There Are No Heroes, Just People Like You and Me

[The Last Wolf]

Three figures were in a rowboat, each one's figure concealed via a dark cloak. Still, it wasn't too hard to tell that the two manning the oars were men, and the one on lookout was a woman. Other than that, the three knew little of each other. They had given one another their names, but it was just as likely a lie as much as it could have very well been the truth.

They wore no uniforms, their clothing was as practical as it was simple. Each had a weapon of sort with them; a burly balding man wore a longsword, a silent man with short black hair had a katana, and a woman with long brown hair had a pair of daggers. It was easy to discern the three's occupation: mercenaries.

Dunland and Faleen, Faleen and Dunland, one could not talk of one without mentioning the other. Two nations, locked in an on-again-off-again-war. It had been this way for decades; twenty-five years by most people's count now. And, when a war dragged on that long, people who could wield a sword became ever more valuable. Just like moths to a flame, or perhaps more appropriately wolves towards a lamb, mercenaries began to flock to both nations, and each nation was eager to snatch up an extra sword or two. Hell, many of the mercenaries were happy to switch sides, or already had, if the pay was better.

Tonight’s pay, in fact, promised to be very rewarding. If the three managed to survive, of course.

The boat came to a slow stop at the edge of the lake. In the distance, not more than half a mile, a large building could be seen. Though no details could be made out from here, each mercenary knew that the building was their destination, and also a Dunland prison.

“Nameless, you said you were good with that katana, so you go first,” the woman ordered. The man with who had the katana at his side gave her a smirk, one that questioned her authority without even trying to. She matched him with a gaze from her green eyes, as every bit as piercing as the daggers on her belt.

“Still not cool with that, by the way,” the man with the longsword muttered, “we told you our names, even if they were fake ones. She’s Sally, I’m Bruce. Hard to trust a guy who won’t even dole out an alias, yeah?”

“That’s the smartest thing you’ve said all evening,” Renault responded with a chuckle. He then, deciding he had waited long enough, jumped out of the boat, and made his way forward. He moved slowly, carefully sifting his way through the sand before him.

“I like you Nameless,” Sally giggled, using the nickname she had given to her unnamed companion of the night, “silence is an all too rare quality in men nowadays...”

The way they conducted their mission was testament to their occupation; soldiers would be all business. They would move in, keep quiet, and get the job done. They would not talk about silly things like names, likes, and dislikes of the opposite gender. Even Renault, who spoke little, did so not out of professionalism ( if he had professionalism, he would not have made that remark about Bruce‘s intelligence), but rather out of caution. After all, the friendliest of mercenaries was still, at the end of the day, a mercenary. He’d kill you if he had the chance; it was only a matter of price.

“Info looks good,” Renault muttered as he finished his sweep of the area, “not a soldier in sight.”

“Odd that, yeah?” Bruce muttered as he leapt out of the boat, “you would think the prison guards would place someone in such an obvious landing space, or at least patrol it frequently.”

“Good point. Not that I’m arguing, but the orders not only said this spot would be clear, but that there’d even be a delay in the shift change so we can make our move. Thoughts, Nameless?” Sally asked as she too disembarked from the boat.

Whether she used her nickname for Renault out of spite, or friendliness, was anyone’s guess.

“Tall orders can only come from men in tall places,” Renault answered as the three made their way towards the prison, "Our client is probably a powerful noble."

“Nameless has brains too,” Sally said with a smile, “hard to find a man who’s smart, and able to keep his mouth shut. You’re looking better every minute.”

“...Shut up,” Renault grunted as the three reached their goal, “we’re here.”

“And not a guard stopped us, or was even out on patrol. Whoever contracted this job had to be high up in the Dunland ranks,” Bruce whispered as the three came to a stop next to one of the prison’s two entrances. There wasn’t even a guard outside the walls, though there was one behind this door, or so they had been told.

“Makes sense. Faleen’s Fire has to have pissed off half of Dunland,” Sally whispered back as she took out a key set; that too had been provided by the client.

“Faleen’s Fire,” Renault muttered, his voice could barely contain the repulsion at that phrase, “Disgusting.”

Faleen’s Fire was not, in all actually a fire. It was a nickname for a young girl, who had several nicknames. Silver Maiden was also extremely popular, though her enemies preferred the term Walister’s Witch.

The girl’s real name Arienne Florence, though those close to her often just called her Ari (everyone else always used the nicknames). She hailed from some little town in Faleen, and in a true story of heroism, had taken up the sword to defend her country. She fought hard, fought long, and became a real-life hero to Faleen, and a bitter enemy to Dunland. Now she was captured, and about to be killed by three mercenaries.

No, this wasn’t a rescue mission, this was an assassination mission. Whoever was footing the bill for the three mercenaries wanted the Silver Maiden exterminated, which was quite a lot of people. Dunland wasn’t even offering the girl up for trade; she had already been sentenced to death. Rumor was it was going to be quiet a spectacle, accompanied with degrading torture and humiliation, ending with some sort of painful cutting ritual that involved severing her limbs, or something to that affect. If she begged for mercy though, she was to be promised the quick death of a proper beheading.

What was interesting was that the king of Faleen had not even tried to ransom back one of his country’s greatest heroes. Rumor there was that, upon hearing how the girl would die, Faleen’s king was quite ecstatic. Such a terrible death to such a sweet and innocent girl (Renault scoffed at the thought that anyone was innocent, especially a soldier) was sure to whip Faleen’s people into a vicious frenzy; every king loves a martyr to hold in front of his people.

Really, the whys of it didn’t concern the mercenaries. This could be a mercy killing for all they knew; all that mattered to them was that they got paid.

“I’ll handle this one,” Sally whispered as she opened the door. Before either man could respond, she strolled in with a smile on her face. The lone guard on duty shot out of his reading chair, and reached for his sword.

“Hey hey,” Sally whispered softly, “no need to get so jumpy. Your friends chipped in so you could have some...company on the night shift.”

The guard did not sound the alarm, but nor did he remove his hand from his sword.

“Hey, you don’t want me, that’s fine with me,” Sally gave an uncaring shrug as she brushed her brown hair about, “I’ve already been paid for the evening. Just tell me to get lost, and I’m gone. Let me just say one thing though, hon. You’re friends ain’t getting any refunds.”

That did it. The guard moved his hand away from his sword, grabbed Sally forcefully, and tossed her onto the table.

“Um, are we suppose to...” Bruce began; Renault just shrugged.

“She said she’ll handle this one,” was all Renault answered with. A few grunts and moans later, the two men heard a sickening slice, followed by a gurgling sound. Cautiously, the they opened the door, and peered into the simple room.

Sally sat smiling on the table, adjusting her clothes. The guard lay on the ground with his pants off, and his throat slit.

“They call me Suicide Sally for a reason,” she grinned, “I’m usually nice enough to let ‘em finish, but time was a factor.”

“I heard it was Sally the Slut,” Bruce muttered; he soon found Sally’s knife pointed at a very tender region.

“And you’ll be Ball-less Bruce if you say that again!” Sally shouted, obviously not too happy with that name. She then fixed her stare at Renault. “Same goes for you! I’ve got two knives, one for each of ya!”

“What should I care?” he said with a shrug, “I happen to think it’s a very effective tactic, though one I am not able to employ. I lack your ample talents for it.”

“Did you just make a pass at me Nameless?” Sally said with a smile, “I rather liked it if it was.”

“Don’t stick your dick in crazy dude,” Bruce warned as he scuttled away from the crazy woman with the knives, who let out a part-giggle, part-cackle, all-creepy laugh.

“Business before pleasure. Two guys in the next area, and that’s a little rough for a sweet girl like me. Put those swords to use,” the apparent ring-leader ordered. Bruce complied, happy to get away from Sally. Renault only shrugged, and drew his sword.

It ended quickly. The two guards were strolling down a hallway, laughing about some sort of perk that came with guard duty. The mercenaries didn’t even need to try to locate them, the guards were loud enough to track via sound alone. All it took was a simple ambush behind a door, and Dunland had two less guards.

“Did you give Nameless the tougher one on purpose?” Sally asked as she strolled down the hallway, not even bothering to avoid the puddles of blood that were beginning to pool upon the stone floor.

“Maybe I‘m just better, yeah?” Bruce spat as the two cleaned their swords. His target hadn’t even managed to get his sword out; Renault’s had taken three swings, one of which had managed to make a small cut on the mercenary’s shoulder.

“I doubt it,” she giggled, “Nameless’s sword was out faster, and struck swifter. More messy too.”

“It’s more fun that way,” Renault threw in as he sheathed his sword, and began to move. The cell the Silver Maiden was locked in was at the end of the hall.

“When they fight back, or when it’s messy?” Sally questioned with another laugh, “I agree on both counts.”

“Dick. Crazy. Don’t do it,” Renault heard Bruce advise him under his breath. The mercenary’s only response was to motion towards the door; Sally still had the keys.

“Anyone seen what this girl looks like? Does she really have a fiery aura of righteousness that strikes down people?” Bruce asked as the door was unlocked; the man seemed incapable of keeping his mouth shut.

“Beautiful maiden, untouched purity, golden hair, eyes as deep a blue as the sea, and a virgin asshole. All the damn stories are the same. All the ones with involving a warrior maiden and a fiery aura of righteousness anyhow,” Sally spat as she stepped into the cell. However, she was two steps behind Renault, who was laughing.

It wasn’t a loud laugh, it didn’t have to be. His laugh conveyed every possible thing he wanted it to. Cruelty, hate, malice, and satisfaction, were all contained in his hauntingly low laugh.

“Is that so? I think the stories are a bit off on this one,” Renault said with a sick grin. Sally raised an eyebrow, peered inside, and took a look at the cell’s sole occupant.

She was anything but radiant or righteous, chained to the wall like that. Faleen’s Fire was famed for her beautiful silver armor, a gift from the king himself, but that was nowhere to be found. Instead she wore a simple prison dress, one that had been ripped to shreds. She was also sobbing immensely, much as any girl normal girl would. There was nothing heroic in this cell, nor was their any untouched purity.

“Ah, you’re right,” Sally said with a smile, “her hair is more a dirty blonde than gold.”

“I take it back. Stick your dick in her, you’re both obviously crazy,” Bruce muttered. He was the last to enter the cell, but he found nothing funny about a raped girl crying in the corner of a cell.

“Oh piss off!” the sole female mercenary spat at him, “you just killed a man, you’re getting paid to kill this girl, and you’re gonna act all high and mighty? You’re scum, he’s scum, I’m scum, she’s scum! We’re all scum, right Nameless?”

His eyes were locked upon the girl in the corner of the cell. His golden eyes bore into her, as if it was a sublime pleasure to observe a so-called valiant warrior languish away in prison. This girl‘s suffering, a girl who could not have been more than nineteen, seemed to send a wave of ecstasy throughout Renault’s body. As Sally watched his eyes drink in every detail, Sally’s breath grew more and more heavy.

“Yeah yeah YEAH!” she shouted, “Now that’s a man I can like! Let’s make the goody-two shoes here do the kill Nameless!”

“You’re here to kill me?” the terrified voice of a child, the so-called Silver Maiden, sobbed, “Wait! I don’t wanna die!”

“Heh. Wouldn’t have lasted a minute. They were going to torture you to death in public to see how long you’d hold out, but you would have begged for mercy in an instant,” Renault’s grin was every bit as sadistic as Sally's; a perfect match the two were, “They called you a hero, a savior to the country, and a holy warrior. All lies. You’re just a sad little girl, crying in a corner.”

“Just hurry up and kill her you sadistic freak!” Bruce ordered. This was not what he had signed up for.

“Shut up!” Sally ordered back, “Let him have his fun!”

“Sick slut!” Bruce shouted as he reached for his sword. This was too much, even for a mercenary like him.

“I warned you!” Sally giggled like a manic as she whipped out her knives. In this close of a range, her smaller weapons had the clear advantage.

“Die die DIE!” she sang as she stabbed Bruce repeatedly, spilling his life blood all across the floor, “Kill her Nameless! Kill her kill her KILL HER!”

Arienne Florence locked eyes with Renault Nox. She stared into his golden eyes, and cried.

“Please...I....I JUST WANNA GO HOME!”

“Disgusting,” Renault muttered as he raised his sword.

[The Last Wolf]

This story begins several months ago, before the Silver Maiden was anything but a simple town's girl. In fact, the story goes back even further than that. Before she had acclaimed any glory, before she had become Faleen's Fire, before she had been captured. This story begins, as so many do, in a tavern.

The war between Faleen and Dunland was in full swing, both sides had deployed massive armies, and each side eagerly sought after skilled mercenaries to bolster their ranks. Especially so was Faleen, for the king of Dunland had just married his only daughter (who was very much loved by the common people, unlike most of the royal family) to another country's prince, sealing an alliance years in the making. The allied country immediately sent a contingent of troops, led by one of their most able commanders by the name of Adelia Gallant.

The Dunland army, bostered by Adelia's forces, turned the tide of the war. Losses began to pile up, and Faleen slowly began to lose more and more territory each day. Casualties continued to mount on both sides, but it was clear that Faleen would lose in a war of attrition. Recognizing this, Faleen began a withdrawal of all territories considered unimportant, and many small towns were considered expendable in this case.

Understand this, there is no good and evil in a war. There is only death for the loser, and the sin known as "victory" for the winner. If a Dunland town was sacked by Faleen, soldiers took what they wanted, whether it was gold, jewels, or women. If a Faleen town was sacked by Dunland, the same held true. There are no good guys and bad guys in this story, no matter how it may appear. There is only men and women fighting for their beliefs, whether these beliefs are right or wrong is for history to decide.

The tavern was a large one, though size did not equal luxury. Though this tavern could hold a good number of people, and remained open for most of the day, it was merely a gathering point. It was situated in a tiny country near both Dunland and Faleen, a country that had managed to remain neutral by some miracle.

The most likely reason for this was in good part by this fairly large tavern, and probably a few more like it. As the country remained neutral, it became a perfect point for mercenaries to gather. Whether they were valiant youths seeking justice and adventure, or grizzled old veterans just seeking coin, all types of mercenaries could be found in this little tavern named the Redeemed Sword.

Let me be clear. This tavern was in no way, shape, or form, liked for its alcohol. The Redeemed Sword's alcohol was, in a word, crap. It was some of the cheapest, vilest, garbage that could be found on Althanas. That being said, it did get you drunk, and it was fairly reasonably priced, which was enough for most mercenaries. There was food served too, which was marginally better than the alcohol, and satisfied a man's hunger, if nothing else.

The real reason that anyone came at all to this tavern was because of the owner, a polite man with long brown hair, tied in a pony tail. His clothing was simple, yet still refined enough that he stood out amongst all the other mercenaries. The tavern keeper spent most of his time wiping down his bar, where he served his terrible alcohol with a kind smile. The man did have a name, though he rarely used it. Instead, he preferred to go by a nickname he had picked up a long time ago: Stitches.

How he kept the peace in this bar, which was often visited by both Dunland and Faleen soldiers seeking mercenaries, was anyone's guess. Perhaps it was due to the bouncer, a brute of a man who often spent most of his time relaxing in the corner, occasionally shooting a rowdy customer the evil eye. That man also had a name, but was always called Bruiser, and it wasn't for his intelligence (which for the most part was sorely lacking).

Set aside in the corner of the tavern was a table for gambling, ran by a coward who went by the name Roulette. Though that might come across as harsh, it was very much true, and more than one time had Roulette ran screaming to Bruiser for protection. That said, he was something of a legend at cards, and more than one mercenary wasted their hard-earned pay trying to best him at a game.

Lastly, there was a pretty girl with long white hair and red eyes, who did absolutely nothing at all. She simply sat behind the tavern, chatting with the occasional customer, and every now and then she would help serve drinks. What relation she had with Stitches was unknown; she was neither employee nor relative of the man. She simply sat there, smiling contently as Stitches did his business.

Stitches, Bruiser, Roulette, and the girl known for whatever reason as Stickers. How these four came to own and work at this tavern is a story for another time. This story is about a mercenary named Renault Nox.

Which brings us back to the reason he, and just about every other mercenary, stomached the terrible alcohol that was served here. Money.

Stitches received, by means unknown, all forms of job offers from both Dunland and Faleen. Anyone who could swing a sword, or fire a bow, or somehow cause bodily harm to another human being, knew that if they went to the Redeemed Sword, they could find work. Stitches handed out the jobs, charging a small fee to cover what he called "expenses." There was also a betting pool running involving which general of which country would be the victor in the next battle, but almost anything Roulette had his hand in was considered fixed.

That didn't stop the mercenaries from playing though.

"God damn sonuva-" a gruff man started swearing up a storm, "I lost again."

"You're own fault," Roulette muttered as he checked his winnings, "General Adelia's on a role. Can't see why you'd bet against her."

"I thought Faleen was due," the gruff man muttered as he took a swig of his drink; his face turned sour as he swallowed the so-called ale.

"You and Bruiser it seems," Roulette said as he collected his coins, while Bruiser asked for an advance on his next paycheck. "Mores the pity."

"Sake. Hot," Renault ordered as he walked into the tavern. He had been coming here for several weeks now, enough to be recognized by most patrons and workers alike. He shunned the other tables where mercenaries chatted, preferring to sit and drink by himself at the bar. Not because he was a loner (Stitches reserved a special shadowy corner in the back for those types), but because it didn't make much sense to drink with someone you might end up fighting tomorrow.

"Coming right up," Stitches said in a friendly tone. The tavern keeper heated his sake in the traditional Akashiman style; via sinking a bottle of sake in boiling water, which was to Renault's taste, even if the sake itself wasn't.

"Thanks," Renault muttered as he set down a few coins while Stitches placed the warmed bottle, and a small cup to pour it into, in front of the mercenary. The mercenary made to drink, but the tavern keeper held up a finger.

"Tut tut friend," Stitches smiled, "Don't you know it's considered bad form to pour your first cup of sake yourself?"

"No," Renault muttered, "Where'd you dig that up?"

"I, um, don't actually recall," Stitches answered as Stickers let out a soft giggle, "But that's not the point. Here, allow me."

He took the sake, poured it into the cup, and offered it to Renault. The mercenary sniffed it, shrugged, and downed it in one swoop.

"They say sake poured by someone close to you taste better," Stitches began as he started cleaning some used cups, "and sake poured by a lover tastes the best of all."

"It tastes like crap," Renault grunted.

"Oh, thank god," Stitches chuckled, "I don't know what I would have done if you had said it was the best sake you ever tasted!"

"Are you actually proud that you serve terrible sake?" Renault muttered.

"Hey!" Bruiser interrupted, "It's not terrible. I like it!"

"Then your palette is as deaf and dumb as you are," Renault responded as he had another drink, this time poured by himself. The sake was still terrible.

"My, er....palette is smart...and has good hearing..." he heard the bouncer mumble incoherently. The man was tough, anyone had to give him that, but he was far from the sharpest tool in the shed.

"Hey," the girl with long white hair spoke up; Renault, as well as most other people, was curious about her hair color. Liked the other three, she was in her mid-twenties, and far too young for such an aged color. It was rumored she had a genetic disease that turned her hair white and her eyes red, but no one really commented on it. Perhaps they were all too busy trying to stomach the cheap booze to ask.

"Weren't you looking for work?" the girl continued, her red eyes fixed on Renault. He nodded his assent; the drinks here were priced fairly, but they still cost money. Either he took a job now and then to pay the bills, or he tried his luck at Roulette's gambling table.

"Piece of shit! You're worse than a eunuch in bed!" screamed a particularly foul-mouthed female mercenary; the house had taken the pot once again.

"There's a small town seeking mercenaries to defend them," Stitches passed Renault a small slip of paper, "Faleen suffered a recent defeat nearby; good chance some Dunland soldier's will be looking for easy pickings. The Faleen army has its hands full, so..."

"I'm not much for defending the weak," Renault spat as he finished his drink, "but it seems like an easy enough job. Contract accepted."

"Right. See you when you get back," Stitches waved good-bye to the mercenary, Renault only gave a curt nod in response.

"If he comes back," Bruiser snorted.

"You wound me," Renault smirked as he passed by the beefy bouncer, "without me, what will become of our wonderful duel of wits? You know, where you fight as well as you do with your weapon in battle?"

"Well, yeah, wouldn't want those to end," the bouncer mumbled thoughtfully as Renault let out a chuckle, and left the tavern. Stickers let out a giggle, and Stitches a sigh.

"Bruiser, what weapon do you fight with?" Stitches asked as he began pouring drinks for other customers.

"Weapons are for pussies," the man answered proudly, "I only need my fists. Don't need no weapon for a fight of fists, or wits! I....see what he did there."

[The Last Wolf]

It was a small village. After history had its hand in writing history, it would become one of the most patriotic villages in the nation of Faleen, bravely forming a militia to defend the ranks of the regrouping (certainly Faleen would never flee before its mortal enemy) forces of Faleen. Valiantly would the citizens gather their arms, at best an old sword, at worst a sharp stick. Bravely they would charge forth, all for the salvation of their homeland.

Of course, at this moment in time there very few townsfolk to be seen. They had shut their doors, barred their windows, and were quite busy stashing all the valuables they could. Many parents were all busy cutting off their young daughters’ hair (much to the teenagers’ dismay and heartache) in order to make them less likely to be raped. The people who stood in the town’s defense were anything but valiant.

A trio of archers, by the looks of it brothers, traded dirty jokes by a small fire. A fat, balding man with a mace slurped up the last of his stew. A woman, her nose looked as if it had been smashed in at least twice, was busy making jokes at the last few men of the town scurrying to their homes. Most of her jokes involved dicks, and the lack thereof. Several other mercenaries lounged about, some acted professionally, others did not.

Renault perched himself on the stump of an old tree, slowly cleaning his blade. An un-kept blade could mean the difference between life and death on the battlefield; he knew that lesson well. Those mercenaries who let their weapons rust and chip, those either died quick or lived a good long time. Renault chuckled; the long living ones were smart enough to flee at the first sign of trouble.

He glanced at his blade. This sword, this hungry blade that he had fought with his family for, was his to wield as he pleased now. He took a long look at his blade; the cursed sword known as the Muramasa, created by the Artificer Lazarus.

What he mused about, what he thought about, that is a tale for a different time. After all, this is not the tale of Renault, but rather the tale of another. It is the tale of the Witch of Walister, Faleen’s Fire, Arienne Florence. Renault’s part is an important one, but his past is his own, and we will leave him to his musings for now.

One of the two things that the history books will record accurately will be the look in Arienne Florence’s eyes. Though they will omit certain details, such as the trembling of her lower lip and the shaking of her hands, they will describe her eyes just as they were on that day. Determined.

She will walk with these determined eyes forward, and not backward. She will go forth with these determined eyes, rather than hide like the rest of the townsfolk. She will not stash away her grandfather’s old sword with the rest of the town’s valuables, but rather she will draw it in defense of her home.

Arienne Florence is a petite girl, standing no more than five feet and a few inches. She wears a simple peasant dress of faded blue, and her brown boots are well worn into a dark, muddy color. The sword at her belt is old, but cared for well enough where it will still fetch a fair price in the market. Her blond hair is long, combed straight back. Her blue eyes are filled with, as we said, determination.

Now, mercenaries come in all shapes in sizes. Some are kind, most are greedy. A few are noble, but quite a bit are pragmatic at best, downright scum at worse. So it is that there were many shapes and sizes of comments that Arienne received as she walked.

“Go home girl, you’ll just get in our way.”

“Ha. I’ve got a sword you can hold lassie.”

“Dead girl walking.”

“Wanna go out on a good note babe?”

She stopped in front of an older mercenary, whose beard and hair were mostly gray. His tired eyes gazed at her slender form.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he asked in a gruff, worn voice.

“I want to help,” was all Arienne said.

“You’ll just be in our way. Why not go back inside your home?” asked the tired old man.

“Because it is my home,” she answered, “I want to protect it.”

The two gazed at one another, old and young met eyes. This old man will not be recorded by history, but his soft nod gave Arienne the courage she needed on that day.

Oh, is this not always the way of heroes? They shine so brightly for us, but no man stands alone. Just as surely as a young man helps and old woman cross the street, so too is a hero helped in many ways. Sometimes, the more a hero shines, the more he stands upon the back of the others. Truly, these poor wretched fools are deserving of much pity, for they spur others onto glory, while receiving none for themselves.

“Stay behind me then. Don’t stick your neck out,” the old man ordered. Arienne gave a nod.

“Small band comin’ this way,” a boy said as he jumped down from a tree he had been using as a watch post; his eyes revealed that he had lived more in fifteen years than most men had by the time they were thirty.

“How many?” the old man asked as the mercenaries prepared themselves.

“Not much. No more than fifteen,” the boy answered as he withdrew a knife, and then darted off to who knew where.

“Oughta be doable if we soften them up first,” the old man glanced at the three brothers, “them arrows of yours…”

“Aye aye, we hear you,” the eldest of the brothers said, “Will, Roy, take a perch guys.”

“Right Rath. We call arrows off the dead,” the one called Roy stated as the two scrambled up to the pitiful wall the town had hastily erected. It was little more than sticks and stones, but in this day and age, it wasn’t about being the strongest. It was about being stronger than the next town, so the soldiers would pass you by for easier pickings.
That was why the town had chipped in for a group of mercenaries. Just a few swords to cause trouble for any would be raiders.

“Hahahaha. Bull’s eye,” Will shouted as his arrow hit one of the incoming soldiers in the neck.

“Lucky shot,” Roy spat; his had gone quite wide.

The soldiers broke into a run. There were fifteen (well, fourteen now) of them, against seven mercenaries. Plus one little girl who looked so out of place she may as well have not been there at all.

The soldiers crossed the field in no time; the three brothers fired arrow after arrow, but these were trained soldiers. A quick shield wall was formed as the troops advanced; one found purchase in a man’s shoulder, the rest were wasted.

“All right! Come on now!” the old man shouted as the guards closed in on him. Each Dunland soldier was armed with a shield and sword; some had spears.

“Kill anyone who gets in our way!” the lead officer shouted, “then take what ya want! But I call that pretty girl there!”

The Dunland soldiers snickered as Arienne readied herself for her first battle ever.

Roy and Will, leapt away from their positions, scattering instantly. Three soldiers broke formation to chase the archers down. Ratrh calmly knocked an arrow, and put one in the stomach of a pursuing guard, and another in the neck of the one behind him.

“Fucker,” one of the Dunland soldier’s spat as he flung his spear. It impaled Rath right in the stomach; he let out a pitiful wail as he shat himself and fell to the ground.

The large man with a mace smashed one of the soldiers to the side of the formation, spreading brains onto the three closet soldiers. One of the soldiers who had fell behind so he could let the other soldiers do the work grinned as he kicked open a door. He stabbed the man in there, smacked the woman to the ground, and went straight to the room in the back. He grinned as he yanked open a drawer, finding a good stash of coin. He chuckled, figured he was done for the day, and made to leave. On his way out, he walked by the whimpering woman, sobbing over the corpse of her husband. He shrugged, slashed the woman’s throat open, and left.

The woman with a smashed nose fought against three men, keeping them at bay with her spear. She may not have been a looker, but the moves she made with that spear were in every way beautiful where she was not. She danced about, the point of her spear a furious gale against the Dunland forces.

Renault feinted to the left; the soldier fell for it. He gutted him there, paying no mind to his whimpering. There were bigger problems. Another Dunland soldier came at him from the side; Renault parried that blow. Shit, another was coming from the left. No, wait, the guard fell dead, a knife in his back.

The old man nodded at Renault, and went back to facing two soldiers. He was good; Renault had to give him that. The guy had thrown that knife while keeping two soldiers off of him; no wonder the old guy was still alive. Renault wasn’t much for paying back favors, but he figured he would get a better chance to slit a soldier’s throat than now. Best make the most of it.

Arienne was breathing heavily. She clutched her sword tightly as she weaved it about, her poor peasant lessons barely keeping her attacker at bay. The soldier smashed her to the ground with the back of his shield, and she quickly scrambled away from the incoming sword thrust. Though, in all honesty, she could thank her gender for the soldier’s lack of killing intent. He was probably trying to keep her alive for later.

She focused. She put out all the noise, all the screams. The cries of battle, the moans of the dying. The stench of death, the screams of rape. She tuned it all out, and focused solely on the man before her. Time seemed to slow for her; Arienne would later comment that that was one of the few times she had ever really felt like she knew what she was doing.

It ended quickly. The soldier parried her attack, and grabbed her hair with his shield hand. He gave it a good jerk; she let out a harsh cry and dropped her sword. He smacked her a few times for fun, and then made to rip off her dress. At that time, she kicked him in the groining, freeing herself from his grip. The man cursed, figured there would be other girls to rape, and made to kill her.

Arienne picked up the sword she had dropped when her hair had been pulled, and flung it at his chest. It found purchase, and the man died with a stunned look on his face, as his lifeblood poured onto the stained grass of the tiny little town.

Shortly after, the lead officer sounded the retreat.

“Fuck it boys! There are easier targets than this!” he shouted, breaking away from the old man who had somehow kept him at bay. The officer knew he had an advantage, as the old man was limping from a sword wound the officer had gave him, but there was another mercenary trying to sneak up behind him.

The soldiers broke their fights, quickly retreating from village. Renault grabbed one of the fleeing soldiers who had been stupid enough to turn his back, and flung him to the ground. Before any words could be said, Renault kicked off the man’s helmet, and plunged his katana right into the man’s left eye. He held it there as the man struggled against both the weight of the sword, and his left eye being slowly cut into mush. He stopped struggling soon enough.

Now, the history books will say that Arienne slew the enemy officer in a valiant duel. This is not true. The enemy officer who led the attack on her home town would actually receive an honorable discharge, ten years later. He actually would die to illness, not a sword wound. They will say she fought with a righteous fury, and completely omit the fact that she stumbled about as any rookie with a sword would. They will mention nothing of her being slap, or of being smacked to the ground.

The only thing the history books will record correctly, other than her eyes, will be what she said next.

“We must save them!”