CHAPTER 5

THE DESERTERS

Mark urged his white horse forward along the dirt road, spotting smoke billowing from the village ahead. As he drew nearer, he encountered a grim sight: the road littered with the mutilated bodies of villagers. He let out an audible sigh and shook his head in dismay. Upon reaching the village, he found it reduced to ashes, its wooden structures reduced to rubble. Amidst the devastation, he noticed a lone boy sitting on the ground, his face as pale as ice.

"Hey," he said. "Boy. What's your name?"

"Anton," the boy replied.

"Anton, what happened here?"

"They came. My dad called them deserters, said they had deserted the Archon’s army and were on a rampage. They set everything on fire and killed everyone. Everyone." The boy’s eyes became watery, and he began sobbing.

Mark dismounted and approached the boy. He enveloped him in a hug. "Shh," he said, "don’t be afraid. It’s over now. The bad guys are gone."

"My parents are dead," the boy continued to cry. "Why? They never harmed anyone. What did they do to deserve this?"

"The world is a cruel place, kid. It is unfair and unjust. Sorry you had to learn this the hard way. You must steel your resolve and move forward. It’s the only thing you can do."

"I want vengeance!"

Mark sighed. "Vengeance doesn’t come for free, kid. Promise me you will stay alive and repay me the debt when you are older, and I will seek vengeance for you."

The boy nodded. "I promise."

"Good boy. Now tell me where the deserters went."

The boy pointed north with a trembling finger.

"Stay here," Mark said. "With any luck, I might be able to catch up with them. If I’m not back by nightfall, leave this place."

The boy nodded.

Mark spurred his horse onward, determined to catch up with the deserters despite their head start. He wasn’t accustomed to doing favors for free, but something about the boy's plight had stirred him. There was a nagging feeling, a distant memory trying to claw its way to the surface, but his amnesia clouded it.

You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

As he rode along the dirt road, bordered by trees and open fields, the scent of flowers filled the air. Hours passed until he spotted a group of over twenty soldiers on foot ahead, all clad in the insignia of Archon Anthemios. Considering the distance from the war front, Mark could discern that these were indeed the deserters he sought.

"You!" Mark yelled as he dismounted his horse. "You raided that village?"

"What if we did?" one of the deserters sneered, spitting on the ground.

Mark drew his sword. "I'm going to take down every last one of you."

A deserter lunged at Mark. He evaded the attack, thrusting his sword into the man's side, skillfully finding a gap in the chainmail armor. Then, with a powerful swing, he bashed the handle of the sword against the man's head, breaking his nose. Blood spurted, and the man crumpled to the ground.

Five deserters charged at Mark all at once. He effortlessly deflected their attacks. It was clear these thugs hadn't seen much action on the war front before deserting; their movements were clumsy. Mark swiftly drove his sword through the forehead of one man, then yanked it out and slammed the handle into the face of another. With his sword, he then parried the attacks of the remaining three men.

With swift and accurate sword thrusts, he pierced through their chainmail armor, causing severe injuries. Despite more deserters charging at him, Mark deftly parried and countered like a seasoned swordsman. His movements were graceful and precise, resembling a dance. As he defeated more of them, the deserters became increasingly fearful, leading to sloppier attacks that were easier for Mark to counter.

His sword glistened with blood, and he was sweating and panting, clearly worn out from the battle. Only one deserter was left standing. The man trembled with fear, his face pale. Mark advanced toward him with determination. With a powerful strike, he knocked the man's blade from his grasp and swiftly slit his throat. Blood sprayed into the air, splattering Mark's face as it flowed in the wind.

Mark breathed a sigh of relief as he sheathed his sword and mounted his horse. Returning to the village, he found the boy waiting in the same spot. The boy's face lit up with a wide smile when he saw Mark. "Hero!" he exclaimed. "Did you avenge my parents?"

"I did," Mark replied. "Now hop onto the horse."

The boy eagerly climbed onto the horse, and they galloped forward for hours until they reached the next village. Dismounting, they headed for the local inn. Mark approached the innkeeper, a bearded bald man. "What's with the boy?" he asked.

"Orphan," Mark replied. "Deserters slaughtered his family. I took care of them, but I don't know what to do with him. Can you take him in?"

The innkeeper hesitated, but Mark pressed on. "The boy can work here to pay for his stay. He seems capable. Besides, those deserters would have attacked your village next, so I did you a favor by stopping them."

Looking at the boy's pleading eyes, the innkeeper sighed. "Fine... He can stay. But he'll have to work. No special treatment because he's a kid."

"Yes, sir!" the boy saluted.

Mark ruffled the boy's hair. "Kid, I didn't avenge your parents for free. When you're grown, I expect you to pay me back seventy golden coins."

The boy nodded eagerly.

"Now, I need a beer and some food!" Mark tossed a coin to the innkeeper.

The innkeeper glanced at the boy. "You heard him. Go fetch beer and food. Your work starts now."

"Yes, sir!" the boy hurried to the kitchen.

Mark smiled, hoping the boy would find happiness in this new place. He wouldn't stay to see, though. Soon, he would hit the road again. For that's the life of a wanderer - always on the move.