The metallic stench of death hit Wallace before he saw the carnage.
Blood. Everywhere. Pooling in crimson lakes between the rocks. Splattered across tree trunks in abstract patterns of violence. Dripping from branches like macabre rain.
The waterfall's roar couldn't mask the wet sounds of tearing flesh, the crack of bones being crushed, the final death rattles of warriors who'd made the fatal mistake of threatening the mad king's mate.
Wallace had brought seventeen of his finest warriors to this location. Now they stood frozen behind him, their faces drained of color as they witnessed a scene from their darkest nightmares.
Bodies lay scattered across the clearing like broken dolls. Some were missing limbs. Others had been torn completely in half. The fortunate ones had died quickly—clean kills, throats ripped out in single, merciful strikes.
The unlucky ones had been savaged beyond recognition.
