Chapter 8 — Blood and Dust on the Old Road
The sun had climbed high by the time the trio left the ruins. Their voices drifted between the trees—quiet, strained, still shaken after the ritual gone wrong. Eis followed at a careful distance, always keeping her shadow from touching theirs.
The forest thinned as they traveled north. Moss gave way to dirt, dirt to cracked stone, and soon the ground revealed remnants of an ancient trade road—cobbles half-swallowed by mud, grass pushing through the seams. Old mile-markers stood crooked among the vines, their carved runes nearly erased by time.
The air shifted—drier, heavier, carrying a faint tang of smoke.
Up ahead, the trio crested a rise. The auburn-haired lookout halted abruptly and raised a hand. The others drew weapons without hesitation.
Eis crouched behind a boulder and saw what they saw.
At the bend in the road—
Three overturned wagons.
Dead horses, stiff and bloated.
Crates shattered, their contents spilled across dirt—cloth bolts, fruit, streaks of red wine soaking into the soil.
And bandits.
A dozen at least, likely more hiding in brush. Mismatched weapons. Patchwork leather. Faces hidden behind scarves. The way they lounged in formation told her everything—they’d done this before.
The trio didn’t notice the metallic glint in the treeline until it was too late.
An arrow hissed.
The lookout twisted aside by inches.
Another arrow sliced across the woman’s arm—she gasped, staggering.
Then chaos broke open.
Bandits surged from both sides, shouting, blades flashing. The armored man stepped forward to shield the others, sword blazing with runes as he met the first attacker with a brutal, bone-shattering strike. The lookout dove for cover, loosing arrows with quick, precise hands. The woman pressed the wound on her arm and began a chant—green light wrapping her fingers in healing magic.
They were skilled.
But outnumbered.
Seven rushed from the road. Five more circled behind.
From her vantage in the undergrowth, Eis had a perfect view of the battlefield.
Sunlight caught sparks off blades.
Dust churned beneath boots.
The metallic scent of blood tainted the air.
The bandit leader—a tall man in a ragged black coat—barked over the fight:
“Leave one alive! The boss’ll pay good coin for mages!”
If the fight dragged on, the trio would fall.
Eis raised her crossbow.
The world narrowed to her breath, her pulse, and the faint click of a bolt locking into place.
Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.
She tracked the five flankers first.
Her sights found the nearest man’s head.
A slow exhale.
The bolt whispered through sunlit air and hit with a wet crack.
He dropped against a sapling, blood streaking the bark.
The others jerked toward the sound.
Eis didn’t hesitate.
The crossbow rose into her shoulder in one smooth motion. A bolt whispered free.
The second bandit never saw it.
The impact hit him hard in the side, not lethal but perfectly placed—enough force to knock his feet out from under him. He was yanked sideways into the brush, crashing through branches before slamming shoulder-first into a bramble-choked trunk. The breath left him in a wet, stunned choke as he slid down, dazed and out of the fight.
While their attention fractured, Eis moved.
Silent. Precise. Controlled.
No borrowed instincts—only her own trained efficiency.
She was already in motion before the bolt finished rattling leaves. The crossbow vanished against her back as she slipped from shadow to flank, twin blades sliding into her hands without sound.
Low angle. Close distance.
A clean thrust between ribs—
—a sharp intake of breath—
—and the body sagged, weight collapsing as she guided it down and away from the light.
Steel withdrew.
She pivoted, steps light, momentum unbroken.
The fourth flanker turned just in time to see her—too late. One blade caught his guard and knocked it wide; the other drove in beneath his arm, short and final. He crumpled without a sound.
Two more flankers down.
Confusion spread like a ripple through the clearing.
The last one froze—then broke.
He stumbled backward, boots skidding as he scrambled for cover, panic tearing any remaining discipline apart.
Eis adjusted her stance.
Shouts rippled through the bandit line—panic, commands, curses as they realized a second unseen threat was dismantling their ambush.
Across the road, the armored man lifted his head at the sound of Eis’s first shot. The lookout scanned the treeline, spotting only a broken branch and a slumped corpse. The woman broke her chant, eyes darting toward the trees, breath sharp.
Fear spread like wildfire among the ambushers.
Some faltered.
Some retreated.
Some surged forward, desperate to regain control.
The leader snarled orders, but uncertainty cracked his voice.
Eis steadied her aim as he charged toward the treeline, trying to find the ghost in the woods.
The next bolt left her crossbow with a whisper.
It struck his upper thigh—precisely where it would drop him without killing him. He collapsed sideways, pinned to the dirt by the force. Panic widened his eyes.
The remaining bandits saw him fall—and their morale broke.
A few dropped weapons.
Others dragged their wounded and ran.
The leader cursed as his men fled, scrambling backward toward the underbrush.
Across the clearing, the armored man and lookout pressed forward.
The woman finished her healing spell, light fading from her palms.
In moments, the bandit line collapsed entirely.
Those who could run vanished into the trees.
Those who stayed dropped to their knees or bled into the soil.
Silence returned slowly—first hesitant bird calls, then the whisper of wind.
The trio regrouped, confusion heavy on their faces.
They didn’t know who had saved them.
Only that something in the forest had turned the tide.
Eis remained hidden, breath steady.
Her crossbow sat ready in her hands, another bolt seated.
The quiver at her back still felt satisfyingly full.
Her blades gleamed softly, slick in the shade.
