Lawbrin | 10 Greentide, 1723 CE
There was a thick stench of acrid smoke permeating the valley. The tree line was infused with the scent of burning sap and charcoal. A thick black smoke hovered just below the tops of the winter-bare trees and sagging evergreens, and an ever-present thunderous roar could be heard from the distance. Lawbrin reigned in his horse to avoid missing a particularly hidden maple tree in the dense darkness of the midnight. He and Raum had continued riding at a half-gallop since first smelling the thick smoke, and watching it swallow the moon above it. He recognized his hyper attention on the task, but he also knew that Raum’s mind would be carried back to Merton. So, they’d begun their rush.
Whisper, as always appeared to have a more graceful mastery of her mount some dozen feet ahead of him, navigating eloquently through the mix of trees and brush. Lawbrin, a skill horseman in his own right, had some difficulty controlling his stubborn warhorse in such a delicate and precise fashion. His ride was considerably rougher. There was a sense of urgency that the horse seemed to pick up on, versus a sense of determination that Whisper’s had seem to take on.
They were nearing the flames, maybe a quarter mile from the source when they first heard the footfalls, thundering towards them like a stampede of elk. Lawbrin drew his sword from the sheath, and looked to Whisper through the darkness. Whisper reigned in her mount, spinning the horse around a nearby tree to come to a stop. They braced against the saddle, waiting to begin a small charge or flight dependent on the risk approaching them.
Out of the brush, ran a family of five, the children either carried or stumbling half-dragged behind their parents. Lawbrin dropped the height of his sword, and darted his glance towards Whisper. He wasn’t clear at this distance what emotion she was experiencing exactly, but he could see her typically stoic expression morph into something akin to dread and nausea. Behind the family, Lawbrin saw moving shapes of nearly two dozen others, stumbling, panicked through the dense underbrush.
Without saying anything, Lawbrin thrust his boots into his mount’s sides, gripping the reigns tightly as the horse leapt forward at a gallop. The families, having not seen Lawbrin through the darkness, let out screams and whimpers as the large mounted figure moved towards and between them. Having passed, he could hear sighs of relief, and parents clutching children released their grips ever so slightly to continue their flight.
He was a good rider, but the speed of his horse through the darkness was bit nerve wracking. Even more nerve wracking was the sight in front of him. Whisper trailed nearby, instructing refugees towards the east, towards Whitebridge. As the pair moved closer, the flames became more apparent. The darkness of the night, was no longer outlined by a far-off glow of flames. Instead, as the remnants of the settlement came into view, the flames which utterly consumed several of the large thatched structures were almost blinding in their intensity. The silhouettes of figures battling, the corpses of men, women, children and animals littering the ground, and the roar of flickering fire that all but deafened the senses were all that they could see.
Lawbrin did not hesitate, charging into the fray. It was obvious who did not belong. The villagers, obviously roused from sleep, were in bedclothes or half-dressed in old work attire, armed with crude swords, pitchforks, or other makeshift weapons. In contrast, the outsiders were dressed in a long black tunic, embroidered with some sort of metallic thread that refracted imperceptibly against the light of the flames. Their weapons were cruder that Lawbrin’s blade, but they had a construction that suggested mass production for military use.
He roused his mount forward, moving quickly past several small skirmishes. As he gusted by, his blade swept towards the ground in practiced arcs, catching several of the enemy by surprise, and dropping them to the floor in a pool of blood and pain. He could feel the droplets of blood that spurted out from their maimed bodies hit his face, dried almost instantly by the heat from the buildings. Whisper’s tactics were less militaristic. She used her grace in the saddle to move from flank-to-flank, her staff tripping or disarming those she could reach. Her speed was significantly less than Lawbrin’s, but her agility and flexibility allowed her to remain out of reach, but skillfully efficient. She wheeled her horse in tight circles, and around delicate paths to avoid obstacles and civilians, it’s feet never stopping.
Ahead of him, there was a group of teenagers huddled against the walls of an ignited, but not yet consumed wooden structure. In front of the group were two male figures, no more than fifteen of sixteen, wielding large gardening tools, and waving them defensively against four armed attackers. Behind them, the younger children, probably between eight and thirteen, were crying and attempting to comfort one another by clutching tightly to their neighbor. Lawbrin charged ready to break in between the two parties with the wide body of his horse. As he moved, he felt the air shift, and his horse went down. The saddle between his legs disappeared, and the sensation of weightlessness was met quickly by the feeling of his own weight thrown back on itself as he landed several yards ahead of where he had been. His breath was gone, knocked out of him by the sudden reemergence of gravity and the weight of his own equipment. His sword had stayed in his hand, but had nicked his arm on the way down.
His head was pounding and his muscles cried out in discomfort as he attempted to reorient after the fall. He tilted his head, and saw the arrow protruding from his horse’s skull a meter behind him. His sense returned, and just in time, he threw his guard up to block the downward arc of a blade aimed at his head. Lawbrin rolled, not quite righting himself, but positioning his leg to maximize the power of the kick he sent into his enemy’s sternum. The man took a few steps back, off balance, and Lawbrin seized his opportunity to rise to his feet. He reestablished his guard, and swung skillfully from the side, hacking at the man’s left arm. The blade was parried, and a returning arc swept at Lawbrin’s midriff. He dodged backwards, and with practiced grace, twisted his arm to thrust his blade at the man’s exposed chest.
The blade had connected, but not as successfully as intended. The man twisted his frame, causing the point of Lawbrin’s blade to dig superficially into his flesh, rending only the clothing covering it. The man retaliated, striking downward at Lawbrin’s face with a shortsword. Lawbrin dodged the blade, wrapping his left arm around the man’s, catching the bladed appendage firmly, and ran the man through with his blade. There was a harsh gurgling sound as the man cried out in pain, still angry and attempting to wrestle control of his position. Lawbrin pushed off, withdrawing the blade from the man’s flesh, and struck him across the face with a graceful slash that sent the man to the floor, covered in red gore.
He turned his attention back to the children, mustering all the speed he could in their direction. As he spun around, he saw the strike of a blade against the two older male adolescents. One was felled by a decisive strike to the shoulder by the bite of a heavy hand axe. The other was less decisive. Swept from his feet a moment after seeing his friend die, the attacker was on top of him, digging repeatedly into his flesh with a large blade. The man jabbed with a fury and enjoyment that twisted Lawbrin into a rage. The war cry that bellowed from his throat as he caught up with the two villains was enough to curdle the strongest man’s stomach.
Lawbrin’s sword cleaved he first man’s head from his body, and in one fell swoop, he arced the blade through the massive swing, catching the other kneeling attacker and sundering his arm. The man collapsed and Lawbrin smashed his boot into his face as hard as he can. As he did, her heard the distinct cracking of bone and the graphically liquid sound of brain matter exiting from newly available openings. The third man, surprised by the assault regained his sense and moved toward Lawbrin’s back, sword raised. Lawbrin was still aware of his presence and timed his response for when the man came to near to dodge. As the man thrust the blade towards his back, Lawbrin rolled against his arm, spinning to the side and out of danger, while simultaneously pulling the small dagger from the man’s belt and driving it into his spine. He twisted the knife aggressively, and the man dropped like a pile of stones in a lake.
The children were obviously frightened, both from the violence of before, and from the vigor of Lawbrin’s smite. He turned to face them, kneeling ever so slightly to extend his hand. He was aware of his surroundings, but he dropped the blade in his right hand slightly, so that it was less menacing.
“Come with me. I’m going to get you out of here.” He attempted a smile, but he was aware of the streaked droplets of blood that freckled his face. The children huddled in a mass near the sides of the building. Flames were creeping aggressively across the thatched roof, but hadn’t fully sparked into violent embers yet. He looked up and back down at the face of the front-most child.
“Come on. Let’s get you somewhere safe.”
Unsure, the child, no more than ten, reached out his hand, crying uncontrollably at the sight of his fallen friends. Lawbrin led him gently forward, away from the bodies. The mass of children behind the one who’d grabbed his hand moved like ducklings following their mother. Lawbrin took the young man’s arm and looped his fingers tight around the belt of his sheath.
“Don’t let go. All of you, hold on to the person in front of you.” He waited the few seconds for the children to comply. A sense of shock had come over them, and they complied amidst anhedonic expressions. Lawbrin ventured forth, hastily, but in time with the children’s ability to run. He was moving to the outskirts of the village, to the safety of the treeline. But there was some distance between him and it. They moved swiftly in a half run, carried by fear and necessity. A small clearing in the village’s construction lay between them and the treeline. Dirt, made muddy by blood and recent rains, coated the well-traveled path, and the blood of fallen villagers and attackers alike had helped re-slicken their footing.
