8. Last Delivery (1)

The night air seemed to freeze as two shadowy figures emerged from the darkness, their forms barely visible in the dim glow of the campfire. The atmosphere in the clearing was charged, thick with an oppressive tension. The mercenaries, ever alert, moved as one, their weapons drawn and ready for the coming confrontation.

Gunnar stood in the center, his voice cutting through the silence with a commanding edge.

"Lyla, Thorne, you're with me. Orin, stay in the trees. Hark, take the flank. Stay sharp, everyone—these aren't amateurs."

The mercenaries spread out, each member slipping into their designated position with the precision of seasoned fighters. Their years of battle together were evident in every move, every calculated step. Gunnar raised his sword, and in an instant, the clash began.

Steel met shadow in a blur of motion. Lyla charged with her twin blades, her strikes fast and relentless against the smaller, agile figure. The figure parried effortlessly, slipping through her attacks with unsettling ease. Thorne followed, swinging his heavy axe with force, momentarily pushing the figure back. Meanwhile, Gunnar engaged the taller figure, their swords clashing in a deadly dance.

The battle raged, a spectacle of lethal grace. Orin moved silently through the trees, his arrows finding their marks, each shot aimed to restrain the elusive shadows. Hark, the largest of the group, wielded his hammer with brute strength, forcing the smaller figure to maintain a safe distance.

Yet the shadowy figures were no ordinary foes. They moved like wraiths, their actions fluid and unpredictable. Each time the mercenaries seemed to gain an advantage, the shadows would slip away, only to reappear elsewhere in the clearing.

Elliot, his heart racing, stood frozen at the edge of the camp, clutching the reins of his horse. He watched in a mixture of awe and terror as the mercenaries fought with fierce skill, but something was amiss. The shadows weren't attacking randomly—they were systematically driving the mercenaries away from him.

Gunnar's eyes widened with sudden realization.

"They're not after us," he barked. His gaze shot towards Elliot, who stood vulnerable and exposed. "They're after him!"

A surge of understanding hit Gunnar. The figures weren't here to engage the mercenaries—they were targeting Elliot. Cursing under his breath, Gunnar broke from the formation and sprinted towards Elliot.

One of the shadowy figures lunged at Elliot with terrifying speed. Elliot barely had time to react as the figure closed in, but Gunnar intercepted the strike, his sword clashing with the shadow's weapon just inches from Elliot's chest.

"Run, Elliot! Now!" Gunnar shouted, his voice urgent and commanding.

Elliot's eyes widened in panic.

"But—"

"I said RUN!" Gunnar cut him off, shoving him towards the horse. "They want you, not us! Go!"

The shadowy figures shifted their focus entirely, their eerie eyes locked onto Elliot. Gunnar fought to keep them at bay, but he knew he couldn't hold them off for long.

Without a second thought, Elliot scrambled onto his horse, his fear palpable. He kicked the horse's sides, and it bolted, galloping away from the clearing with all its might.

Behind him, the sound of steel clashing with shadow echoed through the forest, gradually fading into the distance. Elliot glanced back, his heart weighed down by guilt. The mercenaries were sacrificing themselves for him.

As he fled deeper into the night, a hollow, glowing screen suddenly appeared before his eyes. The words hovered just above the reins of his horse:

QUEST!: 'Deliver the Letter'

Elliot blinked at the glowing text, struggling to process it amidst his fear and adrenaline.

"Seriously? A quest window now? I don't need a reminder—I'm already running for my life!"

Back at the camp, the battle reached a fever pitch. The mercenaries, bloodied and exhausted, fought with desperate strength. Gunnar and his team pushed themselves to the brink, but the assassins showed no signs of relenting.

The taller figure, cloaked in dark robes, wielded a weapon unlike any the mercenaries had faced before. It was a cruel chain weapon—one end a razor-sharp knife, the other a heavy, spiked ball. With a flick of the wrist, the figure launched the blade through the air with deadly accuracy.

Lyla narrowly avoided one of the knife's strikes, but the spiked ball followed, striking with brutal force. The impact sent her sprawling, her vision blurring. Before she could recover, the figure's chain wrapped around her neck, pulling tight and snuffing out her life in a single, vicious motion.

Seeing Lyla fall, Thorne roared in fury and charged at the second figure, a smaller assassin armed with twin daggers coated in a shimmering, deadly poison. Thorne swung his massive axe with all his might, but the assassin's speed was too great. The daggers found their mark, slipping through gaps in Thorne's armor. He staggered, the poison sapping his strength, and with a final desperate swing, he managed to nick the assassin's arm before collapsing, overwhelmed by the poison.

Orin, hidden in the trees, continued to fire arrows, but the smaller assassin deflected them with ease. The assassin raised a crossbow, aiming at Orin and firing a bolt tipped with a sickly green liquid. The bolt struck Orin's shoulder, and he fell from the trees, the poison coursing through him as he hit the ground with a painful thud.

Hark fought like a cornered beast, his hammer swinging with furious strength. But the tall assassin's chain weapon wrapped around Hark's ankle, pulling him off his feet. The spiked ball came down hard, crushing his chest with a sickening crunch. Hark let out a final, gurgling breath before succumbing to the blow.

Now only Gunnar remained, his face streaked with blood from a deep gash across his forehead, his breath ragged and labored. He looked around at his fallen comrades, grief and rage etched into his features. The two assassins circled him like predators, their weapons gleaming with a menacing light.

Gunnar raised his sword, ready to fight to the last breath. But his battle was no longer about survival—it was about buying time for Elliot. His mind raced with one final, desperate plan.

With a burst of strength, Gunnar charged not at the assassins, but at the horses tethered at the camp's edge. His sword slashed through the reins, cutting deep into the horses' flanks. The animals reared in panic, breaking free and scattering into the woods.

The assassins cursed, their pursuit momentarily hindered. They turned back to Gunnar, who stood defiant, sword raised high.

"You won't touch him. Not while I still breathe," Gunnar declared, his voice a growl of defiance.

The tall assassin swung the chain, and Gunnar parried the strike. The smaller assassin darted in with a poisoned dagger, and Gunnar barely managed to dodge. He fought with every ounce of his strength, but the combined assault of both assassins was overwhelming. A poisoned bolt from the smaller assassin's crossbow struck him in the side, and the chain wrapped around his arm, pulling him off balance.

With a final, defiant roar, Gunnar sliced through the chain that bound him. But it was too late. The taller assassin's spiked ball crashed into Gunnar's chest, sending him to the ground. Gunnar gasped for breath, feeling his strength slipping away.

As darkness closed in, Gunnar managed one last thought.

"Run, Elliot... run."

And then, Gunnar was gone. The assassins stood over his lifeless body, their weapons dripping with blood, their eyes now locked on the trail that Elliot had taken.

Their mission wasn't over yet.