A border town in the Kingdom of Midland.
Black smoke rose like a malignant signal. Faint screams on the wind were swallowed by lewd laughter and the thud of hooves, all fading into despair.
Most of the town's buildings had been burned. Beneath the rubble lay the twisted corpses of the inhabitants. Perhaps they were the lucky ones—their deaths had come quickly.
The surviving women, young and old, beautiful and plain, were all that remained. To the mercenaries, half-starved and bloodlusted after weeks of marching, they were simply objects. Things to be used and discarded.
The mercenaries ignored their pleas and their struggles. They tore clothes, broke limbs, and reveled in their victims' helplessness. They savored the hunt.
BAM!
A wooden door was kicked open. Balzac, the towering commander of this mercenary band, strode out, clad in primitive leather armor, fastening his pants as he went. Through the doorway, a glimpse of a naked body could be seen, bruised, bloodied, and still on the floor.
Balzac took a deep breath and watched his men at their 'work' with a casual, bored interest. This was nothing new.
His mercenary company had been in the service of General Boscogn of the Tudor Empire for years, fighting against Midland's armies.
Balzac himself had once killed one hundred and thirty Midland soldiers with his own greatsword. He was infamous, known as the "Hundred-Man Slayer." Friend and foe alike feared him.
Six months ago, General Boscogn had sent Balzac's company to raid border towns in Midland. They were given free rein, with only one order: don't stay too long, or risk being caught by the Midland army.
Balzac's company had no discipline. Loose in enemy territory, with permission to do as they pleased, their true nature had been unleashed. The evil in their hearts amplified and freed.
Companies like the Hawks were the rare exception. Most mercenary bands were no better than this.
In the past six months, no village or town they'd raided had been left with survivors. The men were killed on sight. The women were brutalized until they died.
They spread evil with impunity. The Midland army on the border was powerless to stop them. By the time a patrol arrived, it was always too late.
And the local lords certainly weren't going to mobilize their forces to protect a few peasants from Balzac's marauders.
Balzac's company had learned this. Their evil had only grown bolder.
There was no doubt that, barring a miracle, this town would share the fate of all the others.
The homes would burn. The people would die. The Midland army would arrive too late and leave. The town would become a mass grave, slowly erased by scavengers, wind, and time.
It was then that Balzac felt a prickle of danger.
At first, he didn't understand its source. He scanned his men, who were taking turns assaulting the women, and then it hit him.
"Where are Glenn and Reagan?" Balzac's voice cut through the air.
No one answered. The mercenaries were having too good a time.
He strode forward, grabbed one of his men, and threw him to the ground. "Where are Glenn and Reagan?! I told everyone to stay in sight! Where are they hiding?!"
The mercenary looked around, confused. "I... I saw them earlier, but... I don't know where they went now."
"Then go find them!" Balzac roared.
"Y-yes, sir!" The man, terrified of his commander, scrambled to his feet, pulling up his pants as he ran off.
Balzac waited. The man didn't come back.
His unease grew. He shouted for all his men to stop what they were doing and gather.
They grumbled, but Balzac's strength was legendary. No one dared defy him. They shuffled together, forming a loose, ragged group.
"What the hell?!" Balzac looked around, frowning deeply. "Where is everyone?! Where did the rest go? Did they all fall into a hole?"
No one had an answer. They didn't want to think about it. They just complained about their captain ruining their fun.
Balzac's anger was building. He was about to order a search when he heard a faint whistle.
His battle-hardened instincts kicked in.
He ducked. An arrow zipped past his head and struck the mercenary in front of him square in the chest. The man dropped.
"Ambush!" Balzac shouted, diving behind a pillar and scanning for the archer.
The other mercenaries finally reacted, scrambling for their weapons and cover.
Balzac spotted him. A lone figure on a strange horse, perched on the highest point of a collapsed windmill.
The man was holding a crossbow.
---
"Pity," Nidhogg muttered, lowering the crossbow. He patted Torrent's neck. "That one's their leader. If only he'd stayed in the open a moment longer."
Nidhogg wasn't the type to solve every problem with his greatsword.
He preferred to use every tool at his disposal to gain every possible advantage.
He'd been resting nearby when he'd seen the smoke and flames. He'd ridden Torrent to investigate and found this scene of atrocity.
He felt no pity for these inhuman mercenaries. He'd been picking them off, one by one, silently. A crossbow bolt here, a quick sword stroke there.
By the time Balzac had finally sensed something was wrong and gathered the survivors, Nidhogg had already killed dozens.
Now, with his prey clustered and his shot at the leader failed, he abandoned stealth.
He drew his Lordsworn's Greatsword, patted Torrent's mane, and smiled grimly. "Alright, Torrent. Since we're discovered, let's deal with these animals together."
Torrent whinnied and leaped from the broken windmill tower. His four hooves hit the ground with impossible lightness, like falling feathers. The mercenaries stared, stunned.
In the next instant, they blinked, and Torrent was a hundred meters closer, thundering towards them like lightning!
Nidhogg leaned to the side. The Lordsworn's Greatsword swept out, cleanly taking a mercenary's head!
As the blood sprayed, he leaned to the other side. Another swing. Two more heads flew!
He rode Torrent through their ragged line, a whirlwind of death. Each swing of his greatsword claimed at least one life. The ground was quickly littered with bodies.
The mercenaries were in shock. His greatsword cut through their armor, shattered their weapons. It was as easy as slicing melons and vegetables!
Some finally reacted, raising crossbows and loosing bolts. Most missed Torrent's blurring speed. The few that hit were turned aside by his leather barding.
In moments, the battle was all but over.
Nidhogg's greatsword was slick with blood. He wiped it on a corpse.
Balzac had understood from the first charge that his infantry were no match for cavalry. He'd run to find his own horse.
He searched frantically. He found it. Dead. Recently butchered, lying in a pool of blood.
"You killed my horse?!" he roared, insane with rage.
He heard hooves behind him. He spun, greatsword raised. Nidhogg was there, having dismounted.
Balzac screamed and charged. "I've killed a hundred and thirty Midland soldiers! You think I fear you?! Come! Come!"
Nidhogg didn't answer. He simply raised his Lordsworn's Greatsword, parried Balzac's wild swing with contemptuous ease, and then, in one fluid motion, drove the point through the "Hundred-Man Slayer's" throat.
Fwoosh!
Blood fountained. Nidhogg wiped a spray of it from his face. He looked at the remaining mercenaries, frozen in terror.
"A hundred men? You dare boast of that?" His voice was cold. "Guts would make a fool of you. And he's not even here."
He pointed his bloody greatsword at them. "None of you are leaving here alive. But you're welcome to try."