Chapter 59: Blades, Shields, and Song

The thundering of hooves shattered the chaos as Dorian and the three knights rushed into the fray.

A band of mixed-race brigands—a dragonborn with a massive battleaxe, a wiry halfling wielding twin daggers, a goliath clad in ragged iron armor, and several human cutthroats—had surrounded a merchant’s wagon, their weapons raised.

The merchant—a halfling, small and trembling—was cowering behind the overturned cart, his fine robes stained with dust. A single mercenary bodyguard lay motionless nearby, blood pooling beneath him.

A faint sob from inside the wagon signaled that someone else was still inside.

The leader—a red-scaled dragonborn, easily seven feet tall—growled, his slitted eyes locking onto the approaching riders. "Ahh, more guests for the feast." He grinned, his teeth sharp as daggers. "Kill the knights. The bard is mine."

Dorian let out an offended scoff. "Well, now I feel targeted."

Then the fight began.

Selyse led the charge, her lance leveled like a spear of judgment.

She thrust forward, the tip of her weapon piercing through the first bandit’s chest before he could even react. With a twist of her wrist, she wrenched her lance free, blood spraying across the dirt.

A second bandit, the wiry halfling with twin daggers, darted toward her blind spot, fast as a snake.

Selyse spun her horse to meet him, but he was already lunging—his dagger aimed straight for her ribs.

Dorian snapped his fingers.

A gust of wind magic slammed into the halfling, throwing him off balance just long enough for Selyse to twist in her saddle and drive the butt of her lance into his gut.

With a wheezing gasp, the bandit crumpled to the ground.

She grinned. "Good timing, bard."

Dorian smirked. "Try not to get stabbed, Lady Lance."

Tache leapt from his horse mid-gallop, landing between two human raiders. His twin swords flashed—one deflecting a desperate swing, the other carving clean through a brigand’s arm.

The man screamed, clutching his bleeding stump, but Tache was already moving.

The second raider—a broad-shouldered brute with a mace—brought his weapon down in a crushing overhead strike.

Tache sidestepped at the last second, letting the mace slam into the dirt.

Before the bandit could recover, Tache twisted, spinning low—his left blade severing the tendons behind the man’s knee.

The brigand collapsed, roaring in agony.

Tache stood over him, rolling his shoulders. "Come on, is that all?"

The dragonborn leader snarled.

"You're mine, knight."

The bandit chief lunged—his battleaxe swinging in a brutal arc.

Tache crossed his swords, catching the strike, but the sheer force of the impact sent him skidding backward.

"Alright," Tache muttered. "That’s a bit more like it."

Ralnor dismounted in one heavy movement, landing with a thundering crash.

Two bandits rushed him at once—one with a spear, the other with a rusty longsword.

The spearman thrust forward, aiming for Ralnor’s gut.

Ralnor angled his shield, the tip of the spear glancing off harmlessly.

The second bandit swung for his exposed flank.

Without missing a beat, Ralnor shifted, letting the longsword scrape against his shield. Then, with inhuman strength, he rammed his shield forward, crushing the swordsman’s ribs with a sickening crunch.

The man collapsed, choking on blood.

The spearman tried to back away, realizing his mistake.

Ralnor grabbed the wooden shaft of the spear, yanking the bandit forward, then drove a metal-clad fist straight into his face.

The spearman dropped like a sack of grain.

Ralnor exhaled, scanning for his next target.

Dorian remained mounted, weaving spells between his allies' movements.

He plucked a note on his lute, channeling his magic into the air—a warm golden glow wrapped around his allies, bolstering their speed and reflexes.

Then, seeing Tache struggling against the dragonborn, Dorian flicked his fingers.

A sharp burst of electricity arced through the battlefield, striking the dragonborn in the leg.

The bandit chief stumbled, roaring in pain.

Tache seized the opening, his blades flashing—a deep slash across the dragonborn’s chest sent the chief staggering back.

The bandit growled, furious now, but before he could attack again—

An arrow buried itself in his shoulder.

The merchant halfling, still crouched behind the wagon, had finally found his nerve.

"Ha! Take that, you scaly bastard!" he shouted, clutching a tiny crossbow.

Dorian grinned. "Well, look at that. The cavalry has arrived."

The dragonborn snarled.

And then he ran.

The remaining bandits—seeing their leader flee—panicked and scattered into the woods.

The fight was over.

Dorian hopped off Regis, brushing dust off his coat.

The halfling merchant emerged from behind the wagon, still clutching his crossbow like it was his only lifeline.

"You—you saved my life!" he gasped. "I don’t know how to thank you!"

Tache sheathed his blades, wiping blood off his sleeve. "You can start by telling us who you are."

The halfling puffed up his chest. "The name's Bennett Tumblepouch, finest merchant of rare goods this side of the north!"

Dorian raised a brow. "Rare goods, huh?"

Bennett grinned. "Indeed! And for my brave saviors, I do believe I have a reward to offer."

Tache nudged Dorian. "You thinking what I’m thinking?"

Dorian smirked. "If you’re thinking discounted loot, then yes."

The four warriors laughed, blood still fresh on their hands but victory sweet in their chests.

The road to Brenhold had become a little more interesting.

The afternoon sun hung low, casting golden light over the battlefield-turned-grave.

A small mound of earth covered the fallen mercenary who had fought to protect Bennett. A simple wooden marker, hastily carved by Ralnor’s dagger, bore no name—just a roughly etched sword, a warrior’s final resting sign.

The group stood in silence, the wind carrying the lingering scent of blood and steel.

Dorian pulled his lute from his back, strumming a solemn tune—a quiet melody, no words, just a soft, lingering hum that wrapped the air like a final farewell.

Bennett, usually lively, bowed his head, muttering a small prayer in Halfling tradition. "You did your duty well, mate," he whispered. "Rest easy."

The knights lowered their heads, paying their respects in their own way.

With one final note, Dorian let the silence settle.

Then, without a word, they mounted up and rode on.

The newly-formed group of five made their way down the northern roads, the distant outline of Brenhold slowly coming into view against the fading light.

"So," Dorian broke the silence, flicking his hat back. "Where are you headed, exactly, Master Merchant?"

Bennett, now perched on his newly reclaimed wagon, reins in hand, grinned. "Ahh, well, typically I move wherever the coin flows, but right now? My home base is Tadon, next city after Brenhold. I was heading there before these road rats gave me a detour." He shot a glare at the road behind them.

"You travel alone often?" Selyse asked, skeptical.

"Not usually," Bennett admitted. "I hire guards when I need ‘em. Which, funnily enough, brings me to my next point—" He swiveled around, giving Tache a knowing look.

"—How about you lot? Fancy earning some coin?"

Tache raised an eyebrow, glancing toward Selyse. "What do you think, schedule-wise?"

Selyse, already calculating, rode a little closer, her eyes gleaming. "We could afford a detour. We’re ahead of schedule, actually."

"Perfect!" Bennett rubbed his hands together. "Now, let’s talk budget."

And so began the haggling match.

Selyse, ever the shrewd negotiator, led the charge—pressing for higher rates, claiming "risk fees", and pointing out that they had already saved Bennett once.

Bennett, sharp-tongued and equally stubborn, bargained back, throwing in counteroffers, sob stories of "a humble merchant barely scraping by", and wildly exaggerated tales of "previous guards working for half the price and twice the loyalty."

Dorian, watching the back-and-forth duel, leaned toward Ralnor. "Are they… flirting or fighting?"

Ralnor, deadpan, replied, "Both."

It took half an hour of back-and-forth, but finally, a deal was struck.

Bennett shook hands with Tache, sealing the agreement.

"Right, then," Tache smirked. "You’ve got yourself some real guards now."

Bennett sighed in mock defeat. "And I’m broke because of it."

As they shook hands, Bennett’s gaze landed on Dorian. "And what about you? Part of the package deal?"

Tache smirked. "No bard included."

Bennett blinked. "Wait—what? I thought he was with you guys?"

"In a way, yes," Selyse mused, "but he can come and go as he pleases. He just tags along… like a lost puppy."

"Oi!" Dorian waved a hand in protest. "I’m right here, y’know!"

Bennett chuckled, amused. "A free-spirited bard, huh? Sounds about right."

Dorian crossed his arms, pouting. "You know what? I don’t need this negativity. I’m gonna go practice my violin."

The three knights groaned in unison.

Tache slumped in his saddle. "Gods, save us."

Selyse pinched the bridge of her nose. "Must you?"

Ralnor, ever blunt, simply said, "Don't."

Bennett, oblivious to their suffering, clapped his hands. "Oh? A new instrument? Well, I’d love to hear it!"

The knights gave him a look.

A look of pure pity.

Dorian grinned, pulling the violin from his sling bag. "Oh, don’t worry, friend. You definitely will."

And with a screeching, ear-piercing note, the wailing of Dorian’s violin filled the road, sending a flock of crows fleeing from the trees.

Bennett winced, clutching his ears. "Oh… dear gods above…"

Tache sighed. "Told you."

Selyse shook her head. "We did warn you."

Ralnor simply muttered, "Regret."

And so, to the "majestic" symphony of a bard torturing a violin, the group continued their journey toward Brenhold.