Chapter 5: The Lights of the Arohim

***ARAN SUNBLADE – Sorral Plain, Ekistair***

The next morning, Aran and Kedron rode side by side, keeping their horses at a brisk walk. They had broken camp early, and the sky had not yet begun to turn grey in the east. Smythe had ridden out further, seeking out small camps of Heralds to attack, while helping them avoid the larger ones, and any of the dozens of farms that dotted the vast plain.

Aran took his eyes off the surrounding landscape to glance at Kedron. Staring at nothing, his brow was drawn into a frown and he was fingering the sword hilt at his waist. “How are your thoughts?”

“It’s Imella,” the younger man said quietly. “The closer we get to Ironshire, the better I feel her. She’s terrified.”

Imella was the name of Kedron’s secret lover, whom he had tried to hide from his father. “Do you think he has found her?” Aran asked.

After a moment, Kedron shook his head. “No, but I think when he does, he’s going to hurt her, Master Aran. I can’t let that happen!” He was angry, and Aran couldn’t blame him.

“As much as I want to go charging into Ironshire to find her, that would be suicide,” Aran said as gently as he could. “But if we can draw your father’s attention to us quickly enough, then he will not need to hurt Imella to find us.”

As Aran finished speaking, the smell of smoke touched his nose, and a second later, three pulses came from Smythe’s vala – his Gift. Something was wrong.

“What was that?” Kedron asked, his head swiveling. “I felt something.”

“Smythe,” Aran said. “Come on!” He booted Strider, and the stallion was at a gallop in a flash. The smell of smoke grew stronger as they neared the place where Aran had felt Smythe’s signal. Soon enough, Aran could sense a farm, though the only sign of life was Smythe. His stomach tightened as they rode through the blackened crops that surrounded the homestead, the early morning stillness giving the scene a funereal atmosphere.

Aran could feel the charred and blackened remnants of the farmhouse long before they approached it, the few remaining upright timbers still smoldering. Something about the whole picture seemed more horrible than just a burned house, but why?

Smythe was sitting on the ground nearby, his knees drawn up and his arms propped atop them. His head was bowed, and he didn’t look up when Aran and Kedron dismounted, but he spoke softly. “They were inside when the house was torched. The door was barred from the outside.” He sounded numb. “A whole family. Children.” The last came as a whisper.

Kedron muttered a prayer under his breath. Sadness and anger welled in Aran’s chest, each fighting for dominance. “Who?” Was all he managed to say. Smythe pointed at something a short distance away, and Aran found his feet moving until he was standing over a torn piece of cloth on the churned-up dirt. Bending, he picked it up between two fingers. A piece of cloth no bigger than his hand. While the vala couldn’t distinguish colours, there was enough light under the pre-dawn sky to show the cloth was clearly yellow. His fist closed around the cloth, tightening until he heard his knuckles crack.

One thought kept spinning through his mind. Why? Why murder an innocent family? He crushed the thought mercilessly. It didn’t matter why. All that mattered was that it needed to stop. He stalked back to the others. “Men,” he said, his voice hard as he gestured to the house. Smythe looked up at him for the first time. “Prepare yourselves for a long day. Smythe, can you track the Heralds who did this?”

Smythe nodded, getting to his feet. “They went northwest. A party of half a dozen, I’d say.”

“Good.” Aran strode to Strider and mounted. “Then let’s catch them up.”

The Heralds had stopped for their morning meal when the arohim – Aran, Smythe and Kedron – caught up to them. Aran silently signaled a dismount several hundred paces out, behind a gentle rise. “Kedron, wait here,” he said quietly. When the young apprentice opened his mouth in protest, Aran silenced him with a firm stare and a shake of his head. “Not this time.” Nodding, Kedron made a small bow and busied himself with tightening his saddle girth.

Neither Aran nor Smythe spoke as they moved out on foot, keeping as low as they could and circling around until they had the sun behind them, making them harder to spot. As they approached where the Heralds had settled in, Aran saw one sentry walking the perimeter, scanning the area, his red-lined yellow cloak thrown back to keep his sword arm free. He would’ve had to look directly into the sun to see Aran and Smythe, and so his gaze passed over them.

The Herald passed left to right, and Aran delivered hushed orders to Smythe. “Take him down, but don’t kill him.”

“Aye,” Smythe whispered as he broke away and make a beeline for the sentry. The man never had time to shout as Smythe popped up behind him and wrapped a thick arm around his neck before dragging him back down into the tall grass.

There were five Heralds sitting in a circle around a small fire not far off, a pot of water suspended above on a metal stand. Their horses stood tied together nearby. As Smythe struck, Aran stood and charged forward, whipping Oroth free of its scabbard.

The Herald sitting directly opposite Aran looked up, squinting into the sun before crying out in alarm and surging to his feet, but Aran was already among them. The Heralds were awkwardly trying to draw swords while getting to their feet, a task made all the harder when Aran kicked the fire, sending hot coals and boiling tea water onto two men, who yelped in pain and anger.

Aran’s boot found another man’s head as he spun, flicking Oroth in a tight circle to cut through a sword seeking his gut. There was a searing hiss, and the Herald was left holding a glowing orange stump, a look of bewilderment on his face. Aran kicked him in the gut, bending him double, and a pommel strike to the back of his head sent him down.

Smythe appeared, tossing the unconscious sentry down and joining the fray. In seconds the Heralds were down, groaning in pain. Aran bent and seized the oldest of them by his collar, lifting his head and shoulders off the ground. He laid Oroth across the man’s throat, not quite touching the skin. The heat would be uncomfortable.

Despite the glowing blade, the Herald sneered and spat at Aran. There was a wild light in his eyes, more than a touch of madness. “Filthy arohim!” One of the other Heralds tried to move, but Smythe slapped him down with the flat of Lightbringer’s blade and shook his head in warning.

“There is a farmhouse,” Aran began softly, holding the Herald’s gaze. “Not five miles from here. It was burned last night, with the family still inside. Was it you?” He felt into the man’s heart, and found pain, hate and madness. It made him want to howl.

“They brought it on themselves!” The Herald snarled. “They refused us entry! They were hiding something! They -” his words were severed as Aran swept Oroth down and forward, slicing the Herald’s jugular like a hot knife through butter, the searing blade instantly cauterizing the wound and saving Aran from being sprayed with blood.

Seeing that, one of the younger Heralds bounded to his feet and tried to hare off, but Smythe moved like a whip uncoiling, seizing the lad by the scruff and tossing him back down with the others. Aran straightened, staring down at them. He felt into them with his vala. Two of them – older than the others – felt like the dead one had; all twisted inside, but the other three seemed different, that terrible darkness was not present.

“You two,” Aran said, pointing at two of the ones he had hope for. The third was still lying unconscious. “Back at that farmhouse, tell me what happened.” They both began to speak, until Aran silenced them one at a time so he could get each man’s account in turn. They said that they had kept watch while the burning was being done, and they had protested the brutality, but stopped when they’d been threatened with insubordination, which apparently meant a flogging and a week of starvation. Aran’s vala told him they were being truthful.

“Cowards.” This from a thin-lipped, hollow-cheeked man, who was sneering at the younger Heralds.

“Close your mouth, zealot,” Smythe warned him. “Or it will be closed.”

Wake your friend and be gone,” Aran told them. “And I strongly suggest you alter your loyalties from this day forward. The Heralds of Dawn are about to get a nasty shock.”

Stammering their thanks, the two young Heralds scrambled to their feet and hurried to their horses, dragging their fellow with them. “Traitors!” Thin-lips yelled after them as they galloped away.

“You will be hunted down and flogged for deserting!” The other one shouted. He looked for all the world a farmer, with his weathered face, but his eyes – cold and hard – told a different tale.

Aran squatted down before them, Oroth across his knees. The blade was quiet, now, appearing to be just ordinary steel, but the Heralds watched it warily; they knew what it could do. “You two are going to hang,” Aran told them levelly. “That is the sentence for murder in this region, is it not?”

“You are no magistrate!” Thin-lips declared. “I demand-”

“You demand nothing!” Aran bellowed, and they shied back from his eyes. Oroth blazed to life, fueled by his anger. “You murdered an entire family! You murdered children! Burned them alive!” He didn’t know whether he wanted to cry or kill them. With an effort, he brought himself under control. “And so, you will hang,” he finished quietly. “One more word from either of you, and I will remove a limb first. Understand?”

They eyed him sullenly, hatefully, but they remained silent. A few moments later, Kedron appeared with the horses. The Heralds were bound by their wrists, and their ropes were tied to Aran’s saddle. After searching the captives and finding nothing of use, Aran stripped them of their cloaks and stuffed them into his saddlebags, thinking they may come in handy later.

“Find us a stand of trees, Smythe,” Aran said to the big Paladin. Smythe looked at him for a moment, his eyes seeming to ask if Aran was sure about this, but he didn’t question the order. A half-hour later, they pulled up at a small stand of oak and elm.

When Smythe moved to untie the Heralds, Aran forestalled him. “I would not ask you to do this task on my behalf, Henley. Though I know that you would.” To be truthful, Aran really did wish someone else would do it, but what kind of leader would it make him if he let others do that which he wasn’t willing to do himself? As much as he hated killing, these men had hearts as black as coal, and to let them free would be sentencing other innocents to death at their hands.

Smythe said nothing, but handed the ropes to Aran. Kedron just watched silently from his saddle, his face grim. The Heralds remained impassive as Aran slung their ropes over a thick oak branch, but the farmer-faced one finally broke as he was fitted with a noose. He dropped to his knees and began to weep wordlessly. Aran felt a spike of compassion, but squashed it mercilessly. Murder was murder, whether you felt remorse for it or not.

Nooses fitted, Aran secured the other ends of the ropes to Strider’s saddle. All he had to do was walk the horse forward a few steps, and the Heralds would be lifted from the ground by their necks. “Any last words?” He asked. In answer, thin-lips spat at him, while the other continued his weeping. “Very well. May you find peace in death, and may your souls be forgiven in the afterlife. May Aros shelter your eternal rest.” He heeled Strider forward, and the ropes tightened, lifting the Heralds clear of the ground. Turning back in his saddle, Aran made himself watch as they kicked and swayed.

Finally, they went still, and Aran released a breath he had not realised he’d been holding. Dismounting, he untied the ropes from Strider and secured them around a lower branch of the oak. The weight was easy for him to manage while he worked; his vala lent him more than enough strength for that.

When he turned, he saw Smythe and Kedron looking at him. “They are a message,” Aran said, pointing at the hanging corpses. “I want the Heralds to know what happens to those who do murder.” Smythe nodded in understanding, though his face was grave.

Kedron said nothing while he stared up at the bodies and gripped his sword hilt. “Two isn’t enough,” he murmured quietly.

“No, it isn’t,” Aran agreed as he climbed back into his saddle. “How many Heralds were stationed in Ironshire, Kedron?”

“Around two hundred, Master,” Kedron replied. “But with the recent recruiting, it’s impossible to say how many more have joined the cause.”

“Aran,” Smythe said. “If they’re burning houses, the people need to be warned. We should protect those we can.”

Aran thought quickly. Two hundred Heralds, maybe more, searching the massive Sorral Plains for Smythe and Kedron. They would have to be in small groups, and were probably using the handful of local villages as garrisons. “We ride for the nearest village, and warn any farms or hamlets along the way that the Heralds have been burning homes, but we don’t go too far out of our way.”

“What about the people? Where will they go?” Smythe asked.

Aran smiled at him. “I think I know just the place.”

***ELAINA FAIRBORN – The East Bank of the Emerindrelle, Southwest of the Karvani Mountains, Ekistair***

Elaina woke from a very pleasant dream. Well, not a dream, really; she’d been on the Plane with Aran, engaged in some very passionate lovemaking. She sat up, her blanket falling down to her waist, baring her breasts to the cool night air. Her nipples were still hard as rocks and her pussy was soaking from the sex. She smiled to herself, loving the way she felt when she was with him.

Aran had told her how things were progressing on the Sorral Plain. Elaina had been disturbed at the news of the burned farmhouse, and concerned for Aran after hearing how he’d hanged those men, but she couldn’t fault him for doing it, not after what they’d done. Aran was also sending people toward the Temple, to seek refuge from the Heralds. The plan was for him and Elaina to meet with Amina tomorrow night and inform her of this.

“How is he?” Liaren asked quietly. The slender Elf crouched on a low branch of a nearby pine tree, her bow across her knees. Liaren was on watch until Elaina awoke. Dressed all in deep greens and with boots of brown, the beautiful Eryn’elda blended well with the surrounding foliage of the forest. They were camped on the east bank of the Emerindrelle in a thick copse of pine and fir just out of reach of the high tide. Dappled moonlight played through the branches above that shifted slightly with the gentle breeze. Willow, sleeping peacefully with her head hanging down between her front legs, was tethered to a nearby tree. They could have covered more ground, but Elaina wanted the mare well-rested.

Elaina stood, stretching her arms above her head. Her nudity was not an issue, here; Liaren and Induin were very well acquainted with her body, and she theirs. “He is well,” she replied. “So far, things are going as expected. He is sending folk that are troubled by the Heralds toward the mountains, where Amina will arrange someone to gather them up and bring them in to safety.”

Liaren nodded and slipped out of the tree, her soft boots touching the mulched ground silently. “He is as kind as he is strong. I do worry for him, sometimes, though I know he is capable.”

“It is natural to do so, for someone you care for,” Elaina said kindly. “He sends his love to you both.” She looked down at Induin, who was rolled up in her cloak next to where Elaina had been sleeping. Only her silvery hair was visible. Liaren smiled appreciatively, both at the words and at her sister. “Have the trees spoken tonight?”

Liaren shook her head, sending her chestnut hair swinging slightly. “They have been quiet. I was concerned we may find the Mor’laman’gul awaiting us, but the Alda say they have not seen them for several moons.”

Elaina felt some relief at that. Druids. Last time she had come through here, she had been fleeing a Druid, a creature of shadow and corrupt magic. If it weren’t for the Elves, she likely would not have survived. “That is welcome news. I do not look forward to the day I face one of those again.”

Liaren grinned and moved closer. Her slender frame, clad in almost skintight breeches and a tight tunic, undulated distractingly. “I think the creature may feel the same way about you, eruchen,” she purred. The Elf was of a height with Elaina, and they shared a long gaze that seemed to heat the air around them. “You are strong, powerful. You underestimate yourself.” As Liaren spoke, her eyes wandered slowly over Elaina’s body.

Elaina chuckled. “You Elves are insatiable, you know that?”

Liaren laughed and slung her bow across her back so she could run her hands enticingly over her slim frame. “We Elves were always an amorous people, but since becoming meldin, my body and spirit are aflame!”

“I know how you feel,” Elaina said, stepping forward and putting her arms around the other woman’s waist. Liaren happily leaned in, snaking her own arms around Elaina’s neck and offering her lips for a kiss. Elaina took the kiss, squeezing the Elf’s waist possessively before her hands migrated south to the pert buttocks just below. “This is how I am much of the time.”

“Mmm,” Liaren moaned as their tongues danced. “Get me naked.” Elaina wasted no time, deftly unlacing the strings of Liaren’s breeches and tugging them down. Liaren kicked her boots off so she could pull her dainty feet free of her pants, which left Elaina staring at a smooth, bald pussy that was begging to be tasted. Grasping the Elf by her hips, Elaina leaned forward and planted soft kisses from Liaren’s navel down to the apex of her womanly cleft. Hands grasped the side of her head, trying to guide her mouth lower, but Elaina felt playful, so she trailed the kisses off to the side, nibbling and licking the creamy skin at the apex of each thigh.

Liaren moaned as she worked on removing her tunic and shirt, and Elaina delighted as the scent of the Elf’s wetness filled her nose. She smelled like only an Elf could, light and sweet and heady all at the same time. Elaina’s own pussy flooded anew at the aroma as she buried her face into Liaren’s sex, running her tongue through the warm, wet lips.

“Fuck!” Liaren cried as her hips bucked forward and her hands tangled in Elaina’s hair. “Nobody does that better than you, Elaina. Nobody!”

Grinning as she worked, both at the compliment and at the sheer thrill of pleasuring Liaren’s body, Elaina began exploring the crack of the Elf’s tight ass, her finger sliding down between the smooth cheeks and finding her rear hole. Being an Elf, Liaren’s ass was lubricated, much like a pussy, and so Elaina’s finger slid inside the tight tunnel effortlessly.

“Really?” Said Induin as she sat up, her covers dropping to reveal an identical body to her sister’s. Slim and lithe, with perky tits capped by hard pink nipples. “Nobody?”

Elaina pulled her mouth from Liaren’s pussy to eye Induin in a playfully critical manner. “You think you can do better, little sister? I’m not sure you can!”

With a growl, Induin leaped forward and tackled Elaina, tussling with her until Elaina laughingly ceded her enough room to get at her sister’s hot snatch. Liaren squealed delightedly as Induin’s tongue found her clit. Elaina watched avidly, caressing Induin’s back with one hand and squeezing a pert breast with the other. Soon enough, Liaren’s legs gave out and she hit the leaf-carpeted ground. Induin’s tongue never left her twin’s pussy.

Elaina’s vala hummed intensely; she was aroused and wet, and wanted her aching pussy tended. Standing up, she stepped over Liaren’s head and began to squat, slowly lowering herself down onto the Elf’s face while facing Induin. She gasped as Liaren’s tongue began exploring her moist folds. “Ah! That’s good!” Wanting to give back the pleasure she was feeling, Elaina pushed her vala at the Elvish twins, making them come immediately. The copse was filled with their passionate moans as their bodies rocked in climax.

Suddenly Induin was moving, nimbly flipping up into a handstand, her hands on either side of her sister’s hips, and spinning so her front was facing Elaina. The Paladin watched hungrily as Induin held herself perfectly erect, her feet together, toes pointed at the sky. Slowly, her slender legs came apart, lowering until they were horizontal, leaving her smooth, hairless pussy wide open, just inches from Elaina’s face. Displaying her amazing physical prowess, Induin lowered herself down to her elbows so her face was back in Liaren’s crotch, and at the same time, brought her legs around until they rested on Elaina’s shoulders, putting her sex at the perfect position for Elaina to give it a good tongue-lashing.

They stayed like that for long minutes, each woman coming often and powerfully – Elaina made sure of that, putting her vala to good use – until eventually they collapsed in a heap of sweaty, naked flesh. “Well,” Elaina said after catching her breath. “As much fun as that was, Aronduri, it is my turn to take watch.”

As Elaina began to extricate herself from the slender Elvish limbs, Liaren grabbed her hand. “You just called us Servants of Aros,” she said softly, studying Elaina seriously.

Induin sat up, her face a picture of curiosity. “She’s right; you did, Aros’iel. You called us ‘Aronduri.’”

Elaina had stopped halfway between crouching and standing, so she settled back on her heels. “I suppose I did, at that,” she mused. It had not been intentional, but she already thought of Liaren and Induin as Servants in her own mind, even if they hadn’t performed the ceremony. “I think you would make excellent Servants,” she told them honestly. “If that’s something you want, then we would be honoured to have you in the Order.”

Elaina wasn’t sure how they’d react; she was thinking they’d be excited, or perhaps nervous, but what they actually did surprised her, especially coming from the normally playful and mischievous Elves. As one, they stood and faced Elaina side by side for a moment, their expressions unreadable. Then, they crossed their arms over their chests and bowed formally, saying in unison, “we accept your offer, Aros’iel. We humbly commit ourselves to the Order of Aros, to our dying breath and beyond.”

Elaina’s mouth was hanging open, and she quickly closed it. “That’s one of the ancient forms. How did you know to speak those words?”

“We’ve been speaking to the Servants at the Temple,” Induin said. “Lynelle in particular was most helpful. She remembers the old ways, being Tar’elda.”

“Lynelle says that her mother taught her the words, as she had learned them from her mother,” Liaren added.

Elaina nodded slowly. It made sense. Lynelle was indeed a High Elf, though she had not been home to the Elvish lands in the East for many years, for reasons she had yet to disclose. Maybe Aran knew. “I must say, I’m delighted that you accepted so readily. You both will make wonderful Aronduri.” Elaina beamed up at the naked twins, who smiled back. The aura of lust began to rise again, but Elaina suppressed it, not allowing her vala to feed it. “Now,” she began firmly. “The two of you need to rest; we’ve been pushing hard the last couple of days, and if your people don’t send a boat, we’ll need to push harder. I will assume the watch for the rest of tonight.”

Obediently, Induin and Liaren curled up together in their cloaks, lying with their bows unstrung but handy. Elaina had seen Liaren string a bow in less than a heartbeat, so she had no doubt that if trouble came, they would be ready.

Pulling on her breeches, shirt and boots and belting Shatter onto her waist, Elaina shimmied up the tree Liaren had occupied earlier and settled in to watch the night.

***ARAN – The Sorral Plain, Ekistair***

The third day since leaving the Temple saw Strider’s hooves thundering as Aran galloped him across the plain, using his vala to guide the stallion around deadly dips in the ground. The sun rode high above, casting a compressed shadow of man and steed onto the tall grass below. Shouts rose from behind, telling him that the Heralds of Dawn were still in pursuit. They had not been difficult to rile; all he’d needed to do was hit their leader in the helmet with a well-aimed stone.

They’d come across this patrol while angling back toward the Maralon Road – they’d been cutting back and forth across the road, leaving a trail of dead Heralds behind them – a hard-packed avenue that connected Ironshire to Maralon, bending around the eastern side of the Karvanis. The Heralds had been riding towards a farm, but Aran had intervened.

With his vala temporarily expanded, he could sense Smythe and Kedron laying in a small hollow nearby, a depression in the ground that was impossible to see unless you walked into it. The knee-high grass on the Sorral Plain made some excellent spots for ambushing. “Almost there,” he muttered to himself as he spurred Strider on, ignoring the arrow that flashed past his left shoulder; he had sensed it coming and known it was a bad shot.

Just before the hollow he banked left, then leaped from the saddle, flipping backwards and landing on his feet facing his pursuers, a small party of six Heralds. Strider would not run far; he was well trained. Oroth came free of the sheath on his hip, the white heat of the blade sizzling in the cool morning air. One look at those red and yellow cloaks and tabards was more than ample to make him angry enough to wield Oroth’s power, even without the earlier atrocity at that farm. He flowed forward, toward half a dozen men on charging horses. They came in a line that began to curve around him, and showed no signs of slowing, intending to trample him. The two in the centre of the arc had lances lowered and aimed at his chest.

They were almost upon him. Sixty feet, fifty feet, forty feet ... At the last second, he twisted, sliding between the two lances and striking out with Oroth, deftly nicking the saddle girths of the lance-bearer’s horses. He spun to see the two Heralds tumbling from their loosened saddles, and the other four drawing rein and turning.

One of the fallen Heralds picked himself up, fury painting his face. The other one had not risen yet, probably due to a broken neck. Aran could not sense a life-force from the man.

Riderless, their horses had kept running. “Attack!” the unhorsed Herald screamed before picking up his lance and running at Aran.

With a snarl, Aran knocked the lance aside with the flat of his blade and kicked at the knee of his attacker, who stumbled past Aran awkwardly as his leg folded. He fell to one knee, and Aran turned back to the mounted Heralds as they charged in again. No lances this time, just swords, and Aran danced among them, Oroth’s vala -forged blade searing through their steel and leaving only glowing orange stumps.

The Heralds pulled back in surprise and fear when they saw what Oroth did to their weapons. Two of them were maybe in their middle years, more experienced, while two were younger, closer to Aran’s age. The younger ones certainly had wider eyes. Aran twirled Oroth lazily, the hot blade blackening the tips of the grass as it passed. He made himself smile arrogantly. “You wanted a Paladin? Well, come and get me!”

“Arohim!” Came a scream from behind Aran. He didn’t need to turn around to know that the lancer had recovered and was about to run him through from behind. He could feel everything through the vala as if it were a part of himself. In a split second, Aran felt into the approaching Herald’s heart. Madness, pain and hate assaulted his senses, as he had expected. Whatever humanity had been inside this man was long since gone. With a sense of regret, Aran spun, Oroth humming as it flashed twice, shearing the shaft of the lance in two before cleanly taking the head of the Herald.

“If you value your lives,” Aran said as he turned to back to the remaining Heralds. “You will flee now, and you will renounce your loyalty as Heralds of Dawn.”

“Do not listen to him speak!” One of the older men ordered. He had cold dark eyes and a hard face. “The words of the arohim are poison!” The others nodded uncertainly. “I fear you not, Paladin!” The man spat as he dismounted smoothly. “Your filthy tricks will not work on me!” He stalked forward, dropping his stump of a sword and pulling a dagger from behind his belt. His men followed suit.

Aran sensed the same darkness in all of them that he had with the other. The approaching Herald attacked, leaping forward and slashing while the others circled around behind Aran. Smythe had taught him what do to when surrounded; find a weak point in the circle and assault it without warning.

Sliding ‘round the dagger, Aran pivoted and swept Oroth left to right, taking the hand of the man that had been directly behind him, and then his head. He flowed around the collapsing body to come back at the dagger-wielder, who’s eyes widened in surprise when Oroth pierced his heart. The remaining Herald dropped his sheared-off weapon and bolted, but Smythe and Kedron rose from the grass like leopards. Two blades found their marks, and the Herald dropped in a flurry of yellow.