The tavern had become a slaughterhouse, its warm hearth and friendly atmosphere drowned in a tide of blood and screams. The old man moved through the chaos like a specter of death, his sword a blur that carved through the panicked resistance. Dwarves fell, their axes raised in futile attempts to hack at him, their beards stained crimson before they could even complete their swings. Elves dropped their swords, bows, their arrows useless against a foe who was always a step beyond their reach. The patrons who had risen to defend their own were cut down in, their courage no match for the cold, brutal skill of a man who had been killing witchers for a living, and for sport.
He weaved through the onslaught, around the crude strikes of his attackers. A dwarf swung a massive hammer at his head with enough force to shatter stone, yet he ducked beneath it, drove his blade through the dwarf's chest, and pulled it free in a single, moment that left a spray of crimson in its wake. An elf lunged with a spear, his face twisted with rage; yet he sidestepped, grabbed the shaft, and used the elf's own momentum to drive the weapon into his throat. Two more dwarves came at him from either side, their axes ready to hit him, but he spun, his sword carving a deadly arc that left both of them crumpled on the floor, their blood pooling around them.
The screams were constant, a terror and pain that echoed off the walls. Tables were overturned, chairs splintered, tankards scattered across the blood-slicked floor. The fire in the hearth cast dancing shadows across the carnage, illuminating the faces of the fallen, frozen in expressions of shock and fear, their eyes still wide with the horror of their final moments.
The old man's blade was death itself that claimed life after life. A she elf attacked him with a carving knife, her face contorted with grief; he sidestepped, his blade finding her heart. A young elf tried to flee, his legs pumping, his breath ragged, the man's knife flew from his hand, embedding itself in the elf's back. The boy crumpled, his hands reaching for the blade that had ended his life.
The old man moved through the chaos with a cold look on his face, he did not expend energy on unnecessary flourishes. He simply killed, one after another, until the tavern was filled with the silence of the dead.
Yarvik fought with the desperate fury, his one good arm swinging a broken table leg like a club. He had seen his commander fall, had watched the old man carve through his fellow dwarves like they were nothing. Rage burned in his chest, hot and blinding, and he threw himself at the old man with all the strength he had left.
He managed to land a blow on the old man's shoulder, the old man barely flinched. He turned, his eyes cold and empty, and drove his blade through Yarvik's chest.
The dwarf's eyes widened, his mouth opening in a silent gasp. His hand still gripped the broken table leg, his knuckles white with the effort of holding on. He looked down at the blade protruding from his chest, then up at the old man, his voice a wet, gurgling rasp.
"Fucking... bastard..."
The old man pulled the blade free, and Yarvik crumpled to the ground, his blood pooling around him, his hand still reaching toward the headless body of his commander.
The old man did not pause. He moved through the tavern, checking for any survivors. The few patrons who tried to flee were cut down before they could reach the door. Those who tried to hide were found and dispatched.
Within minutes, it was over.
The tavern was silent, save for the crackling of the fire and the soft, wet sounds of blood dripping from the tables. The bodies lay scattered across the floor, their faces frozen in death.
He stood in the center of the carnage, his blade dripping crimson, his breathing steady and controlled. He surveyed the destruction he had wrought with cold eyes and a satisfied smile.
Lune lay on the ground near the overturned table, her body broken, her hands still clutching the wound in her abdomen. Her vision was fading, the edges of her sight darkening as the blood continued to pour from her body. She could see the head of her commander lying a few feet away, his eyes still open, still filled with the defiant spirit that had carried him through a lifetime of battles.
He walked toward her, his footsteps soft against the blood-slicked floor. He knelt beside her, his voice soft and almost gentle, as if he were speaking to a wounded animal.
"Well fought, she-elf," he said. "I will give you that. You did not run. You did not beg and you fought with the courage of a true warrior.."
He paused, wiping the blood from his blade on her cloak with a casual motion.
"But when you lack the skill, your fierceness means nothing. It is a lesson that many learn too late, and it seems you are no exception." He gestured toward Faelorn's head. "Just look at the head of your commander over there, staring at you. He is telling you to run, to live, perhaps. Though I am not sure you will live with those wounds. They look fatal, to my untrained eye."
He leaned closer, his eyes meeting hers.
"I will let you survive for a bit, if you tell me this, and if the Gods are kind, you might actually live." His voice hardened, the gentleness falling away. "The girl. The fucking princess of Cintra. Was she or was she not with him?"
Lune's vision was becoming blurry, the world fading in and out of focus. She looked at him, her voice barely a whisper.
"Fuck... you..."
She gathered the last of her strength and spat in his face.
He did not react. He simply watched as she collapsed, her body going still, her breathing shallow and ragged. He wiped the spittle from his cheek.
Then he stood, looking around at the carnage. The tavern was a charnel house, its floors slick with blood, its walls splattered with the remains of the brave and the foolish.
He sighed, a sound of genuine frustration, as if he had just realized what he just did.
"I made a mess." He said. "This will harm my reputation. I do not want people to say that Leo fucking Bonhart kills non-humans for no reason, even though they are cunts..." He paused, his gaze sweeping over the bodies. "But... oh, damn it. I will just leave Mahakam. This place has soured for me."
He cleaned his sword once again with a casual swipe of his cloak this time, then sheathed it on the back of Faelorn's headless body, a final insult to the fallen commander. He adjusted his cloak, straightened his collar, and walked toward the door.
He paused at the threshold, reached into his pocket, and dropped a single coin on the counter.
"Payment for the drink," he said to no one. "I am not a complete savage."
Then he was gone, disappearing into the night as if he had never been there leaving the tavern silent, the only sounds the crackling of the fire and the soft, wet drip of blood.
/-\
If you Like this story! Check out my other stories! Shadow Monarch: In One Piece / Shadow Monarch in DC
&
If you wish to read more or simply support me than check out my pat-reon / FrenzyAren"
You can Get Access to More Chapters Ahead of Release on All of My Stories!