“Are you with the bandits?
“No. Are you?”
Awkward.
Cain and Muse stared at each other.
For Cain, the woman in front of him was so obviously different in nature from the men that he had seen and slain that he had little cause to doubt her words. She didn’t reek of blood in the same way.
For Muse, she remembered the words of the man she had interrogated. A lost traveller, without his memories. A master hunter who had borrowed the local night watchman’s bow and arrows.
As if they had come to some sort of mutual agreement through eye contact alone, both of them lowered their weapons.
Muse sighed.
“Squire Muse Aberra,” she said, introducing herself. “Of the Order of the Iron Bars.”
Well, that certainly sounded fancy and official, Cain thought to himself.
“Cain. Cain Thompson.”
“Tell me what’s happening here.”
Cain’s mind raced through all the information he had. Screaming, bodies, and men that had come out of nowhere and acted with the intent to kill them all.
“I... I don’t know,” admitted the man. “It’s been... kind of crazy. There were screams and sounds. I came here from the night watchman’s house, I -- There had been a pile of bodies. In the village center, I mean. They’re killing everybody.”
The trembling was back, now that he wasn’t living moment to moment in a life-or-death struggle. Cain noticed the blood splatter on his clothing - that had been from the first bandit he had killed. No, he couldn’t afford to stop yet. Who knew how many more bandits were about?
The trembling didn’t escape Muse’s attention, but she didn’t say anything about it. This wasn’t the time, and not being used to something like this was... Well, let’s say it was more than understandable.
A massacre. Muse growled.
The Red Beast of Ermire didn’t want his survival to leak to the outside world then. She could follow his train of thought, and she found it absolutely sickening.
She looked behind her at the wall in the distance. It was thick. Could she...? No, the Windmother’s blessing didn’t grant destruction of that kind, and extended to only her and her familiar. Breaking open the wall wasn’t in her wheelhouse, she wouldn’t even be able to leap over it if she was carrying anybody else.
“Where did the signal flare come from?”
Signal flare? Oh, the fireworks.
“Over there,” pointed Cain. He noticed the direction he had been pointing in, and his blood ran cold. That was in the direction of Corbin Estate, wasn’t it? Bron had shown off the sight of the place when he had given him that tour. It had only been a few days ago, but now it felt like an eternity had passed.
“Understood, let’s go.”
At Cain’s quizzical expression she explained herself.
“Red Riders use a variety of signal flares to give orders. That flare was violet. From what we know, it means ‘gather up and present a united front’.”
Cain nodded at this, and lifted his bow and arrow again to display his intent. He knew what he had to do. He’d deal with the aftermath later.
“Let’s go.”
Webby chirped.
They hopped down from the rooftop the moonlight had illuminated, and ran down the street. Muse slowed her steps just enough for Cain to keep up as they ran toward the source of the signal flare together, prepared for combat.
Muse stared at the back of Cain’s head as they ran.
A threat to the kingdom? This one?
Well, hopefully that was true. They’d need that kind of power in order to rout Milverton McDougal, if the reports were to be believed.
Muse softly mumbled a prayer to herself as they approached the scene. She was not a devout practitioner, despite her contract with one of the Divinities, but at this moment it felt appropriate.
“Oh, Aerachnid, matriarch of the sky. 21st of 27,” Muse recited. “Aerachnid Windmother brings storm and breeze, Aerachnid Chainbreaker parts barred paths, and Aerachnid Bandagespinner mends our wounds.”
Webby on her shoulder bowed in sympathetic devotion at the heartfelt prayer to his mother.
She felt the wind pick up around her.
“Please, protect your cluster.”
Blood and screaming. Bron’s ears rang.
They had successfully gathered up the rest of the fighting forces in the village - it seemed that Tanner had taken charge on the west side. A few of them were missing or had passed, but at the end of it all there was a force of sixteen brave men and women who were willing to die to protect their village.
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And so they had marched on the village center, where the biggest commotion seemed to be. Before they had even gotten halfway there, however, they had encountered five of the vile thugs.
The bandits had taken one look at their numbers, and tossed up a signal flare. A signal flare! Damn them!
In the fighting that ensued, they had managed to kill two by sheer numbers alone, but now three of their own - Sarina, Hendrick Rutherford, and Sandra Rutherford - lay on the ground, unmoving.
Damn them, he howled inside. Damn them!
His emotions cried out in pain. His logical side, the side that he was listening to at the moment, was aghast with horror. Sixteen of his village’s best fighters had engaged a token force of five bandits, and they had lost an almost equal number of lives.
“Is everybody alright?” asked Bron. Acknowledgements despite the heaving and gasping from his brave cohorts.
Rey notched another arrow, nodding. Tanner had broken his sword in the scuffle, but retrieved one of the dead bandit’s war axe and shield.
Cain wasn’t here. Bron hoped his guest was alright. He hadn’t had the chance to take in the man’s apparently amazing skills, but the hunters had vouched for his mastery. He hoped the man was in a safe location, but if not, maybe he had managed to kill a few bandits for them.
A desperate hope, but a hope nonetheless.
He looked behind him at the Corbin Estat, and remembered the taste of that terrible meat pie. He breathed in slowly, and hardened his resolve.
Then, a giant beast turned the corner.
“Ah, the village militia,” mused the large man, sitting on top of a Dire blue lizard. “Am I to understand that you people have been bullying my men?”
The man must’ve been a head taller than Bron himself. He had never in his life met anybody who had a height advantage on him! Fiery red hair and beard combined with rippling muscles - he looked like a statue of myth animated.
A crimson war axe that eclipsed the size of the ones he had seen the other bandits carry, covered in blood and viscera. Manic eyes that enjoyed what he had been doing. His steed made a sound like a rattlesnake, its icy breath condensing the air and creating visible mist.
Then, almost as an afterthought, eight more bandits came up from behind him. The ones that had run away earlier, and five more.
“Deus have mercy,” sobbed a voice from behind Bron. He couldn’t tell who it came from.
Bron could visibly see his fighters’ hearts break. Reymond raised his bow, but the usual relaxed ease with which he did so was gone. Instead there was resignation in his fingers as he stared down the reaper.
Then he saw him. A figure tumbled down from the Dire’s seat. He had been hidden behind the titanic brigand’s figure, but now everybody on Bron’s side could see him.
It was Jord.
The thin man scrambled to catch his footing, his posture wild. His eyes rose to meet Bron’s, and, after giving off a terrified yelp, drew his sword with shaking hands from its scabbard.
Bron thought back to how the main gate had been opened from the inside, of the torchlights’ movements in the darkness. Abigail had been on the west side, and Bron himself had been on the east. Of the three patrolmen, there was only one that could’ve done it.
Resignation died, and rage took its place.
“JOOOOORRRRRDDDD!”
McDougal laughed in delight as his men and the militiamen charged at each other. Yes, yes! Once again, on the field of battle! Where the only thing that mattered was might! Where he was king!
Three minutes, maybe less.
That was how long it took for Muse and Cain to arrive at the scene of what could charitably be called a battle. Bodies were strewn on the ground, the vast majority of whom were villagers.
Cain’s eyes sank in horror as he beheld the body of the middle-aged man who had happily welcomed him into the hunting expedition after Bron’s introduction. Tanner’s eyes were open. His chest had been caved in.
Near him was the body of another man. He was wearing the uniform of the nightwatch, so Cain assumed he was Abigail, the only one of the three that he didn’t have the chance to meet. The man’s face betrayed no fear, only determination and the need to protect. He had been a true guardian to the bitter, bitter end.
Movement on the ground - twitching and trembling. It was Reymond, he was alive!
Cain’s joy turned to horror as he realized the archer was missing an arm. The man was trying his best to use his tunic as a tourniquet, attempting to cut off the blood spewing out of the hole where his arm used to be. He was pale, and his strength was fading fast.
And there, up ahead in the moonlight, was Bron.
Cain’s stomach dropped through the ground. The large man was still. A pool of blood was forming around his motionless form. His sword had been shattered in two, and lay at his side.
In front of him, trembling yet alive, was the pathetic form of Jord. The man’s legs had failed him, and Cain could see a stain rapidly growing on the man’s crotch. His sword, the same one that he had pointed in Cain’s face, was lodged in a nearby tree - it had been sent flying by some kind of blow.
Six bandits meandered around the scene, some of them nursing their own wounds and others still battle-ready. One of them had looked up at their approach, and was just about to open his mouth and warn the others.
Above them both was a mountain lion in human form, riding a beast that put the blue lizards he had slain mere days ago to shame. The man was stained filthy with blood, but he didn’t seem to mind. In fact, it delighted and amused him in equal measure.
From a bag on his waist, he grabbed a bottle of alcohol and bit off the cap with his teeth. He raised the drink above his head and let the liquid flow into his mouth. Messy. Droplets flew through the air.
Then he laughed, a harsh barking sound, and toasted the moon.