Blue Stripes

The Nilfgaardian officer's gaze lingered on Ron for a moment, as though he had remembered something. Then he smiled.

It was not the smile of meeting an acquaintance, but the smile of someone who had finally found a useful tool.

He pulled the sword from the mud and strode toward Ron, metal clanking with every step.

He stopped a few paces before Ron and looked up—he had to look up, since the top of his head only reached Ron's breastplate—then cleared his throat officiously.

"Third Legion, Central Army Group, Direct Reconnaissance Squad," he announced his unit designation.

His tone was exactly like someone reciting an official document he had memorized countless times, every word enunciated with precision.

"These Blue Stripes remnants are members of the Temerian Resistance. I have ordered their immediate arrest. You are a sergeant under a baron?

"I am now requisitioning your unit. Effective immediately, command is formally transferred to me. You will obey my orders!!"

His voice echoed briefly among the charred thatched cottages.

The woman in blue did not look at the officer. She was looking at Ron, her gaze traveling from his brigandine to his chainmail and his closed helm.

At last, it settled on the enormous two-handed battle axe hanging casually from one hand. The corner of her mouth twitched into a bitter curve.

"Another pack of Nilfgaardian dogs." Her voice was hoarse, as though smoke had scorched her throat, but its rising inflection carried a sharp disdain for everything. "What, did Nilfgaard's dogs catch the scent of their master taking a shit? Did you come wagging your tails and chasing after him in circles?"

The officer turned his head, casting Ves a cold glance, then made a very brief gesture to the crossbowmen beside him.

"Once I have dealt with official business, I will interrogate you properly." His tone was flat, without the slightest ripple. "I have plenty of fine young men here. I am sure they would love to have a good 'chat' with you."

The Nilfgaardian soldiers' heated gazes leaked through the slits of their open-faced helmets, fixed tightly on Ves. Even their breathing grew a little more hurried.

Someone among the villagers took a step back. The man clutching a pitchfork trembled, its iron tines knocking lightly against the ground. A woman pressed her child into her arms and would not let the child look up.

Ron did not look at the officer. His gaze passed over the man's shoulder and fell upon the corner of the open ground.

The villagers' corpses had been piled together carelessly. On top lay an old woman, with a wound running from her shoulder blade to her waist. Her torn linen shirt had been glued to the wound by blood.

Beside her was a young woman, barefoot, her skirt ripped all the way to the roots of her thighs. A deep slash in her neck had severed her windpipe.

Beside her was a child. Something had crushed one of the child's legs, bending it at an impossible angle. The child's face still held the expression from that final moment.

Ron's gaze rested on the pile of corpses for an instant before returning. He lowered his head and looked down at the officer before him.

"The villagers. You killed them?"

His voice seemed to carry the cold touch of metal. Behind his gorget, the officer's Adam's apple bobbed.

"First, when speaking to a superior officer, you say 'Reporting, sir.'"

The officer's tone shifted from officious to impatient, his brows drawing down.

"But since you are not part of Nilfgaard's regular army, I will overlook that detail. Second, soldier, your duty is to carry out orders, not question your superiors. This is a confidential military mission. You are not qualified to know the details, and I have no obligation to explain them to you."

Ron's hand moved. The axe haft turned half a circle in his palm, and the blade flipped from hanging toward the ground to lying level. The motion was light, almost soundless.

The massive axe head suddenly crashed down, accompanied by a howl of wind splitting to either side and a heavy metallic impact.

CLANG!!!!

The Nilfgaardian officer's head was driven entirely into his chest cavity. His warped knight's helm was embedded in his breastplate, leaving half a shattered faceplate exposed. The helmet's winged ornament snapped off and fell at his feet, trembling faintly.

Blood and fragments of metal sprayed in every direction. His body seemed not yet to have registered the sudden impact; it stood there for a moment before crashing into the mud, kicking up a small cloud of dust.

Covered in blood, Ron's expression did not change in the slightest. He spat out one cold word.

"Kill."

The Nilfgaardian crossbowman was the first to react. Instinctively, he pulled the trigger. The bolt snapped out and struck the shield wall to Ron's left, bouncing away.

He reached for the bolt case at his waist. The instant his hand touched the leather flap, the formation behind Ron moved.

Karl stepped forward half a pace, bracing his military crossbow against his shoulder beside his cheek. He released it, and the bolt buried itself in the crossbowman's throat. The man's body arched backward, his crossbow slipping from his hands and falling to the ground.

Another crossbowman turned and ran. Just as he was about to climb over the gate, three bolts shot from the rear of the formation at once and embedded themselves in his back.

His body pitched forward, hanging on the broken edge of the gate. His legs twitched twice, then went still.

The Nilfgaardian shieldmen raised their shields almost simultaneously. Their reactions were not slow, but Miko had already led a five-man squad in from the flank.

A sword-and-shield fighter rammed his shield into the left shieldman's side. With a dull thud, the shields collided.

The Nilfgaardian soldier staggered aside. A spear thrust out from behind the sword-and-shield fighter, its tip piercing his thigh and pinning him to the ground on one knee. Cole cut in from the other side and ran his sword through the man's throat.

The two Nilfgaardian shieldmen in the center raised their shields and pushed forward at the same time. Their longswords stabbed toward Miko along the edges of their shields, one tip scraping across Miko's breastplate.

Miko did not use his sword. Instead, he drew the one-handed armor-piercing hammer at his waist and swung it down at an angle, striking the left shieldman's iron helm precisely on the side. The helmet caved in, and the shieldman toppled sideways.

Pete filled the gap from the right, his shield slamming into the other shieldman's. Three shield bearers immediately followed, closing in around him.

Four large shields pressed in at once, brutally compressing the Nilfgaardian soldier's room to move. Before the man trapped within the shield wall could react—

Several longswords stabbed rapidly through the gaps between the shields. Moments later, as the screams ceased, the shield bearers spread back into formation. The Nilfgaardian soldier's corpse, covered in sword wounds that had pierced straight through him, crashed to the ground.

The last shieldman was backing away. His shield was still raised, but his legs were shaking, his retreating steps short and unsteady. The rim of his shield struck the smoking handcart and tripped him.

By the time he regained his balance and looked up, thirty soldiers' spears and crossbows had formed a circle around him.

He threw down his shield, which slammed into the mud, then turned and ran as he tossed away the sword in his hand.

Old Gott caught up from the side and kicked him. The soldier lost his balance and fell. As he struggled to rise, Old Gott planted a foot on his back, pressed a spearpoint to the nape of his neck, and drove it viciously through the gap between helmet and neck.

The open ground fell silent. The wind still carried the heavy stench of blood and burning.

Ves was still holding her sword ready, its point aimed ahead, but there was no one left in front of her. Nilfgaardian soldiers lay sprawled across the mud at the village entrance.

The blonde female officer raised her head to look at Ron. Her bloodstained lips pressed into a line. She did not smile or sneer; she merely watched him with an appraising gaze.

"That man was just trying to requisition you." Her voice was still hoarse, but the anger from before was gone.

"Mm. So he died," Ron said.

"Blue Stripes. Ves."

"Calrad Mercenary Company. Ron."

Ves wiped the blood from the corner of her mouth with the back of her hand, then tilted her head toward the officer's corpse on the ground. Her gaze settled on the body with its head embedded in its chest. After watching it for a while, she sheathed her sword.