The Gamble King - Chapter 03. The Hero Of Eastwatch

Max screamed through the battlefield like a comet—not because he wanted to, but because that's what happens when you're clinging to the back of a warhorse charging at full gallop through a sea of fighting, dying men.

"MOVE! GET OUT OF THE WAY!"

His voice was lost in the chaos, but the sight of a horse at full charge proved more persuasive than words ever could. Soldiers from both sides scattered, diving into the mud rather than risk being trampled. Those too slow or too engaged in their own battles to notice received a different fate—the horse plowed through them without slowing, leaving broken bodies in its wake.

Riding a horse, Max discovered, was nothing like the movies made it seem. It wasn't graceful or heroic. It was terrifying. Each thundering hoofbeat sent a shock up his spine. His thighs burned from gripping the animal's sides. The saddle pummeled his ass with bruising force. His hands were already bloody from clutching the reins too tightly, the leather cutting into his palms.

And the speed. Dear god, the speed.

The horse moved like a force of nature, a thousand pounds of muscle and bone propelling itself across the battlefield with a single-minded purpose that made Max feel less like a rider and more like luggage. Every instinct screamed that he should be thrown off, that no human body should remain attached to something moving this fast over terrain this treacherous.

But still, and luckily, it seemed Harek's body had memory of this as well. Like with the bow, muscle memory took over where Max's experience ended. His legs knew how to grip, his hands how to hold the reins with just enough give. His weight shifted automatically with each turn and jump, his body working in tandem with the animal beneath him.

Max didn't even need to kick the horse or physically steer it. A thought, a slight shift of weight, a whispered command—that was all it took. The animal responded as if it could read his mind, cutting through the chaos with unnerving precision.

"Left!" Max called, and the horse veered, avoiding a cluster of spearmen. "Through there!" He pointed at a narrow gap in the fighting, and the animal charged for it without hesitation.

A soldier looked up just in time to see death bearing down on him. His eyes widened in recognition.

"Harek?" the man gasped, right before the horse knocked him aside.

Max hadn't meant to hit their own men, but in the pandemonium, it was impossible to distinguish friend from foe. Everything was blurry, faces appearing and disappearing too quickly to register.

An arrow whizzed past his ear, so close he felt the wind of its passage. Another struck the horse's flank, but the animal barely flinched, its battle training overriding pain.

The third found Max's thigh.

"FUCK!" he screamed as the arrowhead punched through leather and into flesh. White-hot pain shot up his leg, but there was no time to stop, no time to even process the pain properly. The arrow's shaft snapped as it caught against a passing soldier, leaving just the head buried in his flesh, a fresh hell with every movement.

But the center of the battlefield was getting closer. Max could see the white pulsing light more clearly now, the commander still standing on his mound with the glowing orb. The barrier generator was within reach.

And standing in the way, just as before, was the giant.

The enormous man was carving a path of destruction through the battlefield. The number 8 still floated above his head, glowing faintly.

The giant saw him coming.

As Max charged forward, their eyes locked across the distance. The huge man's face split into a grin, as if Max's charge was the most entertaining thing he'd seen all day.

Max grabbed one of the spears from the saddle. The same preternatural focus that had guided his archery returned, the world slowing around him. He could see individual sweat droplets flying from the giant's brow as the man swung his hammer at another victim. He could count the notches on the hammer's head. He could even spot the slight limp in the giant's left leg—an old injury, perhaps.

That's where he'd aim.

Max hefted the spear, calculating distance, speed, and trajectory. Harek's muscle memory guided his grip, his arm finding the perfect balance point almost instinctively.

Twenty yards away now. The giant finished crushing a soldier's chest, turning to face the new threat directly.

Fifteen yards. Max raised the spear, his arm drawing back.

Ten yards. The giant braced himself, hammer held ready, but he made no move to dodge. Was he too confident? Or simply too massive to fear a single spear?

Five yards.

One of Max's allies—some brave or foolish soul—chose that moment to attack the giant from behind. The distraction worked; the giant turned, annoyed, and with a casual backhand swing of his hammer, separated the man's head from his shoulders.

It was all the opening Max needed.

He threw the spear with every ounce of strength Harek's body could muster. His aim was true—the weapon flew straight and fast, its point driving toward the giant's exposed thigh, right where the old injury seemed to be.

The giant realized the danger too late. He tried to twist away, but the spear punched through his leggings and into flesh. Not deep—just an inch or two—but enough to make the giant roar in pain and anger.

"YES!" Max exulted, maintaining his balance as the horse thundered past.

He never saw the foot soldier. Just a flash of movement from his right, the glint of metal, and then—

The world turned upside down. Max felt something slam into his stomach with stunning force—a spear that shattered on impact, the soldier having put his entire body behind the thrust. But broken or not, it was enough to unseat Max, sending him flying from the saddle.

For one suspended moment, Max hung in the air, watching the sky and ground trade places in his vision. The sounds of battle seemed to fade, replaced by a strange, rushing quiet.

Then his back hit the ground.

The impact was catastrophic. He heard rather than felt his spine snap—a wet, cracking sound like a branch breaking. There was a moment of blinding pain, and then... nothing. No sensation below his neck. Just the awareness that he was dying, again, staring up at the blood-streaked sky, unable to move.

A face appeared above him—the foot soldier, looking surprised at having unseated him. The man raised a dagger to finish the job, but it was unnecessary. Max was already fading, blood pooling beneath him, his crushed body surrendering to death.

Then...

"You have got to be FUCKING KIDDING ME!"

Max's consciousness slipped back into the In-Between, where he found himself once again disembodied, aware but formless.

"Well, that went great," he thought to the emptiness. "Top-notch horseback riding there, Max. Truly professional work."

The number pulsed gently, as if laughing at his frustration.

"Alright. Let's get back there."

Max came back to himself with a gasp, lying in the mud once more. His back ached with phantom pain, a ghostly memory of his spine shattering.

"NUMBER OF REROLLS REMAINING: 4," flashed briefly before his eyes before disappearing.

"Get up, Harek!" The bearded soldier was there again, same as before. "We're falling back to the ridge!"

Max sat up, mind racing. Charging straight for the orb had failed spectacularly. The giant was too dangerous to leave alive, and a frontal assault was suicide.

"New plan," he muttered.

"What?" The bearded soldier frowned.

Max stood, grabbing the soldier's arm. "Who's the loudest person in our company? Someone who could yell commands and get people to move?"

The soldier blinked, clearly thrown by the unexpected question. "What are you talking about?"

"Just answer the question! Who screams the loudest?"

"Uh... Vorrik, I suppose. Man's got lungs like a bull."

"Where is he?" Max asked urgently.

Another soldier overheard and snorted. "Vorrik? Took an arrow through his throat some time ago! Died gurgling!"

"Great," Max said, dodging a swordsman who immediately got slain by the bearded soldier. "Thanks! Second loudest?"

The bearded soldier panted. "That'd be... Haslen, I reckon."

"Impaled by a cavalry charge," offered the other soldier, shielding himself from an arrow.

Max stared at them both. "Third?"

"Petrik," both soldiers said simultaneously.

"Goblins gutted him," the bearded one added.

Max took a deep breath. "Is there anyone who can yell commands who isn't already dead?!"

The two soldiers exchanged looks.

"Well," said the bearded one, "I've got a decent set of lungs on me."

"You?" Max asked incredulously. "Why didn't you say that from the start?"

"You asked who was loudest! I'm fourth at best!"

"Fourth is better than dead!" Max grabbed the man's shoulders. "I need you to help me. I'm going to make a run for that orb at the center—the thing keeping us trapped here. But I need our men to get out of my way."

The bearded soldier stared at him like he'd lost his mind. "The orb? That's suicide!"

"Staying here is suicide," Max countered. "We're all trapped. That thing is creating a barrier around the battlefield. If we destroy it, we can escape."

"Too dangerous," Tomas shook his head. "We should wait for the better fighters to clear the center. Sir Gregory will finish them."

"Gregory?" Max's head snapped up. "The knight?" Sir Gregory—a named character, one of Bjorn's companions from the novel. He was here?

Tomas gave him a confused look. "Of course Sir Gregory. Who else would—"

Max ducked suddenly as a soldier with a mace swung wildly past his head. No time to process this revelation now.

"Just trust me!" Max looked around frantically. "I need a bow. And I need you to start yelling—tell our men to clear a path toward the center."

The bearded soldier hesitated, then nodded slowly. "Alright. But if you get yourself killed, don't blame me."

"If I get killed, I won't be blaming anyone," Max said dryly.

Less than a minute later, Max had a bow and a quiver of arrows. The bearded soldier—whose name, he learned, was Tomas—had a surprisingly powerful voice when he put effort into it.

"MAKE WAY FOR VANHEIM!" Tomas bellowed as they moved through the ranks. "CLEAR A PATH! BY ORDER OF LORD HAREK!"

The "Lord" was new information to Max, but he didn't have time to question it. Soldiers moved aside, many looking confused but obeying the command. Some even formed up to provide cover, keeping enemies at bay as Max advanced.

Max spotted the giant in the distance, still smashing his way through fighters with that massive hammer. The number 8 glowed steadily above his head.

"I need a clear shot," Max told Tomas.

"At the big one?" Tomas looked skeptical. "Arrows just bounce off him."

"Not if they hit the right spot," Max replied, nocking an arrow.

He settled into Harek's archery stance, feeling that same preternatural focus overtake him. The world slowed. Sounds dimmed. His vision zeroed in on the giant, picking out details invisible to normal sight—a gap in armor at the neck, the angle of his stance, the rhythm of his swings.

Max drew and released. The arrow flew true, striking the giant in the neck—but at the wrong angle. It glanced off the man's thick muscle, barely drawing blood.

The giant turned, spotted Max, and grinned. He began moving toward them, crushing anything in his path.

"Shit," Max muttered, nocking another arrow.

He fired again. This one hit the giant's shoulder but stuck in the leather armor without penetrating.

The giant was gaining speed now, barreling through the battlefield like a runaway train.

"He's coming straight for us!" Tomas shouted unnecessarily.

Max's third arrow struck the giant's thigh—the same spot he'd hit with the spear in his previous life. It sank in deeper this time, the giant's momentum driving the arrowhead further. The huge man faltered, his stride breaking, but he didn't stop.

"Aim for his eye!" someone shouted.

Max tried. His fourth arrow missed the eye but caught the giant's cheek, opening a bloody gash. The monster roared in pain and anger but kept coming.

"Run!" Tomas grabbed Max's arm. "We need to—"

Too late. The giant reached them, swinging his hammer in a vicious arc. Tomas threw himself backward, narrowly avoiding being pulverized.

Max wasn't so lucky. He tried to dive aside, but the hammer caught him mid-movement. He felt his ribcage collapse instantly, organs rupturing from the impact. The world spun crazily as he flew through the air, already dead before he hit the ground twenty feet away.

*****

"NUMBER OF REROLLS REMAINING: 3," the blue text informed him as he returned once more to the bloody mud.

"Get up, Harek!" Tomas again, right on cue.

Max stood, furious at himself. "I need to kill the giant before approaching the orb," he muttered.

"What?" Tomas frowned.

"Nothing." Max grabbed his arm. "I need arrows. Lots of them. And we need to get somewhere high."

High ground was scarce on the battlefield, but there was the ridge where their forces were retreating. It provided just enough elevation for what Max needed.

This time, he gathered six archers, positioning them on the ridge with a clear view of the giant. Tomas stood nearby, looking skeptical but supportive.

"On my command," Max instructed, "everyone aim for his face and neck. Don't stop firing until he falls."

The archers nodded, arrows nocked and ready.

Max took careful aim. "FIRE!"

Seven arrows flew simultaneously. Two missed completely. One struck the giant's chest harmlessly. One hit his arm. But three found their mark—one in the throat, one in the cheek, and Max's own shot directly through the giant's left eye.

The enormous man staggered, roaring in pain. Blood poured from his ruined eye socket. He swung his hammer wildly, hitting friend and foe alike in his blind rage.

"Again!" Max shouted.

Another volley. More hits. The giant dropped to one knee, multiple arrows protruding from his face and neck.

"One more time!"

The third volley brought the giant down completely. He collapsed forward, hammer slipping from his grasp, blood pooling beneath his massive frame. The number disappeared entirely.

"NUMBER OF REROLLS REMAINING: 12," flashed briefly before Max's eyes.

"Holy shit," he breathed. Eight new rerolls from killing the giant.

"You... you killed Gorm? You?" Tomas said, staring in awe at the fallen giant.

That felt very insulting.

But Max didn't waste time on it. He ran to where a group of soldiers were holding the line against enemy infantry. Behind them, a cluster of riderless horses milled about, separated from their owners in the chaos.

Max grabbed the nearest one—not the same horse as before, but a sturdy brown animal that responded well to his touch. He mounted quickly, securing his bow across his back.

"What are you doing?" Tomas called after him.

"Ending this!" Max replied, spurring the horse forward.

With the giant dead, the path to the center seemed clearer. Max guided his mount through the battlefield, avoiding the densest fighting where possible. Tomas's voice rang out behind him, ordering men to make way.

Max could see the orb now, pulsing with white light. The commander stood on his mound, surrounded by his elite guard. They were alert, having seen the giant fall, and had tightened their defensive formation.

As Max charged toward them, arrows began to fly in his direction. He ducked low over the horse's neck, making himself a smaller target, but he couldn't avoid them all. One struck his shoulder, another grazed his side.

He kept going.

Fifty yards. Forty. Thirty.

The guards were forming a wall now, shields raised. Max reached for one of the spears attached to his saddle.

Twenty yards. He could see the commander's face now—a hard, weathered visage with a scar running from temple to chin.

Ten yards. Max raised the spear, aiming not for the guards but for the orb itself.

Five yards. He threw with all his strength, the spear flying straight and true toward the glowing artifact.

At the last possible moment, one of the guards leaped into its path. The spear punched through the man's chest, stopping just inches from the commander's face.

Max cursed, reaching for another spear, but his horse stumbled beneath him, an arrow in its flank. He fought to keep his seat as the animal whinnied in pain.

The guards closed in, swords raised. Max managed to throw his second spear, but his balance was off. It sailed over the commander's head, missing the orb completely.

A moment later, the guards reached him. Three swords struck simultaneously—one in his thigh, one in his gut, one across his chest. Max tumbled from the saddle, already dying as he hit the ground.

His last thought before darkness took him: "Just... you wait, motherfuc-"

*****

NUMBER OF REROLLS REMAINING: 11

This time, Max had a plan, though "plan" was perhaps too generous a word. Kill the giant first. Approach from a better angle. Try not to die immediately.

Organizing the archers was harder than he'd hoped. Half of them didn't understand why they should abandon their positions to shoot at one target, no matter how big. The rest followed his commands with obvious skepticism.

"Aim for his face!" Max shouted, his own arrow flying wide as he stumbled on a corpse. His second shot struck the giant's shoulder, barely penetrating.

The giant noticed them, his massive hammer crushing a soldier as he turned toward the archers.

"Oh shit—everyone fire now!" Max yelled, his voice cracking. This time his arrow caught the giant in the neck. Two more struck his face, one piercing his eye.

The enormous man roared, staggered, then fell to one knee.

A final volley brought him down.

"...What now, Lord Harek?" an archer asked, staring at the fallen giant in disbelief.

Max was already running, looking for a horse. He found one, but mounting it proved embarrassing—it took three attempts to haul Harek's doughy body into the saddle, and when he finally succeeded, he nearly fell off the other side.

"I need a diversion!" Max called to Tomas. "Eastern flank!"

The bearded soldier gathered a handful of men, clearly confused but trusting. Max nudged his horse forward, intending to circle around, but the animal had other ideas. It bucked, nearly throwing him, then charged straight through the battlefield instead of around it.

"Not that way!" Max yanked the reins, causing the horse to rear up. He clung desperately to its mane, legs flailing for purchase.

When he finally regained control, he was dangerously close to the center—exposed, obvious, and completely unprepared.

The commander spotted him instantly. So much for surprise.

Max fumbled for a spear, nearly dropping it as he tried to aim. His throw was wild, but through sheer luck, it caught the commander in the shoulder.

The man staggered, dropping the orb. It rolled across the mound.

Max leaped from his horse—or tried to. His foot caught in the stirrup, leaving him dangling upside down against the animal's side. He crashed to the ground when the horse bolted, scraping his face raw against the mud and rocks.

Scrambling forward on hands and knees, he lunged for the orb. His fingers closed around it—

Then pain. Searing, blinding, total. The orb burned like white-hot metal, fusing to his skin. Max's scream tore his throat raw as energy coursed through him, cooking him from the inside.

Through watering eyes, he saw the commander struggling up, a cold smile on his face.

"Fool," the man spat. "Touching the artifact with your bare hand..."

Max's heart exploded in his chest, mercifully ending his agony.

*****

NUMBER OF REROLLS REMAINING: 10

This time, Max knew exactly which horse he wanted—the warhorse that had carried him on his first charge. The one that moved like it knew what it was doing, unlike the bucking catastrophe from his last attempt.

"You," Max pointed at Tomas. "Help me gather archers. We're taking down the giant first."

"The giant? Are you mad—"

"Just do it!"

Ten minutes later, Max stood with six archers on the ridge. The giant fell to their coordinated volleys, arrows piercing his eye, throat, and face. As he drew his last breath, Max was already moving.

He spotted his target—the warhorse from his first run. The spearman who had killed him was still mounted on it, scanning the battlefield for his next victim.

Max nocked an arrow, took careful aim, and released. The arrow caught the spearman in the throat. The man clutched at it uselessly for a moment before tumbling from the saddle, dead before he hit the ground.

The horse pawed nervously, still tethered to its now-dead rider by the reins.

Max approached slowly. "Easy, boy. Remember me?"

The horse snorted, ears flicking forward.

"I'm going to need you again," Max murmured, reaching for the reins.

The dead spearman's hand was still clutching them. Max grimaced, drawing his dagger and severing the man's wrist while his men covered him. The horse whinnied in protest but didn't bolt.

Two minutes later, Max was mounted and charging toward the center once more, this time with Tomas and a dozen soldiers creating a diversion on the eastern flank.

Max made it to the orb, even managed to strike the commander with a spear, but when he dismounted to grab the fallen artifact with a piece of leather, a guard's sword caught him across the throat. His last conscious thought was that he should have worn better armor.

*****

"NUMBER OF REROLLS REMAINING: 9"

"Throat slashes," Max muttered as he came back. "Always with the goddamn throats."

This time, he found the same horse, killed the giant, and wore a guard's discarded helmet that he found on the battlefield. He made it to the orb again but tried using a cloth to pick it up instead of the leather he did not find this time.

The cloth disintegrated instantly, and the orb still burned him to a crisp.

*****

NUMBER OF REROLLS REMAINING: 8

"What the ACTUAL fuck!" Max growled. "Fine. No touching. Got it."

On this run, Max tried knocking the orb away with a spear instead of grabbing it. The commander simply batted the spear aside before it could make contact with the orb, then drew a curved dagger in one fluid motion. While Max was still processing his failed attack, the commander stepped forward and sliced his throat open.

As Max collapsed, clutching at his neck, three arrows found his back for good measure.

*****

NUMBER OF REROLLS REMAINING: 7

"Are you KIDDING me with this shit?!"

Max decided to try breaking the commander's concentration instead. He got close enough to throw a dagger at the man's face, but the commander caught it mid-air and threw it back with impossible speed, burying it in Max's left eye. Death was mercifully quick.

*****

NUMBER OF REROLLS REMAINING: 6

"Oh come ON! What is he, a ninja?"

This time, Max tried a different approach altogether, rallying more men and mounting a coordinated assault on the center from multiple directions. It almost worked—they were overwhelming the guards—when the giant, whom Max had somehow failed to kill properly, appeared behind him and literally tore him in half.

*****

NUMBER OF REROLLS REMAINING: 5

"Sweet merciful GOD! How is that even physically possible?!"

Max went back to basics. Kill the giant thoroughly. Approach from the west. Use the horse's speed to break through. This time, he made it all the way to the commander and actually managed to strike him down with a spear to the chest. As the man fell, Max used his sword to knock the orb from the dying commander's hand.

The orb rolled across the ground—directly into the hands of the commander's lieutenant, who immediately used it to summon a blast of energy that reduced Max to ash.

*****

NUMBER OF REROLLS REMAINING: 4

"Oh for fuck's sake! That wasn't even FAIR!"

This attempt, Max tried to time his assault perfectly with Tomas's diversion. He got the angle right, the approach right, even managed to kill both the commander and his lieutenant with perfectly placed throws.

Then he tripped over a corpse just as he was about to knock the orb off the mound. A random arrow took him in the back of the head as he was getting up.

*****

"NUMBER OF REROLLS REMAINING: 3"

"Who dies like that?!"

Him, apparently.

Max tried a completely different tactic, abandoning the horse for stealth. He circled the battlefield, avoiding combat, using the chaos as cover to approach the center from behind. He actually got within ten feet of the orb undetected.

Then the commander turned, looked directly at him, and smiled. "The Vanheim heir himself," he said, before signaling to archers positioned on higher ground that Max hadn't noticed. Three arrows struck him simultaneously—chest, neck, and eye—dropping him before he could even draw his weapon.

*****

NUMBER OF REROLLS REMAINING: 2

"Hidden archers? Are you SERIOUS?" Max's disembodied consciousness seethed with frustration. "Two chances left. Great."

Back on the battlefield, Max looked around wildly. He'd tried everything—direct assault, stealth, coordination, different weapons. Nothing worked. The commander was too well-protected, the orb untouchable.

This time, Max went for pure speed. He mounted his warhorse, killed the giant efficiently with targeted arrows, then charged directly for the center at full gallop.

He almost made it. The commander was distracted by Tomas's diversion, the guards were thinned out, and Max had a perfect angle of approach. He leaped from his horse at the perfect moment, sailing through the air toward the commander, sword raised for a killing blow.

But he miscalculated the jump by inches. His foot caught on the edge of the mound, throwing off his balance. Instead of a clean strike, his sword merely grazed the commander's arm. The man spun, faster than seemed humanly possible, and drove a dagger up under Max's chin and into his brain.

*****

NUMBER OF REROLLS REMAINING: 1

"I... I'm about to die for real, aren't I?

No. That was not the right mindset.

One chance left.

What would happen after that? Permanent death? Game over? Max didn't know, and he wasn't eager to find out.

He mentally reviewed his failures:

Charging directly at the orb: Death by giant, death by spear, death by falling.

Stealth approach: Death by hidden archers.

Trying to touch the orb: Death by magical incineration.

Trying to knock it away: Death by commander's dagger.

Killing the commander: Death by lieutenant.

Coordinated attack: Death by random arrow.

Each attempt had ended in failure, but each had also taught him something crucial. The giant could be killed with precise arrow shots to the face. The commander had supernatural reflexes but could be distracted. The orb couldn't be touched directly. And random chance—a misplaced foot, a stray arrow—could ruin even the best plan.

"I've been too impulsive," Max realized. "Too reactive. I need to be methodical. One step at a time."

He mentally mapped the battlefield, visualizing every detail he'd observed across his multiple lives. The giant's position. The commander and his guards. The archers on high ground. The chaos of ordinary soldiers fighting and dying. Tomas and his men providing diversions. The horses. The weapons.

His past mistakes played through his mind like a grim highlight reel.

"I can do this," Max decided. "I've died enough times to know exactly what doesn't work. I've seen every angle of that battlefield. I know where everyone is, what they can do, how they'll react."

The single reroll count continued pulsing, taunting him.

"This is it," Max's disembodied consciousness hardened. "I am not dying again. Not on that freaking battlefield. Not to that commander. Not to random chance."

The In-Between began to fade, reality pulling him back toward the mud and blood of the battlefield.

"I'm gonna end this game."

*****

Max came to himself lying in the mud, the familiar voice already speaking:

"Get up, Harek! We're falling back to the ridge!"

This time, Max didn't scramble to his feet. He turned his head deliberately, studying Tomas's face.

"Tomas," he said. "Gather six archers and meet me on the eastern ridge. Now."

The bearded soldier blinked, startled by the change in tone. "But our orders--"

"Those are my orders." Max interrupted. "Six archers. Eastern ridge. Immediately."

He rose smoothly, easily finding his balance in the mud. Ten lifetimes on this battlefield had tuned his body perfectly to its chaos.

"Harek?" Tomas hesitated. "Are you--"

"I'm going to end this battle, Tomas." Max looked directly into the man's eyes. "But I need those archers first."

Something in Max's expression made Tomas swallow whatever objection he'd been about to voice. He nodded once, sharply, then turned to gather the men.

Max moved, navigating the battlefield like someone who'd memorized every inch of it--which, in a sense, he had. He no longer flinched at nearby sword clashes or ducked unnecessarily from arrows that wouldn't hit him. He knew exactly which threats were real and which could be ignored.

From the ridge, Max surveyed the battlefield. The giant was there, just as before. The commander still stood on his mound with the orb. The archers were still hidden on their elevated positions.

Tomas arrived with five archers--one short, but Max didn't waste time complaining.

"The giant first," Max said without preamble. "On my command, aim for his face and neck. His left eye is your primary target. Fire together, not in sequence."

The archers exchanged uncertain glances but nocked their arrows.

"Harek," one began, "that's Gorm the Crusher. Arrows don't--"

"Left eye, throat, and the gap beneath his jaw," Max cut him off. "Those are his vulnerabilities. Hit him there, and he falls."

His certainty silenced further objections. The archers took position.

Max raised his own bow. "Now."

Six arrows flew simultaneously. Max's struck the giant directly in the left eye, penetrating deep into the brain. Two more hit the throat, one the jaw, one the temple, and one missed completely.

The giant staggered, roaring in pain and fury, but he wasn't down. Not yet.

"Again," Max said calmly, already nocking his second arrow.

Another volley flew. More hits. The giant dropped to one knee, blood streaming from multiple wounds.

"Once more. Everything you have."

The third volley brought the colossus down. He toppled forward, hammer slipping from his grasp.

"Find your comrades," Max told the archers without looking at them. "Tell them Lord Harek is breaking the enemy's center. Anyone who wants to live should clear a path for me."

With the giant dead, Max immediately turned his attention to his next target. Without hesitation, he nocked an arrow and took aim at Orlen--the enemy's best horseman--who was picking off wounded soldiers at the battlefield's edge.

Max drew the string back, his focus absolute. One clean shot was all he needed.

He released.

The arrow flew true, striking Orlen directly between the eyes. The horseman's head snapped back, his body going limp instantly before toppling from the saddle.

Nearby soldiers stopped fighting to stare in shock.

"He killed Orlen!" one shouted.
"With a single shot!" another called.

The riderless warhorse halted, confused without its rider. Max approached calmly, hand extended.

"Easy," he murmured, taking the reins as the animal calmed under his touch. He checked the fallen horseman's quiver--three arrows remained, not spears as he'd expected. Better—he could work with this.

"I need a diversion on the western flank," Max told Tomas as he mounted. "And clear me a path to the center."

"You can't be serious," Tomas said, finally voicing his concern. "Even without the giant, there are too many--"

"I'm deadly serious." Max looked down at him. "And I'm not asking."

Was he even in a position to give orders like that? He wasn't sure, as the looks on the soldiers' faces seemed to indicate the opposite. But they were obeying anyway.

That was enough.

With that, he turned the horse, scanning the battlefield one final time. His gaze settled on the fallen giant, lying like a small mountain among the fighting men.

An idea formed.

Max guided the horse closer to the edge of the ridge. From here, he could see it all: the western flank where the diversion would begin, the central path he would need to charge through, the commander standing with his orb, and most importantly, the exact position of the giant's body.

He waited, perfectly still, as the seconds ticked by.

On the western flank, horns suddenly blared. Men shouted battle cries. There was a surge of movement as soldiers on both sides reacted to the apparent offensive.

The commander turned his attention westward.

"Now," Max whispered.

He nudged the horse into a trot, then a canter, picking his way carefully down from the ridge. As soon as he reached level ground, he guided the horse in a wide arc, circling around to approach his charging path from the optimal angle.

The diversion was working.

Enemy soldiers were shifting westward, thinning the center. The commander remained focused in that direction, his guards tightening their formation against the perceived threat.

Max positioned himself exactly where he needed to be, then paused for one final, crucial moment.

The wind rushed through his hair as he took a deep breath. No obstructed vision. No restricted movement. Nothing but absolute clarity.

"Remember," he murmured to himself, "the final arrow for the orb. Not the commander. Not the lieutenant. The orb."

With that, he spurred the horse forward.

The animal shot forward like an arrow, hooves barely seeming to touch the ground. Max leaned low over its neck, making himself as small a target as possible, one hand gripping the reins, the other already reaching for an arrow.

"MAKE WAY!" voices shouted ahead of him as Harek's men scrambled to clear his path. "HAREK COMES!"

The few who didn't move fast enough were simply bypassed as Max guided the horse around them as precisely as he could, never breaking stride, never slowing.

An enemy soldier tried to intercept, spear braced to impale the charging horse. Max saw him coming three seconds before they met. He nocked an arrow and released it in one fluid motion. The soldier fell, arrow protruding from his throat.

Max was already drawing another arrow. His lungs burned, muscles straining with the effort of maintaining his balance at this speed. The horse beneath him was pushing its limits, foam flecking its mouth, sides heaving.

They were approaching the giant's fallen body now. Enemy archers had noticed him, arrows beginning to rain down, but they were poorly aimed--rushed shots at a fast-moving target.

One arrow grazed the horse's flank. It whinnied but didn't falter.

Another struck Max's shoulder, the arrowhead punching through leather and into flesh. He grunted with pain but kept his focus. Black spots danced at the edges of his vision. He was pushing himself too hard, but there was no turning back now.

"Now," Max whispered to the horse. "Jump!"

The horse gathered itself and leaped, sailing over a cluster of fighting men. They landed in a small clear space directly in front of the giant's corpse.

Max could see the commander now, turning back toward the center as he realized the western attack was a feint. Their eyes met across the battlefield, and Max saw recognition flash in the man's face.

The commander raised his hand, shouting something to his guards. Archers pivoted, taking aim at Max.

Too late.

Max drove the horse forward at full speed directly toward the giant's fallen body. To anyone watching, it looked like suicidal madness--charging at a mountain of flesh that would stop their momentum instantly.

But Max wasn't planning to stop.

With perfect timing, he urged the horse to jump again, aiming directly at the giant's broad back. The horse's hooves landed on the corpse, using it as a stepping stone.

Max braced himself. In one...two...three...

Up!

The commander and his guards looked up in shock as horse and rider suddenly appeared above them, silhouetted against the sky, having used the giant's body as a ramp to launch themselves clean over the defensive wall.

At the apex of the jump, with the horse's legs fully extended in midair, Max rose in the stirrups. Time seemed to slow as he drew back his arm, second spear aimed directly at the commander's chest.

He released. The spear flew true, driving through armor and into flesh. The commander staggered backward, dropping to his knees, the orb still clutched in his grasp.

The lieutenant rushed forward, reaching for the orb.

Max was already drawing his third and final spear as the horse began descending toward the ground on the other side of the guards. This was the moment--everything perfectly aligned, just as he'd calculated.

With a final, powerful throw, Max sent the spear spinning toward the orb itself.

The lieutenant grabbed the artifact from the commander's weakening grip just as Max's spear struck. The weapon's point hit the orb dead center with such force that it was knocked from the lieutenant's hand.

The orb flew upward, momentarily suspended in the air, glowing with intensifying light as the spear's metal tip remained embedded in its surface.

In one fluid motion, Max drew his bow and nocked an arrow. His arms burned with exhaustion, vision narrowing with fatigue. The orb hung in the air, still spinning with the spear shaft protruding from it—a perfect target for just a split second.

Time slowed. Max took one deep, steadying breath and released.

Impact.

The arrow struck the orb precisely where the spear had cracked it, driving through the weakened surface.

The orb's glow intensified violently. Cracks spiderwebbed across its entire surface, light pouring through.

Max pulled sharply on the horse's reins, directing it into a hard right turn. "GO!" he shouted, urging the nearly spent animal to a final, desperate sprint away from the center.

Behind them, the orb shattered with tremendous force. A silent wave of energy expanded outward, warping the air itself.

The blast caught Max from behind, lifting him and the horse completely off the ground. He lost the reins, lost his grip on the saddle. For a terrifying moment, he was airborne, separated from the horse, tumbling through space.

The impact when he hit the ground drove the air from his lungs. He rolled, limbs flailing, before coming to rest face-down in the mud. Everything hurt. He couldn't breathe. His vision dimmed.

Then, suddenly, everything stopped.

The battlefield fell utterly silent. The fighting ceased. Men stood frozen, staring toward the center where the commander's mound had been. There was nothing there now—just a perfect circular depression in the earth.

The barrier that had trapped them all became slightly visible, then flickered once, twice, and disappeared completely.

Max forced himself to his knees, every movement painful. Blood trickled down his face. His shoulder throbbed where the arrow had struck him. But he was alive.

The warhorse that had carried him through the charge was standing nearby, miraculously unharmed. The animal trotted over to Max, nudging him with its muzzle.

"Good boy," Max groaned, grabbing the animal's mane to pull himself upright. His legs nearly gave out, but he managed to stay standing through sheer willpower.

Tomas's voice cut through the eerie silence. "SIR GREGORY IS COMING! RETREAT!"

The cry was taken up by others, spreading panic through what remained of both armies. Max looked around in confusion until he spotted Tomas waving frantically from the ridge.

"HAREK! GET BACK HERE!"

Max didn't waste time questioning. He grabbed the saddle horn and dragged himself onto the horse's back, each movement sending fresh waves of pain through his battered body. Once mounted, he urged the horse toward the ridge where Vanheim forces were gathering.

All across the battlefield, a few enemy soldiers broke formation, fleeing toward the forest. Their orderly retreat quickly devolved into chaos as men shoved each other aside in their desperation to escape.

On Max's side, all soldiers scrambled up the ridge, looking back over their shoulders with expressions of mingled hope and terror.

Max guided his horse alongside the retreating Vanheim forces, following them up to what seemed like a defensive position. A small part of the enemy forces continued their chaotic exodus into the dark forest beyond the battlefield, disappearing among the trees.

"He's here!" The whisper rippled through the ranks, gathering volume until it became a cheer. "The Knight of the Morning star has arrived!"

Max couldn't help himself. He pushed forward to the edge of the ridge, peering down at the battlefield.

A lone figure was walking--not riding, but walking--across the field of battle. Tall and imposing in full plate armor that gleamed despite the mud and blood surrounding it. A black cape billowed behind him, snapping in the wind like a living shadow.

The warrior carried no shield, only a massive two-handed sword that glowed with a pale blue light.

Even the rest of the enemy seemed to register the new threat. Their front line, which had been advancing steadily toward the ridge, hesitated. Then, as the armored knight continued his implacable approach, something extraordinary happened.

They began to retreat. All of them.

Not in ones or twos, but in waves. Hardened warriors who had been fighting ferociously moments before were now running away. The sight of one man had broken the will of an entire army.

The Chronicles had mentioned Gregory's effect on the battlefield, but reading about it and seeing it were entirely different things. Max watched, transfixed, as the enemy line continued to collapse before the knight had even raised his glowing sword.

Rain descended as Sir Gregory advanced, coming down in sheets that should have obscured vision, yet somehow only made the knight's glowing sword more visible. The wind howled across the battlefield, carrying the sounds of panic from the retreating enemy forces.

Max squinted through the downpour, focusing on the massive two-handed sword. Its pale blue glow pulsed in time with the knight's measured steps. He'd read about this weapon in the Chronicles--Moonfall, the Ashen Blade, forged in dragon fire and quenched in the blood of a dying star. At least, that's how Sabo had described it in his typically overwrought prose.

It was.. very dramatic.

"Is he going to do it?" a soldier whispered beside Max, eyes wide with anticipation.

"The Crescent Strike," another soldier murmured, a note of reverent awe in his voice.

Max felt a jolt of recognition.

The Crescent Strike--Sir Gregory's signature technique. Sabo had never bothered explaining how knights and mages actually performed their supernatural feats. No detailed magic system, no pseudo-scientific explanation, nothing. Just vague mentions of "inner power" and "ancient arts."

But one thing Max always remembered: they were freaking cool.

Sir Gregory stopped his advance about a hundred yards from the enemy's wavering front line. He planted his feet shoulder-width apart, the mud barely seeming to affect his stability. With deliberate slowness, he raised Moonfall above his head, the sword's blue glow intensifying until it hurt to look at directly.

"Here it comes," Torin breathed.

The knight brought the sword down in a perfect horizontal arc. As it cut through the air, something emerged from the blade--a crescent-shaped wave of energy that detached completely from the sword and shot forward through the rain.

It moved faster than Max's eyes could track, cutting through the downpour and leaving a momentary gap in the rainfall, like the rain itself was afraid to touch it. The crescent expanded as it traveled, growing from the width of the sword to a massive arc nearly fifty feet across by the time it reached the enemy lines.

What happened next defied belief.

The energy wave passed through the front rank of enemy soldiers as if they weren't even there. For a split second, nothing happened. Then, as one, they collapsed--not falling, but literally coming apart, bisected cleanly through their midsections. Blood erupted in a synchronized spray as torsos separated from lower bodies, arms from shoulders, heads from necks.

The wave continued, unimpeded, into the second rank. Then the third. The fourth. Each time with the same devastating result.

"Holy shit," Max whispered, unable to tear his eyes away.

A single swing. Hundreds dead. The battlefield, already a slaughterhouse, had just witnessed an industrial-scale butchering.

Based on Earth's morality, this was, of course, very bad. Horrific, even.

But Max couldn't help the childish thrill that ran through him. This was what he'd pictured when reading the Chronicles as a teenager, dreaming of being a knight in a fantasy world where people could do impossible things.

Sabo's writing could never have done this scene justice. The raw power, the impossible physics of it, the sheer terrifying beauty--these weren't things that could be properly conveyed through the author's limited vocabulary and tendency toward cliché.

The surviving enemy troops broke completely. Some threw down their weapons, falling to their knees in surrender. Others simply ran, heedless of direction or dignity.

Sir Gregory lowered his sword, seemingly unbothered by the carnage he'd just inflicted. The blue glow dimmed slightly as he resumed his steady walk forward, stepping over the bisected remains of his enemies without breaking stride.

And the battle was over.

As the remnants of the army regrouped on the ridge, a new commotion spread through the ranks. Men straightened their posture, some trying to wipe mud from their faces with equally muddy hands.

"Captain's coming!" The words rippled through the group. "Make way!"

Max, still half-dazed from his ordeal, watched as soldiers formed up into something resembling order. Tomas appeared at his side, grabbing his arm.

"Stand up straight," he hissed. "Captain Bromir is coming."

Before Max could respond, the crowd parted to reveal a massive warhorse carrying an equally massive rider. Captain Bromir was a mountain of a man, his impressive girth straining against the confines of his armor. A bushy white mustache dominated his ruddy face, partially obscuring his mouth but not the double chin beneath it. Despite his size, he sat his horse with evident ease, surveying the battered remains of his company.

"Report!" Bromir barked, his voice carrying easily over the heads of his men.

A soldier stepped forward, pounding his fist against his chest in salute. "Enemy forces routed, Captain. Sir Gregory arrived just as the barrier fell."

Bromir nodded, his mustache bobbing with the movement. "And the Dragon Heart?"

Max frowned. Dragon Heart? There was a Dragon Heart involved in this mess?

A soldier pushed through the crowd, carrying a wooden box roughly the size of a human head. He held it up for the captain's inspection.

"Intact, sir. They never reached it."

The captain's shoulders visibly relaxed. "Good. That's good."

Max leaned toward Tomas. "What's the Dragon—"

"Shh!" Tomas cut him off with a sharp glance.

Bromir's gaze swept over the assembled men, his expression softening slightly. "You've done well today. All of you. When we return to Vanheim, every man here will receive double pay for a month. And so will the families of the fallen."

A ragged cheer went up from the troops. The captain raised his hand for silence.

"We saw the barrier crack from outside. Watched it shatter." His eyes narrowed. "Who did that? Who broke their magic?"

Max felt suddenly uncomfortable, though he didn't know why. The soldiers around him looked at each other, murmuring quietly.

Then, from his side, a voice rang out clearly:

"It was Harek!"

Max turned to find Tomas standing tall, pointing directly at him. "By Voros, I saw it myself! Lord Harek organized the archers and brought down Gorm the Crusher! Then he killed Orlen with a single arrow shot! He charged through the enemy lines, threw a spear that struck the commander, and destroyed the orb with an arrow while it was still in the air!"

The soldiers nearest to Max turned to stare at him. Some with open mouths, others with narrowed, skeptical eyes.

Well, that's just rude, Max thought. I definitely did all that stuff.

"Harek?" Captain Bromir's eyebrows shot up so high they nearly disappeared into his helmet. "Lord Tredor's son? The..." He trailed off, clearly searching for a diplomatic word.

"The gamble king," someone muttered, just loud enough to be heard. "You survived this?"

Damn. What was that even supposed to mean, man?

"It's true, Captain!" Another voice called out. A scarred soldier pushed forward. "I was with him when he gathered the archers. Saw him take down the giant myself."

"And I cleared a path for his charge!" called another.

"I saw him leap over the guards using the giant's corpse as a stepping stone!" A third voice added.

One by one, more soldiers stepped forward, each adding to the account. Tomas stood beaming, occasionally nodding confirmation at particularly impressive details.

Max watched in bewilderment as the mood of the gathered men shifted.

Captain Bromir dismounted with surprising agility for a man his size, landing with a soft grunt in the mud. He approached Max slowly, studying him as if seeing him for the first time.

"Is this true, Harek?" he asked quietly.

Max swallowed. What was he supposed to say? No, I'm actually some guy named Max who's been body-hopping through this guy's deaths?

"I did what needed doing," he said instead.

The captain stared at him for a long moment, then broke into a wide smile that entirely disappeared into his mustache. He clapped Max on the shoulder hard enough to nearly send him tumbling.

"By the gods! Tredor will never believe it when I tell him!"

A soldier at the back of the crowd suddenly raised his fist. "The Hero of Eastwatch!" he shouted.

The cry was taken up immediately by those nearby. "The Hero of Eastwatch!"

It spread like wildfire through the ranks. "HERO OF EASTWATCH! HERO OF EASTWATCH!"

The chant grew louder, more insistent. Soldiers were pounding their weapons against their shields in rhythm with the words. Even the wounded joined in, their pain momentarily forgotten in the surge of collective victory.

"HERO OF EASTWATCH! HERO OF EASTWATCH!"

Max turned in a slow circle, taking in the scene. These hardened warriors—men who had been fighting and dying on this muddy field just minutes ago—were cheering for him.

For Harek.

The gamble king.