Guardians: Protectors of Light

Chapter 36

People freed from Devil's Own control, YAY!

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"I got him," Mason calls, the weight of the broken spear clattering to the ground beside him. He glances at Trent with worry in his eyes.

"I'm fine!" Trent shrugs him away dodging a blow aimed at them. Ignoring the flow of blood trickling down his side, Trent keeps his focus on the fight, determined not to let his injuries hinder him from fighting. He bends down to pick up his dropped sword. Despite the agony, he maintains his composure. He grunts through the pain, shaking his head in refusal. "Don't be crazy, we're almost through," he retorts, blocking the next blow with a mixture of skill and sheer determination, the fire of battle still burning within him.

"You're the crazy one! Get out of here!" Mason shoves Trent back to meet Trent's opponent head-on. Hand tight to his rib cage, Trent stumbles out of the way, catching curious gazes from around the stone rubble.

Trent drops to the ground, an arm thrown over his midsection, and closes his eyes. Holding his other hand out in front of him, he taps into the air around them. Gentle breezes turn into gusts and gusts into strong gales. The wind whips through the battlefield, tugging at the combatants' hair and clothing, causing their footing to falter. It carries with it the scent of earth and the promise of change. For a moment, the fighting slows as everyone adjusts to the sudden change in the environment. His eyes flash with determination as he channels the wind's strength toward the center of the enemy ranks. Dust and debris swirl in the air, creating a momentary haze that obscures the vision of the Devil's Own.

The wind picks up speed, creating a barrier of swirling currents that disorient and disrupt the enemy's formation. Confusion spreads among the ranks of the Devil's Own, allowing the Guardias a precious opportunity to regroup and strike back.

With a battle cry, Trent's fellow Guardias seize the moment, rallying their strength, and charge forward with renewed vigor. The enemy, caught off guard by the sudden turn of events, struggles to regain their footing and respond effectively.

The relentless clash of swords and the fierce shouts of combatants give way to a tired, ragged rhythm. As the last of the Devil's Own flees the battlefield, the winds finally calm, and the dust settles. The Guardians stand victorious, their swords sheathed, their chests heaving with exhaustion and triumph.

The once open space outside the plantation is now littered with fallen bodies, the air is thick with the smell of blood, sweat, and dust, and the ground is stained with the marks of countless footsteps and desperate scuffles.

"And that's only part one." Trent groans as he pulls himself to his feet. He waves off Gavin's hand to help. "We need to find the prisoners. Those able, follow me." He ambles his way back into the plantation.

Every breath hurts, and the pain of being stabbed repeats with each inhale. Placing his hand to his side, he finds his shirt soaked.

"No." Sandra barks, her bloody hands balled up and on her hips. "Trent, you are not part of those able. You sit yourself down and let me look at you before you puncture something vital. The crew can go on without you. It's been cleared out, they will be fine for the twenty minutes it will take."

Out in the light of day, Trent finally looks down at his side to see the cause of all the blood and pain.

The tip of a spear is lodged in his ribs and broke from the shaft. It seems to hurt more with its existence acknowledged. He can't hide the wince, knowing it's going to hurt worse when it comes time to remove it. He winces and looks at the few gathered Guardians who are awaiting instruction. "Go on." Trent nods his head towards the plantation and plops down on the grass.