Leaning back in the saddle of his great warhorse, he eyed the men to his left and right without looking directly at them. It always seemed easier to prepare for battle when there were no distractions of morality or even friendship. He tried not to engage in any small talk or even make eye contact with friends before his “job” needed doing. “You don’t like your duty now...huh, Morcel?” Spoke the man to his right in a low, grumbling voice while looking around at everyone else, trying to gather approval for his jest. The men in the immediate area let out a forced laugh but kept their eyes low. Forced because it was no secret how Morcel viewed such missions, and a touch nervous because there was not a man here who wanted to suffer the wrath of this killer merely over a jest. The warrior’s head whirled around and looked directly at him as the man flinched, seemingly unnerved by the sudden attention given by those bright green eyes—a piercing, unnatural green that seemed like two emeralds gleaming in the dark.
“I’m glad you’re up to the task of killing women and children, Grom,” said Morcel in a rather lighthearted fashion as he leaned in close. “If any of the larger women give you trouble, I promise to protect you,” he said smugly. Booming laughter echoed through the camp while an embarrassed Grom just dipped his head and began fiddling with the reins of his horse.
Morcel decided not to push it any further. There was nothing to be gained by starting any arguments over something as out of place as morals, especially before preparing to purge a town of women and children. Besides, he had no bad blood towards Grom, or anyone else here for that matter. Most here were just following orders to earn some coin.
Sure, there were always the ones that actually enjoyed the killing. Some even enjoyed the victims screaming and pleading for their lives, as if it were some sort of game. They were no different than boys burning ants with a looking glass, trying to play God. But he wanted to believe most viewed all of this similar to the way he did: just hoping to get this cowardly act over with so they could go back to their wives, or whores, or whatever their illusion of love may be; whatever their way of feeling normal again may be.
“Line up, you soulless leathers!” cried a booming voice from the back of the group. “Leathers” was simply a nickname given to mercenaries, who were often described as leather—hard and tough, but not very refined. “When the scout gives the signal, we charge, got it?” Whistling and cheering followed the blunt command, for these men were killers but clearly not soldiers. “Arrowhead formations now,” said Belar in that deep, authoritative voice. “Leave none alive…” His voice trailed off as he spoke the hollow sentence his heart wanted no part of.
Belar was a tall, thin man who had seen his share of battles. This was certainly evident by the numerous scars across his chest and back, none of which could be seen due to his jet-black full-body leather armor. However, no visual evidence was needed to convince anyone of his past or skill set. His steady voice and dominant stare spoke a thousand words. The man could be giving instructions on how to sew, and the whole world would stop and listen.
Belar didn’t like this any more than Morcel did, but he had even less of a choice. Belar was the captain of the guard for the town of Athsmin, and had been sent to lead the pack of leathers in this mission. The sleepy farmers’ town known as Brinton had been climbing in rank due to several good crop seasons and many well-run family businesses the last few years. Naturally, this was seen as a threat to the financial well-being of Athsmin, so that was it, then—wipe them out and blame local bandits for the unfortunate fate of the town. Keep the militia back in Athsmin so no one could trace the slaughter to their doorstep.
Not that any real investigation would ever take place. Such politics were not only accepted, but silently applauded as long as no witnesses remained. Only the strong survived in this harsh world, and none of the larger cities had any real reason to look into such grave misfortunes that befell smaller, insignificant towns. Leathers had no loyalties and were known to do a thorough job. They always had a price, and their services could be bought for minimal coin. The only real instruction given to Belar was to keep these guys in line...and finish the job!
That was all he planned to do. He was well aware that although they were all skilled killers, they had little real military experience, and trying to set up teams of various battle formations would do no good. Not that any real tactics would be needed this day. All there was to do now was wait for the signal from the scout they had sent in around an hour ago to be sure the streets were mostly empty. As long as he could walk to the center of town undetected, that would be good enough.
A burning arrow shot straight up into the night sky from the center of the sleepy town. “Charge!” yelled Belar to virtually no one, as every leather was off in a flash long before the arrow reached its zenith.
The thunderous sound of steel horseshoes pounding the hard ground echoed into the night as they roared down the hill and through the streets. Street lanterns cast their shadows on wooden shops and homes, the buildings hardly distinguishable from one another in the dim light as war shouts echoed off them.