Chapter 37 The Valley

Nearby, Callwen clapped a younger soldier on the back just as the lad doubled over and vomited into the grass. Callwen grimaced, muttering under his breath, "Watching men charge into their graves is truly a sight."

The younger man wiped his mouth with trembling hands. "This isn't right," he muttered, spitting to clear the bile from his throat. "We should be killing English bastards, not turning on our own." His voice rose in anger and guilt.

Farther up the valley, Oswald and his group trudged in pursuit of fleeing survivors. The sun dipped low, casting long shadows across the rocky terrain. They caught four men, their hands raised in surrender, but one had escaped, disappearing into the craggy landscape.

A soldier panted heavily, leaning on his knees. "It was that bastard, Bonebreaker Talog!"

At the name, Oswald's expression darkened, his eyes burning with raw fury. "Talog!?"

The soldier nodded, pointing shakily up a rocky incline. "That way. But you shouldn't—"

Oswald didn't wait for the warning. Gripping his rifle, he bolted uphill, his boots grinding against loose stones. His breath came in ragged bursts as rage drove him forward.

After some time, in the distance, he spotted Talog slumped against a boulder, clutching his side and panting heavily. Without hesitation, Oswald raised his rifle and fired. The shot went wide, ricocheting off stone. Talog jerked upright, fear flashing in his eyes.

Another shot cracked through the air, and Talog let out a sharp cry as a bullet tore into his leg. He staggered, cursing, and hobbled away. Blood smeared the rocks in his wake, leaving a clear trail for Oswald to follow.

Oswald reloaded as he marched, his grip on the rifle iron-tight. He fired again, missing as Talog stumbled forward, then fired once more. Multiple shots echoed through the valley like the final toll of a bell.

Talog tripped, collapsing to the ground. He crawled, desperation etched into every movement. "No, please!" he begged, his voice breaking.

Oswald loomed over him, his shadow stretching long in the fading light. "Remember me?" His voice was low, venomous.

Talog's eyes widened in recognition. "You... you're that boy..."

Oswald sneered, his teeth bared in a feral grin. "Now you remember. I want you to burn in hell, scum."

He pressed the rifle to Talog's temple and pulled the trigger. The hollow click echoed in the silence. Oswald's eyes darted to the weapon, realization dawning—he was out of bullets.

Talog seized the moment, shoving the rifle aside and tackling Oswald. They fell in a chaotic tangle of limbs, fists flying. Oswald landed on top, drawing his knife and driving it into Talog's hand. Talog howled, gritting his teeth as the blade sank through flesh.

But his free hand groped for a stone, fingers closing around its rough surface. With a guttural roar, he slammed it into Oswald's head. Blood sprayed as the first blow connected.

Talog didn't stop. Again and again, he brought the stone down until Oswald's skull was unrecognizable, a pulp of bone and flesh. His breaths came in ragged gasps as he finally let the stone fall, his hands trembling.

The town streets filled with murmurs as Ethan and his men returned with prisoners bound in ropes. Villagers peered out from doorways, their whispers growing louder.

"Look, lord Ieuan and his men were victorious!" someone said.

But not all faces were joyful. A soldier approached Tarwyn, speaking in hushed tones.

"Oswald hasn't returned." The soldier explained the situation

Tarwyn's expression darkened, "You let him go alone! without backup?" His voice was venomous, as he turned to Ethan.

"Where did you last see him?" Ethan demanded.

"At the valley...." the soldier replied.

Ethan's jaw tightened as he spurred his horse forward, galloping toward the eastern plains under the encroaching night.

Talog limped through the valley, Oswald's rifle slung over his shoulder. His bullet wound burned like fire, and his breath hitched with every step. He tore a strip of cloth from his tunic, tying it around his leg to staunch the bleeding.

A low growl froze him in his tracks. Slowly, he turned to see a wolf step out from the shadows, its eyes glowing faintly in the twilight.

"Shit," Talog muttered, raising the rifle with trembling hands. He fumbled with the mechanism, pleading under his breath.

Click.

The weapon was empty.

Cursing, he tossed it aside and drew his knife, his hands shaking. More wolves emerged, their teeth bared and saliva dripping. Talog turned in circles, panting as the pack closed in.

The first wolf lunged, its teeth sinking into his leg. He screamed, stabbing wildly. Another wolf leapt onto his chest as he fell.

Talog managed to drive his blade into its side, but the rest of the pack swarmed him. Teeth tore at his flesh, and his screams echoed into the night until they were silenced by the wet sound of tearing muscle.

Ethan rode into the valley, the starlight casting a pale glow over the terrain. He dismounted, his eyes scanning the area. His caught the faint coppery tang of blood on the wind.

He found Oswald first, his body sprawled in the dirt, head shattered beyond recognition. Ethan's jaw clenched as he knelt beside the corpse.

"I should've killed him when i had the chance...." he muttered, anger simmering.

Following the trail, he found Talog—or what was left of him. Wolves feasted on his remains, their glowing eyes narrowing as Ethan approached. He let out a low growl of his own, and the wolves retreated, melting back into the shadows.

Ethan crouched over Talog's mangled body, retrieving the rifle. His fingers brushed against the torn flesh, and he let out a breath.