Chapter 5: The First Strike
The silence that descended upon Oakhaven was heavier than the night itself, broken only by the distant, rhythmic thud of hooves. Kaelen, perched on the watchtower, felt the subtle vibrations through the stone, a low hum that resonated with the tension in his own chest. The villagers, armed with their makeshift weapons, were spread along the wall, their faces pale but determined. Old Man Borin stood beside Kaelen, his gnarled hands gripping a bow, his gaze fixed on the darkness beyond the gate.
Kaelen had finished his subtle weaving. The ground outside the gate now held a hidden treachery, a series of almost imperceptible dips and rises, loose stones poised to shift at the slightest pressure. It was a delicate manipulation, a whisper in the Threads, designed to disrupt rather than destroy. He had spent a portion of his dwindling vitality on it, feeling the familiar cold drain, but it was a calculated risk. Every ounce of his power had to serve a precise purpose.
The thudding grew louder, closer. The raiders were not trying to be stealthy. They were confident, perhaps even arrogant, in their approach. Kaelen could almost feel their anticipation, a crude, aggressive energy rippling through the Threads of the land. He focused on that energy, trying to discern their exact formation, their intent.
Suddenly, two dark shapes emerged from the gloom, riding hard. They were indeed mounted on Sand-Runners, their forms lean and swift, barely visible against the dark earth. The lead rider, the one Kaelen had disarmed, was not among them. This meant the remaining two were the stronger, more dangerous ones. The leaner, more cunning Weaver was at the front, his posture radiating a cold, focused intent.
"Hold!" Borin's voice, though strained, cut through the night. A few arrows, hastily loosed, whistled through the air, falling far short of their targets. The raiders didn't even flinch.
The Weaver-raider laughed, a harsh, dry sound that carried on the wind. "Little mice in their hole! Come out and face us, or we'll burn your precious saplings to ash!"
Kaelen felt a fresh surge of anger, cold and sharp, at the mention of the Elderwood. He pushed it down, channeling it into focus. Emotion was a weakness, a distraction from the intricate dance of the Threads. He watched as the raiders spurred their mounts, charging directly for the gate.
Just as they reached the perimeter Kaelen had prepared, the ground shifted. Not a dramatic collapse, but a series of sudden, unexpected jolts. The lead Sand-Runner stumbled, its powerful legs losing purchase on the subtly altered earth. The Weaver-raider, despite his skill, was thrown forward, his grip on the reins momentarily broken. The second raider, caught off guard by his companion's sudden lurch, swerved wildly, his own mount nearly losing its footing.
A cry of surprise, then a roar of fury, erupted from the Weaver-raider as he hit the ground, rolling. His blade, still in his hand, scraped against stone. The second raider managed to regain control, but his charge was broken.
"Now!" Kaelen yelled, his voice cutting through the momentary chaos.
Borin and the villagers, galvanized by the unexpected success of Kaelen's unseen trap, loosed a volley of arrows and threw rocks. Most missed, but the sudden barrage, coupled with the raiders' disarray, was enough. The Weaver-raider scrambled to his feet, cursing, his eyes darting around, trying to pinpoint the source of the unseen attack. He was looking for Kaelen, for the Weaver he knew was here.
Kaelen didn't give him the chance. He leaped from the watchtower, a silent descent, landing lightly behind the second raider, who was still struggling to control his agitated Sand-Runner. Kaelen's knife was out, a blur in the moonlight. He didn't aim for a kill, but for a swift, incapacitating strike. The raider cried out as Kaelen's blade found its mark, a precise cut to the back of his knee. The man crumpled, his weapon falling uselessly from his grasp.
The Weaver-raider, seeing his companion fall, roared and charged, not at Kaelen, but at the gate, a desperate, enraged attempt to breach the village. He was a formidable opponent, even dismounted, his movements fluid and deadly. But Kaelen had anticipated this. He had woven the Threads of the ground not just to trip, but to funnel.
The raider ran directly into a narrow choke point between two large boulders, a path Kaelen had subtly made more appealing. As he squeezed through, Kaelen moved, a shadow detaching from the larger darkness. He met the raider in the confined space, blade against blade. The clang of steel echoed sharply in the night. This was a dance of death, and Kaelen, the Weaver, intended to lead. The fate of Oakhaven hung in the balance, and the Threads of this night were still far from settled.