Chapter 44
Lightning in the Woods
The forest was a cathedral of shadows and silence, their camp a hidden pocket of murmured plans and the faint scent of cold stew. Under the canopy, away from the fire's direct light, Renly, Anya, Adrien, Lyra, Will, and two of Adrien's grizzled captains huddled over a map scratched into the dirt.
"The supply convoy rests here," Adrien said, pointing a twig at a clearing near a narrow pass known as the Serpent's Throat. "Baron Matthew's men guard it. Fifty, maybe sixty. They feel safe this far behind the lines."
"Arrogance is a weakness," Anya stated, her voice a low, cool whisper. "We will exploit it. My role is infiltration. I go in alone before first light, find the command tent and the main supply depot, and prepare the incendiaries."
Renly traced a line on the map with his finger, circling around the back of the clearing to a constricted path barely wide enough for two horses. "My squad's role is the trap. We position here, at the Vulture's Beak. When you attack, any who try to flee will come this way. We stop them. No one warns the next post. And when you retreat, we seal the exit." He looked at Will and Lyra. "We collapse the overhang with levered charges. It won't hold forever, but it will bottleneck their pursuit."
Adrien nodded, a fierce light in his eyes. "Good. My troops and I will be positioned here, in the tree line, awaiting Anya's signal. When she gives it, we hit the camp hard and fast. Our goal is not to conquer, but to burn. Set the supplies ablaze, create maximum chaos, and disengage. We retreat back through the Vulture's Beak before they can organize a proper counter-attack."
The plan was set. It was a classic guerrilla strike: the dagger in the dark, the hammer from the shadows, and the sealed door.
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Dawn was a pale, grey promise in the east when Renly's squad of twenty, plus Lyra and Will, were in position. They were ghosts in the rocky outcrops above the Vulture's Beak, their unmarked leather armor blending with the stone. Below, the narrow path was silent. Renly felt the familiar calm of a hunter settle over him. This was no different from stalking a great-stag, only the prey was more dangerous.
The wait was tense. Then, a flicker of movement in the distant camp. A figure, darker than the shadows, flowed between the tents. Anya.
Minutes stretched. Suddenly, a bright, orange flower bloomed in the heart of the encampment. The command tent was on fire. A moment later, a second, larger explosion erupted from a line of wagons—the supply depot. A sharp, piercing whistle cut through the morning air—Anya's signal.
Chaos erupted.
From the tree line, Adrien's horn blared. Thirty cavalry and seventy infantry of Blackstone burst forth with a unified roar, crashing into the stunned and sleepy camp. The sound of clashing steel and panicked shouts became a cacophony.
Renly's focus narrowed to the path below. "Steady," he murmured to his men. "Here they come."
True to plan, a handful of guards, those on the camp's periphery or those with faster horses, broke away from the fighting and galloped straight for the Vulture's Beak, their only thought to carry the alarm.
"Now!" Renly commanded.
His militiamen stood from their concealment. A volley of crossbow bolts cut down the first two riders. The others skidded to a halt, their escape route blocked by a wall of determined northerners. The fight was short, brutal, and efficient. Renly moved among them, his sword a precise instrument, his Electric Surge used in tiny, controlled flickers to numb a sword arm or disrupt a balance, allowing his men to finish the job. No one passed.
He glanced back at the camp. Adrien's troops were a whirlwind of destruction, torching everything that would burn. He saw Anya, a specter of smoke and steel, fighting her way toward the rendezvous point. Adrien was rallying his men, signaling the retreat.
"Will, Lyra! The charges!" Renly yelled.
Will and two others slammed heavy mallets onto pre-set wedges. There was a groan of protesting stone, then a rumble as a section of the cliff face sheared away, crashing down and burying the Vulture's Beak under tons of rock and earth. The exit was sealed.
Adrien's force streamed past them, the rearguard covering the retreat. The plan had worked flawlessly. Thick, black smoke pillars rose from the Duke's supply depot, a testament to their success.
But then came the flash from burning camp.
A single rider burst from the smoke of the camp, not following the retreat, but cutting across the slope to intercept them. He moved with unnatural speed, a blur of polished steel and rage. It was Baron Matthew, his face a mask of fury, his bloodline's "Flash" ability making him a streaking comet of vengeance.
"The Blackstone heir!" he roared, his voice cutting over the din. "You will not escape to boast of this!"
He ignored the main body of troops and slammed into the rearguard of Adrien's retreating regiment. His sword was a silvery flash, and two soldiers fell before they could even raise their shields. He was a Senior Knight, and his speed was devastating. He wasn't trying to kill them all; he was trying to carve a path straight to Adrien.
Adrien, a capable Official Knight but outclassed, was being shielded by his loyal troops. They formed a wall around him, but Baron Matthew was a scythe through wheat. Men died to protect their future lord, their sacrifices painting the grass red.
"I am drawing his fury! Fall back!" Adrien shouted, his voice thick with anguish and guilt as another of his men fell.
Renly saw it all unfold in a split second. The plan was successful, but it was about to cost Adrien his life and his honor. He didn't shout a challenge. He simply moved.
Pushing his own body to its limit, Renly intercepted Baron Matthew's path. Their swords met with a shriek of metal. The Baron was startled for a moment, then sneered. "Another border rat? You die too!"
Their fight was a mirror of speed and precision. Matthew was faster in pure movement, his Flash bloodline allowing him to dart and strike from unexpected angles. But Renly's movements were more efficient, his footwork perfect, his parries minimal and exact. He was a rock in the river of Matthew's speed. Sparks flew as their blades clashed again and again.
Renly realized a direct contest would lead to a stalemate at best, a slow death at worst. He needed to end it. Now.
He remembered the killing blow against Ser Loras—the raw, channeled power of the Explosive Lunge. And he remembered the disruptive, stunning force of his Electric Surge. In a flash of insight, he wondered if they could be one.
As Matthew lunged forward with a blindingly fast thrust, Renly didn't dodge or parry. He embraced the attack.
He drew upon the deep well of vital force in his core, fueling the Explosive Lunge. But instead of letting the energy erupt purely into kinetic force, he fused it with the raw, neurological power of the Electric Surge at the very moment of execution.
The effect was terrifying.
A crack of thunder erupted from Renly's body. He didn't just lunge; he vanished from his position and reappeared before Matthew, his sword sheathed in a crackling nimbus of blue-white energy. It was not just fast; it was instantaneous to the Baron's perception. The sheer speed and the concussive thump of displaced air stunned Matthew, freezing him for a critical fraction of a second.
The Baron's eyes widened in disbelief. His own speed was useless. He saw the death coming but could not move.
Renly's blade, carrying the combined force of a thunderclap and a lightning strike, pierced straight through Matthew's breastplate. There was no resistance. The armor glowed white-hot around the point of impact for an instant before the tip erupted from his back. The smell of ozone and burnt metal filled the air.
Baron Matthew looked down at the sword in his chest, then at Renly, his expression one of utter, frozen shock. He was dead before he hit the ground.
Renly wrenched his blade free, his arm screaming in protest. A wave of deep, muscular pain and spiritual fatigue washed over him—the price of the untested technique. He swayed but remained standing.
The few remaining enemy soldiers, seeing their lord slain by what looked like a force of nature, broke and fled into the woods, only to find their escape route blocked by the landslide.
Silence descended, broken only by the crackle of the distant fires and the moans of the wounded.
Adrien rushed forward, his face pale. "Renly… by the King's grace, what was that? I've never seen such a move. It had the shape of an Explosive Lunge, but… it was something else entirely."
Renly took a deep, steadying breath, sheathing his sword. "It's nothing formal. Just something I've been working on. A combination of principles."
Anya stepped up beside Adrien, her sharp eyes missing nothing—the slight tremor in Renly's hand, the way he favored his right side. "It's based on the skill my lady gave you," she stated, not asking. "The Lunge. But you've fused it with your bloodline. You've made it your own." She looked from the dead Baron to Renly. "It needs a name."
Renly nodded, the pain a small price for the victory and the validation. "What would you call it?"
Anya didn't hesitate. She had seen it perfectly. "It was not an explosion. It was a strike from a clear sky. Unavoidable. Devastating." Her eyes met his. "Call it Lightning Lunge."
The name fit. It was clean, direct, and deadly. Just like the man who wielded it.
As the sun climbed higher, they tended to their wounded and melted back into the forest, a ghost of an army that had already begun to stalk its next target. The chaos in the Duke's rear had begun, and at its forefront was a new technique born of two worlds, and a Knight who was quickly becoming a legend.
In the days that followed, the "Lightning Lunge" and the tale of the burned convoy spread through the Duke's rear lines. Renly, Anya, and Adrien became ghosts in the woods, striking storage depots and scout patrols with ruthless efficiency. They left only chaos, fire, and the growing legend of a Knight who moved with the speed of a storm, sowing doubt and fear deep behind enemy lines. The Duke's war machine was bleeding from a thousand small, precise cuts.