Fiend's Fourth Hurdle

Caelvir stood alone, sword in both hands, the weight of the blade grounding him as the sun peeled heat from the sky. Before him, twenty warriors waited.

They were nothing like he expected.

These were not beggars clad in steel or desperate slaves hoping for freedom. Instead, they were trained men, equipped head to toe with polished helms, reinforced leather beneath hardened plate, high-grade boots, and weapons forged with deadly intent.

Shields gleamed with fresh lacquer, and blades curved with lethal precision. Sharp daggers lined their waists, strapped tightly in leather sheaths, clearly intended for instinctive slashes or desperate thrusts amid the blind confusion of melee combat.

Among them stood one figure, taller and broader than the rest, with a glinting claymore slung across his back. His posture conveyed command rather than arrogance.

Caelvir's gaze narrowed as recognition settled in. A commander—flashy weapon, larger build, stronger presence. He wasn't just better armed; he was the one leading them.

That would be a problem.

Uncoordinated blind men might fall to speed and guile, but this was different. Twenty men moving as one under a leader's guidance meant war.

"Look at that brute," Lord Masquien said from the shaded balcony, his voice curling through the ears of the others like a snake. "He didn't bring muscle to impress; he brought it to control. The rest will follow his weight."

"Blind, yes, but they are not headless," Lady Venara murmured as she tilted her emerald-laced spyglass toward the formation. "They've studied his rhythm and trust it. That formation wasn't thrown together."

"Head of an arrow," Lord Talen grunted, arms crossed over his broad crimson chestplate. "Standard split-advance wedge. Thirteen front, seven in reserve. Perfect for a blind press. Holds the field and smashes the line."

"A good arrow breaks a shield wall," Masquien mused thoughtfully, "but an arrow can still be bent..."

"Only if you know where to press," the old noble said quietly.

Caelvir took a step forward. Then another.

He tread softly, the sand muffling his footfalls, bare feet giving him the quiet of a creeping cat. The crowd wasn't loud yet, still caught between curiosity and boredom, their voices a low tide that hadn't yet risen to full roar.

He had to test their hearing range.

Eighty feet. No reaction.

Sixty feet. Still nothing.

Forty.

No shift in stance. Not even a twitch of a sword tip.

But he wasn't approaching the center.

He angled left, moving toward their right wing.

The formation was perfect in shape. Every soldier stood with shoulders brushing the next, relying on contact as a compass. Occasionally, a hand tapped a neighbor's arm or shield—silent, coordinated corrections to maintain the line.

Three pillars upheld any modern formation: structure, rhythm, and perception. They clearly had structure and rhythm. Perception, however, was where they faltered.

If they could not perceive him, he could exploit that weakness.

"They're statues," Faron muttered impatiently. "Does the boy plan to dance circles until we all rot?"

"Perhaps that's his only option," Venara replied coolly. "To make them doubt, to force a mistake."

Twenty feet.

Still no reaction.

Caelvir crept farther to the rightmost edge of the arrowhead. The air grew still while the crowd's murmurs grew louder—some shouting now, bored and jeering.

Perhaps the warriors noticed it too.

The edge warrior's head twitched an inch—barely noticeable, but Caelvir saw it. Then came the sound: tap. Shield against shield. A message passed sideways, swift as a ripple.

They knew he was there.

The warrior before Caelvir shifted just slightly forward, shield raised, sword poised, silent.

But silence did not mean ignorance.

Then a voice rang out, clear and commanding.

"Location No.1. Right wing rotation to the right. Left Wing No. 5 and No. 4 support. The right-wing rear advance."

Caelvir's eyes shot to the side.

The right wing moved like a hinge, rotating cleanly outward. Soldiers on the far end sprinted faster than those nearby, forming a wall that curved like a claw around him.

"Did you see that?" Masquien snapped. "Blind men don't move like that by instinct. That's rehearsal. They've drilled this."

"Discipline," Lord Talen agreed with a nod. "They're no arena fodder. They're soldiers. Probably bonded—same unit, maybe same village."

"Or family," the old noble murmured.

The warriors closest to Caelvir did not strike. Their blades hovered, but they held their ground, unwilling to slash blindly into chaos.

Caelvir tried to break away, but the warrior he had baited stepped forward and slashed with precision and force.

The man was skilled. Far too skilled.

Strike to the chest? Met by a shield.

Strike to the throat? Blocked by a sword.

Strike low? Countered before it landed.

His hearing was unnatural, as if he could hear Caelvir think. The man's armor caught every shallow blow, and his blocks came just moments before each strike.

"This one's trained beyond instinct," Venara observed. "He's their ears."

Caelvir's focus on him cost precious seconds.

Behind, the right wing had completed its arc. Five soldiers now blocked the right. The rear had advanced, and two more from the left wing had shifted to the far end, forming a crescent.

"Right wing done. Two more."

No escape forward. No escape right. No escape back.

His only hope was the left.

But even that began to close.

"Two from back rear done."

"Circle complete."

They were everywhere.

"The trap's shut," Talen declared. "He's finished."

"He still breathes," Venara corrected him.

"He won't for long," Masquien said. "They'll keep him dancing until he's exhausted, then close in."

But Faron leaned forward, watching like a predator. "Not if he breaks the pattern."

Steel sang.

The warriors struck as one, guided by their senses and rhythm, slashes sweeping and swords cutting the air as they kept the circle tight. The formation lacked perfection, but it didn't need to be flawless.

Just good enough.

Caelvir dodged. Blocked. Rolled beneath a blade.

But he was surrounded.

One second. One opening. That was all he had before the others joined to reinforce the circle.

He chose.

The one before him—the outermost—was lean, and his ankles were exposed beneath the greaves. Caelvir spun low, kicking up dust as he rotated on the heel of his foot and—

CRACK.

Blade cut through tendon.

A scream. Blood spilled onto sand. Shield dropped.

The circle stuttered.

"One down," Lord Faron whispered.

Caelvir did not waste the moment.

Placing a foot on the fallen man's wrist, he leapt and used the momentum to drive his blade into the man's throat, severing his voice. Then, before the others could locate him—

He vanished.

Into the dust. Into the noise. The blind could no longer find him.

Chaos rippled through the ranks.

The warriors near the fallen man moved first, hands sweeping out to reestablish contact.

"No. One is out. The rear advance forward behind the hollow wedge," the commander barked, his voice sharp and tone unshaken.

But the wedge no longer knew where to hold.

A single breath had disrupted their rhythm.

"Now," Faron whispered, eyes wide and a grin splitting his face, "it's just got interesting."