Chapter 47: Silver Wolves and Crimson Notes

Morning light spilled across the northern wilderness as the group packed up their camp. The soft crunch of boots on frost-kissed grass mixed with the sound of Ralnor tightening the straps on his massive shield, while Selyse carefully inspected her lance. Tache was already mounted on his horse, a sturdy chestnut steed with a scar running down its flank—a reminder of battles past.

Ralnor followed suit, effortlessly hoisting himself onto his equally formidable black warhorse, its frame nearly as imposing as its rider. Selyse adjusted the stirrups on her sleek grey mare, the horse’s silver mane catching the morning sun.

Meanwhile, Dorian stood to the side, adjusting his lute and looking at the group, oblivious to the fact that all three knights were now staring at him.

“…What?” Dorian finally asked, raising an eyebrow.

Tache’s grin spread slowly across his face. “Where’s your horse, bard?”

Dorian blinked, his mouth opening, then closing again. “Ah… well, you see…” He scratched the back of his head sheepishly. “I mostly walk.”

There was a brief silence. Then Tache barked out a laugh, nearly falling off his saddle.

“You’ve been wandering all the way north on foot? Without a map?” Tache wheezed between laughs. “What are you, a bard or a bloody miracle worker?”

Selyse sighed, shaking her head in disbelief. “How do you even survive out here? You didn’t run into any bandits?”

Dorian smirked, puffing out his chest with mock pride. “Ah, but you forget—I’m blessed with charm. The gods have clearly paved me a trouble-free road.”

This time, only Tache laughed, his voice echoing through the trees. Ralnor and Selyse just rolled their eyes in perfect unison.

Ralnor, ever the practical one, deadpanned, “You still need a horse.”

Selyse exhaled deeply, as if the very thought exhausted her. “Tache, let’s take him to Aelwyn’s Herd,” she suggested, referring to the legendary breed of northern white horses known for their resilience and speed.

Tache rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Well, it’s quite a ride from here…” He glanced at Dorian, then grinned wickedly. “Our bard here’s going to need a lift.”

Before Dorian could protest, Selyse sighed again and extended a hand. “Get up before I change my mind.”

Dorian didn’t hesitate. He practically leapt onto the horse behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist. “Why, Lady Selyse,” he teased, “I do believe I’m swooning.”

Tache burst out laughing again. “Not smooth at all, bard!”

The group rode through the winding northern trails, the rhythmic clopping of hooves against the hardened dirt forming a steady backdrop to their conversation. Dorian, perched behind Selyse, leaned forward slightly, his curiosity bubbling to the surface.

“So,” he began, “tell me about your last mercenary job on the eastern front. I’m always looking for a good story.”

Tache grinned over his shoulder. “Ah, the eastern front—that was a job, alright. We were hired by some noble prick who thought his shiny armor made him invincible.”

Ralnor snorted in agreement.

Tache continued, his voice taking on a dramatic flair, clearly enjoying the chance to embellish. “We were outnumbered three to one. The enemy had siege weapons, archers, the works. But you know what we had?”

“Stupidity?” Selyse offered dryly.

“Guts,” Tache corrected with a wink. “And maybe a little stupidity.”

Dorian chuckled, but as he listened, he noticed something beneath the bravado. There was pride in Tache’s voice, yes, but also a trace of something else—an undercurrent of exhaustion, perhaps even regret. The way Ralnor remained mostly silent, only offering the occasional grunt, and the way Selyse’s eyes darkened when certain battles were mentioned told Dorian all he needed to know.

These weren’t just tall tales. The eastern front had carved something into them—something that went beyond mere mercenary work.

But Dorian didn’t press. He simply listened, tucking the pieces of their stories away, knowing that the best tales were the ones people shared when they were ready.

Their journey through the northern landscape was peaceful—until it wasn’t.

As they rounded a bend in the trail, the horses suddenly halted, their ears twitching in unease. In the middle of the road lay a massive fallen log, deliberately placed to block the narrow pass.

Tache’s easygoing grin faded, replaced by a hardened edge. His eyes scanned the treeline, his hands resting lightly on the hilts of his swords.

“Well,” he muttered, “looks like we’ve got company.”

Dorian’s hand instinctively went to his lute, his mind already racing through defensive spells. Selyse adjusted her grip on the reins, her eyes narrowing.

From the shadows of the trees, movement flickered. Figures emerged, rough and ragged, their weapons glinting in the dappled sunlight.

Bandits.

Tache’s smile returned, but it was sharper this time. “Looks like your charm’s run out, bard.”

Dorian grinned, strumming a chord that crackled with the promise of magic. “Oh, I don’t know. I think this is where the fun begins.”

And with that, the Silver Wolf Mercenaries and their bard prepared for the fight ahead.

The bandits emerged from the tree line like shadows peeling away from the forest itself. They were a motley crew, rough-looking men and women clad in mismatched armor, their faces smeared with dirt and arrogance. Rusted swords, axes, and bows glinted under the sparse northern sunlight. The leader—a tall, wiry man with a jagged scar running down his cheek—stepped forward, his grin as crooked as his teeth.

“Well, well, what do we have here?” he sneered, twirling a battered sword in his hand. “A bard, three knights, and no sense between ‘em. Hand over your coin and that fancy lute, bard-boy, and maybe we’ll let you live to write songs about us.”

Dorian raised an eyebrow, gripping his lute tighter. “I don’t think you want to hear the song I’d write about you,” he quipped, though the tension in his chest tightened.

Selyse didn’t waste words.

With fluid, practiced motion, she spun her lance in her hand and hurled it straight toward the bandit leader. The weapon whistled through the air like a vengeful spirit.

The leader’s grin faltered, his eyes widening as he instinctively ducked. But the lance didn’t miss entirely—it drove straight into the chest of the unfortunate bandit standing just behind him, pinning the man to a tree with a sickening thud.

The camp fell silent for half a heartbeat.

Tache chuckled, not even bothering to draw his swords yet. “Tell me, Selyse—was that on purpose?”

Selyse scowled, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Yes,” she grumbled, though Dorian wasn’t entirely convinced.

The bandit leader roared in anger, stepping over his fallen comrade. “You’re dead!” he spat, motioning for his crew to attack.

Dorian, still a bit caught off guard by the sudden violence, quickly recovered. He strummed his lute, the familiar hum of magic vibrating through the strings. A wave of energy pulsed outward, washing over his companions. His Bardic Inspiration spell took hold—enhancing their reflexes, sharpening their senses, and bolstering their strength.

Tache cracked his neck. “Ah, that’s the stuff,” he said with a grin. “Let’s dance.”

The bandits charged like a disorganized swarm, shouting curses and brandishing their weapons. But the Silver Wolves were no ordinary prey.

Tache moved first, leaping from his horse with feline grace. His twin swords gleamed as they sliced through the air, meeting the first wave of bandits with fluid, deadly precision. He ducked under a wild swing, his right blade cutting deep into one attacker’s thigh while his left carved a swift arc across another’s chest.

But the bandits weren’t completely inept. One managed to land a blow, a dagger slicing across Tache’s ribs. He hissed, but instead of retreating, he spun into the pain, using the momentum to drive his elbow into the attacker’s face, shattering his nose with a sickening crack.

“Should’ve stayed home,” Tache muttered, kicking the man aside.

Meanwhile, Selyse had retrieved her lance in one smooth motion, spinning it in a defensive arc as she faced down three bandits at once. Her movements were precise, almost elegant, as if she were dancing rather than fighting. She parried a sword strike with the shaft of her lance, then twisted, driving the butt of the weapon into another attacker’s stomach.

But as she turned to face the third, her foot slipped slightly on the loose gravel. The bandit took advantage, slashing at her exposed side. The blade grazed her armor, leaving a shallow cut—but it was enough to throw off her rhythm.

Before the bandit could capitalize on his luck, a sharp chord rang out. Dorian’s lute glowed faintly, and Selyse felt a surge of strength flood her limbs. She pivoted, faster than her attacker expected, and drove the tip of her lance straight through his shoulder.

“Thanks, bard,” she called over her shoulder, panting slightly.

Dorian flashed a grin, but his fingers didn’t stop moving over the strings.

Ralnor was the immovable force in their midst. He dismounted with a thud, his massive shield absorbing the blows of two bandits who foolishly thought brute strength could overpower him. One attacker swung a heavy axe, aiming for Ralnor’s head, but the giant knight raised his shield with ease, the axe rebounding with a metallic clang.

Without missing a beat, Ralnor stepped forward, using his shield like a battering ram. The bandit flew backward, landing hard against a tree with a crack of breaking ribs.

But even Ralnor wasn’t invincible. A third bandit managed to slip behind him, aiming a dagger at his exposed back.

Dorian saw it just in time.

With a quick flick of his wrist, he sent a gust of wind from his lute, knocking the dagger off course. It wasn’t enough to disarm the attacker, but it gave Ralnor the precious second he needed to turn and slam his shield into the man’s face, flattening him to the ground.

The battle raged on, but with Dorian’s magic bolstering them, the Silver Wolves held their ground. However, even with their skill, mistakes were inevitable.

Tache, in the heat of the fight, overcommitted to a swing, leaving his side exposed. A bandit with a cruel-looking mace saw the opening and lunged. The mace connected with Tache’s shoulder, sending him sprawling to the ground.

“Tache!” Dorian shouted, his heart skipping.

Selyse reacted instantly, vaulting over a fallen bandit and positioning herself between Tache and his attacker. She parried the next blow with her lance, but the force of the mace sent vibrations up her arms.

Ralnor, seeing the danger, bull-rushed through two enemies, his shield smashing bodies aside as he barreled toward the mace-wielding bandit. With a roar, he tackled the man to the ground, pinning him with the weight of his shield.

Tache groaned, pushing himself to his feet. “I’m fine,” he gritted, though his face was pale. “Just a scratch.”

Dorian wasn’t convinced, but there was no time to argue.

With renewed determination, the Silver Wolves pressed forward. Dorian’s music grew louder, the notes weaving through the battlefield like threads of energy. His Bardic Inspiration was reaching its limit, but he pushed through the fatigue, pouring everything he had into the song.

Tache, bleeding but unbowed, moved with lethal grace, his twin blades flashing in the morning light. Selyse was a whirlwind of steel and precision, her lance striking with the speed of a serpent. Ralnor was an unbreakable wall, his shield a fortress that no bandit could breach.

The bandits, realizing they were outmatched, began to falter. Their leader, seeing his men fall around him, tried to retreat—but Tache wasn’t about to let him escape.

With a final burst of speed, Tache closed the distance, his blades crossing in front of him. “Leaving so soon?” he snarled, driving one sword into the leader’s thigh and the other into his shoulder.

The man crumpled, screaming in pain.

The clearing fell silent, the last echoes of Dorian’s music fading into the forest.

The Silver Wolves stood amidst the fallen bandits, their chests heaving with exertion. Blood dripped from blades and bruises blossomed beneath armor, but they were alive.

Dorian slung his lute over his shoulder, wiping sweat from his brow. “Well,” he panted, “I think that settles who writes this story.”

Tache chuckled, wincing as he rolled his injured shoulder. “Just make sure you leave out the part where I got knocked on my ass.”

Selyse snorted. “Not a chance.”

Ralnor, ever the minimalist, simply grunted in approval.

As they gathered their breath and prepared to move on, Dorian couldn’t help but smile. They were battered, bruised, and exhausted—but they were a team.

And the road ahead was only just beginning.