Walk Through Fire by Joshua P. Simon

Ronav mouthed a string of hushed profanity. “What’s going on Krytien? This fog just came out of nowhere and is growing thicker with each passing breath.”
    “It is acting peculiar.”
    “Sorcery? Do they know we’re here?” asked Ronav.
    “It’s possible. I can’t tell without risking us being discovered for certain.”
    “Do it. Tell me what’s going on. I need to know what we’re walking into.”
    Krytien closed his eyes and extended his senses, feeling for the use of sorcery. His attempt failed, blocked. Though he could not pinpoint their location, he knew mages hid somewhere out in the fog’s cover. He could not guess their number, but was certain they worked in unison to nullify him.
    “They know we’re here but I can’t tell how close they are or how many they brought against us.”
    Ronav’s eyes widened. “How much time? Give me something.”
    Krytien tried again, but something repelled his efforts. He swallowed hard. “One Above, I don’t know.”
    All went still, a deathly quiet pierced by the howl of a distant dog.
    Arrows cut through the haze, one striking Krytien in the shoulder. The impact sent him tumbling to the street, banging his head against the ground. Heavy footsteps followed the next hiss of arrows. Screams of panic and anger came from the men around him.
    Get up!
    Krytien started to right himself, shaking away the cobwebs. He made it to his knees before the first sounds of steel meeting steel echoed in the night.
    * * *
    The first man was too slow, the same for the second and third. After Kroke took out his first dozen, things changed.
    They came at him in a swarm, attacking from all sides. Leading with shields, they used their spears to keep a safe distance, pushing and prodding, corralling him into a more confined space. He avoided the jabbing points and slipped by any bullying charges, but he found little opportunity to mount an attack of his own.
    I just need a moment to regain position.
    But none wanted to give him that moment. He jerked back and avoided a spear to his throat. Twitching to his right, he evaded another soldier’s thrust. Quickly, he ducked as a sword whistled through the air above his head. On his way down he sliced at the swordsmen’s exposed wrist, but the impact of a shield pitched him forward. He took a boot to his back and his chest struck the ground. He rolled away as spear points clacked against the street after him.
    He managed to regain his feet in time to pivot away from another spear strike. The jagged edge raked across his right shoulder. Kroke took the injury in stride and whipped his arm in a wide arcing motion as he released the dagger. The blade embedded itself in the soldier’s thigh and the man cried out dropping his spear to use both hands to stymie the gushing blood.
    Kroke had little time to celebrate as someone slammed into him again. He fell sprawling to the ground once more, rolling, turning, and twisting from the various attacks that followed.
    I should have left when I had the chance. Why risk my life when no one cares if I die? Nobody has even bothered to help me.
    He drew another dagger. It’s too late to go back now. There would be no more dodging of attacks, no wasted effort on staying alive. He only cared about how many he killed before rattling his last breath.
    His arm snapped out like a cobra and the teeth of his blade hamstrung a soldier who fell into another, screaming. The attack left Kroke open and a boot caught him in the side. He ignored the pain and came after the man who kicked him. He jumped atop the man and opened his throat, slicing so deep the blade struck the bone at the back of the man’s neck. He fell away just as a spear ripped into his side, tearing through his boiled leather and cutting across his flesh. The wound burned, but Kroke knew the laceration wasn’t deep.
    He spun and flung his arm out at a soldier’s leg, knowing the man would try to deflect the attack. Kroke lunged at the soldier’s open