The Butcher (1/21)
This story is set in the same fantasy world as my DnD campaigns. I wrote it because I've been reading Heir of Fire and wanted to write a fantasy fight.
Her title meant “butcher”, and the men on the road knew it. Their eyes, sunken and bloodshot, darted from the figure in the woods to their compatriots. There were eleven of them, and she stood alone. They had the wherewithal to realize that this did not put them at an advantage. Desperate men clung to their swords, unsure if drawing them would delay or incite the bloody business before them. The leader of the brigands stepped towards the woman in the woods, holding up calloused hands. A plaintive look came over his rugged face as he gestured to the carnage behind him
“Now look, we have no interest in fighting you,”
“Then you’re smarter than you look,” she sneered, “though unfortunately just as cowardly as expected,”. The captain of the bandits snorted loudly and spit into the churned snow by his boot. He ran a hand over his bald head, steaming in the icy wind. He made the gesture look casual, as though considering her words rather than getting his hand nearer the hilt of the chipped bastard sword slung across his back.
“Well listen madam, we’re just trying to scrape by like anyone else. Times are hard, you must know. A man’s gotta work,” he grinned, revealing a mouth of mossy teeth. The butcher cast her eyes behind the captain to the “work” the men had been employing themselves in. Death had visited this place; The road was littered with bodies, half a dozen by her count. A simple farmer’s carriage had been sacked, bodies dragged off and thrown into the nearby ditch. Two bandits flanked the old workhorse who tamped nervously at the scent of blood. Nearby, a dwarven merchant lay heaped next to his two hired guards, a look of shock still frozen on his face, a crossbow’s bolt embedded in his neck. These people hadn’t known each other, she surmised, had probably only asked to travel together until the next town. They had been so assured in the safety of numbers.
She cast her eyes over the group again, shifting her weight to her left side. The bells on the end of her scabbard jingled, the sound clear and pure as a mountain stream. Each butcher wore a bell to remind Death that they were still alive. Death was a cowardly, sneaking thing, too easily gorged. It feasted on the weak or the feeble or the wounded. The bell acted as a warning to Death; a warning that this body still moved and still fought. There would be no easy meal today.
This butcher wore seven bells, six of them prizes from others of her order who had tried to best her. She still drew breath, and wore their bells to make it known that she would not fall idly.
“I can’t allow that. My apologies. Any of you that would prefer a swift death, please lay down your arms. To the rest of you, I can make no guarantees to your comfort,” Her hand lay on the pommel of her sword, two and a half feet of iron, straight as a broom handle. Green eyes moved languidly from bandit to bandit. Not a one of them chose an easy death. It truly made no difference to her. Men fell to her just as easily whether they knelt or stood. A snowflake flitted past her nose.
She was in the center of the mass of men in an instant, her sword buried deep in the brigand captain’s chest. He clawed fruitlessly at his own sword, as though there was still a fight to have. His knees hit the ground the same time as the snowflake did.
Ten
She whirled, her left hand hitting the flat of an incoming axeblade sending it careening into the neck of the nearest bandit. The unfortunate elf’s lilac eyes dimmed as he crumpled to the ground.
Nine
Drawing her sword from the captain’s chest, she turned on the axe wielding bandit, desperately trying to remove his weapon from his compatriot’s neck. The orc looked up, eyes mad with terror.
“Althag, pl-”
Two cuts, one at the shoulder, the other at the neck. One orc hit the ground three times.
Eight
She whipped around, slashing her swords upwards across her body. The crossbow quarrel that had been intended for the base of her skull fell useless to the ground. The bandit who fired it looked on in shock, desperately trying to load another bolt. She flashed him a quick smirk, green eyes cold as the snow around them. He was thirty feet away, and she would be on him in three steps.
The bandit was saved (for the moment at least) by two of his cohorts who emerged from behind the merchant’s carriage, each of them wielding a pair of wicked looking daggers. They stalked to either side of her, circling like wolves.
The one on her right, the poor fool, struck first, slashing both across his body as his partner lunged to gut her. Eyes forward, yet perfectly aware of all that transpired around her, she reacted. Her right arm pistoned outwards, skewering the first of the bandits. Her left hand shot out, grabbing the second bandit by the wrist. The point of the dagger was nearly a full foot away from the lamellar of her cuirass. It was as close as any of them had come to hitting her so far.
She squeezed. Only when she heard the first bone break did she finally turn her head to face him. His second dagger had dropped to the ground.
“Please, don’t kill me,” the man begged, no doubt echoing a similar request he had heard earlier that day. Her eyes met his.
“I won’t,” she purred. She yanked him forward, twisting her way past him with the grace of a dancer. He gasped as the bolt that had been intended for the butcher pierced his heart. His companion had found the time to reload.
Six
Three more brigands moved on her, screaming and hurling curses. Their mismatched armor was so easy to cut through, their second hand weapons so poorly balanced. Every movement of hers had the precision of clockwork. They were dead the moment she had first laid eyes on them. Their screaming stopped.
Three
The aroma of magic reached her nose and she whirled to its source. One of this band was lucky enough to have some sorcerous power in his blood. For all the good it would do him, he attempted to make a stand. Heat rippled up his arm, embers forming in the gaps between fingers. The air around him shimmered like the emulsion of oil and water. Ichor and reality merging to make miracles happen. She narrowed her eyes and it ceased. There was a barely audible pop as reality slammed itself shut, locking the ichor and arcane on the other side of the barrier of worlds. The heat died. With a flick of her sword, she made sure the sorcerer was not long behind.
Two
The final two bandits made an attempt to flee. The human who had wielded the crossbow now tried desperately to unhitch the horse from the cart. His companion, a lithe half-elf, attempted to keep her at bay with the iron tip of a spear. She took a step forward, the bells ringing softly. The bandit shifted his grip, six feet of wood terminating in heavy iron, the spearhead less than an inch from her chest. The human cursed and muttered prayers to the Saints as he fumbled with the horse’s collar. She locked eyes with the half-elf, steaming crimson droplets tumbling from her sword into the snow.
Her left hand shot up and grabbed the shaft of the spear. Her right arm crossed her body, the crossguard brushing against her left hip. Her left arm pulled. Her right arm slashed. The terrible union of these inverse momentums left the half-elf halved yet again.
One
She took a step forward, kicking over legs that did not seem to realize they should no longer be standing. The final bandit turned, hands low, as though placating a wild animal. He had a knife in his belt, hidden beneath folds of clothing. He had no idea the butcher knew it was there. After all, how could she?
“Listen, you showed us, I learned my lesson, I’ll turn over a new leaf. I’ll become a cleric, I’ll sweep up the shrines of the Saints, I’ll dedicate my life to doing good,” his hand twitched nearer his belt. She allowed him a moment to believe this would work. “I was being forced into this, I was a farmer before all this,” Fingers flexed, “And I should really thank you for getting me out of this crowd,”
He made his play, far too late. Her hand was already waiting to intercept the knife before he had even decided where to throw it. She caught it delicately between thumb and forefinger, easily as you’d snatch an autumn leaf out of the air. She allowed herself a heartbeat to savor his shock.
And then the butcher returned the favor.
“Now look, we have no interest in fighting you,”
“Then you’re smarter than you look,” she sneered, “though unfortunately just as cowardly as expected,”. The captain of the bandits snorted loudly and spit into the churned snow by his boot. He ran a hand over his bald head, steaming in the icy wind. He made the gesture look casual, as though considering her words rather than getting his hand nearer the hilt of the chipped bastard sword slung across his back.
“Well listen madam, we’re just trying to scrape by like anyone else. Times are hard, you must know. A man’s gotta work,” he grinned, revealing a mouth of mossy teeth. The butcher cast her eyes behind the captain to the “work” the men had been employing themselves in. Death had visited this place; The road was littered with bodies, half a dozen by her count. A simple farmer’s carriage had been sacked, bodies dragged off and thrown into the nearby ditch. Two bandits flanked the old workhorse who tamped nervously at the scent of blood. Nearby, a dwarven merchant lay heaped next to his two hired guards, a look of shock still frozen on his face, a crossbow’s bolt embedded in his neck. These people hadn’t known each other, she surmised, had probably only asked to travel together until the next town. They had been so assured in the safety of numbers.
She cast her eyes over the group again, shifting her weight to her left side. The bells on the end of her scabbard jingled, the sound clear and pure as a mountain stream. Each butcher wore a bell to remind Death that they were still alive. Death was a cowardly, sneaking thing, too easily gorged. It feasted on the weak or the feeble or the wounded. The bell acted as a warning to Death; a warning that this body still moved and still fought. There would be no easy meal today.
This butcher wore seven bells, six of them prizes from others of her order who had tried to best her. She still drew breath, and wore their bells to make it known that she would not fall idly.
“I can’t allow that. My apologies. Any of you that would prefer a swift death, please lay down your arms. To the rest of you, I can make no guarantees to your comfort,” Her hand lay on the pommel of her sword, two and a half feet of iron, straight as a broom handle. Green eyes moved languidly from bandit to bandit. Not a one of them chose an easy death. It truly made no difference to her. Men fell to her just as easily whether they knelt or stood. A snowflake flitted past her nose.
She was in the center of the mass of men in an instant, her sword buried deep in the brigand captain’s chest. He clawed fruitlessly at his own sword, as though there was still a fight to have. His knees hit the ground the same time as the snowflake did.
Ten
She whirled, her left hand hitting the flat of an incoming axeblade sending it careening into the neck of the nearest bandit. The unfortunate elf’s lilac eyes dimmed as he crumpled to the ground.
Nine
Drawing her sword from the captain’s chest, she turned on the axe wielding bandit, desperately trying to remove his weapon from his compatriot’s neck. The orc looked up, eyes mad with terror.
“Althag, pl-”
Two cuts, one at the shoulder, the other at the neck. One orc hit the ground three times.
Eight
She whipped around, slashing her swords upwards across her body. The crossbow quarrel that had been intended for the base of her skull fell useless to the ground. The bandit who fired it looked on in shock, desperately trying to load another bolt. She flashed him a quick smirk, green eyes cold as the snow around them. He was thirty feet away, and she would be on him in three steps.
The bandit was saved (for the moment at least) by two of his cohorts who emerged from behind the merchant’s carriage, each of them wielding a pair of wicked looking daggers. They stalked to either side of her, circling like wolves.
The one on her right, the poor fool, struck first, slashing both across his body as his partner lunged to gut her. Eyes forward, yet perfectly aware of all that transpired around her, she reacted. Her right arm pistoned outwards, skewering the first of the bandits. Her left hand shot out, grabbing the second bandit by the wrist. The point of the dagger was nearly a full foot away from the lamellar of her cuirass. It was as close as any of them had come to hitting her so far.
She squeezed. Only when she heard the first bone break did she finally turn her head to face him. His second dagger had dropped to the ground.
“Please, don’t kill me,” the man begged, no doubt echoing a similar request he had heard earlier that day. Her eyes met his.
“I won’t,” she purred. She yanked him forward, twisting her way past him with the grace of a dancer. He gasped as the bolt that had been intended for the butcher pierced his heart. His companion had found the time to reload.
Six
Three more brigands moved on her, screaming and hurling curses. Their mismatched armor was so easy to cut through, their second hand weapons so poorly balanced. Every movement of hers had the precision of clockwork. They were dead the moment she had first laid eyes on them. Their screaming stopped.
Three
The aroma of magic reached her nose and she whirled to its source. One of this band was lucky enough to have some sorcerous power in his blood. For all the good it would do him, he attempted to make a stand. Heat rippled up his arm, embers forming in the gaps between fingers. The air around him shimmered like the emulsion of oil and water. Ichor and reality merging to make miracles happen. She narrowed her eyes and it ceased. There was a barely audible pop as reality slammed itself shut, locking the ichor and arcane on the other side of the barrier of worlds. The heat died. With a flick of her sword, she made sure the sorcerer was not long behind.
Two
The final two bandits made an attempt to flee. The human who had wielded the crossbow now tried desperately to unhitch the horse from the cart. His companion, a lithe half-elf, attempted to keep her at bay with the iron tip of a spear. She took a step forward, the bells ringing softly. The bandit shifted his grip, six feet of wood terminating in heavy iron, the spearhead less than an inch from her chest. The human cursed and muttered prayers to the Saints as he fumbled with the horse’s collar. She locked eyes with the half-elf, steaming crimson droplets tumbling from her sword into the snow.
Her left hand shot up and grabbed the shaft of the spear. Her right arm crossed her body, the crossguard brushing against her left hip. Her left arm pulled. Her right arm slashed. The terrible union of these inverse momentums left the half-elf halved yet again.
One
She took a step forward, kicking over legs that did not seem to realize they should no longer be standing. The final bandit turned, hands low, as though placating a wild animal. He had a knife in his belt, hidden beneath folds of clothing. He had no idea the butcher knew it was there. After all, how could she?
“Listen, you showed us, I learned my lesson, I’ll turn over a new leaf. I’ll become a cleric, I’ll sweep up the shrines of the Saints, I’ll dedicate my life to doing good,” his hand twitched nearer his belt. She allowed him a moment to believe this would work. “I was being forced into this, I was a farmer before all this,” Fingers flexed, “And I should really thank you for getting me out of this crowd,”
He made his play, far too late. Her hand was already waiting to intercept the knife before he had even decided where to throw it. She caught it delicately between thumb and forefinger, easily as you’d snatch an autumn leaf out of the air. She allowed herself a heartbeat to savor his shock.
And then the butcher returned the favor.
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