James met the rear of the convoy sword-first.
An orc came off the last wagon with a heavy chipped blade. James took the strike square on Durendal to learn something, and learned it — the S-rank blade drank the impact without a shiver. No chip. No twist in his grip.
His turn. Mana ran down the blade, even and eager, and he cut once, controlled, through the orc's descending weapon and the armour behind it.
Both halves of the sword, and the orc that had held it, hit the road.
A wounded guard was crawling away from the wagons with an orc following him, patient. James crossed the distance and made it wrong about having time.
The body dropped in open ground — and James saw the shapes converging on it. Four goblins using the rocks for cover from Cillian's angles. Two wolves swinging wide behind them.
He checked the arithmetic. Crawling guard: twelve meters clear, moving away. Nearest wagon: out of radius. Civilians: screened behind the wagons.
He let them gather.
