collided.
A cacophony of flesh slamming, bones crunching, and earth quaking beneath the impact reverberated through the grove. Then came the guttural cries of beast and men alike—sending shivers run down the siblings' spines.
The entire forest trembled in horror.
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The appalling scene dragged on for a few minutes, until the horses could move no more, could shout no more. The silence—even if for a moment only—was more unsettling than any wail or roar.
The trio could not see the aftermath, for a billowing cloud of dust had shrouded the point of impact—the old Mundukar's position. All they discerned were the other warriors’ reactions—unfazed, relentless, still attacking
Utter pandemonium reigned. Breaking all semblance of formation, the warriors charged into the smoke, vanishing behind it.
Primal savagery took over the men behind the veil of dust.
The veil lingered, consuming more and more warriors within its sweep.
The trio could only guess at what unfolded inside. They held their breath and waited in tense silence for the dust to settle.
And soon, it did.
Hundreds of maimed bodies lay buried beneath dozens of mangled horses—some alive, some not. And atop the mountain of corpses, several figures danced and howled like lunatics.
An inexplicable, all-consuming hysteria had seized these men; they had lost all sense of reason, of the world, and of themselves.
Elsyn and Lea shuddered at the sight. Elsyn had seen death and ugly side of humanity before, but the pure barbarity enfolding before her surpassed them all. Lea, on the other hand, was visibly trembling; violence and cruelty were never things she could condone, much less celebrate
"What's wrong with these people?" Lea muttered under her breath.
"What happened to that old man?" Elsyn asked.
Corvus's face betrayed no emotion, yet his eyes reflected clear disdain, as he gestured at a spot: "There; look closely."
Elsyn's eyes following his direction, saw a blood-stained longsword planted on the ground, with three figures impaled upon it. Kneeling beside the weapon was its master—the old Mundukar. Defeated and degraded.
His once daunting frame now appeared frail and shrunken from the blood loss. While one of his limbs dangled from his shoulders. But the most grotesque detail of all was his severed head, which the frenzied warriors were kicking around a few meters away.
"Poor old man... Did he really deserve to die so horribly?" Lea spoke.
"He was likely a slaver, or helped them do it in some capacity. Besides, people rarely have a say over how they die; death doesn't give that luxury," Elsyn answered, her tone sombre and reflective.
Corvus got up and nudged others to follow: "Let's go; their task here is done. They won't follow us."
Just as Elsyn rose, an arrow whisked in the air, it missed Corvus by an inch, and struck the tree's trunk.
"We've been spotted—run! They won't chase after nobodies like us," Elsyn said.
Corvus turned and saw one of the warriors nock another arrow, aiming directly at them.
He stepped forward. "Hide behind the branches, and stay out of their line of fire."
Elsyn looked at him, puzzled.
"Ever heard the phrase: wrong place, wrong time," Corvus said.
Elsyn blinked, still in confusion, but before she could ask, Corvus added, "Well, we are it."
He jumped off the tree. Walking at a measured pace, he approached the warriors.
Their numbers had been greatly reduced by now, yet over four dozens of them were still alive and active. With eyes burning with malice and hearts darkened by deeds, they welcomed their supposed prey who came to them of his own volition.
A man with tattoos covering his whole body came forward. He spoke in a derisive tone, "Wow, what a good boy we have here—sparing us old folk the trouble of chasing after you."
"I'll tell you what, you tell us who you're spying for and we'll let you go with a light beating only—sounds fair, yes," he continued.
"Don't make such obvious promise, he'll catch you, man," someone from the background commented.
"I'm not a spy. Why do people always misunderstand me?" Corvus mumbled to himself.
Several people closed in, surrounding him, they glared at him.
A few away from him, the tattooed man smiled, and spoke, "Don't be a bad boy—you're a good boy, we've established that already. You won't like what we do with bad boys..."
The tattooed man stared seriously at Corvus for a few seconds before bursting in laughter. "Haha... Don't be afraid, I'll give you a chance to become a good boy again, alright. You see Walter there," he pointed at a man with bow, and continued, "He saw two more people with you... people with long hair."
He grinned wickedly: "I'm assuming there are ladies in your company, hand them over and you'll become a good boy again. What do you say, boy?"
The people surrounding Corvus also began grinning. They expected the boy to cower before the grotesque battlefield and its victors.
However, Corvus remained unbothered. He inhaled the revolting metallic stench of blood, and a thought entered his mind,
...Home.
Suddenly, his eyes grew cold and heart became steady as ice.
He grabbed his blade and swiveled once, cleanly slicing the head of the men around him in two.
Corvus faced the tattooed man, and said, "It's just... Not a good day to be mentioning hairs to me... Cool tattoos though—I'm an artist myself."
He was not. But no one here was going to live long enough to find that out.
