As time passed, their sprint slowed down to a fast-paced jog, the forest growing denser and daylight fading away. It wouldn’t take long for night to fall and the pair could only hope Ameldia went straight ahead. Neither was experienced enough to spot any tracks at the speed they were going. Left with no real choice they kept going and going, until, with the last rays of twilight, they spotted Ameldia. She appeared to have stopped in the middle of the forest, bow and arrow loosely in her left hand. As they approached, Ameldia turned, one finger raised to her lips in a shushing motion, before waving them closer.

  “Found the bastards”, she whispered, once Cork and Markus reached her side. “They made camp further ahead, you can see the fire and smoke from here.” True enough, if one observed closely, a flickering light lapping at the shadows of the falling night was visible in the distance between the trees.

  “Doesn’t look like a big one. What do you say? Camp of a dozen?”, Cork stepped past her with a malicious grin. “We can take those odds. I’ve beaten more bandits to a bloody pulp than I can count. I say we go in there and show them why slavery isn’t a healthy business.” The calm silence of the forest rustled with intentions of bloodshed, vengeance and mindless violence. As the last vestiges of daylight faded from sight the warrior turned expectantly to his companions, face shrouded by the night, his silhouette barely illuminated by flickering shadows of a far off light in the sudden darkness.

  Silence fell. The world seemed to hold its breath in wait of deaths judgement. As Ameldia and Markus looked past Cork, watching a slaver’s outline darken the campfire’s scintillating light, fate’s dice were cast. Blood would be spilled this night - and the crows would feast.

  In silent agreement, the trio stalked closer through the moonlit woodlands. Deadly calm had descended on the adventurers. They knew, even with confidence in their odds, that any fight was dangerous and any mistake might lead to the wrong blade biting into flesh. They may not have the decades of experience older adventurers might have, nor were they soldiers trained to fight sapient races. However, each of the three had had their fair share of experience, may it be Markus purifying the corruption of Alem’s heretics in Voldendeep, Cork dueling the nomads of Norkrig, or Ameldia hunting desecrators in the Hallowed Glades.

  As they drew closer, the camp slowly came into sight through the trees. It was spread throughout a small clearing, with the central campfire illuminating rugged figures, patched tents and two run-down wagon’s on the far end. Seeing the bandits chatting away merrily, unaware of their imminent demise, made Cork crack a savage grin. This was going to be fun. Gripping his heavy mace with both hands he leaned forward. Right foot forward digging into the soft forest floor. His chainmail clinked softly, its sound muffled by his heavy cloak. Flexing his muscles he lowered his head slightly before pumping his left foot – into an all-out sprint, crushing through the understory and cracking fallen branches. Alarmed by the sudden noise the bandits turned. Blinded as they were, all they saw as a massive shadow storming at them, before with a gentle whistle and a soft squelch the iron tip of an arrow pierced through the throat of one. He tumbled backward, letting go of the hilt of his still sheaved sword, his shaking hands disbelievingly reaching for the arrow shaft sticking out of his throat.

  Still shell-shocked by the sudden attack, the others started reaching for their weapons barely a second after Cork started rushing in. Too late. By now the tall built warrior had reached the group. Cork dug his heels in, his heavy weapon rushing forward. He felt the satisfying squelch vibrating up his arms as the mace’s head caved in the first bandits chest. Ripping his weapon back, he stepped past the crumbling corpse. Already his trained arms had wound up, the mace flying towards the head of the second bandit in an brutal overhead swing. Time seemed to slow down for Cork, as he saw the bandit’s eyes widen, face wide and weapon only half-drawn. In panicked surprise the bandit started raising his arm, as if to block the weapon. “P-ple-e-s”, the stuttering plea was cut short as the metal implement caved in his forehead, driving downwards pushing cheekbones sideways. Hot blood splattered across Cork’s arms and face. Only five left.

  Looking past the now headless bandit, he saw three bandits had managed to pull out their short swords, faces grim, while the lone surviving woman had picked up a spear. The fifth was keeling on the ground several feathered arrows sticking out of her chest, long hair concealing her face. Most likely dead already. “Best to let Ameldia finish the spear wielding woman while I deal with the amateurs”, Cork thought to himself. Just as he started stepping sideways, the spear-wielding bandit let loose an guttural cry born out of fear and anger and charged at Cork while thrusting her spear forward. It was a clumsy blow, barely fast enough for an inexperienced warrior, let alone an experience fighter. Cork batted the spear aside with a one-handed swing, before stepping forward and grappling the stumbling bandit at her collar. “Scared are you? Not so easy when they fight back, is it?”, he growled, delighting in the look of utter fear in her eyes, before heavily headbutting her. Dazed she stumbled back, her spear dropping at Cork’s feet.

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  Raising his bloody mace, piece off flesh still clinging to curved flanges, he pointed at the swordsmen.

  “I’m feeling generous. Tell me who you are working for and I might left you live.”

  “We aren’t telling you nothing”, the smallest of the three spat. “You coward gut lucky, we didn’t see ya coming. But now it’s us against you. Got you outnumbered, asshole.” Just as he raised his sword higher, blood splattered over his face. An arrow had pierced through the cheek of his companion, dropping him to the ground clutching his face in pain.

  “Have you now?”, Cork grinned, before dropping quickly into stance as the two bandits rushed at him. A quick stab to his left, deflected by his mace. A twist to the right to dodge the swing at his shoulder. Flexing his muscles the fighter quickly raised his mace to block the swing at his neck, before stumbling sideways as the second bandit recovered from his miss and slashed at his feet. Dammit, these two are much better, Cork cursed in his head. Quickly taking several steps back, he centered himself, drawing deep from his core. His muscles bulged, his armor suddenly light as a feather and he could feel power pooling in his hips and arms to empower his swings. His next block pushed back the blade, almost disarming the smaller bandit, before he quickly transitioned into a sideways swing, whistling towards the second bandit. As the outlaw tried to deflect the blow, Cork simply powered past the blade, pushing the sword into its wielder and throwing the man backwards into one of the tents. Taking a step forward after his fallen foe, he suddenly feel a piercing pain in his back. The sudden impact pushed him forward, towards the bandit on the ground, who was scrambling to get back up. His balance ruined and screaming in pain and rage, Cork tried to turn around to defend himself, the spearhead twisting painfully as it was ripped out of his back sideways, but unexpectedly stepped on a piece of tarp, his foot loosing grip. He went to the ground heavily, a loud crack sounding out as a piece of wood gave under his weight.

  Looking towards the spear wielding woman, he saw her staring at him, her face bloody and feet unsteady. In her hand was only the butt of her spear, broken in half. As he stared at her, paralyzed in surprise for a moment, his eyes meet hers. For just a moment he felt like he could see her pain and grief reflected in her eyes, accompanied by malicious joy, though quickly replaced by… shock? A loud clang and heavy impact to his armored hip interrupted the moment; the resulting small drain to his core, making Cork raise his head in shock. Above him stood the smaller bandit, both hands empty and raised to strike but nailed together by a black arrow. Looking down Cork saw the sword had bounced off of his hip, a shimmering field of manifested energy reinforcing his armor. Cursing himself, the fighter pushed more power into his mace hand, pulling the weapon out under the bandits foot and driving in upwards in supernatural speed. In a true showcase of why Cork Hammer was part of the Hammer family, his power took over, hammering the mace head over and over again into the bandits groin. Each hit driving deeper, ever upwards, his hand moving on its own, while Cork gritted his teeth and pushed himself onto his feet.

  By the time he was standing again, his victim’s bottom half was barely recognizable. Cutting the stream of power to cancel his martial technique, Cork felt his eyes flutter and black closing in as the wave of exhaustion hit him. As he stumbled forwards, strong hands suddenly steadied him and Markus calm voice next to him.

  “Slow down, my friend. I have you.”, the priest said soothingly. “May harmony find you, your pain be balanced in pleasure and your wounds return to the past. I beseech thee, Eltahi, take this mans wounds and grant him your respite. Chaos has been wrought and harmony is to be restored. So have thee decreed, so it shall be.”, he slowly chanted, guiding Cork to the ground, as amber light wound its way over his body, slowly nitting the gaping wound in the fighter's back closed. Seconds later the big man was sleeping soundly on the bandit’s camps ground, his wounds gone as if they had been nothing but a dream.

  End of Chapter