After a few moments of scrambling, it quickly became apparent that there wasn’t enough armor to disguise both Malt and Henry. The guard that they’d walked in on only had on him a gambeson coat, a shortsword, and no face covering to speak of.

Henry ransacked the bar, trying to find anything that could help better the disguise, but to no avail.

“This is bad, we haven’t the time to go fetch another guard.”

Malt was already donning the armor, messily strapping on the plate anywhere that it fit. “Maybe we could split this set?”

“...well I suppose I could just cover my face up with a scarf or something.”

Geld was peeking through a window, looking out further into the village. “That’s not gonna fly, way too sketchy. At this point we’re probably going to have to send in Malt alone.”

Malt slipped the helm onto his head and walked over to Geld, peering through the same window. From a distance like that he couldn’t discern too many details about the guards, but even from afar it was obvious that these weren’t your average man-at-arms. They wore full lamellar cuirasses and were covered from head to toe in either mail or strips of plate. More worryingly, they were each armed with poleaxes.

He grimaced, “I honestly dunno if I’m skilled enough to take one on alone, even with the element of surprise. Those poleaxes look rough.” Poleaxes were designed to combat armor, if he took a solid strike to the helm with one of those, he’d be out like a light.

Geld snickered, “I see that you’re as unconfident as ever.” He looked into the boy’s eyes, face becoming serious. “You’re a lot more dangerous than you think.”

He pointed to the longsword hanging at the boy’s waist, “That’s a sword that’s taken the lives of what, maybe half a dozen people? You’re still a cheeky brat, but you aren’t a greenhorn anymore.”

Malt swallowed and hesitantly placed his hand on the pommel of his sword. He’d lost count of how many he’d killed up to that point, but it was easily in the double digits. Every time he took a life, he’d been subject to a cocktail of emotions.

There was the guilt, that for the better or worse seemed to grow less and less prominent the more that he killed. There was the powerlessness, making him feel as if he wasn’t in control of his own life or actions. Then there was the most worrying emotion, the strange feeling deep within him that was something akin to accomplishment.

In that moment that he murdered someone, he felt powerful, more so than in any other point of his life. He had fought someone with his life on the line and won, imbuing himself with a brief moment of superiority. It was an adrenaline fueled bliss that was immediately followed by a seething self disgust.

No matter how hard he tried to make it seem otherwise, the killings were troubling him.

Geld waved his hand in front of his face, “Oi, this isn’t the time to have an internal monologue.” He beckoned to Henry, who gave up on his search and joined the other two near the windowsill.

“The plan stays the same, the only difference is that Malt goes at the guard alone. Henry, wait near the buildings until Malt’s done his part. Everything clear?” They each gave nods of affirmation.

With Geld at the frontlead, they made their way to the door and took their positions. He placed his hand on the door handle and after a brief moment, pushed it open.

The door swung outward with a small creak as they entered again into the crisp midnight. The barracks were in view now, in all its twisted glory.

It stood out quite a bit from the other buildings. For one it was noticeably larger than the average cabin and they had paid even less attention to the aesthetics. With few windows and a construction made primarily of bare timber, it looked its part as a military headquarters.

The most important detail, at least for the three intruders, was that nearly the entire building was supported upon four large trunks at each corner. If one of those happened to fail, the entire structure should theoretically collapse, burying the sleeping khods with the entire second floor.

Now within throwing distance, the guards came into clearer view. Their gear was of far better quality than the set that Malt had scavenged from the earlier guard. What looked like random strips of plate layered upon mail and gambeson were actually full splinted greaves and vambraces.

What was assumed to be a regular nasal helm was actually a helm with a full face visor. This was particularly troublesome, mostly due to how small the eye openings were.

As if that wasn’t enough, they still wore aventails under their helms, meaning that they were basically completely covered in armor of some kind. His sword was now rendered largely useless considering that the guards were practically slashproof.

Nonetheless, the plan had to continue. Geld snuck off, splitting the group in two as they eyed their respective targets. Not long after, Malt heard the noise of glass breaking far to his left.

The sound wasn’t loud enough to cause considerable panic, but it was more than enough to catch the attention of the guard at the southwest corner.

He exchanged words with the guard that Malt was supposed to engage and after a little back and forth, the guard walked off to investigate the noise, obviously annoyed. He would probably never be seen again.

Malt let out a small sigh of relief as the guard walked off. The tension immediately returned, though, when he realized that this was his turn.

Henry gave him a little thumbs up as he stood up from his crouching position, standing as straight as possible, trying to make up for his lack in height.

Then, as naturally as he could, he began making his way to the remaining guard.

The moment he entered the torchlight the guard and him locked eyes. Despite the cold midnight breeze, Malt was sweating buckets, partly because of his armor and partly because of how nervous he was. That was probably the longest few yards he’d ever walked.

The guard was scanning him like an eagle. He took note of his posture, way of walking, proportions, everything.

Somewhere along the line, he found a problem.

He called to Malt in Khodic. Malt couldn’t understand the language but it was pretty obvious what the guard was trying to say. Not having any other choice, he simply kept walking. So desperately, he wanted to just rush the guard, but at this distance he wouldn’t make it halfway before the guard bashed his skull in with the poleaxe.

As he inched closer, the guard grew more and more alarmed, repeating the same words again with more urgency. The situation was obviously degrading as hostility began to arise, which was more than evident when the guard pointed the polearm forward, clearly displaying to Malt the needle-like spike protruding from the end of the weapon.

Finally, the guard gave into his sense of danger and raised the axe, poised for a downward swing.

Malt immediately lunged forward and slammed his body into the guard, pinning him against the wall. He raised his arm to intercept the blow before it could gather enough momentum, stopping the swing.

Then came a desperate struggle for dominance for the weapon. Malt tried to pry the polearm away whilst keeping the guard pinned, but the difference in their weight classes was quickly made apparent.

With his extra heft and leverage, he used the pole to push Malt off and into the wall, effectively reversing the positions.

Malt was in a truly dire situation then. The guard was taller, heavier, and above all, armed. He used the axe’s shaft to pin the boy to the wall, repeatedly bashing it into his chest, as if to try to beat him into submission.

Had he not been wearing armor, Malt would’ve definitely broken a few ribs by now. Even with the armor he could tell that there would still be plenty of bruises once this was all over.

Malt cleared his head, not allowing himself to just flail around. Still not at the stage where he could execute techniques instinctively, he needed to plan his next move quickly and effectively.

After a short moment and a few more beatings, he slipped his heel behind the guard’s leg and went completely limp. Taking the guard by surprise, he slipped from the guard’s grasp and into a fetal position eye level with the man’s crotch.

With his heel still directly behind the guard’s, he pushed his entire weight against the khod’s abdomen, knocking him off his center of gravity and forcing him to trip over his previously positioned heel.

Malt was now in the superior position. Aided by gravity, he continued wrestling for the weapon, pounding the shaft into the guard’s face in an attempt to discombobulate him.

Just one chance, he just needed a split second to end the melee. However by that point an unknowing guard in the northeastern corner was calling out to the guard, obviously hearing the scuffle that was happening.

When Malt heard footsteps coming to their position, he knew that his chance would not come. Fine then, he thought. He’d just have to make his own.

He let go of the poleaxe with one hand, allowing the guard to gain dominance over the weapon. With his free hand he clutched a handful of dry, dusty dirt from the ground and threw it into the guard's face.

Luckily, some made it into his eye openings and with a yelp of pain, he loosened his grip on the axe.

Suddenly, Malt wrenched the weapon out of the guard’s hands and as quickly and violently as he could, shoved the spike into the guard’s eye.

The needle embedded itself deep into the guard’s skull with almost no resistance. The guard spasmed violently once and went limp.

There wasn’t time to recover. Malt pulled the axe from the corpse and practically flung it toward the corner that the other guard would be coming from.

It was a savage and heavy blow, one that would’ve obliterated the khod’s skull had he not blocked it in time. The poleaxe’s crescent blade dug into the wood of the guard’s axe.

He wrenched away the weapon, disarming him. Malt immediately drew his longsword as the guard pried the two axes apart, resetting into a battle stance.

Malt brought the sword up unto a high guard, raising the crossguard up to his ear. He would have to keep a considerable distance considering the oppressive reach disadvantage he had. The poleaxe meant that one step too far and he would likely receive a fatal wound.

Footwork was paramount, this was a battle of positioning, not might.

They circled one another for a few moments before the guard lunged forward with the spike. Malt simply stepped to the side and parried the thrust with the side of his blade.

Trying to block a strike from a polearm with a sword would be suicidal, and he’d basically lose every bind going against a weapon with as much leverage as a poleaxe, so evading and parrying were all he had left.

All it took was a slight tap and the thrust was redirected, that was the beauty of a parry.

He immediately followed through and swung a test cut at the guard’s thigh, in which the blade bounced harmlessly off the splinted armor.

They went back and forth, Malt avoiding and parrying every thrust while each swing he took bounced harmlessly off the guard’s superior armor.

In one instance, Malt’s parry was slightly off. The thrust was still diverted, but not enough to stop the axe’s crescent blade from slicing through an exposed part of his armor.

The razor sharp blade tore through the thin layer of clothing and opened a small gash near his elbow.

Malt hissed in pain, still not daring to take his eyes off his opponent. He was thankful that it was a glancing blow but that incident proved that even a minor slip up could mean death.

This situation was just as dire if not more dire than the first. He was outranged and his longsword was far from the optimal weapon to use against a fully armored opponent.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Henry scurrying to the planting position despite Malt not yet having dispatched of the guards. Proof that there wasn’t much time left.

He kept parrying thrust after thrust until the guard started to become impatient. In his frustration, he thrusted a bit too far forward, overreaching and slightly compromising his balance.

In that moment Malt parried downward. The guard’s lack of control over his thrust caused the spike to embed itself shallowly into the dirt.

Malt seized the opportunity and stepped onto the shaft, effectively bringing the guard into a position reminiscent of someone bending over to pick something off the floor.

Not allowing the khod to react, he pounded his sword’s pommel into the guard’s helmed face.

The guard dropped his poleaxe and stumbled around before falling onto his back. Malt feverishly grasped the blade of his sword near the tip and repeatedly smashed the tip into the khod’s face plate.

His exhaustion was catching up to him, his strikes were growing weaker and slower, most of them even missing the face plate completely. He was taking in great breaths of air and his armor was beginning to feel heavier and heavier by the second.

It was as if he was going to pass out at any moment. He quickly washed the thought from his mind, that would, without a doubt mean death.

By the time he came back to his senses, he realized that the khod was already unconscious, knocked cold by the brutal bashing.

Despite the danger, Malt ripped his helmet off and fell back onto his elbows. The cool night air was like heaven to him. His breaths came out as great plumes of steam as he fought to regain his composure.

After he’d more or less caught his breath, he turned to his side and saw Henry was right next to him, fiddling with something.

He opened a small jar and poured the roughly crushed powder into the brass container before pulling out his canteen. It quickly occurred to him that his time to recuperate would be abruptly cut short.

Henry, without turning away from the bomb, spoke to Malt in a panicked voice. “Get ready to haul ass. I saw at least a dozen guards coming to this area.”

He poured a healthy portion of water into the container, which immediately began violently hissing. As quickly as possible he screwed the cap on with some trouble and hurriedly placed it onto the ground near the supporting pillar.

The two boys scurried to their feet, and sprinted off into the darkness. From behind them, they could hear the hissing become louder and louder as the guards arrived on scene to witness the mess they’d left.

They hadn’t a clue when it would explode, but it was definitely soon.

Suddenly, a deafening boom reverberated throughout the village. Malt felt as if his eardrums would blow out as the force traveled through the air and ground.

It felt as if the earth itself shook, the two boys stumbled and fell onto their stomachs, as the destructive blast shocked their bones and flesh to the point where they were left there quaking in on the ground.

Any windows within the vicinity were blown out and anything not fastened toppled over.

Malt laid there, ears ringing and still unable to move. Unaware of the discord that was beginning to arise throughout the village.