Valdric raised his hand in signal. The ten Wardens spread out without a word, moving to surround the village from different angles.
The plan was simple. Secure the square, bring out the Hound, let it identify apostates, eliminate them and leave. Professional, surgical. The kind of operation Wardens had conducted for generations.
They rode in slowly, hooves loud in unnatural quiet. Garren's instincts continued prickling. Doors were closed tight despite the morning hour, windows shuttered against coming storm.
Middle of morning and there should have been activity. Children playing or women hanging laundry or men working repairs. The village felt abandoned. Or worse, waiting.
Valdric sensed it too. "Ready yourselves. Stay—"
An arrow hissed past his head, missing by inches.
Everything happened at once. More arrows rained from rooftops where militia had been waiting. Not soldiers, just farmers with hunting bows and makeshift spears, but desperate and dangerous.
One of Garren's brothers, a Warden named Petran who'd helped with sword forms, took an arrow to the shoulder and fell with a cry.
"Ambush!" someone shouted, but Garren's body moved before his mind caught up. He dismounted smoothly, greatsword clearing its sheath as his feet hit ground. An arrow whistled past where his head had been a moment before, close enough he felt wind on his cheek.
A villager charged from between buildings, wielding a threshing flail. Middle-aged, weathered face, strong arms from farm work.
Terror and determination warred in his eyes as he came at Garren with weapon raised. Garren felt hesitation cut through combat instincts. This wasn't a mage with fire or wind. Just a farmer defending his home, fighting to protect family and neighbours.
But the man swung the flail at his head with killing intent, and hesitation gets brothers killed.
Garren brought his greatsword up in rising guard, angling blade to catch and redirect the flail's chain. The weapon wrapped around his sword and he used the man's momentum, pivoting on his back foot and yanking the blade sideways.
The farmer stumbled, off-balance, guard open. The return cut came automatically. Horizontal slash powered by hips and blade weight.
The greatsword bit deep across the man's ribs and he went down hard.
First kill.
Garren reset immediately. Feet shoulder-width, blade in low guard, point angled toward next threat. Heart hammering but hands steady. Around him, brothers rallied. Better trained and armed than militia fighting with desperation but not skill. The fight was turning.
Another villager came at him. Younger, maybe Garren's age. He wielded a staff and swung wild, untrained. The boy thrust desperately and Garren sidestepped, using the greatsword's length to keep distance.
He didn't need to swing yet. Just angled the flat to redirect the staff's point, making the boy overcommit and stumble past.
Garren pivoted, bringing the pommel down hard on the back of the boy's skull. Impact dropped him to his knees, dazed. Garren followed with a thrust downward through the side of his neck, angling for vital arteries. Blade punched through and the boy collapsed forward, twitching once before going still.
Second kill.
He pulled the blade free with a twist and looked around, cataloguing the battlefield. Militia was breaking. They'd wounded maybe five Wardens with their first volley, but they were farmers against trained warriors being cut down with brutal efficiency.
Brother Marcus had taken an arrow to the leg but was still fighting, face set grim as he drove back two villagers. Commander Valdric was unhorsed but pressing forward, movements economical and deadly.
Bodies piled in the square. Most belonged to villagers who'd tried to stand against warriors and paid the price. Garren's breathing was heavy but controlled.
Combat high sang in his veins, adrenaline making everything sharp and clear. This was what he'd been made for. What it meant to be a Warden.
Then everything changed.
Fire erupted from a doorway. A roiling sphere of orange and red that screamed through air with a sound like tearing silk. It caught Brother Thomas square in the chest before he could dodge.
Thomas's scream was inhuman as flames wrapped around him, armour heating and melting against skin. He fell writhing, hands clawing at burning metal, and the smell of cooking flesh and melted steel filled the air.
Mage.
The word cut through everything else, sharp and clear. This was what they'd come for. The real threat, not farmers with desperate courage.
Garren's head snapped toward the doorway. A young man stood there, maybe twenty-five, dark hair and wild eyes. His hands crackled with flames dancing between fingers like living things.
Face twisted with terror and determination, the look of someone who knew he'd probably die but was determined to take killers with him.
The mage launched another blast toward clustered Wardens. They scattered and the fireball hit a hay cart, wood exploding into splinters and flame spreading to the nearest building. Garren heard screaming from inside, smelled smoke already choking the square.
"Suppression formation!" Valdric's voice cut through chaos like a blade.
Brothers who could still fight moved without hesitation, spreading in the pattern they'd drilled countless times. They began encircling the mage from multiple angles, cutting escape routes, advancing with weapons ready and shields up.
The formation was designed for mage combat, to overwhelm and confuse, force them to divide attention until an opening appeared.
The mage saw what was happening and panicked. Fire erupted from his hands in all directions, no longer controlled but wild and desperate. Wildfire spread in dry morning air, catching thatched roofs and wooden walls.
Buildings caught one after another, flames leaping structure to structure. More screaming from inside, villagers trapped by the mage's desperate defence.
Garren circled wide, keeping low, using smoke as cover. The mage's attention fixed on Valdric and Marcus pressing from the front, weathering flames with raised shields, waiting for an opening. The mage didn't see Garren approaching from his flank, didn't notice the young Warden closing distance with predatory patience.
Garren closed in quick, quiet strides, boots nearly silent on packed earth. He shifted grip on the greatsword, left hand moving up to grasp blade just below the crossguard. Half-sword grip gave more control at close range. The technique sacrificed reach for precision, turning the greatsword into something like a spear.
The mage's leg was exposed, unarmored, vulnerable.
Garren drove the point through the man's knee with all his weight. Blade punched through flesh and cartilage with a crunch. The mage screamed, concentration shattering like glass under a hammer.
He dropped, clutching his ruined leg, and fire around his hands sputtered and died. Blood pooled, soaking into dirt.
Garren released blade and stepped back, returning grip to hilt. The mage was down now, defenceless, looking up with eyes wide with pain and fear and sudden understanding that he was about to die.
The second strike came down heavy overhead, catching the mage across collarbone and neck. His head lolled at an unnatural angle and he stopped moving, stopped breathing, stopped being a threat.
Third kill. First mage.
Garren stood over the body, breathing hard through adrenaline flooding his system. Heart still racing but not from fear. Something else, something hotter that made him feel more alive than he ever had in practice yards. Exhilaration. He'd killed a mage, actually killed one.
Everything he'd been taught about how dangerous they were, how they had to be stopped before hurting innocents, and it worked exactly as it should. The techniques worked. The drills worked. He worked.
Pride surged through him, hot and bright and undeniable.
"Second mage!" Valdric's shout snapped him back. "North side!"