Bandits. Looters. Raiders. They had many names. If prayers could etch words upon stone, every last inch of the Unnamed God's visage would have been carved with the fervent pleas of the village folk to grant protection from them.

Despite their presence in people's prayers and fears, in stories told to children before bed, in vigilant minds of the warriors vowed to protect the village, they had no place to call home.

Folk said they were Drisians. Drisians claimed they were not of their land.

We ain't Midaelian, nor Drisian. We are the scorpions that crawled out when your kings churned up soil in their senseless war.

Such were a looter's last words before Linder had driven his claymore right through his throat when the mines had been under attack, years ago. Today, the scorpions would come again, brandishing their venomous tails. One among them is determined to kill me.

Without his cloak, Linder felt oddly exposed today, despite his leather armour and studded helm. From where he sat on his horse atop a raised patch of land near the North gate, the village of Kinallen spread out like an once-serene painting marred by the decay of time. A gust of icy wind swept through the deserted streets of the village. Clouds churned in the ashen sky overhead. Word was, the lake had frozen over completely now.

And to think, it was only an hour till daybreak. Gods, this is going to be a long day.

Clacking of hooves sounded behind him. Linder twisted in his saddle to find Captain Rivera leading her mount up the slope.

"So, what did Alastair have to say to Dion Edsley, Captain?"

"In terms of speaking-- not much, really. Cried for the most part, then apologised for being a nuisance. Didn't utter a single word, that Edsley fella. But it was enough to stall him for the night," said the captain.

Linder tensed. "Can we be sure Edsley didn't manage to sneak out of the camp during the night?"

"Absolutely. He has only now emerged from the patrollers quarters and joined the ranks of the archer squads. Been keeping an eye on him," she said off-handedly. "See, lad, that's why I tell you not to chug loads of that bitter bean-water you call coffee. Leaves your nerves frayed, that shite."

He chuckled. "There are lots of other reasons to be anxious today, Captain. Don't blame it all on my precious coffee-- the sole reason for my survival so far."

Captain Rivera flashed her fanged grin. "Soon to be the sole reason for your demise too, if you don't keep a rein on it." She paused, shifting her crossbow from its straps. "'Tis all very good that we got time to get folk out of the village and prepare. But, I'm still wondering how you could have prior knowledge of the attack, Val?"

"By the end of this day, I should be able to answer all your questions, Captain," he said.

Rivera regarded him with a frown for a moment, then turned to the village, without any attempt to prod answers out of him-- for which he was grateful. The conversation dwindled into a silence, one that was not uncomfortable, but rather reassuring of the integrity of one's boundaries.

That was how it had always been with the captain ever since he'd come to Brittlerock.

Despite his admiration for the warrior, his wishes to know the tales of her valor in the Culling, never once had Linder brought up the subject. He had seen the looks of intrusive curiosity that trailed her, prying eyes of people wanting to uncover some arcane secret of the battles centuries past, beneath a paper-thin veil of compassion.

--"It's a blessing that she lost her memory, I say. No one wants to remember horror like that."

--"Sole survivor of the Culling? Rhilio's mercy, how did her whole company perish except her?"

--"But why doesn't she remember? You'd think such memories would be burned into one's mind? Think she's bluffing."

In the Brittlerock garrison, words as such tossed themselves back and forth in the hushed gossips of the soldiers in the captain's wake. They would talk endlessly behind the captain's back, just like they would about Linder-- a young city guard thrown into the distant mine from the heart of the kingdom, a sullen-faced boy who never once went home in seven years.

He could relate to the centuries-old warrior in this regard. And thus, Captain Willa Rivera was the first he made acquaintances with, upon arriving at Brittlerock.

In patrols, he'd rode beside her, in battles he'd fought alongside her, let her teach him ways to operate a crossbow better, tell him tales of Valston, the city she came from.

And after years, when all of Brittlerock came to know him simply as Sarge and the mines went under his control-- it wasn't too difficult to silence the unpleasant gossip. Corporal Gray achieved that fast enough on his behalf, using fists more than words-- despite Linder's protests.

✦✧✦✧

Minutes before daybreak. The time when the guard duty usually switched from the patrollers to daytime guards, leaving the village unguarded for mere minutes. Not today.

Dust swirled by the ruined south gate, tree branches swayed and rustled.

In came the first wave of the mounted skirmishers, bursting through what remained of the gate, galloping over the flanking walls, swords glimmering in the sallow light of dawn.

And then they stopped, battle cries dying in their throats. The village was deserted, doors locked and windows shuttered; not a soul in sight except the wind whispering down the streets, and ruffling the evacuation order nailed to the notice board.

Captain Rivera took aim. "Always an honor to draw first blood."

A crossbow quarrel zipped through the air and slammed through the forehead of the bandit in lead.

Before the realisation hit the attackers, the air was wrought with crossbow quarrels and arrows-- from the rooftops, from behind the fences and smokestacks. Archers, vampires and men alike, unleashed their fury upon them.

In the wake of the onslaught, snow began to fall, its leisurely descent cut off crudely by cruel arrows, its pure white tainted by blood as it gathered upon the cobbles.

A part of Linder, a twisted and corrupt part of him, loved how blood seemed to bounce off fresh snow.

"Onward!" he bellowed, his stallion giving a wild neigh, matching in intensity with its master.

Troops of light cavalry began cleaving their way through the skirmishers in his wake, blood flew in turgid spatter, its metallic stench tainting the crisp morning air.

Weapons clanged against blades and shields as the two opposing forces clashed in the midst of the village square. Taken by surprise, the looters took more damage, their front row obliterated in mere minutes.

And I need to find the Vasaen sent to kill me. Amidst this chaos.

It was not going to be an easy task.

Today, he did not carry the claymore, but twin steel longswords, strapped to his back in the fashion of a grim cross.

The blades whistled against the frozen air as he unsheathed them and lunged forward. In a merciless swing, he tore open the guts of one man who dared to advance upon him-- entrails flew in a grotesque flurry. Blood splattered across his face, hot, stringing-- and red.

Not a Vasaen, this one.

Another man's broadsword clashed against his sword, but before he could strike back, an arrow pierced Linder's left shoulder. His mail shirt prevented the blade from driving deep, yet the tip still broke through skin. Linder staggered forward, gripping the reins in one hand.

Uttering a cry, he thrust his twin swords forward, then twisted them in a deadly arc.

The bandit's decapitated body slid off the saddle, to be trampled beneath dozens of hooves.

Linder reached out and yanked the arrow out from his shoulder, a grunt of pain escaping him. Nevertheless, he was grateful for the chainmail he wore underneath.

That arrow did not go to waste, though. He stabbed it through the throat of the next man he came upon. But this one wasn't a Vasaen either.

The Midaelian light cavalry, arranged in a crescent formation, was beginning to surround the looters.

A shrill cry sounded behind him, only to die to a wet gurgle. Linder turned, trying to ignore the pain racking through his shoulders.

Corporal Gray.

He stood in the distance, and before him on the ground lay the corpse of the bandit archer who had shot Linder-- neck broken and twisted in an odd angle.

Gray acknowledged him with a nod, murder set aflame in his eyes.

Today, in his eyes Linder saw no regrets.

Instead, loyalty. One that says: those who dare raise their blades against you, shall meet their demise in these hands.

From the corpse at Gray's feet, blood seeped into the snow.

Yet when Linder opened his mouth to speak, leading his mount over to the corporal, only scolding came out. "You're not supposed to be here, damnit! You should be with the others outside, with Corporal Clearstrike and Sergeant Wolturs' Squad. Why are you out of your post?"

"You're welcome." His lips curled in annoyance. "Do you really expect me to sit idle in the woods while the fight goes down in the village? Am I that useless, so you stow me away someplace far?"

The arrow wound sending jolts of pain through his shoulder, Linder's temper slipped. "I order you to head back to your post this instant!" he shouted as the battle raged on around them, "this is not the time for such idealistic stubbornness!"

--"Neither is it time for idle chat, lads!"

Something heavy whooshed past Linder's line of vision, and slammed into a bandit's face, who had been approaching them silently. The throwing axe shattered through the man's fur helm, and split his skull in two. The bandit lurched back, hitting the ground with a sickening thud.

His temper rising only higher, Linder whirled to find Corporal Clearstrike emerging from a flurry of snow her mount kicked up, grin stretched from ear to ear. In her wake, rode in troops of night-archers, further enforcing the crescent formation. Karles and Dion could be spotted among them, with the former in the lead.

She hissed a breath through her teeth in amusement. "Saw you cut 'em down. Quite the monster you are, Sarge."

"Corporal Clearstrike," Linder rasped through the pain, "breaking rank, and not keeping her word. Why am I not surprised?"

Farren clicked her tongue in response. She reached into her cloak, took out a vial of medicine, and thrust it in his gloved hands. "Dulls the pain. You'll still need to see a healer, though."

Begrudgingly, he accepted it and downed the acrid liquid that burned his throat going down. Nevertheless, a cool sensation swept through his wounded shoulder before long.

"Why carry these with you, though?" said Gray to Farren, as he whirled to parry a mace swung at him, "these potions are useless on a resistant. You need intensive healing for your injuries."

"Stupid question," she huffed, getting another throwing axe ready, "everybody knows there're Dragontail seeds in these. Perfectly legal way to get high."

"Worst part is, I can't tell if you're serious or not," said Linder, rearing back on his mount to dodge a sword that slashed through the air, inches apart from his neck.

"Aye, I only jest. I carry these so others can use them, get healed and fight on my behalf," she said, "--and buy me time to hotfoot it outta there. A selfless soul, I have. Wouldn't you agree?"

"You're horrible," said Gray, face contorted in disgust.

"Daft, both of you." Linder did not have a habit of rolling his eyes, but he considered it now.

Farren's second throwing axe hit another bandit in the back. Spine bones cracked. And she says I'm a monster.

"As much as I appreciate you two looking out for me, you really must return to your positions. So unless you are set upon ruining today's strategy, head back now," said Linder.

Farren regarded him with narrow eyes, her mount falling into step beside him, and Gray flanking his right. "Forget Gray, but I'm not in your squad, am I? You don't have the authority to order me around like that."

-"But I do, Corporal."

A voice boomed behind the three over the commotion of shouts and screams and clashing blades.

Second Lieutenant Audryn was right behind them, someone's still-warm blood dripping from her face and steaming off into the frigid air.

Linder smiled at her, then at Farren. "You were saying--?"

Audryn's longsword slid out of its sheath. "Don't make me repeat myself. Clearstrike, Gray, back to your posts. Now."

With a last, desperate glance towards Linder, the two soldiers rode back, wading their way through the squads of night-archers and cavalry at the north gate.

A pair of Midaelian archers collided into Linder the next moment, then swept away, muttering apologies.

✦✧✦✧

Positioned some hundred paces far from the fight, Linder's eyes scanned the attackers once again, yet no sign of a sorcery-reanimated, black-blooded monstrosity. But then again, a Vasaen-- and on a mission to eliminate him no less would not be so forthright, announcing their presence while all of Kinallen knew what they were.

The air turned colder, the winds biting into what little of his face remained uncovered by his helm. Yet no sign of his supposed assailant.

Goddamnit, does Dion want me dead or not?

Could he have guessed Linder's plans and backed away at the last moment? What was he missing? Had emptying the village, chalking out plans -- all been in vain?

The sound of a sword unsheathing behind him answered all his questions at once.

"At last. Gods, I was getting impatient," said a raspy voice. "Your cronies never leave you alone, do they?"

A pair of steel cutlasses sliced the air.

Linder lurched to one side, but too late-- the blades tore open deep gashes through his leather cuirass. Links of chainmail shattered, the splintered metal painfully lodging themselves into the wounds on his back.

Pain roared through him, merciless and bestial in its intensity. Yet had he not moved at the last heartbeat, his head would've gone flying.

Nevertheless, he swung to face his assailant-- a stocky man with scars on his unshaven face, clad in furs and tanned leathers like every other bandit now engaged in combat down at the village. Inconspicuous. Unassuming. One face among many.

And he has been waiting to strike until I'm alone.

Linder wiped the string of blood trickling down his lips, and managed a laugh. "You might have an immortal soul in you, but not a trace of bravery. You are but a shrivelled up corpse, beneath all that foul magic!"

The man snickered, shaking Linder's blood off his cutlasses. "Intend to win with just your words, soldier?"

"Wish I could," Linder said, "truth be told, I prefer my blades clean, untainted by sorcerous blood."

Tentatively, he slid his hand into his saddlebags.

The dagger was not there.

The collision with the two archers...

A quick glance among the archers in the distance revealed both Karles and Dion had disappeared.

Cutlasses raised and blackened teeth bared in a grin, the man lunged at Linder.