The grim resolve of the companions set a relentless pace. Hours bled into a tense afternoon, the rugged terrain testing their endurance, but their fury and the desperate, fragile hope Elara carried for Pippa fueled them beyond mere exhaustion. Lorien, a silent specter of vengeance, read the increasingly fresh signs with an intensity that was almost palpable. The Coiled Serpent Bandits, still careless, were not far ahead. The air itself seemed to grow heavier, charged with an unspoken anticipation.
As dusk began to weave its shadowy fingers through the gnarled trees, casting the landscape in hues of bruised purple and blood orange, Lorien finally signaled an abrupt halt. He crouched low, his hand raised, his head cocked as he listened intently. The others froze, every sense straining.
For a moment, there was only the sound of their own ragged breathing and the sigh of the wind through the dying leaves. Then, Dave caught it too – faint, but unmistakable. The distant, guttural sound of rough laughter, a snatch of a crude song, and the unmistakable crackle of a sizeable campfire. Further off, a muffled cry, quickly silenced.
"They're close," Lorien breathed, his voice a dangerous whisper. "Camped in a small, box canyon just ahead. I count at least ten, perhaps more. The terrain offers some cover for an approach."
Elara’s eyes, which had been fixed on the bundle in Borin’s pack with a mixture of anguish and fierce hope, now hardened with a steely glint. "Pippa and her father?" she whispered, her voice tight.
Lorien nodded grimly. "I saw movement near their main fire – figures that looked bound. We need to be certain of their numbers and the captives' disposition before we act."
Borin hefted his axe, the metal gleaming dully in the fading light. "No more running for these vipers. We end this tonight."
Dave’s heart hammered against his ribs. The sounds of the bandit camp, so mundane yet so menacing, made the impending confrontation terrifyingly real. He tightened his grip on his unbreakable stick, the wood surprisingly comforting. His earlier fear was still present, a cold knot in his stomach, but it was now overlaid with a fierce, protective anger he hadn't known he was capable of. The System's health and magic bars glowed faintly in the corners of his vision, a silent readiness.
"What's the plan?" Dave asked, his voice low, trying to emulate the calm he didn't feel.
Lorien gestured for them to stay low. "We approach under cover of the failing light. Observe their layout, the sentries, and confirm the captives' location and condition. Then, we strike. Swiftly, and without mercy."
They moved forward like shadows, the sounds of the bandit camp growing louder, the scent of woodsmoke and poorly cooked meat now tainting the crisp evening air. The "big fight" was no longer a future event. It was here.
They moved forward like shadows, the sounds of the bandit camp growing louder, the scent of woodsmoke and poorly cooked meat now tainting the crisp evening air. The "big fight" was no longer a future event. It was here.
Crouching at the precipice of the box canyon, hidden by a dense screen of thorny bushes and jagged rocks, the four companions peered down into the Coiled Serpent Bandits' makeshift camp. The last vestiges of twilight painted the scene in stark relief against the deepening shadows.
It was a scene of crude disarray. A large, roaring bonfire spat embers into the air at the canyon's center, illuminating at least a dozen rough-looking men. They were a motley crew, clad in mismatched, dirt-stained leather and rusted metal, their faces hard and cruel in the flickering light. Most were sprawled around the fire, swigging from wineskins, their laughter loud and coarse, echoing off the canyon walls. A few others were engaged in a drunken brawl near a pile of plundered goods – sacks of grain, crates, and barrels taken from the elven village. Two men, armed with crossbows, were meant to be sentries at the narrow canyon entrance, but one was asleep, slumped against a rock, and the other was openly sharing a skin of wine with a comrade who’d wandered over from the main group. Their carelessness was appalling, an insult to the very concept of vigilance.
Further back, tethered cruelly to a stunted, thorny tree near the canyon wall, were two figures. Even from this distance, their despair was palpable. One was a portly elf with flour dust still faintly visible on his clothes – Elmsworth, the baker. He was slumped, head bowed, but occasionally looked towards the smaller figure beside him. Pippa. The little elven girl was curled into a tight ball at his feet, her small shoulders shaking. They were guarded, but loosely, by a single, bored-looking bandit who was more interested in sharpening a long, wicked-looking knife.
Lorien observed the scene for long, silent minutes, his eyes missing nothing – the number of bandits, their state of inebriation, the laxity of the sentries, the position of the captives, the two clear escape routes (the main entrance and a narrow, rocky defile at the far end of the canyon, likely where a small stream trickled). His face was grim, but his movements were economical as he silently drew back, motioning for the others to join him a little further from the edge.
"Twelve by the fire, plus the two at the entrance and one guarding the captives," Lorien murmured, his voice low and precise, the strategist emerging. "Most are half-drunk and distracted. Their leader, the large one with the jagged axe Serana described, is holding court by the fire, his back to the captives."
He sketched a swift map in the dirt with a twig. "The sleeping sentry is our first opportunity. Elara, your magic – can you ensure he remains silent and doesn't raise an alarm if his companion notices anything amiss?"
Elara nodded, her eyes like chips of ice. "A targeted sleep enchantment, or a silencing ward. It can be done."
"Good. Borin," Lorien continued, "you and I will neutralize the other sentry and the one with him. Swiftly. Quietly. That secures the entrance. Once that's done, the main group will be our focus."
He looked at Dave. "Dave, that stick of yours is an unknown factor to them, and surprisingly potent. Your role will be crucial. The one guarding the captives – he’s isolated. When we engage the main group, I need you to get to him. Incapacitate him, free Elmsworth and Pippa, and get them clear through the far defile if possible. Elara will provide magical support from a concealed position, focusing on creating diversions or disabling key threats amongst the larger group by the fire."
Lorien’s gaze swept over them. "The leader is mine. Borin, you create chaos amongst the rest. We hit them hard and fast before they can organize a proper defense. Our priority is the captives' safety. Eliminate the threat."
Dave listened, his mind surprisingly clear. The plan was direct, dangerous, and relied on precision and speed. Back on Earth, faced with such a scenario, he’d have been a quivering mess, looking for the nearest exit or expecting the universe to drop a piano on his head. But here, now, something was different. The image of Pippa’s small, severed hand, the memory of the discarded slave, the quiet dignity of the grieving villagers – it had forged something new within him.
He nodded slowly at Lorien, his gaze steady. There was no sarcastic quip, no internal monologue about how this was likely to go pear-shaped. His eyes, usually a reflection of his perpetual misfortune and wry amusement, now held a focused strength, a grim determination that had never been there before. It was the look of someone who had seen too much, endured too much, and had finally found something worth fighting for, something that outweighed his own deeply ingrained instinct for self-preservation.
"Understood," Dave said, his voice quiet but firm. He gripped his stick. The blue health and magic bars in his vision felt less like a quirky game interface and more like resources he was now fully prepared to expend. He was still scared, deep down, but it was a cold, sharp fear now, honed into an edge rather than a paralyzing weight. He would not fail.
The die was cast. With nods of grim understanding, the companions melted into the deepening twilight, becoming one with the shadows that clung to the craggy edges of the box canyon. The air was thick with the smell of woodsmoke, unwashed bodies, and spilled ale, the raucous laughter from the bandit camp an oblivious counterpoint to the silent, deadly approach of the four avengers.
Elara moved with a grace that seemed to defy the uneven terrain. She positioned herself on a slight rise overlooking the canyon entrance, her eyes fixed on the sleeping sentry. A soft, silvery mist, almost invisible in the gloom, began to gather around her outstretched fingertips. She whispered a single, arcane syllable, and the mist flowed from her hand like a seeking tendril, drifting silently towards the oblivious bandit. It eddied around his head for a moment, then seeped into his senses. His already slack jaw went completely loose, and his breathing deepened into an unnaturally profound slumber. The other sentry, still sharing his wineskin and laughing boisterously with his companion, noticed nothing.
That was Lorien and Borin's cue. Moving with a speed and silence that belied their different statures, they were on the two conscious bandits at the entrance before either could react. Lorien’s blade was a whisper of steel, a precise, disabling strike that sent one bandit crumbling without a sound. Borin, eschewing subtlety for brutal efficiency, brought the butt of his axe down in a crushing blow to the temple of the other. Two thuds, barely audible over the din from the main campfire, and the entrance was clear. Lorien flashed a quick hand signal.
Phase one complete, Dave thought, his own heart pounding a frantic rhythm despite the cold resolve that had settled over him. This was it. He saw Elara repositioning slightly, her gaze now shifting towards the main group by the fire, her hands already forming new gestures.
Taking a deep breath, Dave began to move, staying low, using the scattered boulders and deeper shadows along the canyon wall as cover, his unbreakable stick held in a two-handed grip. His target: the lone bandit guarding Elmsworth and Pippa.
Just as Dave reached a point about ten yards from the preoccupied guard, Elara unleashed her primary assault on the main camp. It wasn't a fireball, nothing so overt. Instead, a wave of concussive force, invisible but potent, slammed into the area around the bonfire. Simultaneously, the fire itself erupted with a flash of brilliant emerald green light, momentarily blinding and disorienting those closest to it.
The effect was instantaneous. Wineskins flew, men yelped in surprise, and the drunken brawl dissolved into a confused tangle of limbs. One bandit, caught mid-laugh with a mouthful of ale, choked and stumbled backward, his eyes wide and uncomprehending as the green light seared his vision. Another, who had been boasting loudly, was thrown sideways by the invisible force, crashing into a stack of plundered crates with a sickening crunch.
Before the Coiled Serpents could register what had happened, Lorien was among them. He moved like a vengeful wind, his elven blade a silver blur in the chaotic green-tinged firelight. A bandit, still blinking away the dazzling light and heavy with drink, tried to draw his sword. He was too slow. Lorien’s strike was a precise, lethal thrust to the throat. The man gurgled, his eyes going wide with a final, stupid shock as he collapsed, blood fountaining dark in the emerald glare.
The sudden, silent death of their comrade cut through the alcohol-fueled haze for a few of the bandits. Panic began to set in. Men scrambled for weapons, their movements clumsy and uncoordinated, shouting confused alarms.
"To arms! We're attacked!" one bellowed, tripping over his own feet.
"What in the blazes—?!" another slurred, trying to shield his eyes.
But the bandit leader, the heavily scarred man with the jagged axe, reacted with surprising speed. He roared, a sound like rocks grinding together, cutting through the rising panic. "Fools! Get up! Form a line, you curs! It's a sneak attack! To me!" His massive axe was already in his hands, and despite the chaos and the lingering effects of the emerald flare, his eyes scanned the perimeter, sharp and dangerous. He shoved one of his own stumbling men aside, bellowing orders, trying to impose some semblance of order on his drunken, surprised rabble.
While the main camp erupted, Dave saw his chance. The guard by the captives had jumped to his feet, momentarily distracted by the explosion of light and sound from the bonfire, his head turned towards the chaos. This was the opening Lorien had planned for.
Stick held firmly in a two-handed grip, Dave moved. He hugged the shadowed canyon wall, each step deliberate, his focus narrowed to the lone bandit and the two huddled figures of Elmsworth and Pippa. The shouts and clanging of steel from the main camp provided a cacophony of cover for his approach. His earlier clumsiness was now suppressed by a desperate, focused adrenaline. The memory of Pippa's severed hand, the image of the discarded slave – these horrors fueled a cold rage that sharpened his senses.
The panicking bandits by the fire were a chaotic swirl of motion, their attempts to form a line hampered by their drunkenness and fear. Some fumbled with their weapons, others looked around wildly, trying to identify the source of the attack beyond the wraith-like figure of Lorien who was already engaging another. Their disarray was Dave's advantage.
He closed the distance to the captive's guard. The man was still half-turned, peering into the green-tinged chaos of the main camp, his knife held uncertainly. He hadn’t yet registered the silent threat creeping up behind him. Dave was a mere few feet away, the faint blue glow of his System's health and magic bars the only light that seemed to emanate from his own determined form in the deep shadows. He took one final, steadying breath.
Dave didn't hesitate. He lunged forward, bringing his unbreakable stick down with savage force. The first blow, infused with a desperate strength he didn't know he possessed, caught the bandit across the side of the head with a sickening, crunching thud. The man let out a choked grunt, staggering, his eyes wide with shock and sudden pain. Before he could even attempt to turn or raise his knife, Dave struck again, a brutal, downward smash to the collarbone, followed by a swift, powerful crack to the temple as the bandit crumpled. The guard fell like a sack of stones, making no further sound.
Panting, adrenaline singing in his veins, Dave immediately turned to the captives. Elmsworth, the baker, looked up, his elven eyes wide with a mixture of terror and dawning hope. Little Pippa was whimpering, curled tightly against her father. "We're here to help," Dave whispered hoarsely, fumbling with the rough ropes binding Elmsworth's wrists. As his fingers worked at the knots, his gaze fell upon Pippa's arm – the one Elara had spoken of. Even in the dim light, he could see the makeshift tourniquet, a strip of torn shirt, wrapped tightly above a horrifically bloody stump where her hand should have been. The sight sent a fresh wave of cold fury through him, strengthening his resolve.
He’d just managed to free one of Elmsworth's hands when a shadow fell over him. A panicking bandit, disoriented from Elara's initial magical assault and the chaos by the fire, had blundered away from the main group and spotted him. The man was clearly still heavy with drink, his eyes bloodshot and struggling to focus in the shifting, emerald-tinged light from the distant bonfire. With a drunken roar, he swung a rusty short sword wildly at Dave.
Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.
Dave reacted on pure instinct. He threw himself sideways, the bandit’s blow whistling through the air where he’d been moments before, missing by a hair's breadth. The bandit, overbalanced and partially blinded by the strange light, stumbled. Before the man could recover, Dave was back on his feet, a surge of unexpected speed flowing through him. He brought his stick around in a tight, powerful arc. It connected with the side of the bandit's head.
This time, there was more than just a crunch. Dave felt a sickening give, and in the dim, chaotic light, he saw a horrifyingly quick, contained eruption – a subtle, visceral explosion of bone shards and brain matter. The bandit's skull seemed to implode. The man dropped instantly, his body spasming once before lying still.
Dave stared for a split second at the gruesome result of his last strike, his stomach churning. The stick in his hands felt… different. Heavier. More potent. There was no time to dwell on it. The fight at the main camp was still raging, a cacophony of shouts, clashing steel, and the strange, whistling sounds of Elara’s magic.
He turned back to the captives, his hands shaking slightly, not from fear this time, but from the adrenaline dump and the horrific intimacy of the violence he’d just inflicted. "It's okay, it's okay," he muttered, more to himself than to the terrified elves, as he fumbled with the thick, coarse ropes binding Elmsworth. The knots were tight, drawn by cruel hands, and his fingers, slick with a cold sweat, struggled to find purchase.
Pippa was crying uncontrollably now, small, hiccuping sobs that tore at Dave's heart. The sight of her crudely bandaged stump, the dark stain seeping through the makeshift tourniquet, was a constant, agonizing reminder of what these bandits had done. "Hey, hey, shhh," Dave found himself saying, his voice surprisingly gentle as he worked on her father’s bonds. "We're getting you out of here. You're going to be safe. We promise." He wasn't sure if she could even hear him over the din of the battle raging just yards away.
Across the small canyon, the scene by the bonfire was a maelstrom of desperate conflict. Lorien, a blur of silver and shadow in the emerald-tinged firelight, was locked in a deadly dance with the bandit leader. The large, scarred man was surprisingly agile for his bulk, his jagged axe whistling through the air, each blow powerful enough to shatter stone. But Lorien was his equal in speed and far surpassed him in grace, his elven blade deflecting the brutal chops, seeking an opening, the two figures moving in a whirlwind of parries and counter-attacks that was both terrifying and mesmerizing to behold. Sparks flew as their weapons met, the ringing clang of steel a sharp counterpoint to the grunts and snarls of the combatants.
Meanwhile, Borin was a force of nature amongst the remaining bandits. Roaring like a mountain bear, his axe became a whirlwind of destruction. The Coiled Serpents, still dazed from Elara’s initial assault and reeling from Lorien’s swift kills, were trying to mount a defense, but the dwarf’s sheer ferocity was breaking their already shaky lines. He smashed through crude shields, sent men flying with powerful shoves, his axe cleaving through leather and bone with horrifying efficiency. Each swing was accompanied by a bellow of rage, a Dwarven battle cry that seemed to shake the very canyon walls.
From her concealed position, Elara was a conductor of chaos and protection. Streaks of emerald energy lashed out, not always with lethal force, but with pinpoint precision. One bandit, raising a crossbow towards Borin, suddenly screamed as his weapon became too hot to hold, clattering to the ground. Another, trying to flank Lorien, found his feet rooted to the spot by glowing green vines that snaked up from the earth. She wove her spells with focused intensity, her voice a low, constant murmur of arcane syllables, her eyes darting across the battlefield, anticipating threats, creating openings, and subtly shifting the tide of the battle.
Despite their initial surprise and the heroes' onslaught, the remaining bandits were still dangerous. They were desperate men, fighting for their lives, and though clumsy and drink-addled, their numbers still posed a threat. A wild arrow loosed from the panicked throng whistled past Elara’s head, and another bandit managed to land a glancing blow on Borin’s shield arm, drawing a grunt of pain and even greater fury from the dwarf.
Back by the thorny tree, Dave finally managed to undo the last of Elmsworth’s ropes. "Get Pippa," he urged the baker, his eyes darting between the struggling knots on the child's smaller bonds and the raging battle. "We need to move."
ave, his heart still hammering from the brutal, close-quarters kills, forced himself to focus. The sounds of the larger battle – the shriek of metal on metal, Borin’s earth-shaking roars, the sharp crackle of Elara’s spells, and the panicked shouts of the bandits – were a constant, terrifying backdrop.
He knelt by Pippa, who was still sobbing, her small elven frame trembling violently. Elmsworth, now free, hovered beside her, his face a mask of anguish and fear, his own hands shaking too much to be of use with the ropes. "Pippa, my sweetling," he murmured, his voice thick with tears.
"Almost there, Pippa," Dave said, his voice surprisingly gentle despite the adrenaline coursing through him. The ropes on her small wrists and ankles were cruelly tight. He worked at them with a desperate urgency, his fingers clumsy but determined. The sight of her bandaged stump, the dark stain slowly growing, fueled a protective fury that overrode his fear. "Just a little more."
Finally, the last knot gave way. Pippa didn't move, just continued to cry, burying her face in her father's side as he immediately pulled her into a protective embrace.
"The far passage," Dave said to Elmsworth, his eyes flicking towards the narrow, rocky passage Lorien had pointed out earlier on their makeshift map. It was at the opposite end of the small canyon from the main entrance, hopefully less guarded. "We need to get you both out of here. Now."
Elmsworth nodded, clutching Pippa tightly. "Thank you," he choked out. "Gods, thank you."
"Don't thank me yet," Dave muttered, grabbing his stick. "Let's move. Stay low, stay quiet, stay behind me."
He peered cautiously around the thorny tree. The main fight was still a whirlwind of violence around the central bonfire. The bandit leader and Lorien were a blur of motion, their duel a deadly focus amidst the chaos. Borin was like a boulder rolling through a field of ninepins, scattering bandits left and right. Elara’s emerald energies flashed intermittently, striking with purpose.
The area between their current position and the defile was cluttered with rocks and shadows, offering some cover, but it wasn't a clear path. And there was always the chance of a stray bandit, or one fleeing the main fight, stumbling upon them.
"Okay," Dave whispered, more to himself than the elves. "Here we go." He took the lead, moving slowly, pressing himself against the canyon wall, trying to use every patch of darkness. Elmsworth followed, half-carrying, half-shielding the traumatized Pippa. Each step was fraught with tension, every shadow seemed to hold a threat.
At the heart of the canyon, the fight was indeed reaching its brutal climax. Lorien’s duel with the Coiled Serpent leader was a masterclass in elven swordsmanship against brute strength and savage cunning. The leader, despite his size and the ferocity of his jagged axe, found himself consistently outmaneuvered. Lorien’s blade was everywhere – deflecting bone-jarring blows, delivering stinging cuts, forcing the bandit captain to give ground step by agonizing step. Finally, with a feint that left the leader overextended, Lorien disarmed him with a lightning-fast maneuver that sent the jagged axe clattering onto the blood-soaked earth. Before the captain could recover or draw a secondary weapon, the point of Lorien’s sword was at his throat. "Yield," Lorien commanded, his voice as cold and sharp as his blade. "Or die." The leader, panting, bleeding from several wounds, stared into Lorien’s unforgiving eyes and, for the first time, fear flickered in his own. He spat a curse but slowly raised his hands.
Across the chaotic campsite, Borin, covered in grime and gore but still roaring, had carved a bloody swathe through the remaining bandits. His axe rose and fell with devastating precision, and few could withstand his onslaught for more than a moment. Elara, meanwhile, had systematically disabled several more, her spells of binding and disorientation leaving them tangled, confused, or temporarily blinded by flashes of emerald light.
Seeing their leader disarmed and at Lorien's mercy, and with their numbers decimated – only three or four remained on their feet, trembling and bloodied – the fight went out of the last Coiled Serpents. One dropped his sword with a clatter, falling to his knees. Another, seeing Borin turn his furious gaze upon him, threw his weapon down and raised his hands in panicked surrender. The last, trying to make a break for the canyon entrance, was brought down by a precisely aimed sleep dart conjured by Elara.
Silence, abrupt and heavy, descended upon the canyon, broken only by the crackling of the bonfire, the groans of wounded bandits, and the ragged, gasping breaths of the victors. The fierce assault had been shockingly effective. Of the dozen or so bandits who had been carousing by the fire, most were dead or grievously wounded. Their leader was captured, and the few survivors were now cowering prisoners.
The sudden cessation of the main battle's din reached Dave, Elmsworth, and Pippa as they were halfway to the narrow defile. Dave paused, listening. The absence of clashing steel and battle cries was almost as jarring as the noise had been.
"Is it... is it over?" Elmsworth whispered, his voice trembling. Dave wasn't sure, but the change was undeniable. He motioned for them to keep moving, but a sliver of hope, something he hadn't dared to feel, began to flicker within him.
Dave wasn't sure, but the change was undeniable. "Keep moving," he urged, his voice low. "We're not clear yet." He pushed them gently towards the dark slit in the canyon wall that Lorien had pointed out as a potential escape. The defile was narrow, barely wide enough for two people abreast, and choked with loose rocks, but it offered a path out of the immediate horror of the camp. He helped Elmsworth guide a near-catatonic Pippa through the tight passage until they reached a small, sheltered alcove just beyond the canyon's main confines, a place where they were at least out of direct line of sight from the camp. "Stay here. Don't make a sound," Dave instructed, his eyes scanning back towards the canyon. He needed to know what had happened.
Back in the bloodied, fire-lit clearing, the fight had indeed ended. Lorien had the bandit leader on his knees, disarmed, a thin trickle of blood running from a cut on the man’s temple. The elf’s sword was still held with unwavering precision at the leader’s throat. Borin, breathing heavily, stood over two of the surrendered bandits, his axe dripping, its presence enough to ensure their terrified compliance. The third survivor, whom Elara had put to sleep, was now bound securely with rope retrieved from the bandits' own supplies. Elara herself was already moving among the fallen bandits, her expression grim, checking for any feigning death or any immediate threats. The scene was one of brutal, swift victory, but the cost was evident in the gore and the weary tension in the heroes' stances.
"Secure him," Lorien ordered Borin, nodding towards the bandit leader. The dwarf hauled the large man to his feet with little ceremony, efficiently binding his hands behind his back with a length of sturdy rope, his expression one of utter contempt.
Elara joined Lorien. "Any losses on our side?" Lorien shook his head, though he winced as he moved his shoulder. "A few bruises. Borin took a glancing blow. Nothing that won't mend." He looked towards the thorny tree where Dave had gone. "And Dave?"
As if summoned, Dave emerged cautiously from the shadows near the defile, having seen the fight die down. He approached the main group, his stick still in hand, his face pale but set. "Elmsworth and Pippa are safe, through the passage," he reported. "Pippa... her hand..." He didn't need to finish. Elara nodded, her eyes filled with pain but also that fierce, desperate hope. "The bundle Borin carries is secure."
Her gaze then swept across the chaotic campsite, past the bound prisoners, to the piles of plundered goods. "The dead slave we found," she said, her voice low but clear. "He was not from the village. It's likely these fiends had other captives, or were transporting them."
Lorien’s eyes narrowed. "A thorough search is needed. They wouldn't have kept other valuable 'property' out in the open."
Borin, having finished securing the bandit leader against a rock, spat. "If there are others, we find 'em. No one else suffers at the hands of these scum if we can help it."
"What about them?" Dave asked, gesturing with his stick towards the bound, sullen bandit leader and the two other terrified survivors.
"They'll answer to the Queen's justice," Lorien stated. "But first," his gaze turned cold as he looked at the leader, "he will tell us if there are any other souls trapped here, and where they might be found." He strode towards the captured leader. "Your miserable life hangs by a thread," Lorien said, his voice devoid of emotion. "Speak truth, and you might live to see a trial. Lie, or remain silent, and your suffering will only just be beginning. Are there other captives in this camp?"
he bandit leader, a hulking figure even when bound and defeated, slowly lifted his head. His gaze, however, didn't meet Lorien's. Instead, his bloodshot, hate-filled eyes found Dave. A sneer twisted the leader's lips. He gathered saliva and spat a thick glob contemptuously at Dave's feet.
"A human," the bandit leader rasped, his voice thick with venom, "helping these... things." He leered at Dave. "Licking elven boots, are ya? Traitorous rat. You make me sick."
Something inside Dave snapped. The horrors of the day – Pippa’s mutilated hand, the dead slave, the sheer, unrepentant malice in this man's eyes – coalesced into a single, blinding point of rage. Before Lorien could react, before Borin could even grunt a warning, before Elara could even register the shift in Dave’s demeanor, he moved.
It wasn't a calculated action; it was pure, visceral reaction. One moment Dave was standing there, hands loose at his sides; the next, he had exploded forward. The movement was a blur, shockingly fast, driven by the surprising strength and speed his transformed body now possessed. He didn't reach for his stick. His right hand clenched into a tight fist, and with a speed that seemed impossible for his frame only days ago, he delivered a savage, closed-fist backhand strike across the bandit leader's exposed face.
The blow landed with a sickening, wet crunch that echoed unnaturally in the sudden silence. It happened so quickly, so powerfully – a testament to Dave’s dramatically enhanced strength – that the leader had no time to even flinch. His head snapped back against the rock with violent force. Teeth, like scattered, bloody pebbles, flew from his ruined mouth. A choked, inhuman sound gurgled from his throat as his jaw visibly shattered, hanging at an unnatural, grotesque angle. His eyes rolled back, and he slumped into unconsciousness, blood and spittle drooling from his mangled lips.
Silence descended again, heavier this time, punctuated only by the bandit leader's ragged, obstructed breathing. Lorien, Elara, and Borin stared, momentarily stunned – not by the violence itself, but by the sheer, unexpected ferocity and devastating physical power that had erupted from Dave, the unassuming human from another world, with nothing but his bare hands.
Dave stood over the unconscious form of the bandit leader, his chest heaving, the adrenaline still thrumming through him like a live wire. His hand throbbed, but he barely registered the pain. His eyes, cold and hard, were fixed with an unwavering, hateful glare on the wounded trash, as he now thought of him, lying broken at his feet.
The silence was broken by Dave's voice, low and chillingly calm, a stark contrast to the violence of his actions. "Heal him," he said, his gaze not leaving the unconscious bandit. He didn't look at Elara, but the command was clearly directed at her.
Elara flinched slightly, not at the order, but at the icy resolve in Dave's tone – a tone she hadn't heard from him before. Lorien and Borin exchanged a quick, uneasy glance. This was a Dave they hadn't seen. There was no hesitation in Elara's response, however. Perhaps she sensed the burning need for information that fueled Dave's cold fury, or perhaps his sudden dominance in that moment simply brooked no argument. She stepped forward, her own expression a mixture of shock, grim understanding, and a touch of fear at this new facet of the human she was beginning to know.
Kneeling beside the grievously injured bandit leader, Elara's hands began to glow with their familiar soft, emerald light. The light, usually a symbol of gentle restoration, seemed almost out of place illuminating such a brutal injury. She carefully placed her hands on either side of the man’s grotesquely shattered jaw. The healing was not instantaneous, as it had been with minor cuts or bruises. This was a more profound mending. The sickeningly loose bone fragments slowly, visibly began to knit back together under the steady pressure of her magic. The mangled flesh gradually reformed, bruises faded, and the flow of blood from his mouth lessened. It was a slow, painstaking process, the deep green of her magic pulsing with effort.
Throughout it all, Dave remained standing, his arms now crossed, his eyes like chips of ice, boring daggers into the unconscious bandit leader. He didn't speak, didn't move, simply watched with an unblinking, terrifying intensity, waiting. The air around him crackled with a palpable hatred and an equally strong, unyielding will. He was waiting for the man to regain consciousness, to face him again. And this time, Dave was determined he would get his answers.
After what felt like an eternity, but was likely only a few minutes, Elara sat back, the emerald glow fading from her hands. The bandit leader’s jaw, while still likely incredibly tender, was no longer a shattered ruin. His breathing was less ragged, though still shallow. A low groan escaped his lips.
His eyelids fluttered. Groggily, he tried to shift, his senses slowly returning. The first thing he would have seen as his vision cleared were Dave's boots, planted firmly on the bloodstained earth in front of him. Then, as his eyes struggled to focus upwards, he would have met Dave's unwavering, icy stare.
"Good morning, sleeping beauty," Dave said, his voice devoid of any warmth, each word precise and cold. "I have some questions."
As the bandit leader’s eyes flitted open, still clouded with pain and confusion but beginning to register the menacing figure looming over him, Dave knelt down. With a swift, brutal motion, he reached out and grabbed a handful of the bandit's greasy hair, yanking his head up to force direct, unyielding eye contact. The bandit cried out, a muffled sound of pain and surprise. Dave's face was inches from his, his eyes burning with a cold fire that promised a world of hurt.
"And you will answer them," Dave stated, his voice a low, dangerous growl that left no room for doubt or defiance. The man who was once a kazoo of misfortune was gone, replaced by someone far more formidable, and far more terrifying.
