An hour into his search, Raphael realised that he probably should have brought a guide.
In hindsight it may have been obvious, but at the time he had been spurred on by the pressing nature of his task, and not given the situation any deeper thought than 'I need to hurry up.'
So, hurry up he had, but it came at the cost of his effectiveness. In his haste and growing familiarity with the villagers, Raphael had forgotten a simple yet important fact.
This land was alien to him.
The warrior wiped the sweat from his brow, and looked into surroundings that seemed unchanging no matter the distance he travelled. It was all trees and bushes, far as the eye could see, an ocean of greens and browns tinted red by the setting sun. It was a beautiful scene, and the tarnished longed for a single second of rest, to sit and take in the view, although he knew such luxuries couldn't be taken at this time.
There were more urgent matters at hand.
Fallen leaves crunched in the warriors wake, a steady trudge to places unknown. For a while he continued on as he was, striding forwards without direction, although the sound of a snapping branch broke him from idle thoughts. The barest of hopes bloomed within his breast, as the man made his way over to the source of the noise with renewed vigour. Yet, he realised soon enough that it had all been in vain.
From the ground near his feet, a white blur flapped its wings and took flight, ascending into the sky. A single feather fell from the dove, and the warrior gazed upon it with forlorn eyes.
It was at times like this that he felt the absence of grace the most.
With its presence, the warrior had always been assured that no matter where he travelled to or where he may end up, he would never be truly lost. For if he looked to the horizon, the guiding light of grace would always be there, his steady companion and loyal friend, leading his soul forever to its final destination.
Now, Raphael was left aimless. With his quarry nowhere to be found, and nightfall soon approaching, the situation seemed dire indeed. Even if the boy was dead, it would at least bring closure to old Gareth should he bring the body back. Without it the man would be left in purgatory, never to know the truth of his son's fate.
Regal features twisted into a frown, as the man suddenly halted mid step.
Raphael's thoughts drifted to the past. To quests given to him by trusting people, of whom most had eventually been betrayed by his paltry ability. Whether it be friends, followers, enemies or even strangers; he experienced that same pang of hopelessness in every instance in which he faltered. No matter how many times it had happened, the pain of it never got any easier to bear.
A strange sensation pressed at the base of his skull, as the sound of birdsong seemed to drone within his ears, drowning out all else.
Raphael knew that he had failed many people during his lifetime.
Through errant mind ran a vision, a snarling wolf howling at the sky.
He vowed never to do so again
From within his chest something pulsed, crimson orbs glazing over and bleeding into liquid gold. Upon unseeing eyes formed innumerable stars, dancing and swirling in patterns unfathomable, and within deafened ears rang a melody foreign to the mortal tongue. Sweet whispers enriched and nourished his very essence, and for a second, for a single moment in time, Raphael felt more.
It was over as soon as it had started, yet what he had been able to glean from the event was more than sufficient.
He didn't understand how, or why, or what, his brain still numb from foreign sensations. What he did understand, though, was the tugging of a line, pulling him to his destination.
The warrior grasped at it with both hands.
He began to walk once more, although this time his steps were full of purpose, bereft of any of the lingering doubts that had before plagued him. Time almost seemed as if it had paused in its motion, and before long Raphael found what he was looking for.
At the base of a tree lay a wounded form, pale faced and garbed in frayed hunters attire. The boy was leaking red from an arrow wound near his thigh, vital lifeblood pooling around his unconscious body, although thankfully it didn't seem fatal. Despite it being shallow, the steady rise and fall of the boy's chest assured the warrior of his survival.
Taking care not to aggravate the wound further, Raphael hauled the boy onto his shoulders and followed the tether once more.
/
Evelyn tapped her foot on the floor in agitation.
It had been a slow day at work, the tavern unusually quiet for a saturday, and the girl was finding herself increasingly bored. Even if she didn't particularly like her job, it didn't mean that she enjoyed standing around for hours doing nothing either. Checking the door once more for customers and finding none, Evelyn sat herself down onto a stool with a sigh, propping up her chin with her hand and gazing off outside of the window.
'When is he coming back?'
As soon as the thoughts came, she dismissed them with embarrassed mien. Why did she care what he was doing anyway? Over the days she had come to the begrudging conclusion that Raphael might be who he said he was, and as such his presence no longer inspired within her the uncontrollable rage and thoughts of violence that it did before.
Yet that still didn't explain her current behaviour.
She could tolerate the man, yes, but since when had that transformed into longing? Despite her rational mind attempting to deny it, Evelyn knew within her heart the truth.
She loved her village, and the faces that she saw everyday. Old man Gareth, Nanny Beatrice, John the lumberman and his many children, even her dear mother; but they were exactly as they always had been - familiar and mundane.
A routine that Evelyn usually did not think much of had suddenly, with the arrival of that man, become unfulfilling. For all that she may have disliked him, Raphael represented change within their community. A relief from the monotonous dredge of life, something new, something exciting, something interesting.
She didn't like to admit it, but the girl often found herself listening in on the stories he told to the children. It was something of a guilty pleasure, but his tales were told in such a manner that they almost felt real, even if she knew they were naught but fanciful words.
In her youth she had often been mocked for being 'boyish', and despite the harsh words that were used, there was a certain truth to the claim. Where other girls might have enjoyed tales of romance and dashing princes, Evelyn had always been much more fascinated with epic battles and feats of martial strength. Even if it was but a fool's hope, she had always harboured within her a wish to one day be a part of such a thing herself.
Lips curled into an almost nostalgic smile.
Evelyn reminisced upon a time long ago, when such thoughts ran prevalent through her mind. She remembered coming to her mother one day, fat off the stories one of the farmers had told her, and asking with hopeful voice, 'When can I become a knight?'.
The sad chuckle she had received still haunted her now. It was the day in which her childish naivete had been shattered, and the cruel reality of the world had fully pressed itself upon her shoulders.
'I'm sorry Eve, but that kind of thing is unreachable for people like us. Besides, even if you got the chance, women aren't made to do things like that.'
Her hopes should have died that day, and she thought they had, but the words spoken to her by Raphael had reignited a fire deep within her long thought lost.
A man such as him would never stay in this sleepy village for long, this she knew with certainty. His entire presence and attitude reeked of adventure, and despite what some may want, she knew his presence would not last forever. Eventually he would tire, or something would come up, and he would go, leaving Evelyn Waterford to go back to her normal life.
Her heart cried out at the thought.
Maybe it would be for the best. Maybe her mother was right, and she was unsuited to the life of a warrior, woman that she was. Maybe she should just smile and wave at his departure, leaving the event as nothing but a curious story to tell her children.
'The time we were visited by a magician from another land" had quite the ring to it, after all.
Maybe she should do nothing, and in return nothing would change.
But that wasn't what Evelyn wanted.
The smouldering flame of ambition had found kindling once more.
Filled with resolve, Evelyn stood up from her seat, eyes blazing with newfound enlightenment. She would find Raphael, and ask - no demand, that she be taken along with him. She didn't know what it was that he might want in return, but she was sure she could find something, whether that be alcohol, books, or perhaps even her body.
'It isn't like such a thing would be unpleasant, anyways…'
Cheeks flushed red at the scandalous thoughts.
'Get your mind out of the gutter, Evelyn! Are you really that pent up?!'
The girl chose not to answer her internal voice. They both knew as well as each other.
Evelyn shook her head, and made to stride out of the tavern and into the wider world, her gait purposeful and full of confidence - before remembering something quite important.
A weary groan left her lips
'He's still stuck in that fuckin' forest, isn't he…'
Once again, the empty tavern was filled with the sound of leather boots tapping on wood.
Until even that was washed away by the clang of steel.
/
"Why are you doing this? Can't you see, we don't even have anything to take!"
Jeering laughter drowned out the woman's cries.
Henry raked his eyes over the village, looking over the buildings and farmlands with a calculating gaze. It seemed a bit more put together than had been reported, the houses intact and the fields not as barren as they were expecting, although that in itself didn't really mean much.
The place was small with an even smaller population, most of them farmers or lumberers, and that meant that although easy to raid, it also had nothing much to take. Most of the women were unflattering, and the most valuable thing they had was probably their ale- although destroying a village simply for subpar alcohol was a bit far even for him.
So, in reality, the woman was right. There was no real reason for them to be here if they were simple bandits, looking for quick cash or an easy fuck. It was simply a waste of time and resources that could be better spent somewhere else.
Henry the horrible planted his claymore into the dirt, serrated edges gleaming menacingly under the light of the moon.
Yet, here they were.
One of his men came from around the corner, holding an old man by the scruff of his neck. He dumped the struggling villager off with the rest of them, around eighty people huddled together on the floor, shaking in fear.
"Is that all of them?"
The man smiled, stained teeth proudly on show.
"Aye, think so boss. This one tried to fight, although he fell on his arse before he could even reach me, bloody old fart that he is!"
The rest of the gathered mercenaries cackled like a murder of crows, although this seemed only to incense the old man in question.
"YOU FUCKING BASTARDS!"
Thin limbs trembled with barely concealed rage, as he glared into Henry's soul.
"MY BOY! WHAT DID YOU DO TO MY BOY?!"
Henry smirked, although within his throat welled the bitter taste of bile. He always hated it when they talked.
It might have just been easier to just go in and slaughter them all, although such a thing also carried risks. There were more than double the amount of villagers than mercenaries, and in a frontal assault, it was more than likely that some may escape.
His employee had specifically requested there be no survivors.
So, he had opted for another method. If you could come across as non-hostile and reasonable, then most would simply comply when in your presence, either too scared or too trusting to react otherwise. He had to play the part of the bandit interested only in their belongings, putting on a facade to hide the reality of the man that lay underneath.
Now that they were all here, though, there was no more need for pretences.
The mercenaries surrounded the villagers in a circle, barring them from escape. From the adult's widening eyes, Henry could see that they had finally realised what was really going on.
"Sorry about all this, we got nothing personal against you folk, I assure you. This whole thing is just… business. So, it would make all our lives a lot easier if you just gave up. Don't resist, yeah? It's not gonna do you any good anyways. I'll give you some time to say prayers, but after that, well…"
The gloom was filled with an eerie silence in the wake of his words, broken only by a high-pitched voice.
"B-but didn't you say you were gonna leave a-after you took our stuff? T-that's not fair…"
He looked at the child, a girl who could barely be above eight years, and attempted a reassuring smile.
"Life is often unfair, lass. Thankfully you won't have to experience it."
Ugly tears fell from her eyes, and this time when the men laughed, Henry did not.
Not for the first time, he wondered when it was that everything went wrong.
The man averted his gaze from the villagers for a second, before refocusing with grim intensity. He couldn't look away now, no, not after all he had done.
This was nothing compared to some of the things he had seen.
Instead, he grasped at the hilt of his sword, drawing it from the earth in signal to the others - although the motion was interrupted by someone to his left.
"''Ey, boss? I know we gotta get rid of 'em all, but why not have some fun first? I know they're mostly old tarts, but some of them are ripe enough at least…"
Henry cringed. For Edmund, 'ripe' often meant girls who were yet to even pass their first cycle. He wished to deny him, so much so that it was almost painful, but he couldn't.
Although worded like a request, in reality, it was a demand. Despite him being lauded as the 'boss' of these people, in reality the title was only little more than a fancy name. He led them, yes, but to men such as they, loyalty was bought only by coin and little else.
Stopping him now when he had already halted the man two times prior would only serve to sow dissent between their ranks, something he couldn't afford at this crucial stage of the operation.
Henry had wished for this job to be over and done with as soon as possible, but as he had to that little girl, 'life is often unfair.'
So he gave a reluctant nod to the man, as his heart fell further into a pit of darkness.
Edmund stalked over, hungry eyes alight with vile intentions. He seemed to hone in on the ones most terrified of his presence, and the girl that had been crying before seemed this time to catch his fancy. He licked his lips in anticipation.
A hand reached out, grasping, clawing through the air.
It would never reach its target.
The sound of flesh slapping flesh echoed throughout the area, Edmund reeling back as if struck.
Looking closely, the right side of his mouth seemed to be leaking blood.
"Don't you fucking touch her."
A girl stood up, palm outstretched, short hair framing beautiful features twisted into a snarl.
Edmund didn't seem to take this well.
"FUCK! You think you're tough shit, huh? A little girlie like you? I'll fucking pummel ya,until your pretty face is as ugly as mine!"
The girl seemed scared, that much was obvious from observing her trembling limbs, but she did not cower away, standing tall and looking her aggressor straight in the eye.
"Go to hell!"
Her fist met his nose with a sickening crunch.
The mercenaries stood stock still for a second, too shocked to move, as they struggled to process this turn of events.
Henry simply sighed. It was as good an excuse as any.
He hefted his claymore up in a two-handed grip.
"Let's finish up here boys."
It was all the signal the men needed, rushing forwards with brandished steel. Faces twisted in perverse glee bore in on the frightened villagers, their frantic prayers only barely audible over the sound of stomping feet.
Henry thought it fruitless. God had given up on this cursed land long ago.
And yet…
From within the darkness, through the gloom and dusky shadow, a single ray of gold shone with otherworldly luminescence.
It would seem that he was mistaken once again.
A warrior emerged from the inky night, clad in armour fit for a king. His visage was perfection, carved from a different cloth than mere men, and under the moon's frigid glare, the stranger seemed almost to shimmer.
Like the red sea, the villagers parted at his entrance, almost supplicating themselves upon the ground at his presence. As he stepped forward, his crimson eyes locked onto Henry and pierced deep within his soul.
The man opened his mouth, and when he spoke, it was as if the whole world paused to listen.
"I have met many men throughout my lifetime, both good and ill, but you… you are nothing but craven."
Into still air he thrust his hand, and from it retrieved a weapon.
"Hah, I guess it no longer matters. The time for insults is already long past us. Instead, know this with certainty…"
The warrior grinned, and although his form was lit by divine radiance, regal features spoke only of bloodlust.
"Not a single one of you will be leaving here alive."
His men charged as one, and as one they fell to his blade. With a flourish the man spun his weapon, a scythe topped with a crescent moon, and with a single deft movement separated Edmund's head from his shoulders.
It was almost awe inspiring, the way he fought. Not a movement wasted, not a second spent unfocused, every action flowed into the next like a dance. With the hilt of his scythe he flicked at the dirt, sending a cloud of dust into the face of his next aggressor. Another man roared, swinging his axe in wild fervour, although that too was easily deflected, the blade trapped by the curved edge of the weapon.
With a single slice, both were bisected at the hip.
Henry watched in horror as people he had fought and ate with died in droves, their bodies strewn haphazardly across the grass. He thought he might feel something, anything, but numbness pervaded his heart like ice.
WIth a final sickening squelch, the last of his men fell to the earth. Glowing eyes scanned the surroundings, before snapping onto Henry like a bloodhound.
"Come."
The last mercenary walked towards his doom upon shaking legs.
Crying out, he heaved his claymore up over his head in a devastating swing, although the warrior stepped back by the barest centimetre, avoiding the attack by a hair.
Another swing, another dodge, and they were again back where they started. A pattern that felt like it repeated a dozen times, although in reality it had likely only been a few seconds.
Henry the horrible looked up into that damning smirk, and finally understood.
They had never stood a chance.
A brief thought flashed through his mind, to run, to flee, to get away from this otherworldly being, although he knew it was but a fleeting dream. All his life he had done what was easiest, taking shortcuts and cutting corners, and where had that left him? His family, gone. His future, destroyed. His home burnt to ashes. And even now, amongst killers and thieves, he still stood alone. Always the last one remaining, always the coward.
In the end, Henry managed to realise something that he should have learnt long ago. That no matter how far you can run, or how well you try to hide; no matter what it is you may do or say, the wrath of God is inescapable to all.
That angel was right, after all. He really was craven.
Henry regarded the heavenly envoy before him with trembling eyes, and swore that this time, he would face the future without fear.
'I am sorry, mother…'
The mercenary rushed forward one more time. A last hurrah, riling against his fate, charging over blood and bones into the abyss. His sword poised at the ready, his eyes leaking tears, and his lips curled into a mournful smile.
The scythe swung in a wide arc, golden light trailing in its wake. From that line, shimmering and ethereal, holy energy coalesced into a spinning disc, hovering in the air for a single second.
The angel said something, but Henry did not hear it. It didn't matter anyway.
The disc flew forward in the next instant, screaming through the air, and carved a deep furrow into the mercenary's side.
He stood still for a second, almost as if he hadn't been affected, before letting out a final weak gurgle, blood bubbling from chapped lips.
He fell to the floor a corpse.
Henry Smith died with a smile on his face.
/