“Here you go!” The leader of the gang tore a purse from his belt and threw it at the young man’s feet. His friends followed his example. With a clink, the coins rolled out of the purses, but the young man, whose face had lost all its child-like naivety and joy, didn’t so much as look at the glittering silver and gold. “Take it all! If you want, you can take our ammunition, potions, scrolls... Whatever you want!”

Falling to their knees, the bandits emptied their pockets, satchels, bags, threw off their armor, handed over vials and vials, and dropped their weapons. They didn’t dare look up.

“Oh, but I want fun...” The young man smirked. “First Form: Incarnation.”

Before anyone could react, Eric turned into a pile of gore with glassy eyes. In his chest was a gaping hole, four inches in diameter. The stench of burning flesh hung in the air.

The young man towered over the corpse. At the end of his staff was a solid ball of fire, so bright that it was almost impossible to look at.

The necromancer was first to come to his senses. Running his fingers over the bone necklace around his neck, he yelled: “Spirit of Death!”

The air trembled with a burst of hellish laughter, and a group of ghosts emerged from the ground around Eric. They looked different from the ones the necromancer had summoned before: these looked real, except that they were made out of the dense fog, and that their appearance was very unsettling. Their faces were rotten skulls, hands cracked yellow bones, and eyes flickers of green flame. Having spent all of his strength on summoning his most powerful attack, the necromancer collapsed.

But his sacrifice was not in vain. The archer, pulling the bowstring, whispered something. The tip of the arrow turned red. The bowstring sang. The wooden bow creaked. The projectile, capable of breaking through the skin of a Havel bison (although even a cannonball couldn’t penetrate this creature’s skin), passed through the specter.

“I’m bored,” Ash muttered and spun his staff around, hitting the ground with the ball of fire.

There was an explosion. Orange waves spread from the epicenter, covering everything in flames. Cloth burned. Ghosts turned into dust. The red arrow disappeared. The air itself turned into a weapon, burning the lungs of those who inhaled it. Dying screams joined the crackling of fire that merrily licked the wood of the burning homes and turned the temple’s bell into a chunk of molten metal.

When the firestorm subsided, only ashes remained. People were crawling from under the piles of ash and debris, frightened and slightly wounded, but otherwise alive and well. For some reason, the fire didn’t touch them. The houses and other wooden structures, unfortunately, suffered the same fate as the robbers did. Only the temple remained standing, albeit it, too, had a couple of cracks in the stone.

The young man’s face was once again filled with childlike joy. Smiling shyly, he scratched the back of his head.

“I overdid it again, my bad,” he muttered apologetically.

The scarf, miraculously untouched by the fire, flew back to him and neatly tied the ashen hair. The boy, whose eyes were once again blue, looked at his staff and wagged his finger at it as if he was scolding it. Then he bent down and held out his hand to help the old potter up.

“Aaah! A demon! A demon!” she screamed and backed away. “Go away!” she yelled. “Help! A demon!”

For a moment, the young man’s eyes were filled with sadness. But then he smiled again.

“Sorry about the village,” he said, straightened up and walked toward the gate.

Well, to what had once been a gate.

He needed to get as far away from this place as possible. The square will soon be filled with the imperial guards, adventurers, bounty hunters, and members of various guilds, united under the same banner ― to find and kill the Ternite.

Forty-seven thousand gold was a hefty sum to be placed on anyone’s head, be they an Ernite or a Ternite. The most powerful and experienced of bounty hunters didn’t seem to mind that the young man’s score was now up for seven lives and one more village...

But who was counting, anyway?

Three days later, Mystria Road

Vane the Stinker gave another order and put the old telescope to his eyes. The lenses had long cracked, turning the image into a kaleidoscope, but Vane didn’t have the heart to sell or exchange it, let alone throw it away. He had stolen it from Reiki, the most famous pirate on the planet, on one of the many raids on the Seven Seas.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

No longer a pirate, Vane spent his days leading a local band. Today they were observing a caravan moving along the main road of the Middle Kingdom. No one in their right mind would dare attack the road, as even the neighboring kingdoms knew how well it was guarded. It was precise because of those rumors that Vane had decided to get involved in this adventure.

There were many currencies in this world, ranging from magical trinkets to gold, but the most valuable currency of all was one’s name. Many doors would become open for those whose name was known throughout the kingdoms...

“Chief,” Bloodhound whispered in his ear, one of the newcomers good for being cannon fodder and not much else. “Everything’s ready. We start at five.”

Vane nodded and raised his hand. The archers immediately dipped the tips of their enchanted arrows into jars of poison and the marksmen began loading their muskets. Vane, being an experienced killer, preferred doing business the old-fashioned way ― with a pair of daggers and several poisoned darts, which were much better than the newly-invented single-shot pistols.

However, such conservative beliefs didn’t prevent him from carrying several firearms on his belt and a couple of bombs in his bag. At least gnomes were capable of something, unlike their dwarven cousins.

A couple of minutes later, the caravan turned the corner ― four stagecoaches covered with white linen, a dozen travelers on foot and mounts, and the guards. There were no more than a dozen of them, but they had good armor, a couple of marksmen, and a magician at the forefront.

“Chief,” Bloodhound whispered again, “they have no clerics, we checked. But they have a warlock and a druid.”

“That ain’t good,” Vane thought.

Dressed in green and walking in front of the group was the druid. Their kind was easy to handle if there were no forests nearby. Once, in the Marda Forest, Vane had fought a druid. Luck must’ve been on his side then as he and his group of seven managed to take the druid down. Unfortunately, they were now some thirty feet away from a forest so he doubted that they’d have the upper hand.

As for the warlock, Vane wasn’t that worried about him. During his rather longish life, he had met and fought many warlocks. All they could do was spread their fingers. Powerful as they were, they were no match for him and his rusty, but trusty, rapier. Vane doubted that he’d ever run into powerful warlocks, like Urg the Toothless from the famous minstrel’s ballads, the slayer of the Demon Fehem, on an old dusty road. No, roads were full of Ternites fresh out of school.

“Tell the shooters to aim at the druid, I’ll take on the warlock.” He didn’t want to take any chances. If the warlock turned out to be more powerful than he looked, only he could take care of him.

“On my signal...”

The scout disappeared into the foliage. Vane spat; he never liked those who were too scared to take up arms. However, he had to admit that scouts had no equals in terms of speed and stealth and that their espionage work was top-notch. However, even a farmer or a carpenter could defeat them in combat.

Vane took out his weapon of choice. With four needles held tightly between his fingers, he resembled a feline ready to jump. Whoever, his “claws” were more deadly as they were soaked with poison that paralyzed the lungs.

Suffocating to death was one of the most unpleasant ways to go.

“Move out!”

Squatting, he whistled a melody similar to the call of a nightingale. There was a crack, then a rumble that shook the earth. The caravan’s path became blocked by trees that shot out from the ground, raising clouds of dust and debris. The druid had managed to block the attack from the front, but those on the rear weren’t as lucky. Two arches on horseback were crushed to death; the men shouted and the horses whined as their bones and muscles got minced and reduced to a pile of gore.

Vane ran forth. His step was light and his movements swift. The warlock, an inexperienced Ternite, saw the grass sway and then fell over. His spear fell from his hands with a rattle. Eyes bulging and mouth-frothing, he seemed to be tearing his own throat. A sickle soon chopped his head off, putting him out of his misery.

Vane didn’t have to turn around to know who had come to his aid. The mad laughter that broke out was very familiar to him. The owner of the sickles was a mad sadist, but he was well versed in the art of killing and pillaging and was thus a valuable asset.

Seven more needles were released, hitting flesh unprotected by armor and the hardwood of the stagecoaches. People screamed, someone tried to draw their sword but it was quickly claimed by either an arrow or a blade. The bandits were having little trouble taking care of the guards, but the druid still remained a pain in their rear. Whispering a spell, he started untwisting his staff.

Bullets dug into the thorny thickets rising from the ground. At that moment, long spikes sprouted from the enchanted plants.

“The air!” Vane cried.

Fifty shields were simultaneously lifted upward ― a hail of thorns released at an unbelievable speed covered the sky for a moment, turning day into night. As the bodies fell, one could hear both cheers and joyful chuckles. The first was made by those lucky enough to have avoided getting an extra hole in their body, and the second by the onlookers. There never was solidarity among thieves or bandits; one man’s suffering was another man’s cause for fun.

Vane knew from experience that the druid would need a couple of seconds to recover after such a powerful spell. This is why he wasn’t surprised when he heard a lone shot come from the forest. One of his marksmen had waited for his time to shine.

The bullet went through the thorns. The druid didn’t have the time to cry out when the projectile burst into hundreds of smaller ones. The riddled body fell on the ground ― the staff rolled downhill with a dull rattle.

“Ho!” Vane shouted.

“Ho!” the gang responded cheerfully.

The fight began. The guards didn’t stand a chance. They fell dead the moment they unsheathed their swords. Not one of them could fight alone against three or four bandits. There were bloodcurdling screams and shouts, desperate cries for help, clanging of metal and smell of blood, but Vane didn’t allow himself to get distracted. He needed to find the warlock, the only one that was capable of stopping them singlehandedly.

“Warlock!” he shouted, plunging a dagger into the visor of someone’s helmet. “Where are you?!”

A tall man emerged from between the stagecoaches when the last guard fell. He stood with his arms crossed over his chest, wrapped in a tattered cloak, and with his head covered by a hood that hid his face. His powerful arms were wrapped in leather straps. On his back, he carried a longsword.

“Tell me your name, vermin,” he said calmly, “so I know who to add to my list.”

“Vane the Stinker.” Smiling, he gestured his gang to halt.