Reynald looked at the three Marbrand soldiers, battered and covered in wounds.
In his eyes, they didn't deserve to die.
They had only been ordered to spread rumors. They hadn't committed any further acts of sabotage.
After the scouts reported that rumors were spreading across the region, everyone had held a quick meeting. Ser Gregor made a swift decision and ordered Maester the Maester to send out ravens to nearby nobles, demanding that all roads be blocked. Even any commoners who had already fled into neighboring territories were to be sent back, no exceptions.
Everyone had already experienced the terror of the Mountain. So, the replies came back in full agreement. That was why, even though Village Chief Bernie had led the villagers out of Alexis Village under cover of night, they were still intercepted by a bannerman under Ser Barlow's command and forced to return.
Until the rumors were extinguished, it didn't matter if it was day or night, any villagers trying to escape with their families had nowhere to go.
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Foulmouth noticed the hesitation in Reynald's eyes. He drew a short sword and handed it to him.
Reynald accepted it. It was a fine blade, the edge reflecting the torchlight from the wall, the polished steel mirroring his silhouette like a piece of glass.
He gripped the sword tightly and walked up to the three guards. The soldiers immediately dropped to their knees, pleading for mercy.
They truly didn't deserve to die.
But unfortunately for them, they had run into the Mountain.
Reynald said coldly, "You might've been spared, but you overheard our conversation just now."
The three guards quickly tried to explain that it wasn't intentional, that they hadn't meant to eavesdrop. They swore they would never speak a word.
But Reynald saw right through it. This was clearly Ser Gregor giving him people to kill.
Mercy has no place in war. Compassion doesn't lead men.
Reynald gritted his teeth. "Stand up. If you're a man, then die on your feet."
The three guards slowly stood. Fear and desperation faded from their faces, replaced by grim resolve.
Reynald said, "I'm sorry. But this is a direct order. I must kill the three of you." He thrust his blade toward the guard on the left, aiming for the heart.
At that moment, the Mountain's voice echoed through the dungeon:
"The three of you, if you can knock the sword from Reynald's hand, or restrain him, you may live. I'll give you my word."
The guard on the left had his hands and feet shackled, but the chains were long enough to allow some movement. In desperation, he raised his arms and tried to block the strike with his manacles.
Shnk!
The sword pierced the man's arm.
He cried out in pain, but ignored the wound, swinging his chain at Reynald's neck. The other two lunged forward, flanking Reynald from both sides, their ankle chains too heavy to kick, but their manacles turning into flailing iron whips.
Reynald retreated, withdrawing his sword and dodging the clanging chains. He stepped wide to isolate the wounded soldier, then struck again, no longer holding back. His sword stabbed deep into the man's belly.
The soldier barely had time to raise his hands before Reynald drove the blade in again and again. Blood sprayed forth. The man roared and lunged in one last desperate attempt to grab him.
Reynald sidestepped and pressed against the wall as the dying guard collapsed to the ground, twitching violently.
The other two exchanged a glance.
They were shackled and slow. Reynald was agile and unencumbered, moving like a shadow. He was too fast.
The Mountain's voice came again:
"Reynald, I'm sorely disappointed. You stabbed a shackled man several times and he still didn't die right away."
Reynald's hands were slick with blood, his clothes splattered with crimson. His chest heaved as he gasped for breath. The full-force stabbing had drained him. It wasn't physical exhaustion, it was nerves. The guard's eyes, full of hatred and the will to fight to the death, would haunt him forever. That look of venomous rage had shaken him to his core.
Foulmouth chuckled softly, his laugh sharp and mocking.
The two remaining guards, now ready to die, backed against the wall and stopped moving. With death inevitable, there was no reason to waste energy. They'd wait for Reynald to approach, then strike with their chains. If they rushed him, they'd be cut down one by one.
The Mountain spoke again:
"Reynald, you must kill each of them with a single strike. If you fail, I'll let them go. If the secret of our mint leaks, it'll be because of your soft heart. You can forget leading troops, better go manage the stables instead."
Foulmouth laughed again.
Reynald's face flushed with burning shame. A heat rose in his stomach, churning like fire.
He tightened his grip on the sword and slowly advanced toward the two guards pressed against the wall. They stared back at him, hands wrapped tightly around their chains.
When he stepped into range, the chains lashed out, one aiming for his waist, the other arcing down toward his head.
Reynald didn't dodge. He lunged forward, blade flashing like silver lightning.
Thud!
One guard staggered back, Reynald's blade buried cleanly through his throat. Blood erupted.
The two chains whistled past Reynald, striking only air.
Without pause, Reynald stepped sideways and yanked the blade free. A spray of blood followed. The mortally wounded guard clutched at his throat, but his hands never made it, he crumpled to the ground, lifeless.
Whoosh!
Another chain swept toward him. Reynald ducked. It slammed into the stone wall behind him with a loud crack.
He sprang up, leaping forward. Eye to eye with his final opponent, he drove the blade straight into the man's chest.
He let go and stepped back. Only the hilt remained protruding from the dead man's chest.
The guard stared at him, but Reynald no longer trembled. He met the man's gaze, unwavering, unafraid.
The guard slid down the wall and collapsed. Dead.
The Mountain said, "Your movements were stiff. You wasted energy. Like some brute hacking wildly. If you're aiming for a vital spot, you don't need to use all your strength. That way, you'll still have enough energy to respond to other threats. When you drive your blade full-force into someone's heart, and there's another enemy beside him, you've got nothing left to react with."
Reynald had thought that killing two men cleanly would earn Ser Gregor's praise, but instead came cold, harsh criticism.
"If three parts of your strength can pierce a heart, don't use more than five. Don't use all twelve," the Mountain said. "Otherwise, you look like a reckless thug."
"Yes, Ser Gregor."
"Clean up the corpses and the blood. Don't call the jailers. Do it yourself."
"Yes, Ser Gregor."
"Foulmouth, let's go."
Foulmouth gave Reynald a mocking grin, a smirk laced with amusement and contempt. He stepped forward and slowly wiped Reynald's blade clean on one of the corpses.
"Reynald, if you withdraw the blade slowly, their blood won't splatter on you."
"Yes, Foulmouth."
"And next time, if it's a group fight, don't use full force even on a vital strike. Just enough to kill. That way you'll have the freedom to move. But in a duel? Put your whole heart into it, killing with full force feels so much better."
Reynald replied, "Yes, Foulmouth. But don't get cocky. Meet me at the training yard tomorrow morning. With wooden swords, I'll knock you down."
"With real swords," Foulmouth said, "I'd kill you for sure. Don't you think so, Young Master Reynald?"
Reynald froze.
Then, biting his lip, he said nothing more. He walked to the wall and took down the metal cone, fitting it into a small spout built into the wall. Water flowed from the cone, clear, steady, dripping into the wooden basin below, meant for rinsing away blood.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
⚔────────
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