Alaric’s stride faltered as he crossed the threshold of the church and stepped outside, where he came to an abrupt halt. Before him, arrayed with threatening intent, stood six men. Each was armed, their swords unsheathed and glinting ominously under the sunlight. They were strategically positioned before the horses in a semicircle facing the church and Alaric, with one imposing figure notably advanced slightly ahead of the others.
“And who do we have here?” It came from the man who stepped forward from the group, distinguishing himself not just by his stature, but by the air of authority he exuded. His voice was coarse, rough, and hard, as if he were accustomed to raising it. He was markedly larger than his companions, his chest broad and barrel-like, arms bulging with the kind of muscle born from relentless physical toil, perhaps the countless hefts of a sword and shield.
Rikka and Kiera, still just inside the church, caught off guard, spun around, their reactions a mirror to the sudden tension that filled the air. Alaric, however, fueled by an undiminished storm of rage, took measured and confident steps forward, stopping at the top of the stairs that led down to the muddy dirt. With deliberate slowness, he placed his hands upon his hips, adopting a posture of defiance as he looked down upon the six men before him.
Despite their attire, which consisted of simple tunics and trousers, all worn and weathered from heavy use, paired with boots that had seen better days, there was an unmistakable military bearing to their stances, a confidence that long service brought. Their demeanor spoke of order and being accustomed to listening to authority. He got the feeling they were former soldiers, which potentially made them more dangerous, as they would be skilled with a sword.
Alaric’s gaze lingered on the man who had spoken, noting the web of scars that adorned his forearms from extensive weapons training, years of taking little nicks and cuts during practice and drill. These were not mere brigands or thieves; their presence spoke of a purpose, a mission driven by motives yet to be unveiled. Alaric was sure of it.
With deliberate caution, Ezran emerged from the shadowed confines of the church, his hand resting assuredly on the hilt of his scimitar. His dark eyes, deep and calculating, swept over the six men with a gaze as piercing as it was evaluating, dissecting their intentions and sizing them up. Silently, he positioned himself to Alaric’s right.
Kiera moved to his left. Her plate armor gleamed dully in the light, each piece a finely crafted shell that encased her form. Her eyes were hard as they swept across the group confronting them.
“I said, who the bloody fuck are you?” The leader’s voice cut through the air once more, tinged with an edge of growing impatience. His tone, laced with authority and expectation, sought to command an answer. He reminded Alaric very much of a company sergeant.
From the backdrop of tension, a voice, unmistakably that of Boatman, emerged from behind the door. “That is them. The ones I spoke of that live in the tavern.”
“Well, well, well, I was just about to come find you,” Alaric responded calmly. He placed his hand upon the hilt of his sword. With a fluid motion, he drew Oathbreaker and glanced at the cold steel before turning his gaze back upon the men and their leader. “That makes it quite convenient, then. We no longer have to go get them.”
Two of the men shared an uneasy glance.
Ezran’s movements were a blend of fluid grace as he drew his scimitar, the blade singing a soft, ominous note as it left its sheath. Beside him, Kiera’s expression was set into a mask of grim determination. With a resolute grip, she wrapped her hand around her longsword and pulled it out.
The leader scowled. His posture, though still imposing, betrayed a flicker of uncertainty at the bold proposition laid before him. “You were searching for us?”
“Not until we met Father Boatman, but yes, I was coming to find you.” Alaric paused for a heartbeat and raised his voice. “You six will lower your swords and surrender.”
The notion of surrendering astonished the leader. Disbelief etched his features as he turned to gauge the reaction of his men—a collective of toughs momentarily taken aback by the unexpected challenge, someone actually standing up to them. Regaining his composure, he scoffed at Alaric’s demand, the laugh he emitted harsh and devoid of humor. “Surrender?” He pointed his sword at Alaric. “It’s you who should bloody surrender. You’re outnumbered six to one.”
“That doesn’t much concern him,” Ezran stated, nodding toward Alaric. “He’s having quite the bad day, and you, my friends, are about to make it much better.”
“There are three of you, including a woman, and an ugly one at that in that ancient armor, with all those scars and tattoos ruining what likely once was a fair face.” The leader’s taunt sliced through the tense air, targeting Kiera with disdain sharpened by his clear ignorance of who and what she had survived. “You three think you can stand against us? A woman, a foreigner, and a petty noble.”
The men with him laughed.
Kiera stiffened, an instinctual reaction to the insult, but then, almost imperceptibly, her demeanor shifted. Her face, already set in hard lines, became even more impenetrable, colder. Alaric had seen that look before and knew it would end in blood.
“They’re not very smart,” Rikka observed as she came to stand next to Kiera, her voice tinged with both contempt and a touch of amusement.
“Smart?” scoffed another of the men, his voice dripping with derision. “What do you know, you uppity bitch? She’s likely of noble birth too, boss.”
“Quite the insult,” Rikka said. “Crude and unimaginative—a nightsoil man could have done better, been wittier.”
“You are correct, my lady,” Kiera replied, her voice cool and steady. “These men are clearly dumber than most farm animals.”
“When we deal with him”—the leader made a threatening gesture with his sword toward Alaric—“and the other one in black”—he waved his sword at Ezran—“we are going to have fun with you two bitches, teach you some humility. Then, we will see how funny you are.”
Father Ava, having emerged from the church alongside Father Boatman, addressed the armed men with an air of serene authority that was out of place amid the brewing storm, “I encourage you to lower your weapons,” his tone imbued a grave sincerity, “before it is too late. You men know not who you are dealing with here.”
“And you don’t bloody know who you are dealing with,” the leader retorted, his tone becoming nasty. “We run this village now. Our word is law in these parts.”
“Though I shouldn’t, I am going to give you one last chance,” Alaric declared, the undercurrent of danger in his tone impossible to ignore. “Drop your weapons and surrender. You have my word you will live.” It was a pledge spoken with the solemnity of one who understood the weight of his words, a vow made by a man accustomed to being both judged and bound by his honor.
“Your word?” The leader’s reaction was one of pure contempt, his disdain evident as he spat upon the ground. “I don’t even know who you are. But I really don’t care either. You are noble born—that much I can tell—and I hate nobles. Your kind think you are better than us. But I bet the purse you carry is fat with gold and silver. Mine is on the light side.”
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“I would be careful with your words. You are addressing Viscount Alaric of Dekar, just returned from the Crusade,” Ezran stated helpfully. The former ash man grinned wickedly at them.
This sent a shock through the opposing men. The leader stiffened visibly, the earlier confidence in his posture evaporating into a wary tension. Then his eyes narrowed into slits of calculation, as if reassessing the situation.
The men beside him, who had until that moment worn smirks of an easy and coming victory, found their expressions dissolving into seriousness. The grins that had adorned their faces vanishing with the breeze.
“We will be rewarded for this one, boys,” the leader said, “especially if we bring him in alive.”
“Let this be your final warning, then—with a day like he’s having, people like you tend to die.” Ezran’s follow-up was chilling in its simplicity. “But then again, I don’t think the world will mourn the loss of you bunch very much. Shall we cease this wasteful talking and begin this dance?”
“Fuck you,” the leader, uncowed, hissed with venom. His tone hardened into something more dangerous and committed. He pointed his sword again at Alaric. “A silver piece to the one who brings me his head. Take them!”
There was a moment of hesitation, then the men began to advance with grim determination. Alaric almost allowed himself a grin, a silent acknowledgment of the challenge before him.
With the agility of a predator, Alaric launched himself off the steps. He leapt at the nearest of the advancing adversaries. As he flew through the air, Oathbreaker rose in a graceful arc before descending in a swift, decisive motion as he landed. His opponent, caught completely off guard by the suddenness of the attack, barely managed a hasty block.
Their two swords met with a ringing clang. Alaric rapidly shifted his sword and, pushing the other’s aside, maneuvered past the block with an elegance that belied the ferocity of his assault. Oathbreaker found its mark, the edge slicing into the man’s leg.
The cut was deep, and the leg immediately gave out. The man dropped to the ground with an agonized cry, falling to his knees. Before he could react, Alaric reversed his blade and stabbed downward, his sword point driving deep into the other’s collar. The man gave a pained grunt, stiffened, and then his eyes rolled back into his head as he went limp, Alaric’s sword holding him upright on his knees. Alaric ripped the blade free and stepped past, focusing on his next target—the leader, just steps away.
Their swords clashed in a crash of metal, the sound a clear, resonant clang that reverberated on the air and sent a jolt of pain through Alaric’s hand. Ignoring the discomfort and refusing to give his opponent a chance to recover, Alaric continued his attack, launching a strike at the man’s left thigh. The leader, biceps bulging, blocked and backed up a step to gain room. Now on the defensive, he parried desperately as Alaric attacked again and again, launching a flurry of strikes to keep the man off-balance and on his heels.
To his right, the metallic clang of Ezran’s engagement was a familiar comfort. On his left, a deep grunt of agony signaled Kiera’s lethal prowess, her own victory claimed in the striking down of one of the enemy. And somewhere ahead, in the midst of combat, a meaty thwack was followed by a heavy grunt that announced help from another quarter, though Alaric dared not look.
His focus remained on the leader. It had to. Each movement, each attack and block, was a step toward victory or defeat, a balance he navigated with the skill of a warrior born and trained for this moment, for the fight.
The clash with the leader was a crescendo of metal and might, their swords meeting with repeated clangs and flat clunks that resonated on the air with sparks that flew forth from each impact. The other man was skilled and well-trained, yet it was Alaric’s relentless assault and sustained attack that drove the leader back, step by desperate step.
Then, unexpectedly, a flash of light, followed by a low hissing, and a resulting crack rang out, almost deafening in its loudness. The air seemed to vibrate with the concussion of impact that blew a blast of hot air past and around them. Surprised, Alaric hesitated in his next strike. He almost turned to see what happened, but his opponent clearly saw what had occurred.
The leader’s eyes were wide, and his mouth fell open. He rapidly retreated two steps, his sword point lowering, almost touching the ground.
“Sorcery…” The man’s gaze was plainly filled with worry, doubt, and blatant fear. He turned on his heel and ran, sprinting madly away. He only made it five feet before an arrow hammered powerfully into his chest, the point emerging from his back, right where the heart was located. He went down in a tumble, thrashed about for a moment or two, and then fell still.
Ten yards away, Alaric spotted Jasper, mounted on his horse, lowering his bow. He gave the man a nod, which was returned, as he pulled forth another missile and nocked it.
Alaric looked around, just as an agonized scream rang out, signaling the end of the last opponent by Kiera’s hand. Her decisive blow was one of both brute power and precision as she cut her opponent down, literally chopping the man with a blow to the shoulder. Her heavy sword, cleaving through muscle and bone, sank deep and drove her opponent to the ground. She ripped the blade free with a grunt, then stabbed into his exposed neck to finish him, silencing a second scream before it even came.
Alaric glanced around. All six were down. In the aftermath of the whirlwind clash, Alaric found himself surprisingly unburdened by fatigue, his breath almost steady, as if the dance of death he’d just engaged in was no more taxing than a stroll through the gardens of Hawkani. He doubted the struggle had lasted more than a fifty count.
The six assailants who just moments ago bristled with hostile intent now lay motionless, each deader than a doornail, their life blood spilling onto the muddy ground. Among the fallen, one man bore a serene countenance, as if in a deep slumber, rather than the throes of death. His body lay supine, a peaceful expression etched on his features, incongruously at odds with the large, ugly hole that had burned into his chest, all the way to the spine. Alaric required no further evidence to attribute his demise to Rikka, whose mastery of arcane forces had clearly claimed yet another life.
Turning his gaze toward the church, Alaric observed the two priests. Their expressions were etched with shock and disbelief at the bloodshed and unrestrained violence that unfolded on the church’s very steps and likely the rapidity and one-sidedness of the resolution.
“Feel better?” Ezran asked Alaric as he cleaned his own blade free of blood and gore on the tunic of one of the dead.
“No,” Alaric admitted after a moment’s thought. His rage still pounded within his chest, as did the adrenaline from the fight. His pulse was racing. “It will take a lot more than this to put me at peace, but it is a step in the right direction.”
“I told you.”
Alaric turned to see Thorne had ridden up. Like Jasper, he’d clearly returned after passing along Alaric’s orders to Grayson. His gaze flickered over the aftermath of the fight with interest, raising an eyebrow. He was leaning forward on his saddle.
“I guess I missed out on the fun.”
“Told me what?” Alaric asked, drawing the other’s gaze.
“That you’d find people who needed killing. You always do.”
Alaric ran his gaze over the fallen men, a complex tapestry of emotions running through him. There was no triumph in his heart, only a deepening resolve, a steeling of his spirit for the path that lay ahead. Each unmoving body, life extinguished, spoke not just to the immediate struggle—bringing order and safety to his lands—but to addressing the broader decay festering within Dekar, now his domain and responsibility. The presence of bandits, thugs, and raiders, once mere whispers and rumors, had manifested into a grim reality, painting a picture of a land in turmoil, her people preyed upon by lawlessness and those who willingly took from the weak.
His father, the once steadfast protector of their lands, was gone, swallowed by the shadows of an untimely death. The uncertainty surrounding his mother’s fate—a potential captive in her own keep—added a personal anguish to the broader canvas of the chaos playing out within his lands. It was a situation that cried out for rectification, for someone to rise up and confront the darkness, someone who was not afraid to stand up for others.
Alaric’s response to this turmoil was not merely reactive; it was a conscious, deliberate stand. The cold resolve that had driven him through the Crusade was now fueled by a deeper, more personal vendetta against the injustice that had taken root in his home. Thornwicke was merely the starting point, a symbol of the initial push against the tide of corruption that threatened to swallow Dekar. Alaric would lend his people some of his strength, enough to stand with him against the darkness, and then together, they would force it back.
As he eyed the dead leader, Alaric knew they should have tried to take a prisoner. He was sure the man was a soldier, likely a deserter, but it still would have been good to have one of these bastards questioned, for he recognized that a larger plot against his family might be afoot. One of their neighboring lords might be involved.
He turned his gaze back to Thorne. “This is only the beginning.”