Bjorn parried the vicious swing of Vasco's cleaver and countered with a horizontal slice across the larger man's chest. His opponent staggered back, his armor absorbing the worst of the damage, and Bjorn pressed his advantage. With a flourish of his sword, Bjorn redirected Vasco's off-balance swing and swept his long legs out from under him.
The brigand leader tumbled to the ground with a grunt, his eyes widening in surprise. Bjorn seized the opening, bringing his claymore down with all his strength.
Suddenly, Vasco twisted, rolling away from the lethal stroke and springing back to his feet with a quickness that belied his bulk. His cleaver flashed again—this time grazing Bjorn's exposed side. Pain bloomed like a starburst—hot and sticky—as blood streamed from the cut.
Bjorn clenched his jaw, forcing the pain to the back of his mind. His blade found its mark, slashing across Vasco's armor with a shriek of steel. The brigand leader dodged, avoiding the full force of the cut.
On and on they fought, each strike blocked or parried, their feet moving in a deadly dance. Around them, their followers battled—swords clashed, shields clattered, and cries rang out. In the heat of the fray, it was difficult to determine who was winning. Bjorn focused solely on his opponent, matching him swing for swing.
After an extended exchange of blows, Bjorn found an opening and slashed at the larger man's abdomen. His strike connected, the blade biting through Vasco's armor and drawing a spurt of blood. Vasco grimaced and retreated, clutching his injury. Bjorn didn't pursue.
Instead, he scanned the battlefield—assessing the status of his fighters—and his gaze rested on Ebonheim's wooden palisade.
A large section of the stockade had collapsed—its remains scattered in pieces on the ground. It was there that the largest number of combatants congealed.
Flashes of arcane energies split the air and lit the battle as Arcanists fired spell after spell at each other.
One of the enemy Arcanists turned to face him and cast a spell that tore a small crater in the earth at his feet. Bjorn cursed and threw himself sideways, rolling away from the explosion.
Before Bjorn could recover his stance, the Arcanist launched a second spell at him, his palms erupting with a tangle of incandescent filaments. The magic writhed and flexed, spreading out like a web from his fingertips.
Bjorn could do nothing to dodge or block the attack—the spell caught him, tangling around his limbs and holding him immobile.
Despite his efforts to tear the spell apart or wriggle free, the arcane webs clung to him like the tendrils of some infernal vine. He gritted his teeth, straining with all his might. Nothing. The harder he struggled, the tighter the tendrils gripped his body.
Out of the corner of his eye, Bjorn saw Vasco advance upon him—cleaver at the ready.
As Bjorn lay tangled in the magical web, he heard the roar of an armored horse pounding through the battlefield. A figure vaulted from the saddle and sprinted toward him. It was Deneve. She clutched her blood-drenched blade and raised it overhead as she leapt—aiming to intercept Vasco's fatal stroke.
Just as Vasco's cleaver descended towards Bjorn, Deneve intercepted with her blade, their weapons ringing against each other in a shower of sparks. Her blade shuddered under the impact of the strike. The sheer force of Vasco's swing knocked her back—but not before she planted a vicious kick to the brigand leader's stomach.
Vasco gasped and doubled over in pain.
Deneve quickly disengaged, flinging a small pouch filled with bright, crackling dust towards Vasco as she threw herself to the side.
A series of alchemical explosions detonated in the air around Vasco—flashing in brilliant arrays of red, blue, and gold—enveloping the brigand leader in a chaotic burst of heat and energy.
Vasco's screams filled the air, mingling with the crackling boom of the detonations.
Deneve darted toward Bjorn. Her sword blurred—dancing in her grasp—the steel edges flickering as she attacked the magical spell encasing him. Tendril after tendril frayed and snapped as her blade hacked through the arcane strands.
"You okay?" Deneve asked tersely. Her strikes didn't cease—precise and efficient—freeing him in a manner reminiscent of a seamstress cutting thread.
"Much obliged," Bjorn replied. The threads around him had snapped, dissipating in flares of argent light.
He regained his freedom and rolled to his feet—sword at the ready—just in time to deflect Vasco's cleaver aimed squarely at Deneve's back. The force of the larger man's swing nearly jarred the claymore from his grasp.
Damn the man's resilience. Bjorn pushed back and held his ground firmly, locking blades with his opponent. Vasco's injuries were no minor scrapes—yet the brigand leader displayed no indication of slowing.
Behind him, Deneve circled cautiously, her posture poised for a counterattack. The surrounding clash of battle swirled and churned, fighters from both sides locked in combat.
A peal of thunder tore the sky—arcane in origin. As Deneve raised her sword and sprinted toward Vasco, she cried, "I'll finish him, Bjorn! Keep the mage at bay!"
Deneve charged in a whirlwind of steel. Her sword flashed against Vasco's cleaver. They exchanged blows, blades ringing as they struck—Deneve's speed outstripping her opponent's.
Bjorn diverted his attention toward the brigand Arcanist and located him amongst the melee. The spellcaster was grim-faced and bloodied, but he kept the maddened pace of spellcasting—the blue magic sparking at his fingertips.
To his dismay, the enemy spellcaster managed to cast a hasty spell. The Arcane energy unfurled from his palms and flew unerringly toward Bjorn. He ducked out of the way as the spell splashed in a pool of eldritch fire against the ground.
A wave of searing heat washed over Bjorn.
Yet he didn't let up.
Bjorn harnessed the mana within him to call forth his Hersir ability, summoning a spectral shield of ice and wind that encased him. The icy ward absorbed the spellfire sent his way—the impact shuddering against him as he plowed onward.
He envisioned his aura of frost encasing his rune-etched claymore—its runes flashing blue-white—and the weapon thrummed with the icy might of the ether.
As a group of three brigand swordsmen raced toward him, Bjorn dropped the first with a well-placed cut, striking beneath the man's ribcage. The claymore cleaved through leather and mail alike—emitting an explosion of frigid, gleaming shards in its wake. Bjorn moved his attention toward the remaining two fighters as the first assailant crumpled to the ground in a spray of scarlet.
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Bjorn swept his blade low—slicing through leather bootstraps—dropping the second opponent to his knees. He dispatched the man with a clean thrust to the heart.
Before his third attacker could launch his own assault, Bjorn hastened forward, skewering him through the torso. He yanked his sword free as the body dropped. As Bjorn looked up, a magic missile slammed into his chest.
His frost aura negated most of the damage. His armor absorbed the rest.
With a roar, Bjorn charged forward, his icy aura summoning the howling winds around him. He closed the distance—swiftly and brutally—ducking under a volley of sorcerous missiles to lop his opponent's arm clean off at the shoulder. His runic blade sent arcs of frost into the surrounding melee as the wounded man fell—armless and screaming. Bjorn dispatched him with a quick cut across the throat.
After dispatching the enemy spellcaster, Bjorn assessed the battle situation. As far as he could tell, the majority of the brigands had fallen—those not dead had either retreated or surrendered.
Deneve still faced Vasco. He judged her to have the upper hand—but barely. The pair fought near the large gap in Ebonheim's fortifications. Both were heavily bloodied, but Deneve seemed to have the edge on stamina—she didn't hesitate. As soon as Vasco launched a heavy strike, she'd dodge and counter, using the brigand's massive frame against him.
Deneve feinted and followed through with a slash across Vasco's temple. He recoiled—his left eye sliced clean off—the other side of his face a scarred, bleeding mess. With a furious snarl, he brought his cleaver up—too slowly.
Deneve slashed again—harder.
Bjorn glimpsed the metal kissing bone. A hollow crack, then blood splashed across the battlefield. The giant crumpled and fell to his knees, his neck angled awkwardly as if his vertebra had been cut—likely shattered. Deneve completed the feat—cutting Vasco's head off his shoulders.
The brigand leader's body keeled over sideways and slammed to the earth. His head landed with a dull thud, rolling away to stare back at them sightlessly.
Silence swept through the battlefield as the remaining brigands watched in stunned silence. Realizing their leader was dead, most threw their weapons on the ground. Bjorn noted those who fled into the forest and marked their faces in his mind. He'd hunt them later, when the town was safe and secure.
"Have your Silverguard restrain the surviving enemy soldiers," Bjorn told Deneve as she rejoined his side. His gaze still trailed the few remaining brigands escaping into the treeline.
"Those who resist—kill them."
Deneve gave a curt nod, then shouted for her men and women to attend to the matter.
----------------------------------------
Lira glided through the forest, her robes brushing against the ferns, the soft glow of her staff casting a circle of illumination about her. As she swept the area for her targets, the foliage parted for her. There—in the clearing—she detected the traces of the illusionist's aether trails. She lifted her staff and adjusted her course.
She spotted Kaela kneeling in the grass, bound by tendrils of shadow. A man dressed in dark garb loomed over her—his cowl concealing his face. He bore no visible weapon on his person. Perhaps his spellcasting abilities were more than sufficient...
Lira raised her staff, the living vines that composed it writhing eagerly in anticipation of her command.
The forest responded to her silent call. Roots beneath the earth stirred, ancient and powerful. Branches swayed, though no wind blew. Lira whispered an incantation, her voice barely louder than a leaf's rustle, and with a gesture, she invoked the spell entwined in her blood—Thorn Whip.
Vines laced with thorns burst from the ground, surging towards their target. Lira willed them to coil and strike. The thorny tendrils enveloped the mage—haphazardly thrashing—some encircling him, while others flailed wildly.
The dark mage groaned as the tendrils slashed his clothing and raked across his flesh, leaving bloody gouges where the thorns pierced skin. His concentration broke, the shadows dissipated, and Kaela sprang free.
Kaela rolled to her feet, a nod to Lira her only thanks.
"Silas Morr," Kaela growled, leveling her weapons at him. "The one they call 'Shadowweave'. I know your kind."
Silas narrowed his eyes. "You speak as if you know me... I've no recollection of you." His brow furrowed, perhaps trying to discern her identity beneath her cowl. His expression of concentration soon twisted to disbelief as comprehension dawned. "No. That can't be... how?"
Lira remained silent as Kaela chuckled bitterly.
"Surprised to see me?" Kaela raised her weapons as Silas clenched his fists.
"Yes," he replied with a slow, wary nod. "Quite."
"I don't mean to interrupt," Lira cut in as the pair squared off against each other. "But what shall we do with him? Death—or captivity?"
"Death." Kaela spat out the word like a curse.
Lira nodded, having anticipated the response. She gestured, commanding the thorn tendrils to strike the mage again.
Silas twisted out of the way, ducking beneath the vines' writhing reach. He called upon his dark magic, conjuring a dome of black and grey to shield him. The thorns that struck the magical barrier disintegrated into ash and mist.
Kaela dashed toward him, her daggers flashing.
Suddenly, shadow apparitions exploded from Silas' position—duplicates of himself—each flickering and mirroring his movements. They sprung forward in unison, bearing down on Kaela in a swarm of illusory blades.
Kaela ducked and weaved—her body a blur—but the illusions cut and slashed regardless. She gritted her teeth as a barrage of strikes sliced across her flesh. Bleeding, she darted back—out of range—and launched a dagger at one of the duplicates.
It flickered and disappeared.
With a chant, Lira summoned a gust of wind. It rushed through the clearing, tearing the air where the duplicates once stood—scattering the phantasms like dust.
Silas stood amidst the torrent. A dark orb manifested at his fingertips and hurtled toward Lira. She flung herself to the side—the orb grazed her arm and slammed into the ground. Earth and grass exploded in a shower of debris.
Lira tumbled and rolled to a crouch. She spun to face the enemy mage again, vines re-snaking toward him.
The mage retorted with a barrage of arcane projectiles. As the bolts streaked toward her, she hurriedly constructed a shield of earth and vine to block them. The impact buffeted her barrier and she shook—her nerves protesting from the effort of sustaining it.
Kaela charged once more, feinting left before driving her dagger into Silas’ side. The mage cried out, his dark aura flickering like a candle in a storm. He whirled his fingers in an arcane pattern and summoned a retaliatory blast of shadow, exploding the surrounding ground in a deafening boom.
Lira watched Kaela hurtle through the air as Silas retreated deeper into the forest.
Kaela picked herself up with a groan. "After him!"
With a few whispered words, Lira sent a pulse of healing magic through the Silverguard—knitting flesh and mending bones. When her magic had taken hold, Kaela sprinted forward in hot pursuit. Lira followed.
They both tracked him as he wove in and out of the forest, making his way to the southern boundary of the town's lands. There, they could hear the distant clash of battle in the valley—the staccato of swords ringing upon armor, the patter of bowstrings singing death, and the boom of fireballs as the town's militia—backed by the Silverguards—and the last remnants of the brigand army clashed.
Lira saw him muttering a spell beneath his breath, weaving tendrils of shadow as he prepared to launch a sorcerous barrage upon the town. Kaela struck first.
Her blades plunged through the air—spearing for his heart and shoulder—slicing through his arcane mantle and into his flesh. Kaela pushed the daggers in until their hilts kissed skin.
Silas exhaled slowly, as though a burden had been lifted. His shadowy aura dissipated—crumbling into ash and dissolving like embers. His body shuddered—swayed—and sank to his knees.
"Perish like the rest of your filthy clan, Morrian scum," Kaela hissed into his ear as she held her blades embedded in his body.
Silas coughed—a wet, rattling sound—as a trickle of blood seeped from the corner of his mouth. Kaela twisted the daggers once more as the mage choked on his own blood. Soon enough, Silas slumped face down into the grass—dead.
Lira turned to face Kaela as the Silverguard withdrew her blades. Her features had relaxed—sheathing their edges—even as the air remained heavy with lingering violence.
"There are still a few stragglers loose in the forest," Kaela stated matter-of-factly. "I'll handle them. I think we could all do with the space right now. Go back to the town—report to Bjorn." She flicked her blade clean. "I'll go secure the perimeter."
Lira watched Kaela as the other woman shifted her grip on her daggers before vanishing into the shadows.
"Thanks again." The soft words carried through the air after Kaela had already disappeared. "You did good."