Up on the higher plateaus of the hill there wasn't a battle. Kobels were running from beasts that rampaged freely, pursuing them, raiding the tents. With all resistance gone they were just crushing small pockets of terrified beasts fighting for their life.
The tribe had all but fallen.
Yet the attackers were holding back. At their champion's call many were coming back, more than a dozen to face a threat they could not see yet.
Eight, nine of them were missing. Maybe wounded, maybe trailing behind, but that was too many for the champion to feel comfortable. So he was heading back, downhill to find out what was causing such delay.
They had heard bellows and screams, clamors and since then things had quieted down, seemingly, while their warriors were still missing.
It didn't take long for them to encounter the scaled kobel.
That was an impossible sight for them. They had all seen the miserable weakling get pummeled. They had seen his remains before heading up to crush the rest. Yet here he stood, seemingly indemn. A ghostly apparition.
Their instinct warned them to flee. Their pride ordered to attack.
Their pride was right.
So they approached this wretch, walking at first and he walked toward them; then both sides sped up. Soon they were running, their weapons hit empty air and one of them screamed, screamed until not enough of his neck remained to do that anymore.
He slashed another, got hit by the champion's mace and crashed on the ground where two axes fell on him in sequence. The kobel avoided the third strike, got back up in a second, then lunged back to shred a third's iron cuirass.
Kobel claws had opened iron like butter.
There was nothing to do. The minotaurs saw his wounds already closed, his speed and his strength. They knew all was lost and that enraged them in turn.
Their champion, blinded by ire, struck with all he had, only to see the flimsy kobel block his mace. How he did it defied the senses; he had done it regardless. And the champion had already fallen on his knees, from a strike his consciousness never registered.
He stood there, already dead, while the rest of his warriors still fought.
Then the impossible happened.
Seeing the carnage, against those odds, one bull balked. One bull stepped back, screamed and fled.
Like a signal, the rest woke up from their rage. They too turned away to run. Their fearful screams reached the rest and soon enough it was a root. What few still wanted to fight had to accept it was too late.
Those who were busy pillaging the camp suddenly found themselves alone.
Kobels surrounded them. Fearful kobels slowly understood how the tide had turned. Still those beasts were deadly monsters but they saw their chance and tried anyway. The minotaurs found themselves surrounded, assailed on all parts by numbers too great.
Those who could resist and did not take the occasion to flee saw a scaled lizard approach, bloody and bruised, and that was the last thing they saw.
Of those who had attacked thirteen escaped, gathered back at the base of the hill where, still shaken, they witnessed the kobels triumph. With some wounded, the rest afraid, they bit back their pride to retreat further into the woods.
It was a complete victory.
For the tribe that had just won it was an unbelievable victory.
They were rushing to finish the last of those beasts, those they had wounded until they fell and still breathed on the ground. They were frantic, entranced.
Many captives in the chaos had fled but they did not care. The tents were torn, their goods in ruins and it didn't matter. The elation was too much.
They were chanting Tunu's name.
But few even knew where he was anymore, and few truly cared. Their legend had carried the day. They chanted his name and bumped their chest.
Their chief emerged. He was wounded, he could hardly stand, yet he forced himself and with his warriors joining up all around he walked to one of the fallen beasts, to get on the chest, on top of the iron cuirass.
"Victory!" Was his first yell.
But then he turned to his warriors and, after a moment to gather his strength, screamed at them.
"What are you waiting for?! Where is your blood?! Feed! Feed while the bodies are fresh!"
The warriors wavered.
They knew they had to and yet, at that call they truly doubted their chief.
He himself saw them shy away. Furious, he turned to the corpse, cut through the hide with his knife, cut a piece of flesh that he brought to his face.
The chief too was disgusted. Horrified at this sight. But he forced himself. The old kobel forced himself to bite in it and his whole body throbbed. He kept biting until he truly could not, then swallowed and raised the remains above his head.
"Feed you cowards! Don't you have wyvern blood?!"
And he yelled again.
"Don't you have wyvern blood?!"
A few answered this time, then a few more. And when he yelled once more all of the warriors answered, as well as a few from the tribe.
They walked to the corpses. They started to cut into the skin, into the flesh, through the bones and fighting the stench. No matter how strong they were, it was bringing tears to their eyes, and that frustrated them.
All of them, absolutely all of them felt desperately weak.
Their chief was forcing himself to finish that piece of meat in his hand. He had barely done it when Elua rushed to him.
"Help! Help me!"
They all immediately understood what it meant.
There, on the crimson grass, lay their champion. The scaled kobel could barely breathe anymore. Trails of broken scales marked all the wounds he had endured. Everywhere they had closed his hard skin had shattered, leaving him a wreck.
And his heart, his heart beat furiously to keep him alive. His heart refused to die.
Kobels threw themselves at him to clean those wounds, to try and alleviate his pain. Among them was the new apprentice, Etelet, who rushed back to get balms for their champion.
The rest of the tribe, unaware of it all, was still chanting with an irresistible joy. Right at time, right this instant, it felt to them like the realm itself lay at their feet, vanquished. They chanted Tunu's name, the legend they yearned to follow.
He was calling for her name.
She didn't know it, his voice was but a gargle and still he was calling for her.
In Tunu's head, he was still lying downhill, wounded and broken. He was still lying where the minotaur's mace had thrown him. In Tunu's head the battle was lost and his tribe was getting murdered. In Tunu's head he was blaming himself for his weakness.
So tears were streaming and washing the blood. Begging for forgiveness. Begging desperately for her to be safe. Not feeling her hand in his own.
He had wanted so much to save them all and cursed that weak body of his, and he swore, he swore that if given the chance he would grow stronger. No matter what it took, strong enough to protect them all at all cost.
But finally, as the balms calmed his wounds, his heart slowed down and those nightmares trailed into nothingness.