Flock of feathers

The men began to prepare for the confrontation that was to come. Some left to try and convince their fellow villagers to strive for a greater future, spreading the message of hope that Thabis had instilled in them. As they ventured into the village, the sun dipped low on the horizon, casting long shadows over the dusty roads. They approached small clusters of huts and fields where farmers toiled, their backs bent under the weight of a long day's labor.

In these encounters, there was hesitation, a deep-rooted fear of retribution from the lord and his guards. But the men spoke with passion, recalling Thabis' words and painting a picture of a life where they could be free from oppression, where their children could grow without the constant threat of the lord's whims. Slowly, some villagers agreed to join them, inspired by the possibility of a future different from the harsh reality they knew.

Meanwhile, back at the tavern, Thabis realized the daunting challenge before him. Most of his fighting force were untrained farmers and laborers, men whose hands were more familiar with the feel of soil than the grip of a weapon. Their makeshift arsenal consisted of hoes, rakes, and any tool they could wield to inflict harm. These were not warriors; they were men desperate for change.

Thabis paced the worn wooden floor, the weight of leadership pressing down on him like a physical burden. His mind raced with doubts, each one more crippling than the last. Could he truly lead these men into battle? Could he, with his limited experience, outmaneuver the lord's trained soldiers? The dim light of the tavern flickered as the wind howled outside, and for a moment, the shadows on the walls seemed to mock him.

Their only hope lay in Thornton, the unpredictable force among them. Although Thornton sometimes came off as a fool, Thabis couldn't deny the transformation that took place in him when the battle began. Thornton became something otherworldly, a monster capable of unparalleled destruction. Thabis had seen it with his own eyes—the way Thornton moved through the battlefield like a force of nature, leaving devastation in his wake. But even that power came with its own dangers. Thornton's rage was like a wildfire, uncontrollable and consuming everything in its path.

As the night wore on, the mood in the tavern grew heavy, the air thick with unspoken fears. Fighting against the village guards, men who were once their neighbors, seemed an impossible task. The tavern, once filled with the clinking of mugs and the sound of laughter, had fallen into an uneasy silence. The men huddled together in small groups, their faces pale, their eyes wide with dread. The low hum of whispered prayers mixed with the creaking of the old wooden beams above.

Suddenly, the door creaked open, and the men who had left to recruit others returned, their faces flushed with the cold night air. They brought good news—they had managed to rally an additional thirty men, all of whom were ready to flank the guards when the time came. These new recruits were no more trained than the rest, but their numbers brought a renewed sense of hope.

Thabis knew he had to uplift their morale. He thought back to the great speech Robert had once given to his soldiers before they entered combat. The memory of Robert, standing tall and fearless before his men, filled Thabis with a resolve he hadn't felt before. He had to channel that strength now, for the sake of these men who looked to him for guidance.

Thabis climbed atop one of the tables, the wood groaning under his weight, and all eyes shifted to him. The room fell silent, save for the crackling of the fire in the hearth. Clearing his throat, he began, "I know that some of you are scared. The thought of dying, of leaving your families helpless and saddened, weighs heavily on your minds. But I can guarantee you one thing: if you don't try, you will never escape the shackles placed upon you."

He paused, letting his words sink in. The faces before him were a mixture of fear and anticipation. Some men stared at the floor, unable to meet his gaze, while others clenched their fists, their jaws set in determination. Thabis knew he was reaching them, but he needed to do more. He needed to ignite a fire in their hearts.

"Fight not for your freedom alone, but for the future and harmony of those who will come after you—those who will carry your name," Thabis continued, his voice growing stronger with each word. "Think of your children, of the generations to come. Will they remember us as the men who stood up against tyranny, who fought for a better life? Or will they curse our names, knowing we failed to seize this moment?"

The crowd erupted in cheers, the sound filling the tavern and spilling out into the night. The men's faces, once filled with doubt, now burned with resolve. With a new goal in mind, the villagers felt as if they could conquer the world. They were no longer just farmers and laborers—they were warriors, fighting for a cause greater than themselves.

The time finally arrived. The men had gathered their weapons, hidden them under their coats and cloaks, and waited in tense silence. Mr. Henderson, a man known for his cunning and treachery, walked through the door. The men greeted him eagerly, thanking him for his bravery in not arousing suspicion. Henderson, with his false smile and calculating eyes, played along, knowing full well the role he was to play.

Thabis watched the exchange closely. The stage was set; now it was time for the enemy to make their move. Henderson needed to find an excuse to leave and alert the guards. Thabis wanted to gauge just how cunning his enemy was, not that he would stop Henderson from leaving—that would shatter his entire plan. The mood was set, and Thabis was eager to see how his prey would act.

Henderson spoke, his voice laced with feigned sorrow, "You know, my brother always wanted to escape this hell, but his dreams were cut short by the lord." He paused, as if gathering his strength. "I usually don't bring this up because there's still a hole in my heart from his murder, but I was just so nervous and excited that I wasn't able to visit his grave and ask for his strength."

The bartender, a man who had seen through many a lie in his time, played along, his expression sympathetic. "Why don't you go right now? We understand—we can wait a little longer."

Henderson smiled inwardly, the thought of how easy it was to fool his fellow villagers amusing him. "I wouldn't want to be a burden to the rest of you," he said in a saddened, pitiful tone.

The men all urged him to go, their concern for his supposed grief overriding any suspicion they might have harbored. "Fools," Henderson thought to himself as he walked out the door, the cold night air biting at his skin. His imagination ran wild with visions of the men falling in battle, and all those sweet widows would be his for the taking.

Henderson picked up his pace—he couldn't wait to reap his reward. The village was quiet, the only sounds the distant howling of wolves and the crunch of rocks beneath his boots. Entering the dark alley, he saw Captain William waiting for him, his figure barely visible in the shadows.

"What did I tell you? They're too stupid to realize what's going on right under their noses," Henderson said, laughing as he placed his arm on Captain William's shoulder. The smell of ale still clung to him, a reminder of the tavern's warmth.

With a quick slap, William removed Henderson's arm. "We are not all buddy-buddy like that. I would never befriend a rat," he spat on the ground, the disgust evident in his voice.

Henderson didn't care. He had his money, and now it was time to enjoy it. He headed for the village brothel, a place of ill repute that had seen its fair share of men seeking to forget their troubles. The thought of the women there, the warmth of their bodies, and the temporary escape they offered, made his blood race.

William watched him go, his eyes narrowing in contempt. "Coward," he muttered under his breath before turning and making his way to the lord's manor.

The manor stood at the edge of the village, a dark, looming structure that seemed to absorb the light around it. The guards at the entrance snapped to attention as William approached, their breath visible in the frigid air. Inside, the atmosphere was tense. The men were ready for the cleansing, as Lord Hammond liked to call it—a brutal reminder of who held the power in this village.

William entered the grand hall, the sound of his boots echoing off the stone walls. The men, some of them young and fresh-faced, others seasoned and hard-eyed, awaited his command. The room was lit by flickering torches, casting long shadows that danced across the floor.

"Listen here, scrubs," William began, his voice cold and authoritative. "I don't care if your cousin or friend is part of that little rebel group—you will follow my orders. Am I understood?"

"Understood," the soldiers all said in unison, their voices filled with a mix of fear and determination.

"Now, before we head out, Lord Hammond would like to speak to you."

An older man with gray hair, a sharp face, and a cane to support himself walked out of the manor's inner chamber. With every step, the clank of his cane echoed through the hall, a sound that sent shivers down the spines of those who heard it. Lord Hammond was a man who had ruled with an iron fist for as long as anyone could remember, his cruelty known throughout the land.

"As you have heard, a group of men led by two strangers and that sly bartender plan to take me from my rightful place and lead you all to a better life," Lord Hammond began, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

Laughter filled the hall, a dark, mirthless sound.

"Who are they to decide what fair and unfair treatment is? A group of ragtag militia men cannot defeat the strong guards led by Captain William. Delusional. Anybody who brings me the heads of these three criminals will be rewarded immensely."

The men started chanting, "Long live Lord Hammond! Long live Lord Hammond!" Their voices rose in a frenzied chorus, the sound reverberating through the stone walls.

William took charge, his voice cutting through the noise. "Head out! Let's dance in their blood."

Back at the tavern, the atmosphere was tense. The men were on edge, every creak of the floorboards, every gust of wind, making them jump. They knew the guards would come soon—it was just a matter of time. The silence was suffocating, pressing down on them like a weight.

Thabis stood by the window, his eyes scanning the darkness outside. His heart pounded in his chest, each beat echoing in his ears. He was not a soldier, but tonight, he would have to become one. He could feel the fear in the room, and he knew it was his job to keep it from consuming them.

Thornton, however, was a different story. Tired of waiting, his patience frayed, he spoke up, his voice a low growl. "Screw this—how much longer do we have to wait?"

As if his words summoned them, the door was suddenly slammed open, and the guards flooded in, their swords drawn, their faces grim. The room erupted into chaos. Thabis reacted instinctively, grabbing his bow and nocking an arrow. He fired at the first man he saw, the arrow piercing the guard's throat, silencing him forever.

The men quickly armed themselves, grabbing their makeshift weapons and charging at the guards. The clash was brutal and chaotic, the sound of metal against metal, the cries of pain and fury, filling the tavern. The guards, better equipped and trained, had the upper hand. It was like a child picking a fight with an adult—inevitable, hopeless.

The floor soon became slick with blood, the once welcoming tavern now a battlefield. Tables were overturned, chairs splintered, and the fire in the hearth roared as if feeding on the violence. The men fought with desperation, but it wasn't enough. The guards cut through them with ruthless efficiency, their swords slashing through flesh and bone.

The fight was in the guards' favor at the beginning—it was almost as easy as training. Then, suddenly, they saw one of their fellow soldiers flung into the air by a single strike from a man as large as a bear. Thornton couldn't contain his excitement. This was what he craved—battle. With every strike, a guard was slain. His eyes grew redder and a huge smile spread across his face. A demon was the only thing the enemy could compare him to.

Thornton's presence on the battlefield was like a force of nature, a whirlwind of fury that tore through the guards with terrifying ease. His massive axe cleaved through armor and flesh alike, leaving a trail of bodies in its wake. Blood splattered across his face, but he didn't care. He was in his element, his blood singing with the thrill of combat.

William, standing at the back of the room, watched in horror as his men fell one by one to this monstrous man. He knew he had to act quickly, or they would all be slaughtered. Gritting his teeth, he stepped forward, his sword at the ready. "Come fight me, you beast, or are you only competent at fighting mere scrubs, coward?" he taunted, his voice cutting through the din of battle.

This statement really ticked Thornton off. The thought of being called a coward when he had slain the Ice Tyrant enraged him. He charged at William with his axe in hand, aiming for his head. To his surprise, the man blocked him. "Is this all you've got, you barbarian? You're no match for true skill," William sneered, his sword moving with deadly precision.

The two clashed in a fierce battle, Thornton's brute strength against William's speed and skill. Every attack from William drew blood, but Thornton barely seemed to notice. The villagers, seeing their strongest fighter being pushed back, felt their hope beginning to wane. If Thornton couldn't defeat William, what chance did they have?

Thabis, sensing the shift in morale, took charge. He moved through the chaos, his bow striking down guard after guard. "Don't worry about him—he wouldn't lose to such a mediocre man. Trust me, I would know," Thabis shouted, his voice steady and commanding.

William entered a frenzy, trying to carve into his enemy more and more. Who would have thought he would show a bit of fear to this man? Brute force does not guarantee a win, but skill does. "You truly are pathetic. Maybe I should keep you alive to work on my fields—maybe you could put your strength to something useful."

Thornton grew bored of this little game. With a swift strike, he knocked the sword out of William's hand. "Are you done? Because it's my turn." Before William could respond, his head had already left his body. A roar echoed inside the tavern—the beast had awakened. Thornton, craving blood, activated his magical abilities, impaling the guards with icicles that sprang from the ground, cold and deadly.

The remaining guards, seeing their commander fall, were filled with terror. They tried to flee, but the door was blocked by the villagers who had regained their morale. With their leader dead and the monster still thirsting for blood, they knew the fight was over. Desperation filled their hearts as they realized there would be no escape.

A young guard, barely older than a boy, dropped his sword and fell to his knees. "We surrender! Please don't kill us!" he cried, his voice breaking with fear.

Thabis, seeing the battle was won, grabbed William's severed head and raised it into the air. "We have won! They are no match for your dreams!" The tavern exploded with cheers, the sound of victory ringing through the air.

"But we are not done," Thabis continued, his voice rising above the clamor. "The lord still remains, and we will punish him too." The men, bloodied but triumphant, roared in agreement. They had tasted victory, and now they hungered for justice.

The night was far from over, and as they prepared to march on the lord's manor, they knew this was just the beginning. The fight for their freedom had truly begun, and they would see it through to the end, no matter the cost.