The Sinful Young Master-Chapter 217 : Count hamen and his beasts

As twilight deepened across the battlefield, casting long shadows that seemed to reach for the fallen warriors like grasping fingers, a massive figure emerged from the treeline to the north.

Jolthar turned to look at him and was surprised to see him here.

"Myron," his gaze narrowed on him as he asked, "What are you doing here?"

Myron didn't reply; he seemed to be in a foul mood. His focus was on Jolthar the entire time he was walked onto the field.

Golden light seemed to shimmer around him like heat haze, and the very air crackled with energy where he passed.

Myron sighed and said, "Jolthar, I had no choice but to come here."

Jolthar couldn't understand what he was saying. Then, he suddenly turned to see another figure approaching them.

Standing nearly seven feet tall with shoulders as broad as an ox yoke, the newcomer moved with the grace of a predator despite his enormous bulk. His bare chest was a canvas of ritual scars and red woad paint, depicting scenes of glorious battle.

A necklace of bear claws and wolf teeth hung around his neck, clicking together with each deliberate step.

His battle-axe rested casually across his massive shoulders, yet the ease with which he carried the enormous weapon spoke to his inhuman strength.

Dagur's cold eyes, the pale blue of glacier ice, fixed upon the fallen forms of Jolthar and Wymar. A cruel smile played across his bearded face, revealing teeth filed to points in the barbaric custom of his people.

"Fortune smiles upon me this day," he rumbled, his deep voice carrying across the battlefield.

Jolthar groaned while he stood himself up by digging the Kanshii. Maelruth supported him. The Voidwrath had receded entirely, leaving him drained and vulnerable.

"Dagur," he spat, recognition dawning. "Come to... finish what your creature left off?"

Jolthar could still feel a presence who hadn't shown himself yet. He was rather confused to think about that presence.

Dagur's face wrinkled as he spat, "I didn't have any linklings with that thing before. Though it did come for the same purpose, I, myself."

Jolthar turned to see Myron and then turned to Dagur.

Wymar, who was in a half-conscious state, wasn't aware of what was happening around him.

Jolthar and his drake, Maelruth, Wymar were in the middle while Myron and Dagur stood opposite each other.

Dagur frowned, turning to face this new arrival. "A friend of yours?"

Jolthar looked at Myron and replied, "I'm not sure myself." He couldn't understand why Myron was here or what he was doing here the entire time. If he had been here earlier, then he could have helped them. But Jolthar thought to himself that Myrn had no reason to help him. It wasn't like they were friends or acquaintances.

Myron's eyes narrowed dangerously.

Jolthar asked Myron, "What are you doing here, Myron? Didn't you go to find your father?"

Myron didn't answer as his turned into hesitation, and then frustration showed up on his face.

Jolthar squinted his eyes, reading his reaction. "Did you meet him?"

"You don't have to know," Myron replied coldly, his gaze flicking briefly to the semi-conscious form of Wymar.

"But you have to die here, Jolthar. I would have loved to fight you in your strongest state."

"What are you talking about? Why do you want to kill me, Myron?"

Jolthar was genuinely surprised to hear him. Just a while ago, they were talking on friendly terms, but now, he was saying he was here to kill him.

"Who put you up to this? Elara?"

Myron shook his head. "She doesn't have anything to do with this. It's for myself."

Dagur laughed, a sound utterly devoid of humour. "It seems your politics are even more treacherous than our tribal wars, boy."

Myron glared at Dagur. "Shut up, barbarian. After I am done with him, I will come for your head. So, stand quietly."

Dagur chuckled, "I'd like to see you try."

The situation could not have looked more dire for Jolthar.

Wounded, drained of his Voidwrath, caught between a vengeful barbarian warlord and a deivruta. But he still couldn't understand the reason why Myron had come to kill him.

Wymar lay nearby, stirring feebly but too depleted to offer magical assistance.

Just as Myron took another step forward, the air above the battlefield shimmered and distorted.

A high, piercing cry split the twilight—a sound ancient as the mountains and twice as terrifying.

All eyes turned skyward as an enormous shape plummeted from the clouds. Leathery wings spanning forty feet cast a massive shadow across the battlefield as a wyvern—cousin to the true dragons but no less deadly—descended in a controlled dive.

Unlike the drakes that Jolthar and other nobles rode into battle, wyverns were wild, untamable creatures of legend, rarely seen in the civilised lands of the kingdoms and empires.

Yet this magnificent beast moved with purpose. On its scaled back, a figure in gleaming obsidian armour stood.

The wyvern pulled up at the last moment, the downdraft from its wings nearly knocking Dagur and Myron from their feet.

It landed with surprising grace between Jolthar and his would-be executioners, its barbed tail lashing dangerously as it hissed at both interlopers.

A man was riding atop the wyvern. He got down and walked towards Jolthar.

The rider was the count Hamen; he had come as fast as possible after he heard the explosion and the tremors. He knew that there was the camp of the empire settled here. He ignored it when he sensed the battle had started, thinking that Wymar would take care of it, but after that explosion followed by the tremors, he couldn't stay still. The city was already in turmoil because of the disturbance.

He had to come see for himself what was happening here.

But after he saw the entire area, he couldn't help but be shocked. He saw Wymar and Jolthar with his drake, standing in the middle of wrecked land. The field was filled with deep craters and bodies of those fallen soldiers. One side of the forest seemed to be crushed by some giant. It was the place where the rift had been formed.

He could see his friend, in an injured state, not moving.

Count Hamen's eyes surveyed the scene with cool authority.

He turned to Jolthar and asked, "Is he all right?"

"I don't know. He is injured, as you can see, but quite badly."

"Then let me take him back to the castle. Follow us back to the castle. Can you move?"

Jolthar nodded, pointing at the drake, "She will bring me."

Hamen nodded.

Myron, who was irked by the complete ignorance of Hamen, yelled, "Hey, can't you see there are people here? Do you think you can take him?"

Hamen turned his head to see Myron for the first time, and he said nonchalantly, "You can try and stop me."

Dagur spat upon the ground, his massive hand tightening on the haft. "Pretty words from a pretty lord. Your pet lizard doesn't frighten me, Count."

The wyvern swung its massive head toward the barbarian, yellow eyes fixed on him with predatory intelligence. Its jaws parted slightly, revealing rows of teeth like daggers, each one dripping with venom that could dissolve armour.

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"She should," Count Hamen replied mildly. "Nohnath has developed quite a taste for southern barbarians over the years. Something about your... distinctive flavour, I believe."

The night had disappeared, and the sun was beginning to rise above the horizon. Those two had battled all night long. From somewhere high above, the clouds parted momentarily, allowing a shaft of golden sunlight to pierce the gathering gloom.

Though no one present except Myron could perceive it clearly, a massive figure observed the confrontation from the heavens—Inadrys. His ancient eyes watched the scene unfold with inscrutable interest, having witnessed the entire battle from its beginning.

Myron felt his father's gaze upon him and hesitated, his gaze lowering slightly. The presence of Count Hamen complicated matters significantly.

Inadrys was the reason he couldn't leave this place. He thought of fighting Jolthar when he was in his best condition, but Inadrys had offered something he couldn't refuse, something related to his mother. So, he decided to ignore his pride as a warrior and came to the field to deal with Jolthar.

At first, Dagur entered. He knew about the barbarians, enough to recognise them. Then came Count, spoiling his plans. He wasn't sure he could win against Hamen. Right now, he was at tier 7 of the warrior level. He couldn't gauge the tier of the Count, which was probably higher than him.

Less constrained by politics, Dagur took a menacing step forward—only to freeze as Nohnath's tail whipped around with blinding speed, its poisoned barb stopping mere inches from his throat.

"I suggest you reconsider your position, barbarian." Count Hamen said, his tone pleasant but his eyes hard as flint.

For a long moment, the tension hung in the air like the promise of a storm.