The guttural cry ripped through the chaos of the burning village, abruptly cut short.
Shlick!
A battered longsword, longer than standard blades, rammed deep into the villager's chest. Blood, shockingly red against the rough cloth garment, fountained from the wound. The blade made a nasty, wet sound as it pulled free, spraying a fine mist across the mercenary's scarred half plate.
A tall figure, roughly six feet four inches, with a pair of chillingly calm violet eyes, stared down at the man. Fear, stark and primal, contorted the dead villager's face as blood flowed from his mouth onto the scorched earth.
The mercenary's armor, a heavy shell of overlapping plates and dark, worn fabric, was barely holding together, each deep dent and scuff a testament to countless close calls and his sheer, unyielding will to survive. The dull black metal encasing his torso, shoulders, and arms was caked with grime from hard travel, its grim utility far outweighing any thought of elegance. Beneath the solid plates, thick, dark under layers of worn leather and quilted gambeson were visible, grimy and, in places, torn. A tattered skirt of heavy, darkened leather fabric, stained with dust and mud, extended below his armor's segmented fauld, offering mobility at the cost of less leg protection.
The recent, galling loss of his helmet left his sharp, half elven face fully exposed. His pointed ears, prominent as any full blooded elf's, were visible against his weary profile, stark against the flickering light of the burning village. His hair, a dark dusty blonde, was swept back from his brow in rough, uneven layers, as though cut by hand with a dull knife for practicality over vanity.
This was Lucan.
He glanced around at the destruction. Fire licked at the small village buildings' thatch roofs, spitting embers into the pre dawn darkness. The air was thick with the stench of smoke, burning wood, and the coppery tang of fresh blood.
The rising moon, a sliver of cold silver, barely cut through the haze. Around him, the mercenary warband known as the Blood Hounds, thirty strong unit, continued their work with brutal efficiency. Lucan was but one among them, hired muscle serving Lord Harkon Manfree, a fat, preening lord from the Lake Duchies. Their orders had been rather simple, terrorize.
And they had done it well.
Screaming still echoed, though now fainter, as other villagers were cut down by his comrades, or dragged, pleading, into the shadows of burning homes. Lucan's gaze found a scene near a smoking barn. A boy, perhaps a couple of years younger than Lucan himself, stood defiant, clutching a sword, likely his father's, in shaking hands, trying to shield his mother.
"Get back! Stay away!" the boy roared, his voice cracking with a desperate courage that made Lucan's own hand clench around his blade.
'This boy has more courage than most nobility I've seen,' Lucan thought, a flicker of something akin to bitter admiration passing through his mind, but was quickly extinguished.
Then, a Blood Hound mercenary, a burly brute named Grick, his face distorted in a manic grin, raised his battle axe. Lucan watched, silently, as Grick brought the axe down, splitting the boy in a brutal, laughing arc of steel and blood. The sound of the axe biting home was sickeningly distinct, even over the crackle of the fire.
"The poor suffer for the rich's gain," Lucan muttered, the words barely a breath beneath the relentless roar of flames and the distant, fading screams. This was the routine. He turned, walking through the burning village, his boots crunching on scattered debris.
He and the Blood Hounds had been doing this for weeks now, terrorizing these villages loyal to Prince Rowan. The King of Cairnheart, old and ailing, had shattered tradition, refusing to name the eldest heir. Six royal siblings, two girls and four boys, were now vying for a crown that was splintering before their very eyes.
The youngest among them, Prince Rowan had been effectively cast out, sent eastward to Dunmire to rally support from the Lake Duchies. He'd only managed to banner a third of them, a fact the opposing lords, like Manfree, scoffed at, viewing the prince as weak and his forces meager.
They'd hired the Blood Hounds to send a clear message, the throne is contested, and any who sided with the boy prince would be taken care of. This was the Evermarch's silent civil conflict, a brutal game Lucan was deep within, simply a blade for hire.
He walked further through the wreckage. The organized killing was winding down, transforming into the grim, chaotic basking in the spoils of war. He saw mercenaries wrestling over sacks of grain, others emerging from shadows, their faces grimly satisfied, leading captive women away. Lucan's half elven face contorted into a sneer as he passed by, the raw depravity a familiar sting even to his hardened heart.
"No glory in this, what am I even doing," he said with a conflicted mutter, the words swallowed by the night.
He navigated the smoking debris of homes and stalls, following the main dirt road that led to what had once been the village marketplace. It was here, amidst overturned carts and scattered wares, that he found his captain, Throne.
The man was human, relatively young, likely in his late twenties, with short black hair that constantly fell into his keen green eyes. Throne's armor mirrored Lucan's own battle scarred half plate, the same practical black, but accented with stark crimson trim, a subtle flourish that marked him as the leader of their particular wolfpack.
He stood with his back to a collapsed butcher's stall, overseeing a handful of mercenaries methodically looting a larger merchant's wagon, his expression as cold and efficient as the dawn wind. The embers cast a flickering, hellish light across their faces, painting the scene in shades of red and black.
Lucan approached and leaned against the stall. Both men watched the dark work of their brethren, silent for a long moment. Lucan was the first to break the stillness.
"This is a slaughter. Defenseless villagers... Really," he said, the flatness in his tone cutting through the sounds of distant celebration. Throne's face, which had been a mask of professional detachment, finally contorted into a troubled expression.
"I know. What was Lord Fray thinking, sending us here?" Throne muttered, his voice low. He paused, then added, "And with these fucking brutes as well. They don't even listen, they just lust to kill."
Lucan nodded, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Maybe Lord Fray is trying to gain influence in the West? I don't know, I don't like this one bit." Lord Fray was the leader of the Blood Hounds, a man who had amassed considerable influence in the Riverlands. The entire mercenary organization was far larger than this small warband, boasting nearly seven hundred strong back in their home territory.
Fray had sent this specific thirty man unit west for a particular business arrangement with Lord Manfree of the Lake Duchies, a 'deal' that seemed to involve little more than burning and pillage.
"Aye, I hear you. He could've sent us with more... tame men though. The only thing these fools know how to do is kill and fuck," Throne grumbled, straightening up a bit. His own helmet, a dark sallet similar to Lucan's lost one, hung by his hip, but the other Blood Hounds wore similar black plate and sallets.
A mercenary, his armor caked with blood, walked over. "Cap'n, Lieutenant. Village is raided. Should we group up and pool the goods?"
Throne nodded. "Aye. Gather everything, and let's saddle up. Leave before the prince hears word and sends his soldiers to investigate." He turned to go fetch his horse, his back to the smoldering village.
But he paused mid stride, his head snapping back. His face turned almost white. "You hear that?" he hissed.
Lucan raised an eyebrow. "Hear wh-" Then he paused. He felt it, a faint tremor in the earth, a distant, growing rumble. The sound of... hooves.
"Shit! Cavalry!" Throne yelled, fumbling to slip his helmet on. Down the main dirt road, towards the entrance to the village, they saw it. Horses decorated in purple and gold gambesons, men in gleaming full plate armor. Their banner, held high, a golden lion rampant against a field of royal purple. The royal house. The prince's specific banner.
At the forefront of the thundering unit rode a young man with shoulder-length, almost snow white hair and piercing black eyes. His sharp face held a cold, calculating intensity. Over all the chaos, over the crackle of flames and the rising thunder of hooves, Lucan and Throne heard his voice, clear and ringing.
"Cavalry!... CHARGE!"