Chapter 43 & 44

Chapter 43: A Town In Flames

Screams rip through the air like tearing cloth. The square erupts in chaos, families trampled beneath fleeing crowds, children lost in the crush. The obelisk stands untouched, but the ground around it runs dark with blood.

Smoke rises quickly as fire is set to the merchant tents. Straw and canvas go up in moments. Flame spreads, leaping from stall to stall.

One man screams as he's dragged through the mud by his hair, a blade sawing through his throat like meat. A woman clutches her infant, but a blow from the hilt of an axe knocks her flat. The child screams as the large man drags her away.

The guards rally, but they were hit first and hardest.

The brigands, mingling with the crowd, watching from stalls, shadowed doorways, beneath hoods by the firelight.

Each had marked their man.

Then upon the bell's ring, moved quickly, quietly, slipping behind the guards like wolves to sheep. Knives thrust into armpits where mail gapped, or slid beneath the rim of helmets into throats. Twenty of the forty men on duty, dead in an instant.

Through the chaos, a sudden flicker of motion catches my eye. One of them—a hooded brigand, sprinting past with a bulging sack of loot slung over his shoulder. Instinct takes over. I lunge, grabbing the sack and yanking hard. He refuses to let go, the momentum ripping him off his feet. He crashes into the snow with a thud, swearing as he scrambles to rise. Around us, more brigands rush through the firelight, shouting to one another as they pack stolen goods into whatever they can carry.

They bolt for the east gate, already strewn with corpses, the guards there long fallen. The brigand on the ground in front of me snarls, drawing his knife, and I raise mine in turn.

But another barrels past, shouting, "Fuckin' move, Arlen! Leave it! We ain't got time!"

"Goddess piss on it all," the first hisses, spitting blood, and turns to flee with the others, leaving behind the sack I tore from him.

And I see why.

The remaining and off-duty guards have both rallied, surging forward with pikes leveled, at their head strides Mayor Edwin himself, veins bulging across his bald head, his face twisted in fury. He carries a massive greatsword soaked with blood and wears rough mail, likely some of the tournament gear he scavenged in haste.

"To arms, you gods-forsaken bastards! Cut down every shit-smeared wretch that dares raise steel in my streets!" Edwin bellows, his voice booming over the chaos. "No quarter! I want each one gutted! Show these dung-licking whoresons what it means to spill blood in my town!"

Without hesitation, Edwin barrels forward, roaring as he wades into the retreating brigands. His greatsword arcs in a wide, brutal swing, cleaving a fleeing man nearly in half. Gandre and Daniel move with him, one to each side, Gandre's mace crushing bone with every strike, Daniel’s blade slicing through men with merciless proficiency. Together, they carve a path through the chaos like wolves in the fold, each one enraged by the blatant murder and savagery.

But most of the brigands escape through the gate, the deaths of their allies having bought them the time they needed. And behind us, more fires are being lit, deeper in the town, plumes of smoke rising into the night.

"Like fucking rats, they're everywhere!" Edwin snarls, teeth bared beneath a splatter of blood. "When I get my hands on that goat-fucking cur Edric..."

He whirls around. "Gandre, take ten men. Sweep the south quarter. Daniel, the west. I’ll take the north myself."

Gandre nods sharply. Daniel’s eyes blaze, but he says nothing as he rallies his squad.

Edwin turns to a grizzled officer with a broken nose and half an ear. "Tarnel, rouse the militia. I don’t care how drunk or green they are, arm every able bastard you can find. We don’t know how many are still inside the walls."

Then he catches me watching. His eyes lock onto mine.

"You! Get your arse over here!"

I flinch, then hurry toward him. I’ve never seen the man so furious.

Though given what's happened....

He grabs my shoulder, hard enough to bruise. "Find Zaenith, we need her lance. As of now, the two of you are militia. You draw blood, or I’ll have your heads on pikes next to these piss-drinking brigands. Understood?"

I nod, heart pounding. He shoves me off.

"Then go!"

I sprint through the curling smoke, feet pounding ash-strewn cobbles, the air thick with the stench of burning meat and splintered timber. Screams echo from every street, cut short, or trailing off into the dark. Figures dart through alleyways, some armed, others just desperate. A boy sobs over a collapsed form in the mud, ignored by all who pass.

Zaenith. Where is she?

I veer through the ruins of the market, where her stall stood. It's gone, not torn apart. She already packed it up.

If that's the case, she's at the apothecary.

I adjust course, pushing through the swirl of smoke and panicked townsfolk. My steps quicken, but not too much. 

This isn't my town. Not my home...

Even so... I should help. Shouldn't I?   

I reach the apothecary and slow, wary. Three men linger outside, grimy, armed, faces hidden beneath hoods pulled low. Zaenith steps out from her store, stone-faced as ever, descending the steps with heavy, deliberate strides.

They move quickly, surrounding her.

One licks his teeth, eyeing her frame, a large, fat man. "Think I might take me a taste of this one. Big, but she'll scream all the same."

Another snorts. "This giant old bitch? What's wrong with you?"

The man shrugs, grinning. "Ain’t picky. Besides, I like a big woman."

The third man chuckles. "Suit yourself, I'm more interested in her coin. Potion master’s house is bound to have plenty of it."

Zaenith steps forward, and the fat brigand mirrors her, swaggering as he pulls back his hood to reveal a face twisted by rot, gums bare where teeth should be, lips cracked and wet.

Zaenith’s voice is like thunder, even from here I can feel it. "Kneel, mud-born scum. And I shall deliver you to the mayor whole. No doubt your mothers birthed you in filth, but even pigs know to fear the butcher."

The fat man barks a laugh, spitting at her feet. "You'll be squealin’ soon enough, you old-"

He never finishes.

Her hand lashes out like a striking viper, massive fingers engulfing his jaw and mouth. She lifts the large man off the ground with a single arm, until his head is level with hers.

"Mmmrrghhh!!!"

His nose and mouth are both crushed beneath her palm, the muffled gagging of a man denied air. He bucks wildly, eyes bulging, fingers fumbling for the knife at his belt. With trembling desperation, he drives it into her arm... and the blade snaps cleanly, shattering against her grey skin like glass on stone.

The others panic. "Tornin! Goddess, help 'im!"

They charge, blades drawn.

Zaenith’s fingers tighten. There's a sickening crunch as bone gives way, and then with a sneer, she rips. Flesh tears, sinew snaps, and the man’s jaw comes away in her hand with a spray of blood. His body drops twitching to the steps, a gurgling wheeze all that remains of his voice.

The men freeze, horror writ plain across their soot-smeared faces.

“Lude protect me…” one breathes, stumbling back. “Tornin... how did she...?”

“Witch!” the other gasps, voice cracking as he drops his blade. “She’s not human!”

Zaenith steps through the falling snow, silent as death. Her shadow looms, cast tall and monstrous in the firelight. She appears beside the second brigand in a blink.

Her hand lifts, fingers stiff and tight, pressed flat together like a blade. Her arm arcs down in one clean motion, like a butcher cleaving bone from carcass.

The strike lands with a wet crack.

His head drops from his shoulders, landing in the snow with a muted thud, eyes wide in frozen terror. His body stands for half a breath longer before crumpling in a heap beside it.

“B-By the goddess…”

The last man lets out a scream that splits the air, raw and cracked with panic. "No-no, by Lumina! Please! I didn’t…”

He turns to run, desperate to flee the monstrous woman…

only to crash into something unmovable.

Zaenith.

He bounces off her massive frame and hits the snow hard, scrambling backward on all fours like a cornered rat. "Please, I’m sorry! I didn't kill anyone! I didn’t do nothin’! I was just followin’—they made me!"

Zaenith walks toward him with slow, deliberate steps. One boot rises, then slams down on his left leg with a sickening crunch. The bone snaps and he screams in agony.

"You’ll do," she says coldly.  

Invincible. She's invincible. If I could just get her in front of Vael....

Turning her head, Zaenith raises her voice. "Seven. Good, you may take him to Edwin on my behalf."

I step out from behind the building and approach her cautiously. "The mayor says to take up your weapon," I say. "We’re both... conscripted. Part of the militia."

Zaenith doesn't look my way. She gestures with a tilt of her chin toward the two corpses and the man groaning in the snow. "I’ve done my part. Let him clean up the rest."

I frown. "The townsfolk are dying..."

She finally looks at me, eyes cold and flat. "Then let him save them. They’re his people. A man must take responsibility for what is his."

Is that how it is…?

I feel... something. Something cold settling behind my ribs. I glance back to the street, toward the flames, the screaming.

I don't want to help them either.

But only because I’m afraid of dying…

Zaenith on the other hand has no reason to fear... does she really feel nothing at all for these people? 

I look to the woman in front of me, to her cold gaze… and quickly get my answer. 

So... is that what awaits me too, when my training is done?

I shake the thought loose.

No. It isn't.

I grip my club and face the burning streets.

I’ll help. It’s what I’m supposed to do, what’s right.

Behind me, Zaenith's voice cuts through the smoke. "Where are you going?"

I ignore her and keep walking.

Into the burning town.

Chapter 44: A Looter By Trade

I see the inn in the distance. As I draw closer I can see Osric lying sprawled across the snow-caked steps, blood matting his hair. Elsie kneels over him, sobbing, her hands stained red as she presses them uselessly to his wound.

In front of them, Dale and Philip stand firm, spears levelled, holding off a group of six brigands. Snow churns beneath their boots as they jab and feint, keeping the attackers at bay.

An arrow thuds into Philip’s side, and he curses, staggering slightly, but the brittle shaft splinters against the links of his mail.

Before he can recover, one of the brigands skirts wide around him. With a lunge, he grabs Elsie by the hair and yanks her back with a rough laugh, dragging her toward the shadows.

"Come now, little hen," he sneers. "We'll see how sweetly you squeal."

Elsie screams, kicking and clawing. "No! No, please! Papa! Help!"

"Get away from her you filth!"

Philip lunges, teeth bared, but another brigand slams into him from the side. A dagger slides under his arm, finding the gap in his mail. Philip grunts, eyes wide in shock, and crumples to the snow.

"Philip! No!!!"

Dale roars, charging forward as the others close in, blood on their blades and murder in their eyes.

He spears the brigand standing over Philip, the man shrieking as the steel drives through his gut. Blood spills in hot ropes as he collapses, writhing. But just as Dale pulls his spear free, another brigand barrels into him from behind, driving him down into the churned snow. The blade flashes once, slashing deep across his neck. Blood sprays, thick and pulsing, painting the snow crimson. Dale twitches violently, choking on his own breath as the brigand steps off him.

Elsie wails, voice shrill with despair. “Dale!!”

The brigand sneers and backhands her across the face. She slumps in his grip, dazed, blood leaking from her nose as she gasps, barely conscious.

“Stop crying,” he growls, yanking her upright by the hair. “We've only just gotten started.”

He grabs for her dress, fingers curling into the fabric-

“Oi! Toren! Behind you!” one of his allies shouts.

Too late.

I slam into him from behind, my club crashing into his skull. It caves under the blow, and he drops like a sack of meat, blood seeping into the snow.

I whirl toward the others.

Four. All armed.  

Two carry rusty hunting blades. One holds a worn field scythe. And the last holds a small bow and arrow, drawn and aimed at me.

Too many for one man. I should flee.

But... Elsie is still here. She can't run, not like she is now.

I steady my breathing, shifting my stance. The four of them approach, circling around me. I grip my club tighter, knuckles white around the haft, and meet each man’s gaze in turn.

Surely four isn't so much greater than three? Is it? I can win... surely.

One of them steps forward and snatches up Dale’s spear, tossing aside his shorter blade with a sneer. Between him and the one with a bow, I stand no chance. My grip tightens, sweat prickling along my brow. 

Fuck! This is what I get for trying to help. I deserve this.

I dash for the brigand nearest to me, the one wielding a scythe, praying beneath my breath. The archer looses his shot, but the goddess answers. The arrow flies wide, vanishing into the smoke. The others charge, shouting after me, but I’ve already reached my mark.

He swings his scythe, but I duck low, circling fast. My club cracks into the back of his skull with a dull, meaty thud. He crumples instantly, knees buckling, but I catch his tunic with my free hand before he can hit the ground.

With a roar, I draw deep from that same strength I found in the tournament. My muscles burn, tendons straining. I swing him around like a sack of grain and hurl him into the others.

He crashes into the group of brigands, a tangle of limbs and weight. Two go down in a heap, weapons clattering.

No time to waste. I bolt for the bowman before he can nock another arrow. He fumbles, trying to draw back the string in panic.

I'm fast. Faster than I've ever been. Even with the bruises the tournament left me, my legs carry me forward with speed I've never had.

At least, not without Zaenith's potion.

The archer looses, his aim still poor, but I'm closer now. 

"Argh- fuck!!"

I curse as the arrow grazes my shoulder, pain flaring hot and sharp.

But I'm close now and I don't stop. Crossing the distance, I drive my club into his chest. He crumples with a wheeze, air bursting from his lungs. Before he can recover, I bring the club down again and this time, he goes still.

The two men on the ground scramble free from beneath the dead brigand, turning to face me, their eyes lock on me, panic and fury both burning in their expressions. 

Just in front of me I spot Philip's spear in the snow, still clean. Quickly, I snatch it up and level it at them. 

They hesitate now. Watching. Weighing me.

They look to one another, eyes wide and uncertain.

"Sod this," one mutters. "He’s not worth it."

He turns and bolts.

"Oi!" the other snaps. "Gendel! You fucking coward!"

As does the other, fleeing after him.

But I do not let them go.

Blood. I want to see their blood.

I break into a sprint, long strides swallowing the distance. The first doesn’t make it far, I drive Philip's spear into his back with all my weight behind it. The tip punches through bone and out the other side. He chokes, stumbles, then drops like a felled tree.

I leave the spear embedded and launch myself at the second man, 'Gendel'. He turns just in time to see me descend on him, my club raised.

"Wait-"

We crash into the snow, and I slam the weapon down, again and again. Bone cracks, blood sprays across my arm and chest. He twitches... then stills.

I sigh, exhausted.

Is this enough, I wonder? Have I done my part?

I stand, walking over to the inn. Elsie lies in the snow where I left her, sobbing, her body shaking, so... alive.

But Philip and Dale... they're both gone.

Osric, though.... he breathes. Shallow, ragged, but still. I kneel beside him. His head took a hard blow, blood matting his hair and freezing against his scalp.  

Just like Zaenith taught me...

I pull my cloak free and tear strips from the edge. With careful hands, I clean the blood away using snow and wine from my flask, better than nothing. Then I pack the wound with clean wool and crushed dried yarrow from my pouch, hoping the herb stanches the bleeding.

His breathing is shallow, but steadying. I bind his head tight with the cloth, tying it off firmly to keep pressure on the wound.

He groans faintly.

He'll live... maybe.

Grimacing, I do the same for the wound on my shoulder, binding it with the last strip of cloth I have left. With a grunt, I rise again and make my way over to Dale.

His body cools in the snow, eyes still half-open in death. Kneeling beside him, I murmur a quiet prayer and an apology for my next action.

Sorry Dale. But despite everything, this is my true trade.

First, I undo the leather ties holding the mail hauberk beneath his arms and at the shoulders. I ease it off slowly, working it up over his head and down his arms. It takes effort, the mail is heavy and stiff in the cold, but I manage it, laying it beside me for a moment to catch my breath.

After leveling a deep nod of respect, I slip the hauberk over my own head, letting the weight settle onto my shoulders. The chill of the rings bites against my tunic, but it fits well enough.

Better than nothing. And I’ll need it.

Next, I strip Philip’s spear from the corpse of the brigand to the north, yanking it from his torso. The shaft is sticky with gore, the iron head dulled at the edge, but it feels good in my grip. I give it a small testing stab, then let the weight settle against my palm, reassuring and solid.

Something to remember you both by. I'm sure you won't mind, seeing what I'll do with them next.

Results

+ 1 Skill

+ 1 Philip’s Spear

+ 1 Dale’s Chainmail

Stats