The peaceful village of Besart, once adorned in the hues of a serene spring day, now bore witness to a dark, twisted scene of despair. Ban's grandad lay motionless on the ground, a new figure made itself known by giving him a swift kick in the stomach. She was a rugged-looking woman with a bow, clearly the person responsible for his grandad's demise.
Ban came to as he lay prone on the ground. His hands had been bound tightly behind his back, and his head was throbbing from the smack he had received earlier with the added bonus of needing to throw up from the kick he’d just been woken up by. Even so, as soon as he saw the archer appear, he made the connection, and a surge of adrenaline propelled him to start struggling with all his might to get free, fuelled by a primal hatred for the person responsible for his Grandad’s death.
“Looks like we caught a lively one. Now, you two oafs, grab the rest and get going. Let’s see what else you can pick up for us before he alerts the whole damn village with his screams. Omar, grab the rest of the band when you go.”
A dirty cloth had been stuffed in his mouth with a torn-off piece wrapping around his head, preventing him from simply spitting it out, but Ban tried to voice his displeasure nonetheless. “Umghsph!”.
“And you too, buddy, and you too.” The archer then dragged him over to a tree and tied him so he was sat up against it. “Now, just wait here. We’ll be on our way as soon as we pick up a few more walking pay-days”.
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Meanwhile, in the heart of the village, as the last few rays of sunshine made way to twilight, a small gathering of unsuspecting villagers had been drawn together by the loud noises in the distance. Among them stood Adin, the village chief, a robust man with greying hair and a stern countenance. Beside him was his wife Elara, a young woman cradling their baby son, Liam, in her arms, her eyes wide with worry. A few other villagers had cautiously joined the gathering, their expressions ranging from curiosity to concern.
Adin's voice cut through the hushed murmurs. "What in the blazes is happening? Did anyone else hear that ruckus? It sounded like a whaling banshee and a smithy had a fight."
One of the villagers, an elderly lady with a walking stick, made her way towards them. "Chief! Aone help us! Looks like trouble down by the Millies' farm. I saw a few men shouting and came over to get help." The atmosphere shifted as the crowd fell silent, now showing genuine fear.
In the distance, smoke billowed toward the main entrance of the village. No one was quite sure of what was occurring, but it didn’t seem good. The horrifying reality became apparent as the group of nine men carrying torches came into view. They were setting fire to the houses compelling people to flee, their flames devouring everything in their path, leaving a trail of destruction and panicked screams in their wake. The once peaceful village was now a scene of utter chaos and terror.
Pandemonium broke out as some of the strangers seized and bound those who had fled their homes in confusion and fear, their screams echoing through the streets. Villagers fortunate enough to escape the flames now faced the horror of being forcibly taken away by these strangers, their struggles and cries for help futile against their captors' brutal grip. The agonizing screams of those burned filled the air, their agony and terror tangible as they writhed in pain. The once-peaceful village was now a scene of unimaginable horror, screams and wails echoing through the streets, shattering the idyllic tranquillity that had once reigned.
“Everyone but the men, go to the mill! The stone will hold out better. Make sure to use the drawbar.” Adin said in a stern voice. “Everyone else, arm yourselves as best you can.”
As Adin issued the command, Elara holding Liam and the other women, children, and elderly villagers quickly retreated, panic etched on their faces. The remaining men of the village, including Adin, stood their ground with trepidation. Many of these men held rudimentary farming tools, their crude weapons ready to strike at the first opportunity.
Adin stepped forward with a determined look as the attackers approached the group. The other men in the village gathered around him, a mix of farmers, artisans, and a few long-retired soldiers with makeshift weapons of mostly farming equipment. They might not have been well-trained warriors, but the resolve to protect their homes and loved ones burned within them.
Having gathered his wits, Adin raised his voice with authority. "Hold there! What business do you have in our village?"
What appeared to be the leader of this despicable group, a burly man with a cruel grin, stepped forward, his eyes fixed on Adin. "Evenin', friend. Name's Omar, and we've got a simple deal in mind. Hand over your food, supplies, and anything else worth takin'.”
His voice firm, he replied, "Food? Maybe I would believe you if you hadn’t burnt and bound half the village on your way. You're not taking anything from us. Leave now, and no one gets hurt."
Adin stood his ground. He looked over the strangers and realised they were all wearing heavy weaponry and leather garments. They looked more like mercenaries than bandits; that’s probably exactly what they were.
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Omar laughed, "First of all, I think we can all agree it’s too late for that. Secondly, do you think we're afraid of you? You're just a bunch of farmers. We're warriors, trained to kill. We'll take what we want, and you can't stop us."
Adin's face reddened with anger and embarrassment, but he kept his composure. "I won't let you harm my people. Leave now, or we'll make you regret it."
To this, the stranger harumphed, then turned to his men. "Kill them all. Show them what happens when they resist."
Adin was proud that the villagers, though outnumbered and outmatched, refused to back down and rushed the attackers head-on at the first sign that a fight was coming. They fought with all their might, using their crude weapons to defend themselves against the invaders. But after a few minutes, it became evident that the attackers were too strong and well-trained and their weapons too advanced. So, one by one, the villagers fell, their cries of pain and fury echoing through the streets.
Adin fought with newfound determination, a fire burning within him he hadn’t known existed. He couldn’t let his people down, but he had to admit he was no match for this lunatic. He was armed with only a shovel, whilst his opponent had a sword that looked intimidating and well-used. Despite successfully blocking a swing to his side with the wooden shaft of the shovel he was holding, his trusty weapon betrayed him, splitting in two. Instantly discarding the handle side, he was left with a much shorter weapon.
Undeterred, Adin attempted a one-armed strike with the bladed scoop, but his nimble opponent effortlessly evaded each attack. Almost casually, the stranger executed a swift feint to the right, reversed his sword, and landed a decisive blow that cut deep into Adin's collarbone. Writhing in pain, Adin collapsed in the dirt, rendered helpless and wounded. Unable to fight any further Adin could only watch with what energy the had left and pray for salvation.
As the intruders continued ransacking the place, looting and burning, the villagers' screams grew fainter until they transformed from screams of panic and anger into whimpers from the people bound on the ground. The once-peaceful area was now a scene of utter devastation, the smell of smoke and blood hanging heavy in the air.
"Go get the rest," Omar ordered, his voice carrying authority. "You heard the man earlier. They're holed up in the mill."
The attackers, following the command of their leader, stormed towards the mill with gleeful determination. Finding their way blocked by a robust wooden door, they decided that if one method was good enough to destroy an entire village, it was good enough to beat a wooden door, so they set it on fire. After some time, the door was weakened enough by the fire that, with a resounding crash, they broke through, sending splinters flying in all directions.
Panic erupted as the villagers, huddled in fear, screamed at the sudden albeit expected intrusion. With weapons poised menacingly, the mercenaries surveyed the room, their predatory eyes gleaming. A tense silence gripped the space until their makeshift leader spoke with a cruel smirk, "Well, well, what do we have here? A bunch of rats trying to hide?"
His gaze fixed on an elder, the only person who stood defiantly by the entrance, though visibly frail. The leader approached him with a mocking tone, "What’s with that mug mate? You gonna do a runner, old man?"
Before any response could surface, the raiders began their merciless task, spreading out through the mill systematically seizing the villagers one by one. The air echoed with pleas for mercy and desperate cries, yet the raiders remained impervious. In an uncharacteristic twist, the elderly who had been standing strong staring down the attackers seemed to stumble, nearly collapsing onto the person who had addressed him. However, it soon became apparent that his stumble was no accident. Swiftly, he revealed a concealed dagger, pressing it against the mercenary's neck.
“Now, I want you to feel how sharp this knife is,” he said in an unforgiving tone that resonated through the now-silent audience. “You’re going to play nice and tell your friends to let us all walk out, or you’ll feel it closer than you want.”
Nervous tension hung in the air as the onlookers witnessed the scene. A young lady at the back of the mill tried to punch one of the attackers, who simply grabbed her arm and held her in place; she shouted, “Berny, just cut the pig!”.
The elder wasted no time; with more strength than he seemed to possess moments ago, he started to drag his assailant out, holding the sharp end of the dagger to his neck. He seemed to look around the room, weighing whether killing this man was his best option.
“Hurry and tell them to let everyone go,” he urged, navigating the burning debris with caution. “Elara, get everyone free and out of here quickly”.
From the mill, the mercenaries looked at their companion, uncertain whether releasing everyone was the best course of action. Eventually, one of them simply decided it was better for someone else to deal with this problem and began untying the lady at his feet. However, before he was halfway done, a scream pierced the air. He looked up to see the old man, Berny, on the floor with a sword sticking out of his back like a flag.
“Bloody hell, Omar! You stabbed me too, you bastard!” The situation was crystal clear; Omar, drawn by the commotion, had taken matters into his own hands and found his second-in-command at the mercy of an elderly man who could hardly walk on his own. The thrust of Omar's sword, having gone through the elder, had clearly managed to nick his companion.
“Shut up, you dumb-witted fool! I told you only to keep the ones that are young or can work the fields. What kind of piss-poor mercenary gets taken hostage by a grandpa with a hidden blade?" Omar spat back, his frustration evident.
After that harsh rebuke, the raiders efficiently gathered all their prisoners, sparing only the women with children. They methodically bound everyone's hands behind their backs with rough rope, forming a solemn line, and marched them into the forest back to their base camp.
As the attackers retreated, they left behind a landscape of destruction and death. The once-thriving village now lay in ruins, its inhabitants either killed, taken captive, or too weakened to resist. With the departure of the raiders, the village's flicker of hope extinguished, leaving nothing but the harsh reality of their shattered lives. The village was no more, its people’s hope gone.