Dawn painted the eastern sky with streaks of pale gold and rose as the Thorn Iron Band assembled outside Roll City's North Gate. Sixteen Riding Lizards, saddled and packed, shifted impatiently. The lizards resembled giant, scaled iguanas, their hides varying shades of brown and green, powerful legs ending in sharp claws. They hissed softly, steam puffing from their nostrils in the cool morning air.
Evan stood beside a sturdy, dappled-gray lizard Garth had assigned him. He watched the mercenaries mount with practiced ease, adjusting straps and checking gear. Martino, atop a large russet lizard, surveyed his men.
"Move out!" Martino commanded, his voice cutting through the morning stillness. He nudged his mount, leading the column north onto the wide trade road.
Garth guided Evan through mounting. "Grip with your knees, lad. Steady. These lizards aren't war mounts, but they've got spirit. Just keep a firm seat." Evan settled into the saddle, finding the rhythm as the lizard began its loping gait. The movement felt strange after years on foot, but his innate balance quickly adapted.
The landscape changed as they left Roll City behind. Verdant fields gradually gave way to rolling hills covered in hardy scrubland and scattered copses of trees. The air grew noticeably cooler. Evan breathed deeply, trying to dispel the lingering gloom. He focused on the rhythmic sway of the lizard, the creak of leather, the low murmur of the mercenaries' conversations.
Garth rode beside him. "Sandstone Escort," he explained. "Relatively safe route. Polis merchants pay well for protection against opportunistic bandits, not that we see many large groups this close to Roll City. Mostly just keep an eye out for trouble." He glanced at Evan. "First time traveling like this?"
Evan nodded. "First time leaving... home."
"Ah. Big world out here," Garth remarked, a hint of sympathy in his voice. "You learn quickly, or you don't last long. Stick close. Listen to Martino. He's seen it all."
The days settled into a monotonous rhythm: ride from dawn until late afternoon, set camp near water sources, tend to the lizards, eat simple rations, sleep under the stars. Evan helped where he could, gathering firewood, refilling waterskins. The mercenaries, initially viewing him with curiosity, gradually accepted his quiet presence. He listened to their tales – encounters with desert tribes near the southern borders, skirmishes with opportunistic raiders, the hardships and occasional rewards of mercenary life. He learned the names of Poland's northern cities, the trade routes, the dangers of the wilderness beyond the patrolled roads. It was a crash course in the realities of Aerion outside the sheltered groves of the Emerald Canopy.
On the fifth day, the hills grew steeper, the road winding through a narrow pass. The air felt heavy, tense. Martino raised a fist, signaling a halt. He scanned the rocky slopes flanking the road, his expression grim.
"Eyes sharp," he ordered, his voice low. "This is Redfang Pass. Good ambush spot."
The mercenaries loosened weapons in scabbards. Hands rested near sword hilts or axe handles. Evan felt the shift in atmosphere, a prickle of unease running down his spine. He instinctively reached for the mask in his tunic but stopped himself. Not yet.
They moved forward cautiously, the lizards' claws scraping on loose rock. The silence was oppressive, broken only by the wind whistling through the crags. They were halfway through the pass when the attack came.
A guttural roar echoed from the cliffs above. Rocks, some as large as a man's head, came tumbling down, crashing onto the road ahead and behind, blocking their path. Simultaneously, figures emerged from behind boulders and crevices along the slopes – rough-looking men clad in mismatched leather and furs, wielding crude swords, axes, and bows. Their faces were scarred, their eyes hard with desperation and greed. Bandits.
"Ambush! Defensive circle!" Martino bellowed, his voice cutting through the sudden chaos. He drew his own blade, a broad, well-worn longsword that gleamed dully in the sunlight.
The mercenaries reacted instantly, skillfully maneuvering their lizards into a tight circle, the pack lizards in the center. Shields snapped up. Arrows hissed through the air, thudding into shields or glancing off armor. A mercenary grunted as an arrow found a gap, embedding itself in his thigh.
"Hold the line!" Martino shouted, parrying a thrown axe with his shield. "Garth! Flank left! Evan! Stay down!"
Evan crouched low on his lizard, his heart pounding. The ferocity of the attack was terrifying. He saw the bandits charging down the slopes, howling like wolves. He saw the cold efficiency of the Thorn Iron men – blocking, thrusting, cutting down the first wave of attackers with brutal precision. Blood stained the dusty ground. The clash of steel and screams filled the narrow pass.
A bandit, wielding a rusty cleaver, broke through the shield wall near Evan. His eyes, wild with bloodlust, fixed on the seemingly unarmed youth. "Easy pickings!" he snarled, lunging forward, cleaver raised high.
Time seemed to slow for Evan. Fear surged, cold and paralyzing. But beneath it, something else stirred – a deep, resonant chord vibrating within his core. The Innocent Heart Core, tempered by years of Quentin's melodies, reacted. It wasn't conscious thought; it was pure, instinctive response. His hand didn't move towards a weapon he didn't have. Instead, his fingers curled slightly, as if plucking an invisible string. He opened his mouth, not to scream, but to shape a single, resonant syllable born from the wellspring of his cultivated spirit.
"STOP!"
The word wasn't shouted. It resonated. It pulsed outwards from Evan like a physical wave, carrying the focused power of his Crimson Rank mental strength, amplified by the unique purity of the Innocent Heart Core. It held no melody, only raw, commanding power – a hammer blow to the mind.
The charging bandit staggered as if struck. His eyes glazed over. The cleaver fell from suddenly nerveless fingers, clattering to the ground. He swayed for a second, then crumpled bonelessly onto the dirt, unconscious. The immediate area around Evan fell eerily silent for a split second. Several nearby bandits clutched their heads, groaning in disorientation. Even a few Thorn Iron men blinked, momentarily shaken by the unexpected sonic burst.
Martino, momentarily stunned, recovered faster than the bandits. "Now! Press them!" He seized the momentary disruption. The mercenaries, trained to exploit any advantage, surged forward, their counter-attack renewed with vicious energy.
The bandit leader, a scarred hulk of a man further up the slope, had witnessed Evan's strange shout felling his man. Rage and confusion warred on his face. "Get the boy! He's a witch!" he roared, pointing a massive axe towards Evan. "Bring him down!"
Three bandits near the leader turned, their weapons now aimed at Evan. They charged, bypassing the mercenary line, their intent clear.
Panic threatened to overwhelm Evan again. One bandit he could startle... three? Charging with murderous intent? He fumbled for the mask, Zander's parting gift. When you need to act unseen... He pressed the cool, soft material against his face. It molded instantly, seamlessly, becoming a second skin – a featureless, pale visage that obscured his identity. He felt strangely hidden, shielded.
The bandits hesitated for a fraction of a second, startled by the sudden transformation.
"Evan! Behind you!" Garth's warning shout came too late. A fourth bandit, unseen, had clambered over the rocks directly behind Evan, a spear aimed at his back.
Evan spun, the movement instinctive, fueled by Bamboo Aura honed for years. Green energy, faint but tangible, flickered around his limbs. He moved faster than the bandit anticipated, sidestepping the clumsy thrust. The spearpoint grazed his robe, tearing the fabric.
Before the bandit could recover, Evan acted. Not with magic, not with a weapon, but with the fluid precision of Bamboo Sect evasion techniques Yale Leaf had drilled into him – techniques focused solely on defense and escape. He stepped into the bandit's space, inside the spear's reach. His hand shot out, not striking, but deflecting the spear shaft downwards with a sharp, precise chop. The weapon flew from the bandit's grasp. Evan followed through, his shoulder driving into the man's chest, sending him stumbling backwards into a cluster of rocks.