THE RISING BASTARD SON-Chapter 38 - - - Will They Survive ?
Will They Survive ?
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THOOM!
The tree shook. Splinters burst outward. And Kadran crumpled to the earth at its base, a trail of blood painting his path like the tail of a comet.
Garrik’s breath hitched in his throat. For a moment, he didn’t move.
He couldn’t.
Fear nailed his boots to the ground.
The Flame Bear roared again, and every fiber in Garrik’s body screamed to run—to flee into the trees, to disappear into the forest’s embrace and never look back. 𝙛𝒓𝒆𝙚𝒘𝒆𝓫𝙣𝓸𝙫𝓮𝒍.𝒄𝒐𝓶
But then he saw Kadran’s hand twitch.
Just a flicker.
Just enough.
"Shit, shit—damn it all!" Garrik cursed under his breath and broke into a sprint.
He darted through the scattering ranks of half-panicked rookies, ducked under a lancing burst of heat from the bear’s rage, and skidded down next to the motionless figure of his lieutenant.
Kadran’s armor was ruined—cracked, bent inward, and seared in places where fire had kissed too close. His shield was gone. One leg twisted grotesquely under his body. His lips were slick with blood, his breaths shallow and ragged.
He looked less like a commander and more like a corpse dressed for war.
"Sir?!" Garrik dropped to his knees, grabbing Kadran’s shoulder. His voice cracked. "Sir, are you okay?! Speak to me!"
"Sir, drink this—hurry up!" Garrik’s voice was raw with urgency, but under it trembled something else — the primal fear of a man watching death close in. His dirt-caked fingers fumbled at the tiny cork of the glass vial, slick with sweat and grime. The liquid inside glowed a dull, sickly yellow under the red flicker of nearby flames — not potent, but the only thing standing between Kadran and the grave.
Garrik forced the vial to Kadran’s cracked lips. The battered leader didn’t even flinch. The sharp smell of burnt iron and sweat clogged his nose as he tipped the potion back in one gulp. It scalded his tongue, sour and metallic, before sliding down his throat like warm oil.
Inside him, it bloomed — a false fire that crawled into torn muscle, split bone, bruised organs. He felt it seep into the ruptured veins in his ribs, stitching them back together like clumsy hands darning ruined cloth. Each heartbeat hurt — a dull, throbbing ache — but the warm tide fought back the cold claws of shock pulling at his vision.
Around him, the battlefield snarled and shrieked. The Flame Bear’s guttural roars rolled through the trees like thunder trapped in a cage. Somewhere out there, a man screamed — a sound so raw it cut through the pounding in Kadran’s ears like a knife through canvas. His eyes flicked sideways: his strongest men, his core, reduced to twitching corpses waiting to be stamped out by the monster they’d thought they could tame.
He forced air into his lungs — it tasted of ash and blood. No. He would not die here. He would not be torn apart like the others. His mind clung to that single truth like a man clings to a splinter of driftwood in a black ocean.
Garrik bent to haul him up, boots slipping in the blood-soaked grass. Kadran’s fingernails scraped dirt as he planted his hand, willing ruined muscle to obey. His knees buckled — agony crackled like broken glass through his hip — but he locked them. One heartbeat. Two. He was upright. Barely. The potion held him together by threads and spit, but it would do.
Then — a voice, sharp and shrill. A rookie guard, barely more than a boy, turned to the slave line, mouth open in warning. Too late.
A glint of steel, quick and jagged. The sound — a wet thwock.
The guard’s eyes widened in animal shock as a battered sword blade jutted from his belly. It gleamed red-black, slick with blood and bits of ruptured gut. The boy’s hands flailed at the blade, fingertips brushing the hilt, not strong enough to pull it free. He stumbled backward, legs folding beneath him like broken branches. His helmet rolled away, half-buried in the dirt. A last strangled breath hissed from his lips before he collapsed, unmoving — just another piece of ruin on this blood-caked ground.
Garrik’s breath caught in his throat. "What the—" He whirled around, eyes darting past Kadran’s hunched form. His gaze locked on the shape behind the corpse — a single slave, little more than skin stretched tight over bone, ragged hair matted with sweat and grime.
The slave’s chest heaved. Dirty fingers gripped the stolen sword so tight his knuckles shone white under the grime. His eyes — sunken, red-rimmed — held a feral shine. A spark of something that should have been beaten out of him long ago: rage.
"You worthless rat!" Garrik snarled, spittle flying from his cracked lips. He took a single step forward, boots splashing through the warm blood pooling under the dead rookie. "You think you can touch us? You worthless worm— I’ll carve out your—!
Suddenly he saw a dagger flashed in his eyes
Garrik’s mouth hung open mid-word when the steel punched between his teeth. The point rammed up through his tongue, shattered the roof of his mouth with a wet crack, and buried itself deep in the soft meat of his brainstem.
The impact snapped his head back. His eyes went wide — shock overtaking rage — and a muffled, bubbling grunt tried to claw its way out around the hilt jammed between his jaws. Blood fountained from his nose and the corners of his mouth, thick and dark, steaming in the cold air.
For an instant, Garrik’s hands twitched at the hilt of his own blade — but there was nothing left in him to fight. His boots shifted on the bloody dirt, knees knocking together — then he dropped like a felled ox.
He landed hard, the dagger’s hilt jutting grotesquely from his open mouth. One final shudder rolled through his chest — then silence. Just the hiss of blood dripping onto the scorched grass below.
*
[ To Be Continued ]
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