B3 Chapter 412: Argent Clash, Pt. 2

Warm sunlight cut through the canopy above, gracing Torrin’s skin with its touch once more. He should have been more at ease. He was a hunter, a man who had lived his life on the move out in the wilds.

He was unscrupulous about his quarry, yes, but still a man of nature all the same. Keeping himself cooped up in a hole in the ground for months wasn’t natural. It was good to stretch his legs, breathe the late-summer air, and hear the rustle of leaves and the chirp of crickets.

Torrin knew he should have felt at ease with two other Silver-rank rangers pushing ahead of the pack alongside him. With the concentrated density of their strength, even the rare beasts that had moved back into the region after that strange wave months ago avoided them utterly. More than ten Silvers working together was a rarely seen show of force, especially in the frontier. They may as well have been unicorns in this back quarter.

Yet despite all that, he felt nothing but nervous tension curdling in his stomach, the edge of a knife scraping the back of his neck. Every skill he had was tuned to hyper-vigilance. He kept catching himself almost jumping at the barely-heard sounds of his fellow scouts: soft footfalls touching dirt. He couldn’t see them — they were all far too proficient at stealth, and the communication artifacts they wore gave only a sense of their locations.

Any time he did catch a sign of them, it was all that stopped him from hurling a knife as hard as he could, backed by every skill he had, in their direction.

He shook his head, balling his fists as he forced the unbecoming worry from his mind. They were kids, no matter their strength. Him and Cronte had been caught off balance, exhausted from the siege of beasts that had slammed the compound, and pincered between opposing forces. Now they were fresh, with five times that number.

There was no way that team could have grown appreciably in only a few months. It was simply impossible, it had taken him decades to reach silver once he’d hit the Wall.

He was worrying for nothing.

Yet common sense wasn’t enough to assuage his instincts. Something deep in his mind balked at their approach. It had been there the entire day they’d crossed the frontier.

He hadn’t survived this long by ignoring his gut, not with the kind of work he so often got embroiled in.

Torrin was of half a mind to leave. The only reason he hadn’t was because of how many bridges it would burn if he did. How had he let a little guard job go so far?

He forced himself to breathe and relax. He still could — he would — flee if that gnawing in his gut proved true. There was nothing holding him in place. No oath, no magic, no cruel bindings.

Besides, they had a Mirror mage from the academies, and Old Yon had pulled a team from Roanwheat. Add another specialist in bindings and battlefield control, and they’d be able to shut down magical support and bind the front liners. Three rangers; two rogues; three skirmishers; three front liners — a damn near army. Throw in Old Yon to direct them — a logistics specialist? It would be enough. It had to be. It was madness to think otherwise.

Torrin set his teeth, forcing his shoulders to relax. Though he couldn’t quite stop himself from pulling one of the knives on his bandolier, just so he could feel its comforting weight in his hand.

He nearly jumped when a crackle brushed the back of his mind. Vros came through loud and clear on the communication artifacts — the exiled Hiwiann archer who’d been working out of Mystral.

“I see them. A league off… They’re just sitting out in the open, relaxing at camp. They have no idea we’re coming.”

Torrin felt a shock of cold run down the back of his neck. The exile sounded confident, and had every right to be. Yet Torrin found it impossible to relax all the same.

“Converge on my position,” Vros said, sending a ping to the rest of the scouts.

Torrin felt the tug pulling him a hundred long strides to his right through the thick growth.

“Acknowledged. Coming now,” Oroma said, her tone clipped and professional.

“Torrin?” Vros prompted.

Torrin shook himself, realised he hadn’t answered, and responded. “Already on my way,” he subvocalised, just enough for the artifact to pick it up as he trudged through the forest.

He made it there quickly, though Oroma had already beaten him to the punch.

Vros greeted him with a nod, then gestured through a gap in the trees. It revealed the distant open plains that were so common in the frontier.

Torrin saw them. Vros hadn’t been exaggerating. They were just sitting there, at camp. With his ocular skill, he could see them clear as day: the mage-fighter hybrid who had taken Cronte’s arm, and his beast sitting with its back to him, giving him a clear view. The ranger. The mage. They were all smiles, happily laughing and chatting with each other, though he couldn’t make out the words.

For a moment, it was enough to quell his anxiety. They hadn’t even made it a league from the portal they’d exited, seemingly in no hurry to make it to Deadacre. The foolish actions of the young.

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Then he noticed a change. Not the subtle differences in their gear — that was no surprise after an extended delve. No, it was something else, something subtle. He only caught it because of his lifetime spent tracking, hunting, and watching beasts. The meles’s fur. Grey. A dark grey, almost black. But grey. It had been green — a green so deep it was almost black, but green all the same.

It seemed unlikely that a greater Meles had been rolling in campfire ashes.

The realization struck like thunder, rooting him to the spot as he stared at the beast in dawning horror. It was impossible. He didn’t dare try to use identification skills — that would have given them away. None of the others would either. Standard practice for a hit like this.

The sensation of a blade against his neck pressed deeper. Impossible or not, the truth was staring him in the face. For a moment he considered speaking up, warning them off — no, it would be a fool’s move.

That team was aware they were being tracked. The ambush had already been sprung — and not by them.

They were waiting. Waiting to tie up loose ends and get their revenge. And him and Cronte? They were the ones who had tortured them. Other than Old Yon, they’d be the prime fucking targets. If they scattered he would go down second. Right after Cronte.

He swallowed, mind racing. He needed to get the fuck out of here. But how? He needed to warn Cronte. As much as he despised the man, they’d worked together for years. The man’s wind skill could give them the speed they needed.

He pressed his hands into his thighs to stop them from trembling.

“Yon,” Vros said through the wider network. “We found them. Waiting for you to arrive.”

“Hold your position. We’ll be there soon.”

Torrin barely heard them, stiff as he was. He could feel Oroma’s eyes on him, but he had no mind for the sneer on her face. She could think what she wanted.

It could have been a year or a minute before the rest of their party arrived. He was forgotten almost immediately as Old Yon spoke in hushed tones with Vros and Oroma. Torrin slipped toward the back, toward Cronte. The skirmisher stood apart, white-knuckled grip on his sabre. Cronte’s eyes snapped to him, and only years of practice kept Torrin’s face even.