Chapter 3
Where the Journey Begins
Eren raised his right hand, found the half strip of old belt cinched on his left arm, and worked the buckle free with a snap. He wound it tight over his left knuckles without looking down—eyes locked on the rider's eyes.
A few bandits traded glances. Steel was already at his throat, and he still moved as if he had all day, as if none of them counted.
One bandit swore and came first. Muscle swelled along his arms. He brought a fist up high and dropped it like a hammer, air shrieking off the swing.
Eren did not meet it head-on. He slipped sideways; the iron bracer on his forearm only grazed the man's arm. The blow missed; the fist drove into sand and threw up a burst of dust.
Eren closed in on the opening. His left hand locked the elbow; his right arm hooked the waist. Lines around his left eye flared; current ran through muscle and spine, as if something inside had drawn taut.
He drove from the hips, heaved the man over his shoulder, and slammed him into the earth.
The impact boomed. Dust lifted. The man's back caved in; blood pushed from the corners of his mouth. He jerked twice and lay still.
The rest of the bandits went pale. By strength alone, this one was no weakling in the Iron Bones—fists that could punch through mud walls, one hand to lift a grown man. Now a man who looked ordinary had dropped him like a sack.
Someone fell back half a step, blade hand shaking. Another's feet crept backward, eyes flicking to his mates. The fight went out of them at once.
The mounted leader swept his gaze over them, face dark with anger. He hauled the reins; the strange horse reared with an earsplitting scream.
His name was Stalrik. Out here they called him Iron-Skin—built like a tower. He was squad leader for the Iron Bones on this stretch of road, the sort who lived on ambush and squeezing villages dry.
Word was he had once guarded herds on the steppe and could ride. Later he took a mutation: strength that kept climbing, skin that hardened against blades. That was where Iron-Skin came from.
"Take one step back and I'll crush your skull first." The words ground out of his throat, cold and low as dragged metal.
The men froze mid-retreat, then forced their feet to hold. Weapons came up again; steel caught the gray light.
Stalrik's mouth twisted. His eyes locked on Eren.
He spurred forward. The chain mace swung in a wide arc, whistling toward Eren and the wolf on the flank.
Eren's voice dropped: "Rex, flank."
Rex's ears flicked. He lunged for the side with a growl—and ran into the strange horse's bulk, thick scales a wall he could not push through. The iron ball swept past and drove him back several steps.
Eren was caught in the same attack. He dodged again and again; the iron ball tore his cloak and hammered the sand, leaving the ground pocked and rough. He tried several times to close and could not—the mount's mobility kept the gap wrong.
The chain mace blurred in Stalrik's hands. The iron ball carved arcs across several meters, every sweep heavy enough to tear the air with a shriek.
Eren was forced back step by step, circling at the tunnel lip—room Stalrik could use. He jabbed a finger:
"You—take down the woman up top! Everyone else—into that hole!"
Eren's chest tightened. If that man could climb the scree and reach Lila on the heights, that was the worst line.
A tall, wiry bandit laughed under his breath. He slid sideways like smoke, using the dust for cover, scrambling up the broken rock on the tunnel's left face toward Lila's perch.
The rest did not hesitate. A ragged roar; rusted blades and chains flashed as they poured at the mouth—straight for the rabbits with the crates and the small figure inside.
Eren's gaze flicked once: someone was climbing the cliff face toward Lila. At the tunnel mouth, shouts tangled into chaos. But Stalrik's chain mace pinned him—no opening to break off. When the iron ball came again his mind was still elsewhere. He was half a beat slow. It grazed his temple; he nearly went down.
Twice he tried to circle in; twice Stalrik's chain blocked the line. Dodging, his right hand went to his belt—the nailed hammer he always carried already in his grip.
Not a big hammer—one hand was enough to swing it, and it rode easy at his hip on the road. Faceted iron head, sharp ridges, a slightly domed crown. A rough wooden haft banded with iron. Two or three kilograms all told.
Eren watched the charging mount and locked on Stalrik's leg in the stirrup. One clean hit could tear through guard and drop him off balance.
Stalrik seemed to read it.
He lifted his foot free of the stirrup and swung to the far side of the horse, man and beast moving as one. Eren swung—the jutting facets scraped the scales along the horse's flank, sparks snapping out, a few lines of blood. The hard plates crushed the wire barbs wrapped around the head, bent them crooked; the iron bands on the haft rang once. The hammer bounced away. Eren's palm went numb.
A few passes more—man and wolf moved on foot and signal alone, pressing twice more. Stalrik still sat the saddle. They could not get through.
Eren weighed it in an instant: Stalrik's chain mace had reach and weight. The scaled horse beneath him was worse—plates almost impossible to break. On horseback he charged like a moving fort. If he did not get Stalrik off that back, the mace would land sooner or later. When it did, broken bones would be the light end.
Stalrik grinned and drew the mace in. The mount lifted its front hooves, ready for the next charge.
He drove the horse forward. It screamed; the chain swept, iron shrieking across the whole front.
Eren barely rolled clear. The iron ball ripped his cloak and buried itself in sand. He rolled to Rex's side and came up while dust still hung in the air.
Eren raised both arms wide.
Stalrik's mouth pulled into a sneer. "Giving up?"
Eren said nothing.
Rex's gold-flecked eyes lifted halfway—already understood. Four paws dug in; he dropped low and launched at Eren. Eren brought his arms down, caught Rex's forepaws, and heaved up on the leap's momentum, throwing him high.
Rex used the throw. His whole body drew a blue-black arc through the air toward Stalrik's head.
Stalrik's pupils shrank. The mace came up by instinct, chain whipping through the air; the iron ball swung upward on inertia, trying to smash the leaping wolf mid-air.
Lines around Eren's left eye flared. His right hand steadied the faceted war hammer; he spun and threw. The hammer arced; a jutting boss on the head caught the chain mid-length and broke the swing—the iron ball's path jerked sideways into the horse's flank. Scales split under the blow; the mount lurched, forelegs buckling.
Stalrik's guard opened overhead. Rex dropped faster, jaws snapping for his head.
Stalrik's chain was pinned; he could not defend. The horse stumbled under him and he could not fight from the saddle. He threw his weight back; the mount bolted forward in panic. He came off the back and hit sand hard.
Riderless, the horse screamed and shied back. Rex closed on a hind leg and clamped; the beast staggered, dragged.
Stalrik rolled up empty-handed, eyes hard on Eren.
"Boy… you're dead."
Eren took a step forward. His gaze swept the strange horse nearby—the faceted war hammer still driven through the chain mid-length, haft slanted up from the sand only a few meters from the mount.
Stalrik saw the pinned mace too. He snorted and charged the spot, thick fingers closing on the chain, yanking. The chain mace rattled free from the sand; the iron ball swung up in a fresh arc. He gripped the handle again, a savage grin on his face.
At the same moment Rex left the horse. A growl; forepaws pinned the hammer haft and whipped it free—faceted head carving through dust toward Eren.
Eren caught it. The weight settled in his palm, solid.
Weapons up again, they faced each other across bloody sand.
Stalrik let the mace hang; blood on the iron ball dripped, pattering faintly into grit. Eren held the faceted war hammer across his chest, facets catching the flat light.
Far off, a downed bandit still twitched. Metal rang in the ears after the clash. The air tasted of rust and burnt powder.
At the same moment, on the heights, steel clashed once, twice—then Lila's muffled grunt.
She and the wiry bandit circled.
He exploded forward—a fast sweep at her ankles, wind hissing low.
Lila tapped off the stone and spun back, a back kick meeting his shin—boot plate on bone, a sharp crack. Most of the force slid away; still the shock ran up her leg; her soles went numb.
He bounced back half a step, speed up again—two high kicks aimed at her head and chest.
She slipped the first. The second she met with a side kick; thin iron on her greaves took the worst of it with a dull thud. Her knee buckled but held—no break, only deep bruising. A normal body could not fully take a mutant's full force.
Knee and flying kick chained at her again.
Lila's feet flickered. Three spinning kicks and side kicks answered his, impacts drumming. Each collision rang off boot and plate, saving her from a direct fracture—but the jolts stacked. Her legs grew heavy; breath roughened; cold sweat on her forehead.
Breathing hard, she used a retreat to snap half a step back. She took the long crossbow from her back. Her right hand pulled a bolt from the hip quiver and seated it down the groove.
He gave her no pause. He drove off the rock and rose, a high kick aimed at her face—the air tearing around it with a sharp shriek.
Lila's pupils shrank. Her gaze snapped to the tunnel depths below. She raised the crossbow—but the bolt was not aimed at the man in the air. It was aimed at a crack in the rock deep inside the tunnel.
He came grinning, the kick almost on her.
Her finger was already on the trigger…