They were definitely bandits. I should have expected it — I was in a generic fantasy novel, after all. Of course the hero's master would be attacked by a group of low-life thugs, only for them to be utterly defeated by his hands.
The bandit behind Herald didn't even get the chance to breathe. Before the dagger could press in, Herald slammed his elbow backward with precision, catching the man square in the ribs. There was a wet crack, something sharp and final, and the man folded over like his spine had snapped. The blade fell from his hand, clattering harmlessly to the floor as he dropped to his knees, gasping like a dying fish out of water.
Herald turned, grabbed him by the face with one hand, and drove his skull to the ground with a force that sent a spray of dust and loose rock into the air. The man crumpled and lay still. No final groan, no twitch. Just silence. He died.
Leaves rustled as three more figures stepped out from beneath the trees.
