By all accounts, “Sir" Vincenne Hawkwood “the Astute” was, unabashedly and unforgivably, a giant piece of shit.

The self-titled knight (no ruler with even a shred of dignity would possibly entertain the idea of knighting a cretin like him) was hated by his men, hated by the common people, and hated even by his own mother.

His men followed him only because they begrudgingly accepted his tactical genius and enjoyed the wealth his skills brought to them. The common people had no say in the matter, as they were powerless before his sword. And his mother… well, suffice to say that she was no longer a living member of this world. Did Hawkwood play a role in that last part? Perhaps.

Such complications and a deceptively whimsical name aside, the Rosy Raiders represented a most terrifying combination. Two thousand well-seasoned and well-armed men, led by a bloodthirsty hound who cared for little except the sound of gold clinking loudly as it poured into his coffers, and the screams of women as he forced himself upon them.

In times of war, the Rosy Raiders could always find work; what strategically-minded ruler wouldn’t want an army of skilled killers under his command, ones who could strike fear into the enemy peasantry and who he could claim “were not his responsibility?”

And so the Raiders grew rich, fighting in the various lordly disputes and skirmishes that so often graced the land.

Or at least, “so often” in the past.

It had been over half a decade since the last major conflict on the entire continent of Carolain, and the false reassurances of peace held the land in its fattening embrace.

Ah, peace – a mercenary’s greatest enemy. Though if that same mercenary was willing to part ways with nearly everything that made him a decent man, peace could also be his very best friend.

For the upstanding gentlemen of the Rosy Raiders, peace was akin to a mistress.

From his position atop his dappled-gray horse, Hawkwood watched with relish as his men carried out the wholesale slaughter of the villagers before them. Men, women, and children alike were cut to ribbons as they tried to flee through the river towards the walls of Pirreno off in the distance.

Hawkwood crossed his arms over his chest and could barely resist the urge to laugh. In truth, the Rosy Raiders didn’t have to carry out their killings here. Instead, they could easily have waited at Pirreno; when the peasants reached it, they would find the walls of their safe refuge fully under siege. Still, this was something Hawkwood liked to call “securing profits.” In his experience, peasants on the run would always take their most valuable possessions with them, and he liked to bring said possessions under his own control as soon as it was possible...

He took a deep breath, and his nostrils flared.

Out of the corner of his eye, Hawkwood saw what appeared to be a small family of three breaking away from the main group of villagers and trying to slip away upstream, along the near bank of the river. Hawkwood turned to face them and narrowed his eyes.

A man, a woman, and what was undoubtedly their child.

Men, women, and children...

“Fabian. Do you see that?”

Hawkwood raised his saber and pointed at the backs of the fleeing family. There was a mad glint in his eye.

Fabian, his second in command, nodded, the visor of his polished metal helmet rattling as he did so.

“I do, Sir Hawkwood. Shall I give chase?”

“No, no. I am claiming them for myself. Stay here on this bluff and make sure that everything proceeds smoothly.”

Hawkwood paused and cast his gaze over the carnage in the river. By this point, he noted, the water had already begun to turn a sickly red.

“Though given the look of things, that shouldn’t be too difficult to do.”

He turned to Fabian and gave a short nod before lowering his visor.

“Nonetheless, Fabian, you will keep on the watch.”

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“Of course, Sir Hawkwood.”

“Gyah!”

Without further ado, Sir Hawkwood was off, the hoofs of his trusty steed raising a plume of dust as it kicked itself into motion. As he approached the figures in the distance, he saw them speed up; heads turning, feet moving ever faster in an attempt to get away, voices raised to the sky in a desperate plea for their god to spare their pitiful lives.

Behind his deathly visor, Hawkwood licked his lips. The sound of wind rushing past his helmet and the feel of adrenaline surging through his veins... There was nothing quite like it. Few things in this world were as exciting as chasing down his prey.

A hundred meters.

The father of the small family was slowing down, waving madly with his hands, urging his wife and child – a daughter, it appeared – to continue on without him.

Fifty meters.

Hawkwood watched as the father, a middle-aged man with gray in his hair, stopped and turned. There was a hatchet in his hand.

Ten meters.

Hawkwood grinned and raised his sword, just as the fool before him charged towards his horse. He felt time slow and his heartbeat rise. Though common sense told him that a hatchet in the hands of a lowly peasant posed little threat to a seasoned warrior like himself, he had trained his body to always prepare for the worst.

Hawkwood brought his saber down and, a second later, the man on the ground swung his hatchet.

Fwish.

The hatchet had missed. Unsurprisingly, the peasant had completely misjudged the speed of the approaching horse and had swung far too late. To be fair, a farmer in these lands had almost certainly dealt with wild boars in his lifetime and would be more than capable of timing a charge. Boars were very fast, Hawkwood reflected. As it was, however, horses were far, far faster.

Hawkwood pulled on the leather reins in his left hand and slowed his horse to a walk. He gazed over at his handiwork and let out a sarcastic sigh.

“Ah, look at you. Do you see it yet, my friend?”

Hawkwood breathed deeply, as if he were thoroughly enjoying the scene playing out before him.

“Do you see the afterlife?”

The older man lay twitching on the ground, clutching desperately at the gash across his upper torso, one that stretched from one shoulder to the other. Blood was already pooling over his leather tunic, and the life was steadily draining out of his wide-open eyes.

Shock. Fear. Anguish.

It was beautiful.

“Mauriz!”

The man’s wife, who had been stunned into silence before, now screamed as the reality of what had happened finally dawned on her.

Acting as if Hawkwood was no longer there, she ran up to her dying husband and fell to her knees by his side. She placed her hands on him, paying no heed to the crimson stains that now covered the sleeves of her blouse. In her despondency, however, she found herself frozen in place.

Hawkwood watched as the woman stared into her husband’s eyes, unable to do anything to save him or even to lessen his pain.

“Mauriz. Please, Mauriz!”

The dying man, with the scant traces of energy still left in his body, raised a bloodied hand and rested it against his wife’s cheek. With his final breath, he uttered a simple, yet impossible, request.

“My love. Save… Myra. Precious… Myra…”

His eyes closed and his hand slipped away, the streak of blood he left on his wife’s face the final act of a life cut short.

“Mauriz! Mauriz, no! Please, Mauriz! Come back to me, Mauriz!”

Below his visor, Hawkwood grinned.

Now then, time to finish off–

“Myra! Don’t!”

The mother’s scream was quickly followed by the smell of burning cloth.

Hawkwood narrowed his eyes. Where was it coming from?

He turned around atop his horse, searching for a source. When he began to feel heat against his back, however, and his horse began to kick in terror…

His cape!

Without thinking twice, he grabbed on to the neck of his cape and pulled it loose. With a whoosh, he swung out his arm and flung the cape away. It flew only a short distance before landing on the ground, and he watched in silence as it was soon reduced into a pile of blackened ash.

“So...”

Hawkwood's voice was icy.

“Where did that come from?”

He looked at the mother, whose eyes were wide with fear. Then, he turned his attention to the daughter.

“Myra. Myra, run! Run! Don’t look back! Ru–”

The mother's last word was cut short by Hawkwood’s sword slicing into the side of her neck. Within seconds, she had crumpled to the ground beside her husband.

The little girl screamed. Against her mother’s final wish, she ran up to her parents’ lifeless bodies, a look of confusion on her tear-soaked face.

“Mama? Papa?”

Her cries for her family started as a whimper. Before long, they had turned into a howling wail, one borne of a crushed and broken little heart.

Had he even an ounce of humanity left in his soul, Hawkwood would have stopped and reflected on the devastation he had wrought. However, he had forsaken his compassion long, long ago, and the only thing on his mind in that moment was how lucky he was to have found a young and budding magician.

He licked his lips.

“Now then, Myra. My original plan was to sell you to the slavers. But seeing as you're able to cast magic… Heh. Now that will earn me a pretty little prize indeed.”