Sashalia bit her lip. That man knows how to navigate the Greatwood...this is bad. He’s going to find the others! She had planned to stall the invaders in the village until Gaius returned, picking off as many as she could with sneak attacks, but she couldn’t afford to lie in wait a second longer. She sent Emon another signal, then drew her sword. She gripped the hilt tightly as she prepared herself to go on the offensive.
During her time in the Knights of the Chain, she’d often been teased for not letting out a loud battle cry during practice like so many of her peers did. They’d said it made her seem even less intimidating than she already appeared. But Sashalia understood now, as she slipped out from her hiding place, that she had never been meant to charge headlong into battle. This was what she was best suited to.
The three adventurers walked side by side. Sashalia crept up behind Cyril, preparing to strike. When she had closed the distance between them, she held her sword with both hands, bringing it so far behind her that it touched her back. Even if she only managed to take down their guide, that would at least increase the odds that the villagers would be able to escape.
Sashalia was moments away from swinging her sword down with all her might...but luck was not on her side. By sheer coincidence, Cyril looked over his shoulder a second before her blow came down. Their eyes met as she swung her blade, and the strike that was meant for his neck only managed to lop off half of his ear.
Cyril roared in pain and confusion, but his instincts kicked in; he tumbled to the ground, but rolled away from his assailant. His companions took up their weapons—a war hammer and a curved sword called a falchion, respectively.
“Uwoooaaah—!” Emon, who had followed Sashalia, let out a battle cry as he lashed out with his sword, aiming for the man with the hammer. His strike was parried with ease by the man wielding the falchion.
Both Sashalia and Emon had completely failed in landing their surprise attack.
At the sound of Cyril’s cry, Hubert and the others had come running. Suddenly, the half-elf and dwarf found themselves in a two-against-eight situation.
“Oi oi oi, these aren’t dogs. What’s the meaning of this, Cyril?” Hubert’s eyes narrowed at the man clutching his bleeding ear.
“Damn it...! I-I don’t know! I haven’t seen them before—this is the dogs’ village, I promise!” His voice cracked as he trembled beneath Hubert’s stare.
“I don’t believe you. You did know there were others here. But I’ll get the truth out of you later. For now...” Hubert turned back to Sashalia, a vulgar leer on his face. “...I’m gonna enjoy this pleasant surprise. Here I was thinking this job would be boring, but what do you know—we found ourselves a girl here...”
The look in his eye sent a chill down Sashalia’s spine. She took two steps back, holding her sword up between them.
“But look at her, sir, she’s still flat as a board,” the man with the hammer snickered. Unlike Sashalia, he seemed to believe his leader was only joking.
“Shut it, you idiot. That’s just how I like ’em: just when they stop looking like little boys. This puny little elf’s the perfect size, too.”
“You sound like you’ve done this before, Hubert!”
“Only four times!” He cackled hideously. The other adventurers looked at him, half in awe and half in disbelief.
“Leave the elf to me,” Hubert said. “You and you, kill that ugly brat over there. Cyril and you two, get back out there and find us some dogs. The rest of you, stick to the original plan: find us some valuables in those hovels.”
“Um, but...” Cyril replied hesitantly, “My ear... Can I at least treat it first?”
“That’s not gonna kill you, is it?!” Hubert spat. “We don’t have time for that. Go! And when you get back, you and me are gonna have a chat about this secret you were keeping from me.”
Cyril looked like the last thing he wanted to do was agree with the larger man, but he nodded and struggled to his feet. Each of the adventurers set off for their respective assignments. Emon prepared himself to square off against his two opponents, and Hubert stepped closer to Sashalia, blocking her view of her friend.
“Now then, little lady, let’s have us some fun. Not that I expect it’ll be very fun for you...”
Sashalia’s sword was small, suited for her petite frame. Against such a huge, armored opponent wielding a heavy weapon like a mace, it stood little chance of winning. Instead, Sashalia focused all her attention on evasion, struggling with all her might to dodge his swings. As though corralling a wayward sheep with a stick, Hubert slowly but surely closed off each avenue of escape until he had her backed up against one of the kobold houses. Sashalia felt the wall against her back and knew she’d been completely cornered.
“Don’t play so hard to get!” Hubert jeered.
“You’re sick! I’m not just going to give up and let you do what you want with me!”
“Ho ho, so you do know what I’m gonna do to you.”
Sashalia saw his gloating as an opening to strike. She pointed the tip of her sword beneath his breastplate and thrust—but with a light swing of his mace, Hubert easily brushed her blade aside and the tip of her sword screeched against his armor.
The force of his swing knocked the sword from her hands, and it disappeared into the grass. She realized then that he hadn’t been recklessly taunting her; he was still on guard, anticipating her resistance.
Hubert drove the metal-plated tip of his boot into Sashalia’s stomach, kicking her down. She tasted bitter bile as she crashed to the ground. Hubert straddled her, and slapped her hard across the cheek once, twice, three times, four times. Five, six, seven times. He then raised his fist and brought it down into her face three times. His hand was soon painted with red.