They came fast—reckless, wild, driven by the kind of fury that made men forget fear.
Fortunately for the defenders, it wasn't the fury of soldiers. This was a mob's rage—undisciplined, all teeth and no shield. Had they come in formation, with discipline, the fence would have been gone within minutes.
Still, it was no easy fight.
The first wave was arrows. From both flanks, bowstrings hissed and snapped, shafts arcing high before plunging down like rain. Charles crouched low as the fence shuddered, wood splintering under the pounding thud of iron heads. A man beside him jerked, eyes wide in shock, before collapsing with an arrow through his collarbone.
The attackers had no cover, yet they were better shots. Even crouched low, the defenders fell one by one. Quivers emptied on both sides, leaving the ground littered with the dead and the dying.
Then the bodies hit the fence.
Farmers gripped weapons with white-knuckled hands. Sweat dripped into eyes. Breath came ragged. One man's spear shook so hard the tip rattled against the palings. The first enemy slammed into the barricade, rattling wood, and the line wavered—about to break—until Farren's voice boomed across the din.
"Hold the line!"
Charles didn't shout. He moved—steady, certain—his presence enough to drag men back into place.
And then the world collapsed into chaos.
Screams. Steel on wood. Splinters and blood.
Charles and Farren darted along the fence, plugging gaps, dragging back the wounded, hurling themselves wherever the fighting grew thickest. Charles was a storm in flesh—fast, brutal, unrelenting. When his knives were gone, he wrenched a sword from a dying hand. When that blade stuck deep in a dwarf's skull and refused to come free, he tore his daggers loose and kept cutting.
A spearpoint raked his thigh, ripping it open. Blood spilled hot into his boot. Another jabbed through his forearm, burning fire into the flesh. His breath rasped, arms heavy as lead, but he swung still—driven not by fury, but cold necessity.
Around him, men and women fell. Some screamed. Some made no sound at all. They'd killed more than they'd lost, but numbers were numbers. The tide would break them eventually.
And yet—the enemy faltered. They saw their own losses. Hesitation spread. One man bellowed something hoarse and desperate, and the mob began to pull back.
"They're retreating!" Farren roared. "Archers! Cut them down!"
Bows bent. Strings sang. Arrows chased the enemy into the dust.
---
The fight hadn't lasted long.
But when the dust settled, eight villagers lay still on the red-soaked earth—five men, three women. They would never again tend their fields, cradle their children, or share another meal.
The victory felt hollow.
Survival today only promised harder days tomorrow. Every missing face meant fewer hands to plow, fewer voices to herd the flocks. No cheers rose. No one spoke of triumph. Instead, they moved in silence—tending the wounded, closing eyes, lifting bodies with careful, reverent hands.
An old woman wept over her son's corpse, refusing to let them take him. A girl of twelve stared, numb, at her mother's still hand. The air stank of iron and dust, and it pressed heavy on every chest.
Enemy bodies lay where they fell. There would be time for them later.
Gerart stood among splintered palings, face shadowed with exhaustion. "That was closer than I'd like," he muttered.
Charles wiped blood from his cheek. "Yeah. We need to deal with them as soon as possible. Preferably tonight."
Syrrien leaned against a post, lip curled. "They'd be ready for a night raid. After last time, they'd have to be idiots not to be."
Charles's mouth curved—not in amusement, but in something colder. "For a conventional attack? Sure."
He didn't explain further. But the glint in his eyes said he already had something else in mind.
---
The plan was simple on paper. Selling it to the villagers was another matter.
They needed livestock. Dozens. And barrels of oil.
The protests came at once. The animals were their lives—milk, meat, trade. Losing them meant hunger, maybe starvation.
"They're worth more than any of us," an old herder spat. "Lose them, and we might as well let the bandits take the rest."
Charles met the man's glare without flinching. "Lose the animals, you can buy more. Lose this fight… and there won't be anyone left to buy them." Then he dangled the bait—spoils from the bandit camp: coin, goods, enough to rebuild twice over.
Grim reluctance turned into grim agreement.
When the sun dipped, the village moved. Men and women led bleating goats, restless sheep, and stubborn oxen to the eastern gate. Barrels cracked open, spilling the choking reek of oil into the air. The liquid soaked wool and hide until the animals glistened slick in the torchlight.
It was cruel work. Some muttered apologies under their breath. Others kept their eyes blank, faces set in stone.
Torches lowered. Flames caught. Fire raced over fur and wool. The animals shrieked and bucked, eyes rolling white. Ropes were cut, and the herd thundered into the night—a stampede of fire and flesh pounding toward the bandit camp.
The villagers melted into the treeline, blades drawn, bows strung, hearts hammering.
The first flaming ox smashed through the perimeter, goring a sentry before he could raise an alarm. A goat, wool blazing like a torch, plowed into a cluster of tents, sparks leaping from hide to canvas.
Chaos bloomed.
Bandits screamed, scrambling for buckets, weapons, anything at hand. But the animals were wild, unstoppable. Oil-fed fire leapt from beast to tent to man until the camp itself was an inferno.
From the dark came arrows, hissing into firelight, dropping men mid-scream. Villagers surged from the shadows, steel biting into distracted foes.
Charles moved like a shadow with teeth—dagger in one hand, stolen axe in the other—cutting men before they even knew he was there.
Farren was a hammer to Charles's scalpel, roaring as he hacked wide, brutal arcs that split men down the bone.
The bandits broke. Many trampled under flaming hooves, others fell shrieking under steel. But not all.
Through the chaos, a knot of fighters gathered. At their head stood a tall man with a jagged scar across his jaw. His voice cut through panic like iron on stone, rallying thirty men.
"Durgan Da!" someone gasped, fear and fury in their voice.
The scarred man cleaved a villager down with a single stroke, then another. His followers smashed through the thinnest part of the cordon, cutting two more defenders to ribbons before vanishing into the dark.
"After them!" a voice shouted.
"No!" Charles's cry tore through the fire and din. His chest heaved, his arm bled freely, but his eyes burned steady. "We don't have the numbers. You chase them—you die."
Bitter truth. The villagers were spent, weapons slick with blood, limbs trembling from exhaustion. A few moaned where they lay, wounded in the wreckage. Even the victors looked half-dead.
So they let Durgan and his men go.
By the time the last shouts faded, the camp was nothing but blackened timbers and smoking corpses. The stench of charred flesh—beast and man alike—hung thick and choking.
They had won.
But victory tasted like ash. The smoke clung to their clothes, the stink to their skin. And as Charles stared into the dark where Durgan had fled, he knew tonight was no ending.
It was only the first blow in a longer, bloodier war.