"KILL THEM ALL!" A voice roared from the bandit line. "Take the wagons!"
The bandits charged.
The remaining mercenary took one look at the approaching horde, more than a dozen armed killers emerging from the treeline.
Then turned and bolted into the darkness without looking back.
"Come back here, you coward!" the merchant screamed after him. "We paid you to—"
"You didn't pay me enough for this!" The mercenary's voice faded into the forest. Then gone.
The merchant's wife clutched their daughter, maybe eight years old, eyes wide with terror, and pulled her close. Shielding her with her own body. The girl buried her face against her mother's chest, trembling.
The merchant stood in front of them. Pulled a knife from his belt, small thing, meant for cutting rope and opening crates, not fighting.
But he held it with shaking hands anyway. Ready to die protecting his family if necessary.
Alaric sighed and drew Nightfire.
The blade sang as it left its scabbard.
