[Chapter 4 - A Knife Unsheathed]

The manor Kallas and Ansgar entered was not especially large. Its status was nonetheless obvious from its limestone brickwork and tiled roof, a stark contrast to the mud village walls I had flitted across a few hundred meters behind.

It had taken them some distance to get here. If not for their torches, I would have long lost them in the forest dark.

Instead, it betrayed their position well, serving as guides of light as I followed them through the undergrowth.

Whilst they were far enough ahead to not hear me, I still took care to make as little noise I could, avoiding the branches and leaves which webbed across my path.

When the forest finally cleared, it gave way once more to vast open plains.

There, the woodland ceiling which had shielded the sky above was now gone. In its place, a dome of night blue, rendered into a tinge of purple by the twin moons that inhabited it. Silhouettes of clouds drifted slowly past, obscuring the stars which watched the world from above.

Thatch houses dotted the scene, white mudwalls held up amongst frames of timber. And in between, a dirt road, one rendered by the continuous movement of villagers and carts.

The manor house lay to the side, isolated from the rest by a small stream.

As if to emphasise this, fire light clustered around, emanating from the lanterns which decorated the beige manor walls.

The rest of the village was left dark, save for a singular flame at its center.

As I made my way through, back pressed against the wall to hide my presence, it was quickly clear to see why.

At the village’s centre lay a stone well, a bucket suspended by the wooden pulley atop.

Several bandits had gathered, identifiable by their mismatched armour and rough demeanour.

Some sat on stools, others lazed across the floor.

The one with the torch had propped himself up, leaning against the frame of the well.

And around them, spread numerous corpses.

Some had been dragged into a mound, their bodies blackened and burnt, as dark as the dried blood which trailed behind them.

Others had been killed there and then, scarlet pooling around dismembered limbs, splattered in streaks of red across the walls of the houses nearby.

Heads, attached or otherwise, lay illuminated by the moonlight.

All bore tortured expressions, whether of pain or of anguish.

I gagged, repressing a retch invoked by the grotesque sight before me.

Unlike the battlefield before, this had been a straightforward massacre, one which the men had revelled in.

There were only six of them here, all armed with a wide array of weapons, laughing to themselves in their blood-soaked fabrics as they mocked the dead around them.

A leering smile found its way onto the mouths of some as Kallas and Ansgar approached.

I was too far to hear the words exchanged, but even then I could make out the wavering of their arrogance upon hearing the news.

Those that were seated quickly stood up, and together they made their way with an uneasy haste towards the manor.

With their attention predisposed, I slipped between the houses, following their movement down the road. A muffled sob halted my steps. I could hear it through the wall, the sound blurred but undeniable.

And with it, wrought an anger within me, fingers curling around my knife.

The road itself ran to the manor gate, transitioning into a small bridge which pathed its way over the stream flowing from the forest.

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

Upon landing ashore it branched out, the smaller route heading for fields that stretched far into the distance.

The larger on the other hand stopped at the stone doorway, fixed against the step that lay beneath the arch.

To its side sat a guard, his spear lopsided in one arm whilst the other held a wooden tankard to his lips.

Crossing the bridge would draw me too near for my liking, so I observed them from the bank opposite, hidden amongst the shrubbery which lined the river.

A few words were exchanged, and then he waved them in impassively.

Even from here I could hear the raucous laughter flowing from the manor. A grotesque cackling of deprived revelry, disrupted only by the occasional scream which preceded another round of sadistic mirth.

I gritted my teeth.

Despite the amount of death I had seen today, no sight disgusted me more than what I had witnessed in that village square.

A sober silence washed over, broken only by words in the voice I recognised to be Kallas’. The words I could not make out, subdued by the brickwork, but a dismissive remark was made in response, one from an unknown speaker.

Laughter renewed again, a cacophony built upon the rhythmic thudding of wood as tankards smashed onto tables.

And the guard sat there alone, his unbroken disposition remaining one of boredom.

I lay there as well, hidden behind the hedgerow, eyes observing through the branches, waiting, once more.

***

It took some time for the noise to die down.

The guard dozed off first, his head slumped against the brick with his arm around his spear, mouth half open in a gentle snore as the tankard hung free from his unclenched hand.

The rest of the manor soon followed suit, and the air that had been filled with foul laughter was now one of complete silence.

It was obvious as to why security was so lax.

The villagers who would resist lay dead in the square behind, the brutal treatment they faced undoubtedly discouraging the survivors.

The arms and armour the bandits carried with them were likely to the same effect, highlighting the violence they could inflict at any given moment.

As for Nemetus, no matter how much they feared him he still lay unmoving in that clearing, twelve miles back.

I was glad at least that I would not feel any guilt in the task I was about to perform.

I held my knife behind my back, my other arm skimming the cold stone in front as I crept across the bridge.

My eyes locked onto the sleeping figure ahead, alert for even the slightest movement.

Save for the odd muttering and scratching of neck, no signs came to indicate any awakening.

I found myself soon in front of him, gaze focused on his exposed neck, knife creeping forwards in bated breath.

Then my hand slammed his nose and mouth into the brickwork, the knife in my right slitting his throat in one fluid motion.

He startled, eyes wide open, arms flailing in panic as he dropped his tankard.

For a brief second more he scrambled around, groping for my arm, his spear, his throat, anything to stop the blood flowing from his neck.

But quickly unconsciousness took him, heralded by a sudden stiffness as shock overtook his body.

He slumped back, numbers emanating from the open wound, a flow of red integers ticking at an incessant rate.

-12, -8, -10, -6

Although I knew it was coming, it was still a bizarre sight to see. An indicator of his blood loss, displayed clearly before my very eyes.

Save for the brief gargling as his heart desperately tried to nutriate his brain, he died without further sound.

-9, -5, -0, -0

The 0s ticked thrice before disappearing completely, succeeded by a brief +26 exp which quickly followed suit.

The number was not without reason.

As soon as I saw it I could feel its effects rippling through my body.

I clenched my hand, and a familiarity spread through it.

A hint of muscle memory almost, an understanding of what motions I needed to do, if only by a little.

For a second longer I kept my hand firm to his face, feeling out for any form of breathing.

When none came, I finally let go.

It had not even been a day, and someone’s life had already been taken by my hands.

Although not something I was unaccustomed to, the metallic taste in my mouth still reminded me of this fact once more.

I spat it out, purging my mouth of the unpleasant taste.

He had deserved it, the blood on his spear attested towards the cruelty he had inflicted.

Drawing myself up, I glanced at the wooden door which led into the manor house.

I had managed to keep the noise subdued, but still I was wary. Caution would be paramount here, I did not know their numbers and for any reason the raiders could stumble out unannounced.

Fortunately none came, and my gaze reverted to the dead figure beside me.

Red now smothered his front, but from his side I took his sword, strapping the belted sheath around my waist.

Another weapon, one I would have to accustom myself to.

The weight felt heavy, unfamiliar. I had no experience with it after all.

Years of military involvement had developed for me a strong physique, accompanied by fluid knife skills and precise hand-eye coordination.

Swordsmanship however, was an art wholly unknown to me.

His kettle helm I simply lowered, covering his face and the knife slit that pathed its way across his throat.

Another dry smile.

As if the blood was not enough to show something had happened.

If not for that, he looked as if he had simply dozed off.

I left him there regardless, propped up against the stone wall of the manor.

The brickwork seemed intimidating up close, smothered by a layer of ivy which snaked across the archway above me.

In the small courtyard beyond, the main door into the house stood ajar to my right. Its timber thick and imposing, dark iron nails studding planks of solid oak wood.

From beyond, an orange glow. A subdued flickering, emanating from the rooms behind.

I took care to be light on my feet, cautious of the sound of gravel as I stepped towards the open door.

Peeking in yielded little, the doorway too close for me to see anything of substance.

And so I gently pried it open, wincing at every creak of the rusted hinge.

The foyer seemed welcoming enough, if not for the snoring and faint sobbing I could hear from the doorway ahead.

I set my bag to the side, resting the unwieldy sword next to it.

Knife in hand, I walked forwards once more, and turned into the manor hall.