Smoke clung low to the ruined encampment, mingling with the copper stench of blood and burnt canvas. Gwendolyn knelt among the dead, wrists bound, knee throbbing with every heartbeat. Around her lay the broken remnants of her command—men she had trained, fought beside and reprimanded.
The Marauder's laughter carried easily through the camp.
He prowled like a beast among the corpses, his morningstar idly dragging furrows through ash and dirt. Gwen kept her head bowed, teeth clenched, forcing herself to breathe.
Then the bandits screamed as a horn blast tore through the air, low and guttural, echoing off the hills.
"What the—" someone exclaimed.
The first man died before he finished the thought.
A shape burst from the smoke—huge, armoured and moving with terrifying momentum. An axe cleaved downward, splitting skull and shoulder in a single, merciless arc. Those who are not split by the axe were killed by traumatic blunt force and blood sprayed across the dirt.
The figure did not slow.
He wore full plate new and shining, its surface glistened. From his helm rose curved protrusions—horns with papier-mâché wings catching the moonlight glare like the silhouette of a demon. His face was hidden underneath his horned greathelm.
"By Myriam, the fuck is that?!" a bandit shouted.
The horned warrior raised his axe,
He waded into them, his colossal axe swinging in broad, disciplined arcs—no wild hacking and no wasted motion. Each strike was decisive as limbs flew and shields shattered. A man tried to stab low but the axe haft crushed his throat before the blade took his head.
Gwen just stared at the scene.
This was not a knight of the Royal Guard or a soldier of the retinue. "A wandering knight?" Gwen asked herself.
Bandits scrambled to regroup, arrows loosed in a desperate volley. The warrior raised his axe and charged straight through them. One arrow glanced off his pauldron and another lodged uselessly in his cuirass. He never broke stride as arrows could not penetrate such expensive plate.
With one swing, he buried the axe into a bandit's spine mid-scream. He kicked a fallen shield into a third man's face then finished him with a backhanded chop, the huge metal gauntlet fist bashing his head in.
"Move," he growled—voice low and rough, distorted by the helm.
Gwen found herself hauled upright as the warrior cut her bindings. Pain lanced through her knee and she hissed—but he caught her before she fell.
"Can you stand?" he asked.
"Yes," she replied simply.
He nodded once, already turning away, axe rising again as bandits rushed in from the flanks. Gwen grabbed a fallen sword and shield, planting herself behind him.
They fought back-to-back.
Where Gwen was precise, the warrior was unstoppable force. His axe tore through brigandine and bone alike with each impact. When a bandit tried to flank him, Gwen hamstrung the man and smashed his skull in with her shield.
Together, they pushed forward cutting a path.
A savage roar split the air as The Marauder himself entered the fray.
He charged with his morningstar raised, houndskull bascinet glinting red. He swung hard, forcing the warrior to parry with the axe haft. The impact shook the ground.
"So," the Marauder snarled, circling. "Another self-righteous bastard has come to die."
The warrior said nothing.
The Marauder was fast. He struck low, then high, forcing the warrior to give ground. Gwen tried to intervene but pain dragged her down to one knee.
The warrior hooked the Marauder's weapon aside and headbutted him, horns cracking against metal pauldron. The Marauder staggered then smashed his morningstar into the warrior's ribs. Plate buckled as the warrior grunted but did not fall.
He answered with a savage upswing that tore the Marauder's shield arm open to the bone. Blood sprayed and the Marauder laughed maniacally anyway.They traded blows, each testing the other. The Marauder feinted then hurled a dagger.
It struck the warrior's helm and skidded away harmlessly—but the distraction was enough. Bandits surged in throwing themselves between their leader and death.
"Fall back!" the Marauder barked.
Smoke bombs shattered at their feet. When it cleared, the Marauder was gone—dragged away by his surviving men. The warrior stood still, axe dripping and chest heaving. The remaining bandits broke and ran.
The warrior turned to Gwen.
"You're bleeding," he said.
She laughed weakly. "You noticed."
He knelt, tearing cloth to bind her knee with surprising care for hands that had just ended dozens of lives.
"Who are you?" she asked, breath unsteady. "Who in their right minds would charge into a bandit camp?"
He paused.
"…I was passing through," he said at last.
She studied him—the horns, the battered plate and the axe nicked and stained with blood.
"Um… What do I call you?" she asked.
He stood.
"I'm heading to Ironhold," he said. "I'll take you with me and leave you at the nearest post."
Before she could argue he lifted her with ease and set her astride his horse, then mounted behind her. One arm steadied her and the other gathered the reins.
"Don't fight uphill again," he said simply.
The horse moved.
As Gwen was carried away from the burning camp, the night air grew cold against her face. Pain dulled into a distant throb, exhaustion pulling her under. She realised dimly that she still had never learned his name.
She did not bother to ask anymore as her fading consciousness took her before the thought could finish forming.