Before the sentry even saw him, Wes complained, "Damn it! Lights are burning out way too damn fast!"

  The sentry jerked upright, hand flying to his dagger. His scarf slipped down, revealing a pockmarked face and a jagged scar where his left ear should have been. "Who the—?"

  Wes cut him off with a disgusted wave toward the barn. "Earnest told me to check the barn, because of that new girl just got dragged in."

  "Who is Earnest!?"

  "Oh, you might not know. He changed his name a few years ago, but--" Wes raised his pistol and shot the man in the chest twice.

  The sentry's chest exploded out the back in twin sprays of crimson, his mouth forming a huge “o” as his hands went to his sternum. His dagger clattered to the ground as he gasped, blood bubbling from his lips. The shots echoed across the compound like thunderclaps.

  Shouts erupted from inside the house—heavy boots scrambling, voices barking orders. Wes didn't hesitate. He ran to one side of the building, pressing himself against the wall, waiting for Crostliks to inevitably check the porch. If they weren't wearing armor, he might be able to flanks and even hit more than one person at a time per bullet. Probably wishful thinking, but if he could gather all the enemies in one place, that would still be ideal.

  He couldn't see what was happening on the porch, so he listened intently. Boots pounded across the wooden planks—three, maybe four sets. A gruff voice barked orders. "Check the perimeter! That had to be magic!"

  Another voice, higher-pitched with panic: "Sentry's down!"

  "It looks like Nalp got stabbed!"

  Metal hissed as someone drew a blade. Wes waited, counting heartbeats.

  Then he rounded the corner, ready to unload his entire magazine into everyone on the porch.

  When he stepped into view, his bristol was raised and the world seemed to take a breath, time slowing down. The scene on the porch froze for a split second—four Crostlik raiders, two in patched gambesons, their faces twisted in shock. One clutched a notched falchion, another fumbled with a crossbow. The dead sentry slumped against the railing, his blood pooling between the floorboards. Wes had 10 rounds left in this magazine. He was a good shot, and this was really close. He rattled off all ten rounds, center mass on all four targets, aiming for hearts and lungs. The pistol barked in rapid succession, Wes controlling the reciprocating mass of the slide through years of practice. Each shot punched through gambesons and flesh with brutal efficiency. The Crostliks jerked like marionettes with their strings cut—blood misting the air, weapons clattering to the porch. One man managed a choked scream before collapsing face-first into his companion's ruined body.

  Silence followed for a few seconds, broken only by the distant creak of the barn door swinging in the night breeze. Wes slapped in a new magazine and dropped the slide, retaining the spent mag in a pocket. He ran to the other side of the building, and before he even got there, he heard the twang-thump of two crossbows shooting back to back in the near distance. Jorn. Then a scream split the night.

  As he ran up, he saw that three more Crostliks had come out the other side of the house. Wes scanned the scene in a split second. A woman with a spear had been shot in the stomach with a bolt, and a would-be archer got a bolt to the shoulder--both obviously Jorn's doing. The third Crostlik, a heavyset man with a crossbow in his hands and a rusted mace on his belt, bellowed and charged toward the darkness where the shots had come from.

  Wes aimed and fired, missing where he’d been aiming, but still hitting the charging man in the hip from behind. The mace-wielder staggered with a roar, his leg buckling as blood sprayed from the wound. He whirled toward Wes, face contorted in pain and rage. "Mage! By the house! It’s a man, short hair! Wearing a hat!"

  Before he could take another step, a second crossbow bolt punched through the yelling man’s throat from the darkness. The mace-wielder gagged, hands flying to the protruding shaft as he collapsed. Wes spun, putting another bullet in each of the two Crosliks that Jorn had already shot. He tsked and threw off his hat into the darkness. Then he ran towards the barn, taking a risk.

  He needed to reload his empty magazine, but with all the noise the fight was making, he figured it wasn't a good idea to stay in the darkness, just in case some rift wolves came to investigate. He hoped Jorn also came to that conclusion and moved towards one of the torches or burn barrels, preferably behind cover.

  Wes ducked inside the barn, his boots crunching on dried blood flakes. He crouched next to the wall, behind cover, fingers working quickly to reload the empty magazine. The stench of death clung to the air—old meat and fresh slaughter mingling with the sickly-sweet smell of rot. There was another scream in the night. He hoped that Jorn had shot someone again. Wes finished reloading his extra magazine, swapped mags, topped off his second, and was ready to go again.

  He peered through the barn's open doorway. The compound had fallen eerily quiet except for the crackle of torches and the occasional groan from dying Crostliks. All the windows had lights on now.

  Wes slowly looked around, watching for movement or any archers. He figured that Jorn had changed positions, but he didn't know where the younger man was.

  Suddenly, a blast of power lit the night, more so than a gunshot. A howl accompanied the light and cack as a bolt of angry, arcane energy scythed through the air on the other side of the house, striking a hillside. Another magical attack shot out, one of flame, a fireball, and lit up the surroundings in hues of red as it caught the grass on fire. Wes caught sight of a shadow moving away from the blaze, sprinting inhumanly fast. It had to be Jorn.

  Wes sucked air in through his teeth. He’d just seen real offensive magic in this world, and it was battlefield weaponry.

  One mage slinging two spells at once, or two of them. Either way, he needed to get into the house and put them down. He sprinted to the side of the small house connected to the barn structures, where nobody could see him, and debated how to get inside. Wes pressed his back against the rough timber wall, listening. The house was silent—no more shouts, no movement. Either the remaining Crostliks were lying in wait, or they'd fled deeper inside. His fingers flexed around the grip of his pistol.

  A low whistle cut through the night—Jorn's signal from their earlier planning. Wes risked a glance around the corner. He was in time to see a stone sail out of the darkness, breaking a window in the far building. Almost immediately, someone inside shut wooden shutters, a common feature on first floor windows in this world, likely so if there was no light, a building could still be secured from rift wolves or other nasty things.

  Wes go the message. Most of the enemies were in that building.

  As he watched, a hand stretched from the second story and delivered an arcane attack at where Jorn had been, where the rock had come from. The wary youth was being smart, though. He was no longer there,obvious when the magic attack tore up the hillside like a small missile. Wes assumed that Jonn was using bursts of his transformation power to move more quickly, or reload his crossbow faster.

  If he stopped being able to transform, he’d need to retreat or die.

  If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

  After a deep breath, Wes went around the corner and carefully observed the door. He didn't even consider going through a window. They were not all shuttered, but he didn't fancy getting cut to ribbons at the same time as being vulnerable enough to catch an arrow, or magic to the face. In real life, going through a window is a bad idea.

  He got an idea, and wedged Whereharth into the door's crack. Almost immediately frost started to climb up the wood.

  Wes needed to work fast. He suspected that the defenders would be checking the walls outside. The only reason they likely weren’t already sticking heads out of windows was wariness of Jorn’s crossbow and Wes’ “magic.” The enemies also didn't want to come outside and get ambushed anymore, but in the buildings they were still vulnerable to fire.

  Eventually, they’d have no choice but to check, and in reality, Wes was on a team of two. Taking too long would lead to death.

  In fact, it was also only a matter of time until the Crostliks figured out that this was a rescue attempt and tried bargaining using Jorn's family's life...if either Harken or Lissa were still alive. If that happened, Wes didn't know how Jorn would react, so he needed to move before finding out.

  Finally, when the door and the locks were frozen solid, Wes sheathed his sword again, then shot at the edge of the door where the latch and the deadbolt were. He reared back, kicking the door as hard as he could, shocked when it practically flew off its hinges.

  "Oh yeah, the Stellar Core," he muttered. Although it wasn't super obvious all the time, he was still operating at a higher level than his normal baseline, probably peak human level. The door exploded inward in a shower of splintered wood and frost, almost slow motion as he goggled. Then his head was back in the game.

  Wes surged through the gap, diving low, pistol raised—just as a crossbow bolt whizzed through the doorway above him. An older Crostlik woman in a plain brown dress scrambled back from the hallway, already reaching for another bolt.

  Wes fired twice. The first shot punched through her upper chest, spinning her sideways. The second caught her in the temple before she hit the ground. His shots had been wild from surprise, and Wes hissed, putting effort into refocusing.

  A young man with a patchy beard and wearing a gambeson came screaming out of a side room, fear and hate in his eyes. Wes double tapped him, and the man dropped the machete he'd been about to throw.

  Then, methodically, Wes advanced through the building, killing every Crostlik he came across, which was one more in the small house, then another as soon as he made it into the larger building, the two-barns-turned-schoolhouse.

  The interior or the larger barn-building looked almost like a small hotel inside. As a school, the builders had maximized the space for multiple rooms. Wes moved down the narrow hallway, pistol raised, listening for any sign of movement. The wooden floor creaked under his boots, each step a potential giveaway. The air smelled of sweat, old blood, and something acrid.

  He was surprised by how the place smelled, actually, until he remembered the barn.

  A door to his left burst open. A Crostlik man in a padded jerkin lunged at him with a glittering short sword. Wes backpedaled and fired twice, both shots punching through the man's chest. Then to avoid using more bullets, he drew his sword and put it into the thrashing man’s head.

  With eyes as cold as his sword, Wes went inside the room the man had been in, and found Harken. He stopped in his tracks. "What did they do to you?" he whispered out loud. Luckily, Harken was unconscious at the moment.

  The older man was stretched out, spread eagle, naked, and all of the fingers from one hand had already been removed. It looked like he hadn't been tortured for too long, thankfully, but without the tourniquet around his wrist, he'd likely already be dead. He'd been badly beaten.

  “Shit.” Wes sheathed his sword, then flicked open his folding knife.

  After removing Harken’s bonds, still watching the door and listening for enemies, Wes dragged in the body of the man he'd killed and started undressing the corpse. He pulled the clothes off, leaving them in a pile near Harken. "Hey, Harken," he whispered, nudging the man.

  Harken came to slowly, half unconscious, and obviously thought he was dreaming. He started to close his eyes again. Wes slapped his face. "Hey. I'm freeing you. Clothes are on the floor. Stay in here. Barricade the door. Don't take the tourniquet off that they put on your wrist."

  A few moments passed where the half-delirious, pained Harken processed these words. "Jorn? Lissa?" he croaked.

  "Working on it. Like I said, stay in here. Get up and show me you will close the door after I leave the room."

  Harken's bloodshot eyes focused with immense effort. His breath rattled as he pushed himself upright against the wall, his mutilated hand cradled against his chest. The tourniquet—a strip of leather twisted tight with a wooden toggle—had slowed the bleeding but couldn't stop it completely. He managed a weak nod toward the door.

  Wes didn't wait for more. He slipped back into the hallway, pistol up. The next door didn't have anyone or anything of note in it, but what he saw raised his hackles. He realized that all of these first floor doors had locks on the outside of them. Wes blew air out of his nose as he centered himself and studied the heavy iron bolt on the door. The implications were obvious. None of these rooms were probably being used as just storage, or at least, they all could be used for darker purposes. His boots scuffed against the wooden floorboards as he approached another room, listening. Nothing. He unlocked it.

  When he threw the door open, an emaciated, terrified young man held up his hands in surrender. "I'm a prisoner!" he cried out.

  Wes didn't lower the pistol. The young man was shirtless, rail-thin, his sunken eyes wide with terror. Fresh whip marks crisscrossed his back.

  There was a plate of food on the floor, a slab of meat.

  "Who are you? Why are you here?"

  The stranger henl up his hands, a tear tracking down his grimy face. "My name is Joruk, from Duskvale! I applied for a job in the city, showed up to work, but…it was a scam! The Crostliks took me here, and they say I'm young and strong and they want me to work for them. This is how they get you. They make you eat...that." He pointed at the plate of food in disgust. "Human flesh. I have not ‘et in over two weeks. They say I'll join them before I starve and...I startin’ to fear they were right. Thinking about, well, thinking about ending it. I was, that is." He shivered.

  Wes kept checking the hallway, staying wary. He got the impression that the remaining Crostliks were holing up upstairs, either hoping Wes would go away, or ready for their last stand. He grimaced. "Were all the Crostliks initiated into the family with cannibalism?"

  Joruk wiped his nose with a trembling hand. "Some are born into it. But newcomers? They make you eat. They don't give you a choice." His cracked lips twisted in disgust. "They call it the Blood Oath."

  A floorboard creaked upstairs. Wes tensed, pistol trained on the ceiling.

  The prisoner's voice dropped to a whisper. "There's a girl. New one. I heard them talking about her. She's going to be the wife of one of the young masters of the family. Is that what you're here for?"

  "That's right." Wes suddenly frowned. "Duskvale, huh? Joruk? I've heard your name before. Can't say I like Duskvale much...your elders are trash, at least one is, but I can help you out here. The door locks on the outside so it’s not good to stay in here.. Go back the way I came, behind me, grab a weapon off one of the bodies, and hunker down. Don't go outside. You might get shot.” He paused. “And don't cross me or I'll have to kill you."

  Joruk's sunken eyes widened. He scrambled to his feet, swaying from weakness but moving with desperate urgency. "I won't—I swear it. Just get me out of this hell."

  Wes walked out into the hallway, gesturing with his head. "Hurry up and go, before they decide to come downstairs. If you see a man around your age with a crossbow coming from outside, yell you're not a Crostlik. Do the same if you see some sort of bone abomination. That'll be him, too. Don't ask questions, just hurry up."

  Joruk's fingers trembled as he pushed himself upright, his sunken eyes wide with terror. He nodded to Wes before running down the hallway, grabbing a weapon from the dead body of a Crostlik, a short sword. The young man's legs wobbled as he sprinted toward the exit, disappearing down the access to the smaller, attached house.

  Wes kept on moving, stepping forward to the next door, keeping his pistol raised. He checked every room on the bottom floor, but didn't find any more prisoners, just evidence of atrocities and one body. A middle aged woman, naked, ravaged to death. Her arm was missing. He didn't want to know why she was missing a limb, but he could guess. Wes's jaw clenched as he turned away from the grisly scene. The stench of death clung to the air, thick enough to taste. When the doors had been closed before, it’d kept down some of the smell, but now it was revolting. Footsteps creaked overhead—the remaining Crostliks were definitely holed up on the second floor.

  He quickly reloaded his pistol, keeping one in the pipe, ready to go at all times during the process. Then he was finished. With one bullet in the chamber, and with his extra mag, he had a total of 25 rounds ready to go again. Wes breathed deeply, centering himself as he approached the stairway to the second floor. All of the first floor rooms had been checked. There was a door to the outside here too, but he wasn't too worried about any Crostliks outside. He hadn't heard any more magic, or any celebrating, so he figured that Jorn was still outside still, lurking, waiting to put a bolt into any Crostliks he saw.

  All he knew now was that there were more enemies upstairs, but he didn’t know how many, and he didn’t know where Lissa was. Accidentally shooting the girl was going to make this even more of a tragedy, whether Wes lived to see tomorrow or not.