Dreisterne

INTERLUDE II

The moon hung high, casting a cold, pale light over the quiet village nestled at the edge of the woods. It had been a peaceful evening, the kind that lulled people into a false sense of security. Then came the sound of dozens of hooves echoing through the narrow streets like the harbinger of doom.

The first screams pierced the air as heavily armoured men stormed into the village, their faces obscured by shadowed visors. They moved with ruthless efficiency, kicking down doors, dragging people from their homes, and ransacking every corner for valuables. The clinking of chainmail, the heavy thud of boots, and the cries of terror melded into a cacophony of chaos.

A young man, no more than twenty, burst from his modest home with a pitchfork in hand. His hands trembled, but his eyes burned with defiance. "Leave us be!" he shouted, his voice quavering but resolute.

From the centre of the chaos emerged the leader. He was no older than the young man, and his figure was not very imposing even when clad in polished armour that gleamed in the moonlight. He had a mop of wavy black hair on his head, and his expression betrayed him as someone who revelled in being noticed. In his gloved hands was a longsword, its crossguard golden and filigreed, and its blade catching the light like a predator's gleaming fang.

The young man charged with his pitchfork. The leader didn't flinch. His sword flashed once, and a heartbeat later, the pitchfork fell in two, along with its wielder. The villagers who had dared to gather weapons paused, their courage instantly replaced with terror at the ghastly sight as they watched the leader withdraw his blade and flick the blood off with a practised gesture.

"Anyone else?" His voice cut through the night, calm yet commanding, laced with a faint accent that spoke of nobility. "Nein? Good. Then, let us not waste time."

A few villagers tried to flee, but they were quickly intercepted by the raiders. Mothers clutched their children tightly, fathers stood helplessly in front of their families, and elders fell to their knees, pleading for mercy.

The leader walked among them with measured strides, his presence heavy and oppressive. He stopped near a cluster of children, their wide eyes brimming with tears as they clung to their parents. He motioned to one of his men, who grabbed a boy by the arm and dragged him forward.

The child screamed, his mother wailing as she tried to grab him, only to be shoved back by another raider.

"Quiet," the leader commanded, his voice a steel edge against the villagers' cries. "Listen well, dearest Bauern. This is how it will be. You will surrender yourselves and your homes to us. Your children will come with my men. They will be kept safe, away from harm." He bent down, his voice softening in a way that made the villagers shudder. "And you will obey me if you know what is best for you all."

A middle-aged man, the village blacksmith, stepped forward, fists clenched. "What do you want with our children?" he demanded.

The leader turned to him, tilting his head as though considering the question. "What we want is compliance. What happens next depends on you."

The blacksmith lunged in a fit of rage, but the leader's sword moved faster than the eye could follow. The man's body hit the ground, lifeless, followed by his head.

"Now," the leader continued, his tone unchanging, "I believe I've made myself clear. Choose wisely."

The villagers' resolve crumbled. Slowly, tearfully, they began to step aside, relinquishing their children to the armoured men. Small hands reached desperately for their parents, their cries echoing in the night as they were led away.

As the raiders departed, the leader turned to cast one final glance at the village, now drowning in despair. His lips curved into a faint smile beneath his helm. The night had been fruitful, and the dawn would bring only the echoes of his triumph.