In the dark of evening, rain pattered on the wooden palisade and the great stone of the keep that seemed to vanish up into the darkness. The storm had come quickly, and the rain was only building. Just like the storm that was building in the town below.

Bant could feel it. A crackle of grim anticipation creeping upwards from the town. It had been all the guards could do to force those townspeople that had ventured out back into their homes without a fight breaking out. But what good did that do in calming them? Bant could sense it rising from below, swelling waters of rebellion that would soon flood the keep. Shapes moved around in the murky, rain-covered darkness below, preparing for a fight.

Bant glanced toward the north. He could not see anything in this weather, but he could feel eyes watching them. The bandits had retreated after their leader fell in the circle, but Bant knew men like that would not stay away. If they couldn’t get what they wanted through a fair fight, they’d come back while the town had its guard down and butcher it in its sleep. A sick knot twisted in Bant’s stomach. His hands shook on his spear. He told himself it was from the damp cold of the rain.

The townspeople are going to fight back. We can’t do anything to stop it. But the bandits are coming too — they’re going to kill us all while we’re too busy fighting each other. They’re going to kill us all.

He stifled a rising urge to vomit over the wooden wall. Maybe if Dallen was here, they’d have a chance. The townspeople against the guards, any of them against the bandits. He’d fought an invincible giant and somehow won. Bant had barely been able to see over the crowd of Hadrir’s men, but somehow Dallen had fought and killed that monster.

But now Dallen, their knight and only hope, was lying broken somewhere down below. Maybe Vanteus would heal him with the Pattern’s magic. A wizard had to save someone’s life if he could, right? Surely Vanteus wouldn’t just leave him there — leave the rest of them without him, right?

Bant placed a hand on the damp wood of the palisade. His legs were trembling. He told himself the wetness on his face was just from the rain.

Come on, Bant. By the Pattern, you have to do something. Dallen fought that monster, didn’t he? You have to do something brave, too. He told you you’d have to learn how to fight one of these days.

He could see shapes moving up from below, walking up the steep hill that led to the castle gate. The townsfolk were making their move now.

They won’t stand a chance. Not without some help. Move, you little coward. Put one damn foot forward and move.

Bant punched his own leg, grunting with frustration.

Don’t think about it. Don’t think. Just do it.

He was running down the ramp, nearly slipping on the slick wood. Running towards the gate. He didn’t think of a plan, just acted.

There were two guards watching the gate, peering through cracks on the wood at the dark shapes approaching. Bant waved to them frantically.

“More are coming, from the west,” he lied. “They’re climbing over the breach.” He tried to make his voice sound afraid. It wasn’t hard.

The western wall breach was a well known weakness among the guards. One of the two watching the gate cursed, looked westward. It was impossible to see the breach from here, in this dark and this rain. The guard pointed a gloved finger at Bant.

“Stay here boy, and hold the gate. Shouldn’t be hard — the gate does most of the work.”

Then he ran off. For all Bant knew, maybe there were townsfolk climbing over the breach.

“Damn ungrateful bastards,” the other guard said, peering back through the cracks on the gate. “All we do for them, and now they’re gonna—”

Bant cracked him on the back of the head with the butt of his spear. He couldn’t bring himself to stab him in the back — it didn’t feel right. But the whack was enough, and the guard’s metal hat spun all around his face as he hit the ground like a sack of rocks, and stayed there.

No going back now. You can do this. Don’t think about it. No fear now. Telling himself that last part did not do much to make it go away. But he walked toward the gate anyway.

It took some effort to lift the long piece of thick wood that barred the gate. He put all his strength into it, slipping around in the mud before he managed to budge it free and crack one side of the gate open. The townsfolk had just made it up the hill when he swung the gate free.

They froze, looking at him. They had tools and weapons of poor, makeshift quality. There were a good number of them. Suddenly, Bant realized they would probably be looking to fight people dressed just like him. If they hadn’t been taken off guard by the gate opening for them, they’d probably have already bashed his head in.

Say something quick, damn you. Say something.

Bant reached toward his shoulder and unclasped the cape there. It bore the symbol of the town guards, a simplified Pattern borne by those who served the remnants of the Empyre. A symbol that was meant to inspire hope and security, but now only inspired disgust.

Bant held the crumpled cape in a balled fist above his head. He raised his voice to what he hoped was a rousing tone.

“When I took the oaths of this position, I swore to protect the people.” The crowd watched him cautiously, as if they were still deciding whether to bash his head in. Be brave. “Today, for the first time, I fulfill that promise!”

He threw the cape to the muddy ground and stomped one boot down on it. That seemed to shift the disposition of the crowd in his favor.

“We have to move quickly,” Bant said, stifling a voice crack.

One of the bigger men from the front of the group came forward, a drawn, sodden cloak clinging to his head.

“You got any weapons in this place, lad?” He held out the pitchfork what he was wielding. “Could use something better than this.”

Bant swallowed, but gestured for them to follow. He ran, trying to keep ahead of the crowd. He could already feel they were itching to act again, chomping at the bit for violence. Bant had to be the first one to reach the barracks. Orram didn’t deserve to be swept up and killed in the fervor of this mob.

There were two more guards just before the armory. They panicked when they saw the group closing in on them. One dropped their weapon and ran. The other stood, dumbly holding his spear up. Two townsfolk batted the weapon away and grabbed hold of the guard, forcing him to the ground and beginning to beat him. Bant looked away, focused on the smithy.

Orram burst out of a door at the sounds from the mob outside. He had a heavy smith’s hammer in his hand, looking almost ready to use it.

Please don’t, Orram. Don’t do anything foolish. His stomach felt like it was twisting into knots.

But after seeing the crowd, Orram dropped his hammer to the ground and raised his hands in front of him.

“Hey now lads. Don’t want any trouble now.”

“We don’t either,” Bant said. He swallowed hard. “Not with you, Orram. But we need weapons.”

Orram grimaced, but stepped aside.

“Do what you will. I won’t try and stop you.”

The big townsman with the pitchfork stepped toward Orram, eyeing him.

“Will you join in, blacksmith? To make the baron pay for what he’s done to the town?”

Orram shook his head.

“Ain’t got no stomach for the wielding of weapons; just the making of ‘em. But I won’t stand in your way. Won’t even tell you that the baron doesn’t deserve what he’s got coming.”

They raided the armory quickly. There was all manner of well-made weaponry in there. Townsfolk grabbed axes, spears, hammers, a few swords, knives to fill their belts. It was a mad dash, and left the armory looking like a storm had blown through it. Then it was on to the keep entrance.

The rain was coming down hard now, in great big sheets that made seeing more than ten feet in front of you difficult. The keep was only a looming shadow with a few windows peeking through like golden eyes in the night. Bant was soaked through to the bone now. He told himself that was why he was shaking, not for any other reason.

As they drew closer to one of the smaller wooden doors into the keep, Bant could make out a shape in the shadows. There was a man standing before it. A big man.

Have to act quickly. No hesitation.

Bant charged at the front. Lowered the spear right at the shape in the dark, sprinting toward it, feet threatening to slip at any moment. The shape seemed to loom now, growing impossibly big. Had Hadrir come back from the dead? Bant held the spear out, gritting his teeth, darting forward.

And slid to a halt before the weapon could make contact. His heart was pounding in his ears, mixing with the growing swell of rain from outside.

Stab, you coward. Kill whoever it is, or they’ll kill you. The other men had slid to a halt behind him, nearly knocking him over.

Graf’s big, dull face was staring at him, barely visible in the dark. The big guard seemed twice as large now as he usually was, holding that great big ugly axe out in front of him. Bant imagine the axe splitting him in half straight down the center, his insides spilling onto the wet ground around them. Bant tried to speak, but his voice seemed to have abandoned him.

Graf looked them all over, then gave a slow nod.

What the hell is that supposed to mean? Is this bastard going to kill me or what?

Graf turned over his shoulder, slowly. Then he raised the axe, and brought it down hard into the wooden door. The weapon bit deep into wood, allowing a little light to peek through. Then he jerked the axe from the door, raised it up, and brought it again, with slow, wordless determination, like chopping firewood.

Bant watched with amazement. Was Graf on their side? Graf? Who spent his dull days walking around with those two bastards Lomund and Ernolt? Bant couldn’t believe it, but he didn’t have time to think or make sense of it. If he stopped to think, he’d lose his momentum. He had to keep pushing forward.

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Others will join the cause. You’re not the only one in the guards who knows the baron is wrong. You can do this.

Graf grabbed the mangled door and wrenched it free, sending splinters of wood flying. Bant was the first to charge through, determined this time not to falter.

They only turned one corner before they ran into guards, waiting in a hallway to meet whatever had been chopping down the door. Lomund and Ernolt were at the front. They all had their weapons drawn.

“Now, now,” Lomund said, eyeing the mob, “we’re all very excited from today’s events. But let’s not do something we’ll all regret tomorrow.” He seemed to just notice Graf standing with them, dripping wet from the rain. “Oi! Graf, you big dumb bastard, the hell are you doing with this bunch of louts?”

“Fucking moron can’t tell his ass from his elbow,” spat Ernolt. Then he pointed to the mob. “They’re the enemy, you stupid prick. You’re on our side. You get it?”

Graf took a moment to respond, slowly leveling one thick finger at the other guards. Then he did the most incredible, unexpected thing. He spoke. The words were slow, and clunky, but had a simple confidence to them.

“You two are bad guards.”

Lomund just looked at the big man with open-mouthed confusion, probably as much for the betrayal as for the fact that Grad had spoken. Ernolt turned red, and began stomping towards them.

“Ungrateful little shits! The lot of you!” He raised a spear, and spoke through gritted teeth. “I’ll teach every last one of you little pricks a lesson, I’ll gut you like bloody pigs, I’ll—”

Bant thrust his spear forward. He didn’t think, just did. His stance was sloppy and unprepared. But he wanted so badly to shut Ernolt up that he could not hold back.

Ernolt staggered, clumsily bringing his own weapon up. It knocked into Bant’s, sending the strike off-center. But the spearhead still found Ernolt’s throat, and tore a jagged line of red across it.

Ernolt’s words were cut off but a choking grunt. His eyes went wide with fury, indignation, then utter fear. He dropped his spear with a clatter and reached up to try and stop the onslaught of deep-red blood that was now pouring from his throat, and collapsed against the wall.

Bant had killed a man. He’d thrust his spear and hit flesh, and now a man was bleeding out, dying, because of him. He’d spent so long imagining the fighting part of being a guard, but he’d never actually considered what came at the end.

His hands were shaking and slick with sweat. Or maybe that was blood.

Sometimes you have to do it, he told himself. Sometimes you have to. No other choice. Can’t think about that now.

He charged forward, letting out a cry that he hoped sounded like a war cry. The guards were cursing, forming up, weapons leveled. Bant aimed for Lomund, with his damn officer’s sword. Spear beat sword, Bant remembered that much — it had the range, Lomund didn’t have the training.

Bant thrust the spear forward, lunging with his whole body. It clanged off Lomund’s sword, and Bant pressed. He could feel and hear the other townsfolk and Graf behind him. His support. His people. They were counting on him.

Bant stepped and nearly stumbled forward, trying to get another thrust of his spear in. But when he tried to bring his spear up, it was stopped by something. In fact, something rammed into his gut, and stopped him dead. It felt like running into the corner of a table.

He looked down and saw a length of dull steel poking him in the stomach. At its tip…no, he couldn’t see the tip. Where it met his stomach, his shirt was becoming stained with a dark red. His back, where the freezing, wet shirt had clung to his skin, began to feel warm.

A shape flashed past in his vision. Lomund had been holding the end of the sword, staring at Bant, looking surprised. Then, a moment later, both of his arms were bloody stumps. He screamed, but it sounded distant. Blood splattered on Bant’s face as Lomund flailed his arms.

It’s fine. It’s not my blood. That’s just it. It’s not my blood.

And yet he could not take another step forward. He tried, and fell to his knees. A great pain was welling up in his stomach for some reason. Something bumped against his shoulder.

Graf and the other townsfolk charged past. They were blurs, swinging weapons and fists and curses clumsily at one another. Red spurts of blood and grey flashes of steel filled the hallway. Someone pushed Bant to the side, and he fell face-first against the stone.

Stone was supposed to be cold. But this one was pleasantly warm. Warm, and damp, and sticky.

Panicked understanding overtook Bant as his body failed him. It clawed at his mind as it went fuzzy.

This was all wrong. Is this what bravery had gotten him? He had been brave for once in his life. How had it gone so wrong?

The room was growing dark, and Bant remembered the stories he’d heard about heroes when he was young. Heroes fought bravely. They stood up for what was right. They faced their foes. They saved the day.

But sometimes, heroes died.

Bant did not think he wanted to be a hero anymore.

Was dying bravely so much better than living as a coward?

All went dark before he could find an answer.

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They pulled away their fellow warrior’s body through the thick muck, away from the great stone keep that loomed above them. His head was smashed in from a rock so badly that Olad couldn’t even tell who it had been. Olad let out a long sigh.

“Holed up in a bloody castle,” he said, slicking his wet hair back out of his face. “Who’d have thought a bunch of clueless townsfolk would put up so much of a fight, eh? We weren’t made for sieging, I tell you that much, lads.”

By the time Olad and his lads had regrouped and come back to Haverren, slogging through a rainstorm that had come more suddenly than a winter blizzard in the Frosts, it seemed like the townsfolk and guards had already gotten to the fun of fighting without them. The place already looked like it had been ransacked, and from what Olad could tell, a group of townsfolk had stormed the keep and somehow managed to actually take the bloody thing over. And then, they’d barricaded themselves in, to surprising effect. As Olad and his lads had tried to break in, they’d thrown rocks, pieces of furniture, and hot oil down upon them. And in this miserable rain, bows and arrows wouldn’t be much use to make it through the high, thin windows to take out their attackers.

And, most importantly, Olad just didn’t feel like spending that much effort to break in. The whole point of the baron’s deal with Hadrir was that they wouldn’t have to go through any shit like that. Olad enjoyed a good fight as well as the next warrior in their band, but he preferred it to be a fair fight. Or at least one that was unfair to his advantage.

Maybe they’d come back with some grapples and rope. Or maybe they’d just wait them out. But for now, Olad wanted to spend his efforts elsewhere.

“Come on lads,” he said, calling through the noise of the pouring rain, “the folk here were kind enough to leave us the whole town to ourselves! Let’s see what we can find.”

The others seemed to be happy enough with that, and made their way carefully down the muddy slope to town. Then, they set about their work, breaking into the scattered buildings around town. Some found valuables, or some decent goods and food to add to the pile. Some found people that hadn’t holed up in the keep, and did as they pleased with them.

Olad passed one of his lads, Farn, pulling a woman from a beaten old house in the middle of town. Farn held on tight to her arm, despite how much she struggled and screamed in protest. But once they made it past the door threshold, she pulled a small knife from somewhere and stuck it right into Farn’s eye. And then, while he was thrashing about and howling and cursing her, she kicked him right in the chest and sent him slipping and falling right into a chasm mouth.

Olad nearly slipped himself from how much he was laughing. The woman ran off, and Olad let her go. She’d proved herself tough enough to survive on this day, with Farn’s crumpled body somewhere below as proof. Hell, Olad might have asked her to join their band, if she’d run his way.

Olad only had to walk a little farther with a few of his lads to find the treasure trove. A large, two-story building in the center of town. Looked like the home of a wealthy man, and there couldn’t be too many of those in Haverren. Lights were on downstairs, and there were dark shapes moving about. People, holed up here instead of the keep. Olad clapped his wet hands together.

“We’ve found our spot, lads. Let’s get to it.”

As they drew close to the home, lightning flashed above. For a split second, it revealed a figure in bright white standing atop the roof.

Bloody devils, what maniac is up there in this weather? Olad put a hand over his eyes to shield them from the rain and peered upwards. Whoever it was, the buffeting rain and wind did not seem to bother him much. It gave Olad a sense of excitement. Finally, something interesting.

“Good evening!” Olad called out with a smile. “Enjoying the weather up there?”

The voice that called back did not seem to be shouting, and yet Olad could hear it clearly through the rushing wind and pounding rain.

“What are you doing here, Olad?”

Olad peered closer, through another flash of lightning that illuminated the man on the rooftop. Bloody deep hell, he could finally match it to the voice. Was that man the little wizard that Olad sometimes saw at the baron’s side? He had been at the fight earlier today, too, hadn’t he?

“Vanteus,” Olad called, remembering the wizard’s name. “Never took you as one to stand on rooftops in thunderstorms. Is that a common wizardly thing?”

The wizard took a moment to respond.

“I ask you again, Olad. What are you doing here?”

His voice seemed different than it usually was. Not so timid, not so soft-spoken. Not shouting, though, either. Just…resonant.

“Vanteus, you’ve met me a few times by now. You know exactly what I’m here for. You’ve got some goods, and some good folk in there with you. We want to have a little fun with both.”

“Hadrir is dead,” Vanteus responded. “You don’t have to follow his word and will anymore.”

“How do you damn people still not get it?” Olad called back. “We’re not following his orders. We’re following our own wants and wills. And we want this town.”

Another flash of lightning lit up Vanteus. Olad could see the wizard’s face now. It looked pained, and saddened. Olad understood: it was tough, not getting your way.

“Please don’t make me do this, Olad.”

Olad rubbed the bridge of his nose. Davakor’s bloodied body, was everyone outside of the northern realms this dense?

“I am not in the business of making anyone do anything! People — all people, you included, Vanteus — should do what they please. Follow their own hungers and desires.” He pointed upwards toward the wizard. “How about you, Vanteus? What do you want?”

“I want only to protect my people. I want to use my gifts to heal, rather than harm.”

Olad shrugged, and pointed at the door.

“Well. I want whatever’s in your house there. I want to do what I please with whatever and whoever I find inside. Looks like one of us isn’t going to get what they want tonight.”

Vanteus let out a sigh that Olad could hear, despite the din around them.

“No, Olad. I am afraid both of us must give up what we want tonight.”

Olad could feel his heartbeat rising, and a wide grin spread across his face. He had no idea what would happen next, but that was living, wasn’t it?

“We’ll see about that, old wizard.”

He drew his axes, and took a step toward the door. He only made it one step, before something reverberated through the air, freezing him in place.

It was like the deep toll of a great bell. It shook the air and water — it shook Olad’s very bones.

The wizard’s voice, Olad realized. It was the wizard’s voice, though he spoke no words or sounds that were distinguishable. As if the voice resonated with the very sound of the rain itself, the thunder that rang across the land.

Olad was filled instead with a distinct feeling. Like peering into an endlessly deep well. No, like being afloat at the top of a lake, unable to see the bottom and whatever terrors lurked beneath. An open, bottomless abyss. The tone drowned out the sound of the rain and lightning.

It was beautiful. And the most haunting thing Olad had ever heard. He didn’t know whether to weep or piss his pants in fear.

A low roar replaced it. A low roar, growing closer. Olad strained his head to turn — it felt like moving through thick mud — and looked uphill, toward the sound.

A wave of water taller than a man rushed toward them. It moved around the buildings in unnatural ways, snaking about as if to avoid them. As if it were alive. Olad could do nothing but watch.

Move, you damn fool. Move. But his thoughts felt like a drop in the ocean of overwhelming sound engulfing him.

And the water hit him. Swallowed him up like some great beast. He was off his feet. He was tumbling. The crushing water pressed the air out of his lungs, and despite his efforts, he drew liquid back into them. Olad tumbled, smashing into rocks and earth and other men.

Panic took him, clawing against the surrounding confusion. But nothing did any good. His head breached for a moment, as if the water had pushed him to the surface.

But it was not for breath. It was to see the fate that awaited him. He was rushing toward a great chasm in the earth, a waterfall that disappeared into deep, rocky nothingness. He could do nothing to stop it, no more than he could stop the sun from rising or rain from falling.

Olad was sucked downward into the chasm. The water threw him into the earth, into the deep hell itself. Only this hell was not burning hot, like the stories always said it was. It was a deep, dark cold.

A cold that seeped into his bones, then broke them. He crumpled between hard stone in the dark, and was no more.