Too Easy

Argon patiently bided his time within the fortified walls of Goldenfield, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. A few hours after nightfall, Aldric appeared at his side, accompanied by the scout.

"I'll be going now then, Aldric," Argon declared, his gaze steady.

"Good luck, Argon," Aldric responded, a mixture of concern and admiration in his eyes.

Argon turned to his lieutenant, Brolan, and gestured towards their horses. "We leave the horses. We'll go on foot."

His eyes swept over his men, confidence radiating from him. He trusted his soldiers implicitly, but the villagers... that was an unknown variable.

"Wait for my signal," he commanded, his voice carrying a clear note of authority. "The element of surprise is our friend. With it and our numbers, we should squash them easily."

Finally, Argon addressed the scout, his tone firm yet reassuring. "Lead us, and get ready to join the fray on my command."

"Yes, Ser Argon," the scout responded obediently, a glint of determination in his eyes. Despite the risk, he was ready to play his part in Argon's daring plan.

Under the cloak of darkness, the scout took the lead, navigating the treacherous path through the forest with practised ease. The forest at night was a realm of shadows, the dense canopy obscuring the starlight and reducing visibility to a mere few feet. It was a world of unseen dangers and concealed paths, a maze that could confound even the most seasoned tracker.

Yet the scout moved with confidence, his steps sure and steady. He was a shadow among shadows, melding with the darkness as he led the way. The rustling of leaves beneath his feet, and the occasional snap of a twig, were the only signs of his progress. His knowledge of the terrain was apparent, his movements guided by familiarity rather than sight.

Behind him, Argon and his men followed in a single file, their senses on high alert. They tread lightly, careful to minimize noise, their eyes scanning their surroundings for any sign of danger. Each man was a silent sentinel, their focus unyielding as they traversed the dense undergrowth.

The eerie silence of the forest was punctuated only by the distant hoot of an owl or the rustling of nocturnal creatures. The cool night air was filled with the earthy scent of damp soil, leaves, and the subtle hint of decay that was the signature of the wilderness.

As they delved deeper into the forest, the glow of Goldenfield's torches faded into the distance, swallowed by the thick blanket of darkness. They were alone in the vast expanse of the forest, guided by the skill of their scout and their shared determination to accomplish their mission.

In the thick shroud of darkness, the scout finally signalled them to halt. Argon squinted ahead, his eyes adjusting to the minimal light. After a moment, he made out the vague outlines of the enemy camp.

Their opponents from Silverthorne had made a crude encampment, a small fire flickering at the centre. It appeared more of a temporary stop than a fortified outpost, reflecting the scouting nature of their mission. The ember glow from the fire danced across the faces of eight men, all of them seemingly at ease in the wilderness, their bodies relaxed yet their eyes alert.

Among them, one figure stood out - a warrior clad in the distinctive dayless armour, a beacon of authority amidst his troops. His armour glimmered in the firelight, subtly announcing his stature. He was lounging casually against a tree, a great sword resting beside him within arm's reach. His body language suggested an unspoken command over the men around him, an unmistakable air of authority that denoted him as the knight Aldric had warned about.

Not too far away, a solitary figure paced back and forth, the watchman. His steps were measured, his gaze constantly scanning their surroundings, a testament to their careful caution.

The camp was ripe for a surprise attack, the flickering firelight casting long, dancing shadows around them, creating a spectacle of deceptive tranquillity. Argon considered his options, his eyes calculating, his mind plotting their next move. His men waited in silence, their resolve unbroken, ready to leap into action at his command.

Argon's command was whispered into Brolan's ear, a barely audible murmur lost in the soft rustling of the night. Brolan nodded, understanding flashing in his eyes before he turned to pass the message down the line.

The words travelled from man to man, relayed in hushed whispers. A ripple spread through the group as each man received the orders. They broke formation and began to fan out, each moving carefully to avoid detection, their bodies merging with the shadows. They moved in silence, like spectres in the night, the soft rustle of leaves and the occasional crunch of dry foliage the only testament to their presence.

Brolan and Argon exchanged a glance, a shared understanding passing between them. Each of them activated their artefact, feeling the familiar surge of power course through their veins. An eerie glow pulsed from the devices, casting an otherworldly radiance that danced in their eyes.

Brolan shifted his gaze to the watchman, his target. He gripped his spear tightly, the familiar weight comforting in his hands. Argon, on the other hand, fixed his eyes on the dayless-clad knight, a steely determination hardening his features. They waited for the right moment, each man's grip on their spear intensifying as the seconds ticked by. The tension was palpable, a tangible undercurrent that held them all in its thrall.

Finally, at Argon's signal, the spears would be thrown, and chaos would descend upon the Silverthorne men, shattering the tranquillity of their camp. For now, they waited, the silence punctuated by the distant call of a night owl and the rhythmic beat of their hearts pounding in anticipation.

Argon's eyes narrowed as he watched the watchman straighten, his previously relaxed posture shifting to one of alertness. There was an edge to his movements, a sudden intensity that suggested he had sensed something amiss. Argon cursed under his breath. Certainly, one of the villagers had alerted the guard.

Turning his gaze towards Brolan, he mouthed a single word, "Now." Without missing a beat, both men launched their spears into the air. The weapons cut through the darkness, swift and deadly, their targets unsuspecting.

Brolan's spear found its mark with gruesome accuracy. The sharpened tip sliced through the air before burying itself under the watchman's armpit. The impact was immediate and devastating. A choked gasp escaped the watchman's lips as he stumbled, the spear protruding grotesquely from his side. His body spasmed, eyes widening in shock and pain before collapsing onto the ground, the life draining out of him.

Argon's aim was equally precise, although his target was more challenging. The knight was sheathed in dayless armour, offering little room for a killing blow. Still, Argon's spear grazed the knight's lower thigh, a glancing blow that managed to puncture under the cuisses of his armour. A ragged scream echoed through the air as the knight staggered, the spear tip drawing blood.

The camp erupted into chaos, the tranquillity shattered by the sudden attack. The remaining Silverthorne men scrambled, reaching for their weapons, their eyes wide with shock and fear. The night had turned deadly, their routine patrol morphing into a battlefield in the blink of an eye.

The sudden attack catapulted the camp into a whirlwind of violence. Argon's soldiers, trained and ruthless, were the first to react, their battle cries cutting through the night as they charged towards the confused Silverthorne men. They were followed closely by the village reserves, their movements uncoordinated but filled with raw determination.

The earth was soon soaked with blood, the smell of iron and fear filling the air. Shouts of pain and anger intermingled with the gruesome sounds of metal meeting flesh. It was a symphony of death, as brutal as it was swift.

In the midst of the chaos, Argon barreled towards the knight, his gaze locked onto his target. The knight, still reeling from the pain of the spear wound, was fumbling to activate his own artefacts, his fingers pressing against the pauldrons of his armour. But Argon was too quick, too relentless.

In one swift motion, he delivered a brutal kick to the knight's face. The impact was bone-crushing, the sound of cracking bone echoing in the stillness. The knight's head snapped back, his body collapsing onto the ground, unconscious or perhaps dead.

But Argon wasn't taking any chances. Drawing his longsword, he brought it down on the knight's neck with all his might. The blade sliced through flesh and bone effortlessly, a spray of crimson staining the ground as the knight's head rolled away, the light fading from his eyes.

The battle was over almost as soon as it had begun. Argon stood, panting, amidst the wreckage of the camp, his black armour splattered with blood. His soldiers and the reserves were still standing, their faces pale and shocked in the aftermath of the swift and violent assault. The ground was littered with the bodies of the Silverthorne men, their lifeless eyes staring into nothingness.

The night was once again silent, the sounds of battle now replaced by the heavy breaths of the living and the quiet whimpers of the dying.

Edrik approached Argon, his eyes scanning the carnage around them. "Only two of the reserves sustained flesh wounds," he reported, the relief evident in his voice.

Argon let out a chuckle, the adrenaline still coursing through his veins. "That was easy," he mused, his gaze falling on the slain Silverthorne men. "Strip all these fucks of their armour."

He turned to Brolan next, gesturing towards the decapitated knight. "Brolan, take this knight's Dayless and whatever artefacts he had. Hopefully, the armour is the right size."

Brolan nodded, moving towards the body. He began to disrobe the fallen knight, unbuckling the straps of the Dayless armour. Each piece was methodically removed, revealing the mangled body beneath. Despite the circumstances, there was a certain reverence in his actions, a recognition of the knight's skill and courage in battle.

With all the pieces collected, Brolan began to adorn himself in the Dayless. The breastplate was first, its black surface glistening in the faint moonlight. Next, the gauntlets were pulled onto his hands, their weight comforting. The pauldrons were attached to his shoulders, adding an imposing silhouette to his form. Lastly, the helmet was placed onto his head, it's interior surprisingly comfortable against his skin.

The transformation was remarkable. The Dayless armour fit him almost perfectly, the pieces aligning as if they had been made for him. Brolan, once a simple slave, now looked every bit a knight, his stature exuding newfound confidence and power. Standing beside Argon, they made a formidable pair, their strength and determination clear for all to see.

Brolan nodded as Argon held out the artefact he'd retrieved from the fallen knight. The object was unassuming in appearance yet held a power that could turn the tides of battle. It was probably the attribute one; he chucked it to Brolan for safekeeping.

"Edrik", Argon shouted, shaking his head. "Get the injured villagers to strip everything of value off these bastards and take it back to Goldfeild. I need everyone for something else."

Edrik raised an eyebrow at Argon's words, curiosity piqued. "And what might that be, my lord?"

"I've developed a crazy idea that I need to see to fruition," Argon explained with a cryptic smile. His gaze shifted back to the battlefield, surveying the remnants of the Silverthorne men. His mind was already brimming with plans and strategies, each one more audacious than the last. In the face of Argon's relentless ambition, the world itself seemed to hold its breath in anticipation.