Lord Theodore's Favorite Ritual
Chapter 211: Wounded And Going Home.

Chapter 211: Wounded And Going Home.

Night.

Forest.

Critic-Ishire.

**************

As the last of the captives was freed, a commotion nearby drew Blanc’s attention. He turned to see a group of Theodore’s men emerging from the trees, their faces set in grim determination. Among them was Sir Conan, his sword stained with the blood of fallen foes.

"Blanc!" Conan called, his voice cutting through the din of the battle. "We need to move. More of those disgusting thieves are coming."

Blanc nodded, his expression resolute. "These men are ready to go," he replied, motioning to the freed captives. "But they are weak. We will need to support them."

"A lot of us would need support but we are moving ahead anyway, whoever can pick something, should help in loading the cart" Theodore spoke and they found temporal energy, adrenaline coursing through them to move ahead.

"Blanc get the horses" Hound growled, his face pale. One of the witch’s captive’s had died.

Conan gestured to the men, who quickly moved to assist the former captives, offering shoulders to lean on and words of encouragement. Together, the group began to make their way back through the forest with the hunts, moving as swiftly as they could manage.

Three of the men sustained wounds in the vicious fight. Conan took a deep gash to his leg, blood seeping through his trousers as he had fought on. Gabriel bore a nasty cut across his shoulder, his arm hanging limply at his side but he still gripping his dagger with determination. Hound, too, was injured, an arrow protruding from his side, yet his resolve had never wavered.

Despite their injuries, the men pressed on, freeing their captured comrades who joined the fray with renewed vigor. The tide of the battle had turned as the combined forces of the two groups overwhelmed the witches. One by one, their enemies had fallen until only silence remained, broken only by the labored breathing of the victorious men.

As they tended to their wounds and gathered their strength, they discovered that one of their rescued comrades had succumbed to his injuries during the battle. A somber mood settled over the group as they mourned their fallen friend. Despite their victory, the cost had been high, and the dangers of the forest were made starkly clear. Together, they prepared to return home, their hunt overshadowed by the memory of those they had lost.

The forest had grown eerily quiet after the fierce battle, the once vibrant sounds of life replaced by the somber echoes of their hard-fought victory. The air was heavy with the scent of blood and the acrid tang of dark magic. The men, battered and weary, began to gather themselves, their movements slow and pained.

Theodore, despite his own exhaustion, took charge, his commanding presence a beacon of strength for the group. He moved to help Conan, who was now struggling to stand, the deep gash in his leg still bleeding. Together, they pulled Gabriel to his feet, the young man swaying unsteadily, his face pale and drawn.

"Easy, Gabriel," Lord Theodore murmured, his voice gentle but firm. "We have got you."

Tom, his own wounds temporarily forgotten, supported his brother, his arm wrapped around Gabriel’s waist. Hound, with an arrow still protruding from his side, leaned heavily against a tree, his face contorted in pain but his eyes sharp and vigilant.

"We need to get these wounds treated and get back to the city," Theodore said, his tone brooking no argument. "Conan, help Hound to the cart. Gabriel, keep an eye on Tom." he missed their names but the exhaustion was to blame.

The men moved with grim determination, each step a reminder of their injuries. They reached the small clearing where their cart, loaded with the carcasses of deer and wild boar and baskets of foraged fruits, awaited them. The cart, sturdy and reliable, had been their lifeline on this hunt, and now it would carry them back to safety.

Sir Conan and Lord Theodore carefully lifted Hound into the cart, his breathing shallow and labored. The arrow wound was severe, and every jolt of the cart would send fresh waves of pain through his body. Next, they helped Gabriel into the cart, his dizziness making him sway dangerously. Tom stayed close, his presence a steadying force for his twin.

Finally, they lifted the body of their fallen comrade into the cart, their faces etched with grief and determination. The man had fought bravely, and they would honor his sacrifice by ensuring he received a proper burial.

As they prepared to leave, Theodore took one last look around the clearing. The battle had been won, but he knew this was only the beginning. The witches’ attack had been too coordinated, too purposeful. A war was brewing, and this skirmish was merely a prelude.

Climbing onto his horse, Theodore took the reins, his mind heavy with thoughts of what lay ahead. He thought of his wife, Lydia, her gentle smile and unwavering support. She would be worried, but he couldn’t let her see his fear. He had to be strong for her, for all of them.

As the cart began to move, Theodore led the way, his eyes scanning the forest for any sign of further danger. His thoughts returned to the witches. Their leader was cunning and ruthless, and this attack felt like part of a larger, more sinister plan. He couldn’t shake the feeling that they were being drawn into a trap, that the true battle lay ahead.

The journey back to the city was slow and arduous all through the night. The cart creaked under the weight of their supplies and their wounded, each bump in the road eliciting groans of pain from Hound and Gabriel. Tom and Sir Conan did their best to comfort their friends, their own injuries forgotten in the face of their comrades’ suffering.

Lord Theodore’s mind raced as they traveled. He needed to prepare the city for what was coming. They would need more than just hunters; they would need soldiers, strategies, and alliances. The witches were a formidable enemy, and he couldn’t afford to underestimate them.

As they neared the city it was already daylight, the familiar sight of gates and community gatherings brought a sense of relief. The walls stood tall and imposing, a symbol of safety and home. The guards, recognizing their lord and his battered company, rushed to open the gates, their expressions a mix of concern and respect.

Lord Theodore dismounted, his body aching with fatigue, but he stood tall, his eyes burning with resolve. "We have much to do," he said, his voice carrying the weight of his determination. "Prepare the healers, and send word to the council. We must be ready for what comes next."

The men moved swiftly, their exhaustion forgotten in the face of their duty. As Hound and Gabriel were carried to the healers, Lord Theodore allowed himself a moment to breathe.

He hopes he doesn’t lose any of his men today, Hound, Conan or Gabriel.

He looked up at the sky, the clouds darkening with the promise of a storm, and thought of Lydia. He would protect her, and their city, no matter the cost.

Blanc took a moment to catch his breath, his mind already racing ahead to the next steps.

The battle was over, but the war had just begun. With a final, steely resolve, Lord Theodore turned and walked through the gates, ready to face whatever challenges lay ahead, he was going home

They realized they shouldn’t have been spooked about the wolves when the witches permeated the area.