Wicked_Fiction
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Lastlight's Revenant #28
🕑 Added 2025-08-07 08:27:12 +0000 UTCGarran rode ahead of the column, the rhythmic clatter of hooves and armor fading into the background as Black Hollow’s ruins loomed in the distance.
The morning mist clung to the hillside, giving the abandoned village the eerie appearance of a corpse half-swallowed by the earth.
But his thoughts were far from battle.
"My sons are broken because of me. One dead. The other... I don’t even know if he can be set straight."
His father’s words had haunted him for days, festering like a wound. Every sword stroke in training, every command barked at the soldiers—it all felt like a performance. A role he’d been shoved into, just as Rovan had.
What was it about being lord that Rovan wanted so badly?
Garran’s grip tightened on the reins. His brother, more than anyone, should have understood the weight of their father’s legacy. The sleepless nights. The endless politicking.
The way Torvain’s shoulders seemed to bend under invisible chains, even as he stood unbowed before the world.
'Look what it did to him... reduced to a sobbing mess before the gods...'
The more Garran pondered it, the more certain he became: this life wasn’t for him. He’d known it for years, but now the decision settled in his bones like iron.
Once the bandits were corpses, he’d leave.
Let the title of Lord Dornblade rot. His father could name some other fool as heir—perhaps that simpering husband of his sister, Lira.
'Lira... unlike her husband, my sister is no fool... she's perhaps the most qualified to rule, but...'
The thought almost made him grin. His sister had always hungered for power, her ambition sharp as any blade. But tradition was a prison even she couldn’t escape.
No matter how capable, how ruthless, she’d never inherit—not while a breath remained in any male heir’s body, and even then, the seat of power would fall to her, but to her husband, then to her eldest son.
Still, Garran knew it wouldn't stop her from seizing power all the same.
A shout snapped him back to the present.
"Scouts report movement in the ruins!" Jorrik called, trotting up beside him. "Seems they’ve dug in like rats."
Garran glanced over his shoulder. Torvain rode at the center of the column, his face unreadable beneath his helm.
'No turning back now.'
He exhaled, rolling his shoulders.
'One last duty. Then freedom.'
...
The ruined walls of Black Hollow rose like broken teeth against the gray sky. Garran reined in his horse at the edge of the clearing, his eyes narrowing at the barricade of felled trees and sharpened stakes blocking the entrance.
The bandits lined the crumbling battlements, their bows drawn, their faces hard with the look of men who had long since abandoned fear.
Then he appeared.
The bandit leader stepped onto the wall’s edge, his armor gleaming dully in the pale light—too fine for a common outlaw, the steel etched with the faded markings of a knightly house.
A ragged bandage covered his right eye, the skin around it covered in dried blood. His remaining eye, however, was sharp as a dagger’s point.
"Well, well," he called, his voice carrying the rasp of a man who’d seen too many battles. "The wolves of Dornblade come to my den at last."
He spread his arms in mock welcome. "I am Vorric of Harthford, once a knight of Veldrin’s Reach. I must admit—I’m both flattered and alarmed to see so many of your house’s warriors gathered just for me."
A dry chuckle escaped him. "Still, there’s no need for excessive bloodshed."
With a flourish, he drew his sword—a long, well-kept blade that caught the light with practiced ease. "Send your greatest warrior to face me. Single combat. If I fall, my men will lay down their arms. If I win…" He shrugged. "Well, let’s call it an honorable retreat."
Garran barely stifled a scoff. Honorable. This bastard had butchered Rovan with that trick.
He turned to Torvain. His father said nothing, his face an unreadable mask beneath his helm—but his silence was answer enough.
Garran faced Vorric again, his voice cutting through the tense air like steel.
"You lost the right to ask for a duel the moment you murdered my brother and his men with your treachery." He let the words hang, watching the bandit’s smirk falter.
"There’s only one end for you now, death…" His hand dropped to his sword hilt. "The noose or cold steel. Choose now."
Vorric didn't answer Garran's ultimatum. Instead, his grin widened into something feral, his single eye gleaming with perverse delight.
"Ah... so you are capable of learning," he mused, tilting his head like a wolf studying prey. "And here I thought you'd be just as gullible as the lordling who came before you."
A dry chuckle escaped him as he casually spun his sword in his hand.
"He didn't even make it all the way here, you know?" Vorric continued, his voice dripping with mock nostalgia. "The moment I heard he was coming, I took a few good men and set up a little... welcoming party. Archers in the trees. Spearmen in the bushes."
His expression darkened, twisting into something grotesque—a mask of malice and barely contained frenzy.
"But me? I didn't hide." He tapped his chest with his free hand. "I stood right there in the middle of the road, waiting for the Dornblade whelp to come trotting along. And come he did."
Vorric slowly dragged his tongue along the edge of his blade, savoring the memory like a fine wine.
"I told him exactly who I was. Spun him a pretty tale about starving men forced into banditry to feed their families. Begged him—begged him—to take my life and spare my 'brothers'."
A shudder ran through him, his voice pitching higher, wilder.
"And the fool... the fool believed it... even took off his helmet to make it fair... HA!"
His laughter was sudden, jagged, like the caw of a carrion bird.
"He did manage to take my eye, though. I'll give him that." Vorric touched the soiled bandage covering his right socket, his grin turning manic. "And that's when my friends in the trees made themselves known. One arrow found his thick skull and well...."
He threw his head back and laughed, the sound echoing off the ruins.
"You should have seen the look on his men's faces! Their precious lordling dead in the dirt, and them? Oh, they were easy pickings after that."
Garran’s blood burned in his veins, his grip on his sword so tight his knuckles ached. He was moments from barking the order to charge when a sound cut through the haze of his fury—the grinding of teeth, harsh and deliberate.
His gaze snapped to his father.
Even behind the steel visor of his helm, Torvain’s rage was palpable. His gauntleted hand clenched the reins of his warhorse so tightly the leather groaned. The other trembled around the hilt of his greatsword, the blade itself quivering with barely restrained violence.
Garran had seen his father angry before. But this? This was something else.
And that’s when the realization struck him like a hammer blow.
Something wasn’t right.
Vorric was outnumbered. Outmatched. The ruins’ walls wouldn’t save him—they’d only serve as his tomb.
Yet there the bastard, taunting them, provoking them, almost as if he wanted them to rush in blind with rage—
"CHARGE!"
Torvain’s roar shattered the air.
Before Garran could react, his father spurred his horse forward, his greatsword raised high. The warhorse surged toward the barricade, its hooves pounding the earth like thunder.
Garran cursed. "Protect your lord! With me, men!"
The Dornblade soldiers roared in response, their armored mounts surging after Torvain. Arrows rained down from the walls, but they clattered harmlessly off steel plate and shield.
Torvain reached the barricade first. With a savage pull of the reins, his warhorse reared, its massive hooves lashing out. The wooden spikes splintered under the force—and then Torvain’s blade came down in a silver arc, cleaving the barrier in two with a single stroke.
Garran was on his heels. His own armored charger barreled through the wreckage, scattering the shattered remains of the barricade like kindling. The path was open.
And the bandits?
They were no longer smiling.
...
Garran stood panting atop the ruined wall, his boots slick with gore. A bandit’s corpse slumped at his feet, joining the first in a grotesque tangle of limbs. His sword dripped crimson onto the weathered stone, each drop joining the expanding pool beneath him.
He barely registered the chaos around him—the clang of steel, the screams of dying men, the acrid stench of blood and opened bowels. Time had blurred into a haze of violence.
How long had he been fighting? Were they winning? He didn’t know. All that existed was the next enemy, the next kill.
His gaze dropped to his trembling hand. The leather grip of his sword was slick with viscera—blood, strands of intestine, and something else… chunks of half-digested food clinging to his knuckles fresh from someone's butchered gut.
His stomach lurched.
Thud.
Footsteps behind him.
Garran whirled with a snarl, his blade carving through the air in a vicious arc. Steel met flesh with a wet crunch. The bandit staggered, hands flying to his throat as blood welled between his fingers.
His eyes bulged—not with pain, but surprise—before his knees buckled. He collapsed face-first into his own spreading crimson tide.
Bile surged up Garran’s throat. He choked it down, teeth gritted so hard his jaw ached.
Pathetic.
Years of training. Countless hours mastering forms, footwork, the deadly dance of steel. He could outduel seasoned knights in the yard, yet here, in his first true battle, his body betrayed him with weakness.
A ragged breath. Then another.
He straightened, wiping his fouled hand across his breastplate, smearing red across the Dornblade sigil. There would be time to reckon with this sickness later. Now—
His scan of the wall found no more foes, much to Garran's surprise. Only corpses.
Then—a jeering shout from below.
Garran turned toward the ruin’s central square.
A ring of Dornblade soldiers stood shoulder-to-shoulder, their weapons leveled inward. At their center, bloodied but still standing, was Vorric—his armor dented, his bandage torn away to reveal the ruined socket beneath.
The bandit leader’s remaining eye locked onto Garran.
And he smiled.
