The men were nothing to him, beasts for the slaughter, ants beneath his boot, a disease to be eradicated. His sword in hand, Arenborn Kolten marched forward slowly, with very little care to protect himself as he cut through them. Twenty years ago he might have considered showing mercy. Not today, not in this narrow corridor, not after what they had done.
A man ran at him, screaming his war cry as he raised his spiked club. He was on the floor and missing a hand in a moment, screaming in pain. Aren ended his pitiful life with a slice across the throat. He stepped over the corpse and continued the fight.
The corridor was just wide enough for him to swing his sword without issue but narrow enough the enemy couldn’t charge as a group. It played to his advantage, but he had lost all care for himself and while some blows glanced off his old, battered armour, others made it through. A nick here or there, a slash on his arm, a stab to the shoulder. He paid them no attention.
He was disarmed mid strike, his sword clattering across the hall and into the wall. His eyes followed it for a moment, and he grimaced beneath his helmet. Fists it is. He thought to himself. He was equally fierce without a weapon, breaking bones, snapping necks, and gouging eyes. He stole a club and cracked it off a stolen helmet, breaking both the armour and the weapon in one strike. He kicked the body aside and stomped on the now exposed face with a sickening crunch. He stood and looked around for a moment, about a dozen corpses lay along the corridor. The younger men had been unable to withstand his cold fury. He stooped for his sword and proceeded onwards.
He passed through an old door, and it creaked open before being slammed shut on him. The leader of the pack, the last man standing. He kicked the door again, trying to hurt Aren as he pushed his way into the room. It wasn’t enough to save him though.
Aren knocked his weapon from his hand in a quick, simple movement with his sword and it flew across the room. He strode forward and threw his armoured fist into the evil man’s face. He didn’t know his name. He didn’t care. He just knew what he had done.
He had waited for this moment for months. He hadn’t kept a proper count of the days since they had taken Inayat. Since they had taken his wife from him.
Brigands had stolen his voice all those years ago, and she had listened to him anyway, she had given him the voice he needed. Brigands had taken her from him, and now he would finally have his revenge.
He pummelled the blond man’s face with his fist, leaving it a bruised and bloodied mess and threw him to the floor as he silently screamed at him with rage. He pulled off his blood caked helmet, his scarred, aged face full of rage and hatred. He pulled out a scrap of paper from his pocket, unfolding it and thrusting it in the brigand leaders face. A sketch he had done of his wife, one of the last ones he had ever done.
The brigand took a moment to recognise it, blinking blood from swollen eyes. He peered at it for a moment, trying to understand what it was and why it was important. His pained expression fell away to one of fear as he looked up at his attacker. He gulped helplessly and simply nodded. He didn’t beg for his life, he didn’t apologise or ask forgiveness. A younger Arenborn would have respected him for that, maybe even spared him. Not anymore. Arenborn slowly wrapped his hands about the mans neck and begun to squeeze.
When he stood up, the battered and beaten man was dead, with the same marks about his throat as Inayat had when Aren found her dumped in the woods. He left the ruins not long after that, hobbling out into the dreary winter world. He clutched a wounded arm to his chest as the adrenaline wore off, bringing with it the pain of his injuries.
He fell to his knees beside a small stream and looked down at the small objects he was cradling in his hand. The two rings he had given Inayat, one on their engagement, and one at their wedding. His breath caught, he was beside water. The way they were when they first proclaimed their love, when he proposed all those years ago.
Tears trickled down his cheeks and into his beard. He would never be at peace. Not anymore. Not without her.
