Chime

[Roger Smith]

Bertrand heard his goons charging at the priest, boots pounding the road as they surged into the fray. Darting left right and center, weapons ready. Archers and crossbowmen, what were left of them, going for the high ground to get a clear shot. The others fanned out and circled around, hemming him in. It was a systematic, simple strategy that he'd beaten into them. Had to be effective, if they were going to be useful. He could hear them getting to work, weapons swinging. Wordless shouts and cries of battle.

...but it was all incredibly short-lived.

He'd scarcely run three dozen paces when he heard a chorus of terrified shrieks. From his men. He stopped in surprise. Then staggered as if drunk when a series of explosions tore apart and overpowered every other sound. Just like the one which had torn apart their barricade, but dozens of them. The sheer force of it, the thunder and the shockwave, was enough to leave him unsteady. He toppled over, pitching face-first into the rough grass. "What in the fuck..." He slowly rolled over, staring back toward the road. Smoke. Dozens of thin, wispy trails of smoke, spiraling lazily into the sky. Dust and blood, both smells choking out the air. And it was dead silent now.

Only the errant breeze, whispering through the grass.

"The fuck...was that? Crazy old man had that many of those damn exploding knives?" Bertrand forced himself upright, into a sitting posture. A hand came up to rub at his forehead, a headache already coming on. So much incompetence from his own men, and now this insanity on top of it. Never mind a god damn thunderbolt or thirty going off in his head with every one of those explosions. The only good thing that came out of this all was that after a mess like that, all that firepower? There was no way anything was still standing. Holy man had taken himself out along with the rest of that worthless bunch of peons. Thank goodness for small favors.

A light rustling noise in the treeline, off the side of the road, disturbed him from his thinking. Everything was still shrouded in a haze of smoke and dust, leaving it hard to see much...but he could still hear it. Could still make out, unmistakably, the sound of boots. Crunching over small bits of stone, crushing twigs and leaves underfoot. Strides pushing through tangled limbs. A long coat flapping in the breeze.

Looming out of the smoke and dust, there came a grim sight. A flicker of gold, in the shape of a cross. A soft, jingling noise, like a god damn wind chime as it shifted from the motion of its wearer. Twin discs of silver, unseen light reflecting eerily off of glasses. One lens broken, leaving only a half-moon shape. Face cast into shadow before the spectacles. And twin blades of silver, glimmering and sparkling. Pristine, untouched, another fresh set of weapons. Held in hands far too steady for a man who'd taken as much punishment as that impossible fucking priest had.

But Bertrand was positive. Stalking out of that exploded hellhole, it was no one else. Couldn't be anyone else. And what he also knew...was that he wasn't fucking dealing with this. He knew very well how fast that fool was. And what he also knew was that he was faster. In a straight dash, over open terrain like this, where Bertrand knew the area better? No way he was getting caught.

In a flash, the towering bandit captain was up and moving. A blur of grey and the battle-scarred paladin shot out of the haze like a shot, and tore after him.