Luenor felt his pulse begin to race. He had his daggers out before any of the knights could react. One swift motion and he dodged the first knights blade; the flick of his wrist sent the knife from the second knight into the man's thigh which disabled him. His speed was too much—there was nothing they could do.
Just as Luenor turned to flee, a large slab of stone erupted from the wall striking him and tumbling him into a tunnel that had molten rock on either side. The impact was hard. For a moment, the world was black.
When he came to, coughing the dust out of his lungs, Luenor tried to get to his feet. He was bleeding and his body was wrecked and bruised from the fall. He looked down and saw the lava churning inches from his feet. One step and he'd be a pulp of ash.
He decided to finally turn to face his assailant. A figure dressed in a cloak hovered above him with their hands glowing the brown runes of Earth Magic. The figure's eyes shone with sadistic malice.
The Earth Mage raised their hands again and before Luenor could react, jagged pieces of stone were advancing on him.
Luenor glanced up quickly, landed on one side, using the heat boosted thrust to take a roll out of the danger zone. His landing could have used a little work but it was effective. In the frenzy, he grabbed one of the knights that had been chasing him and heaved him into the lava, the man's screams piercing the air and cutting through the ambience as the flames enveloped him.
Luenor stood, a haggard sight, cuts across his body and bruising apparent, his lungs working hard. "Try again," he rasped to the Earth Mage, struggling to keep the edge in his voice that he knew he needed, and knowing how hard he had pushed himself. Blood dripped from his outer thigh, but he still had a little bit of fight left.
In the Lowlands, Dion stood at the moldering podium, surveying the crowd assembled around him. The gangmen of Carrowhelm—Fangbangs, Iron Rats, and others—deadlocked in an open circle trying for the best vantage against the great white-haired Elder, and were clearly confused and dubious.
"So... you're telling us… to attack the Marquess's army?" one of the thugs muttered, his mouth uncertain, full of doubts of his own.
A few men abandoned their weapons and fled, but Dion was prepared for them. He stepped forward and shouted into the square. "Enough! I understand. You have been licking the soles of boot after boot.
You have been stealing from people even too poor to beg. And you enjoy pretending to be kings in murk.
The crowd shared that past, incongonality shining through the crowd at Dion's declaration. Dion paused, looked down to the ragged crowd. The next words fell from his lips like a sledge hammer. "What we have all in common? We were ignored, used by higher men, heaps of stone under noble heels! Look at this damned Ballard place! You have homes, in the Low lands. When was the last time the Marquess gave a damn about you?"
The crowd began to murmur. Eyes began to hardened; some looked angry, some looked sorrowful; reflected some pasts of neglect, hopelessness, and overarching struggles. They were all tired; tired of being invisible; tired of being a pawn for someone else's enjoyment.
Tio, a limp in his step, but fire in his belly began. "I going. For Eva. For the Lowlands."
Dion went down on one knee. He sett his hand on Tio's head. He smiled a combination of pride and sadness.
Then Gurt, the fat leader of the Fangbangs made his move. "We don't run from fight."
One by one, others came forward, old grudges forgotten, uniting under the banner of their shared struggle. Dion's heart swelled with pride. They were no longer just outcasts and criminals. They were soldiers—fighters for a cause.
"Then we march," Dion said, his voice ringing with authority.
Through the undergrowth, the Lowlands' army began its approach.
In the forest beyond Carrowhelm, Marquess Mellon led his company of knights and battlemages through the eerily silent woods. The forest seemed to press in on them, the trees swaying like sentinels watching their every move.
Suddenly, a snap—a knight disappeared into the underbrush, dragged upward by a hidden trap. Another knight vanished with a scream into a pitfall. A third was skewered by a pressure spear that shot out from the branches of a tree.
"Someone doesn't want us reaching the forge," Bobby, one of the knights, muttered grimly.
Marquess Mellon's jaw clenched. "Press forward. Cultists of Alofonso, or whatever they are, we stop them now."
Ahead, the stone watchtower loomed—only a few more steps, and they would reach the forge. They had to be ready. The final road was within their grasp.