Chapter 31: Part One - Chapter Thirty-One - Clash and Clangour

Clash and Clangour

47th Day of Autumn

766 Karloman’s Peace

“There are twelve of them,” the long-haired thug whispered to Ekkehard.

Concealed in the deep shadows between two warehouses, Ekkehard stood beside Vedast, with twenty of his gang's ruffians lined up behind him. The thugs waited impatiently, some anxious, others eager and blood hungry.

“Looks like only four are Haraldr’s, the rest are the Count’s, just like before,” the scout added, expanding his report.

Ekkehard nodded and turned to Vedast. “As expected. Now, we wait.” Vedast nodded, his jaw locked tight, his brow furrowed in silent, sour anticipation.

Ekkehard turned away and took a deep breath, trying to calm his nerves, hoping the darkness hid his trepidation. His heart thudded as he worked to steady his breathing. The last thing he wanted was for Vedast to think him worried. Everything was riding on this. So much planning had gone into it, and the execution would either establish his family's future in this city or end it.

Without Vedast's sponsorship, the Reubkes would be resigned to destitution, forced to beg on the streets, their only possible salvation being knacker's work. Undignified and ignoble, Ekkehard refused to allow that to be the end of his family's journey. He would secure Vedast's favour permanently. This had to work.

In the two cycles since Ekkehard and his brothers joined Vedast's alliance, every moment had been devoted to organizing, training, and fortifying the butcher’s little army. Although they had shown their value to the crime lord, Ekkehard knew they hadn’t done enough. Only Haraldr's death would suffice.

“I’m going to take point,” Ekkehard informed Vedast. “Keep an eye on things, make sure all goes to plan.” The burly man nodded again, and Ekkehard crept to the end of the alley to peek around the corner.

A winding dirt road cut through the city's Warehouse District. Thirty meters away, a dozen men waited outside the gates of a wooden palisade, exposed by torchlight. They stood in two distinct groups. The smaller group of four looked rougher, leaning against the wooden walls with bored, disgruntled expressions. They wore dirty coats of leather, fur, and hemp over thick, riveted vests and various weapons, from spiked bludgeons to hatchets and large daggers. The larger group, more uniform, stood in ranked formation ahead of the gates, wearing rectangular plated armour typical of city guards, armed with spears and shields, red cloaks draped across their backs.

Beyond the palisade lay one of Haraldr's secret storage yards.

Ekkehard and his brothers had studied and spied on the man since arriving in the city. Everything Vedast had told them had turned out to be true. Haraldr was despicable. A former mercenary captain now making a living selling people into slavery. Rumours even suggested some slaves were sent north, beyond the empire's border into the savage frozen wastes. What horrors waited a man in that desolate place, Ekkehard could not imagine.

Despite his influence, Haraldr had been hard to track. He owned many residences throughout Werth, funded by his ill-gotten profits, but frequented none. It took a cycle to discover that Haraldr preferred living in the storage yards and warehouses he used for captives. The man liked to keep his finger on the pulse of his operations.

A dangerous and diligent man, Haraldr would not be taken by surprise easily.

“Hold!” Ekkehard heard one of the red-cloaked guards call to a pair of approaching figures. It begins, Ekkehard thought.

All eight of the Count’s men dropped into formation, brandishing their spears at the newcomers, shields raised. “You men!” one of the shadows called. “What are you still doing here? You're needed in the barracks now!”

The Count’s men relaxed as the two shadows entered the light, both wearing the same armour as the guards but with yellow cloaks of the Commandant’s retinue. “Our orders are to guard this road until morning,” the red-cloaked leader replied. “We have no business in the Barracks Quarter until watch ends.”

“Forget your orders,” a yellow-cloaked man said, shaking his head. “There have been riots at the granaries; the silos have gone up in flames.”

“What?” the red-cloaked man replied. “How did that happen?”

“No idea,” the yellow cloak answered curtly, “but it doesn’t matter. Everyone is needed there right now, prefect’s orders. Any more of yours in the area?”

“Yeah,” the red cloak informed him. “We have a full Hort guarding the road. I’ll send a man to gather them.”

“Like hell you will,” one of the four thuggish guards spat. “You're paid to be our backup.”

“Their backup?” the yellow-cloaked man questioned.

“Shut your mouth, scum,” the red-cloaked man shot back at the thug. “I’m here on the Count’s orders, not yours. Tell your boss he will have to look after himself tonight.”

The guards and gang members clashed briefly in words, but the thugs eventually backed down. One of the red cloaks began running to nearby buildings, banging on doors, and more men emerged. Ekkehard’s heart raced as he stepped back into the alley, resting against the wall to calm his breathing, lest panic overcome him. Their spies had reported twelve men at the front of the yard and twelve at the rear, that was it. By Ekkehard’s count, at least sixty guards had been hidden, lying in wait. How had they missed that? Had they gone in without the distraction, they would have been slaughtered.

Vedast's whisper came suddenly, causing Ekkehard to jump, “Your brother just saved our backsides I’d say, wouldn’t you?”

Steadying himself, Ekkehard replied, “Indeed. That could have gone very badly.”

“Smart boy,” Vedast added. “That Florentin. Very smart.” Ekkehard gave the butcher a warning glare.

Florentin had indeed saved their lives. Despite Ekkehard’s efforts to keep his younger brothers out of this venture, he couldn’t prevent them from getting involved at every opportunity. When they discovered that Haraldr had a third of the Count of Fyn’s twelve hundred-strong retinue in his pocket, it had been Florentin who devised the ruse to lead them away, and it had worked.

In a way, Ekkehard wished it hadn’t. He didn’t like the way Florentin impressed Vedast. He wanted his younger brothers kept away from this business, not proving themselves apt for it. Without Florentin's ruse, however, Ekkehard and Vedast would have walked into a fatal ambush. He was grateful for that at least.

They waited a tense half-hour, giving time for every guard to get the message and depart, before drawing their weapons and making their move.

Ekkehard led Vedast and his men out of the alley. They stayed low and stepped softly, heading straight for the palisade wall. Using the curve of its circumference as cover, the group remained hidden. Ekkehard knew Audomar was doing the same with his squad, approaching Haraldr’s sentries from the other side. Holding his breath, he approached the torchlight's edge. The moment he crossed from the safety of darkness into the light, he pounced.

Before the first guard even knew he was there, Ekkehard buried his short sword into the man's cranium. It ploughed through bone and flesh with a wet thud, lodging halfway down the man’s head, a trickle of red streaming down his face.

The other three guards tried to react but were too slow.

One managed to draw a dagger before Vedast crushed his head with a spiked maul. Another let out a short exclamation before the long-haired scout tackled him to the ground, covering his mouth and repeatedly stabbing his abdomen until he lay still. The last guard died on the end of Audomar’s war spear, never seeing it coming as he was run through from behind.

With the guards silenced, the raiders pressed against the palisade wall, ears straining for any signs of alarm. Ekkehard exhaled in relief at the silence. He turned to his elder brother, and they exchanged nods of satisfaction. Then they moved to the next stage of the plan, each whispering orders to their squad.

Several men dashed back to the alleyways, returning quickly with wooden scaffolds half the palisade's height. They placed two scaffolds on either side of the gate, and eight men climbed onto them, keeping low. They readied their bows and slowly rose until they could see over the walls. Ekkehard eyed the nearest archer warily, waiting for his report.

“All good,” the man said, and Ekkehard sighed in relief.

Four more gangers climbed up alongside the archers and hopped over the walls. Shortly after, they removed the wooden beam barring the gate and threw it open. Ekkehard, Audomar, and Vedast led the rest of their force into the storage yard.

Just as they passed through the gates, another of Haraldr’s men appeared, strolling casually from behind an abandoned cart. Before he could register the invaders, all eight archers released their arrows, impaling him repeatedly. The gang members hadn't yet grasped the concept of ordered fire.

“Amateurs,” Audomar muttered under his breath. Ekkehard nudged his brother and shot him a dissatisfied look. Audomar shrugged.

The storage yard stretched before them, silent and menacing. Several hundred meters separated the opposite sides of the palisade, with most of the yard dedicated to open sorting space. Wagons, crates, barrels, and large shelving units were scattered across the area, creating a maze of blind corners where guards might be waiting. At the far end of the palisade stood three tall wooden warehouses, the yard’s only buildings.

Haraldr would be in one of those.

Ekkehard led his force slowly through the wide central channel of the wooden maze, sensing the growing impatience of the men trailing him. Some twitched and jittered, bolstered by their success so far and anxious for the fight. They were thugs, street brawlers, Vedast’s criminal enforcers, and heavy men from other crime bosses wanting Haraldr gone. They were not disciplined. Ekkehard wondered if they would maintain order when chaos erupted.

He and his brother had done their best to train them, but many were young and eager to prove themselves. Surprise and numbers were on their side now, but Haraldr had experienced, battle-hardened mercenaries. Numbers alone wouldn’t be enough in the field.

Then chaos erupted.

At the far side of the palisade, the other half of their raid force was attempting to breach the walls, and something had gone horribly wrong. Shouts and screams emerged from every direction. The storage yard suddenly buzzed with noise as small groups of guards began emerging from all around, drawing weapons and rushing to the rear gate.

Ekkehard’s throat went dry, and he gripped his sword tightly. He took solace in the fact that the enemy hadn't noticed his force. Relieved, he moved to quietly command an advance to surprise the enemy.

A weight ploughed into his side, throwing him through the air.

Ekkehard landed on the dirt floor with a heavy thud, gasping for breath. Violence erupted around him. A group of Haraldr’s men, hurrying to the far gate, collided with Ekkehard's forces. Frantic fights broke out. Outnumbered ten to one, Haraldr's men fell swiftly, but the commotion drew attention.

“There’s more over here,” a voice cried through the darkness.

Vedast extended a hand, pulling Ekkehard to his feet. “Now the fun begins,” he said.

“Form up, make lines!” Audomar shouted, trying to organize the gangers for the battle ahead. As Ekkehard took his position, he spotted a dozen charging shadows emerging from the darkness. Three of Vedast’s young gang members ignored Audomar’s call and rushed toward the attackers. They disrupted the charge and even killed two of Haraldr's fighters. Ultimately, however, they were beaten and cut to bloody messes by bludgeons and daggers.

In the dark, Ekkehard couldn’t tell which of the young men it had been. He wondered if he had known their names. He chastised himself and bit down on his jaw. No time for such distractions.

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

The rest of Vedast’s forces followed their training and gathered into a formation of four ranks. At the front, ten men carrying wagon wheels, broken doors, window shutters, and barrel heads formed a wall of makeshift shields. Audomar stood in the second line with his war spear, alongside others wielding workman’s tools repurposed as polearms. Ekkehard was in the third line, with those carrying no shields but short weapons. Each had bags of stones, small hand axes, and daggers to throw over the heads of the others. Vedast stood with the eight archers at the rear, ready to loose arrows into any breach of the formation.

Haraldr’s men slammed sporadically into the shield wall.

There was no organization to their attack, and no one commanded them. These were not the trained mercenaries Haraldr had brought with him but local thugs, untrained and undisciplined, recruited to bolster his numbers. Even the small amount of training Vedast’s men had received made them a far superior force. Haraldr’s slavers fell quickly, leaving none of the Reubke formation harmed.

When the last man was dead, Audomar checked for any further assaults. Confident there were none, he turned and looked back at Ekkehard. Ekkehard nodded to his elder brother, and Audomar gave the order for a rapid advance. Each line moved forward at a brisk walk, trying to maintain their formation. Sometimes the front line would get too far ahead, and Audomar would pull men back, while at other times he had to rush the second line onward as they stumbled over bodies or discarded crates.

“Stay together!” Audomar barked.

As they made their way across the storage yard, small groups of Haraldr’s thugs spotted them and attacked. Never more than two or three at a time, leaving Vedast’s men victorious again and again. Occasionally, breaks in the formation allowed Haraldr’s men to get behind the shield wall. Two more of Vedast's men were killed, but the group largely held together.

They navigated the oppressive darkness until they reached the crux of the battle. Dreux’s formation had been overrun, barely making it a few meters into the storage yard. It was a tumultuous scene. Dreux’s forces had lost all semblance of order, with individual brawls breaking out in the dozens. A third of Dreux’s men were dead; another third were isolated and fighting losing battles against greater numbers. Those fights did not last long.

Isolated and outnumbered, Dreux’s men began to fall, one after another, their cries echoing in the night.

The final third of his force, those closest to Dreux, maintained some semblance of formation. A few men with makeshift shields formed a semi-circle around Dreux and a handful of others, trying to abide by their training. A dozen gangers circled them, rushing forward for a strike and backing away as spearheads and other polearms snapped back at them. As each of Dreux’s isolated men fell, the numbers surrounding his small formation grew.

“Archers, loose!” Audomar's command pierced the air.

A volley of arrows rained down on Dreux’s unsuspecting assailants. Several men dropped, many wailing in agony, and others fell with silent thuds. Caught off guard, the enemy found themselves trapped between Dreux's beleaguered group and the fresh onslaught from behind. Some gangers rushed toward the newcomers, hoping to split the front line with a charge. They failed, dying to spear thrusts or struck by projectiles.

“Advance!” Audomar commanded.

Slowly, the front line moved forward in unison, the second line behind them ready to strike any enemies with their spear-like weapons. As Reubke's group advanced, drawing foes away from Dreux’s formation, Dreux gave identical orders to his men, and they began to box in the remaining gangers. The unruly thugs tried unsuccessfully to breach the shield walls.

A methodical slaughter followed.

It was not expertly conducted, and Reubke’s formation lost another man who wandered too far from the line, but Haraldr's thugs died, nonetheless. When Audomar’s spear impaled the last of the gangers, the two formations broke, the men shouting cries of victory. Ekkehard’s shoulders, however, remained tense and silent; the real fight still looming.

“Well, thanks for your help and all, friends,” Dreux said, approaching Ekkehard and Audomar. “But honestly, we had them.” He sniggered. As he neared, his stench assaulted Ekkehard, the dark patches on his clothes a mix of blood and sweat.

He was happy to see his former farm hand survived the fight. He had come to like the man, even if he was just a little bit common.

“No, you didn’t,” Vedast said, slapping a hand on Dreux’s shoulder. “We just saved your life, and you know it.” Vedast’s face showed a mix of relief and tension. He was still getting to know the man, but Ekkehard knew Vedast would already be calculating the loss in both manpower and influence the night had cost him.

“Saved my life, stole my glory,” Dreux replied with a theatrical shrug. “What’s the difference?”

There was something underneath the sound of Dreux’s voice and the celebrations of their men. Something rhythmic.

“Quiet!” Ekkehard snapped. “Everyone shut up!” he shouted at all the men around them. They fell silent. Ekkehard listened. Marching. Heavy footfalls approaching. He turned toward the sound. Thirty armoured warriors approached from the direction of the warehouses. Haraldr and his mercenaries had joined the fray.

“Back in line!” Audomar bellowed as he spotted the oncoming foes.

Vedast’s alliance of gang thugs reformed their makeshift shield wall. “Archers!” Audomar shouted, and a volley of arrows flew over Ekkehard’s head. It was ineffective. The mercenaries’ expertly formed shield wall deflected the arrows harmlessly.

The enemy stood in three ranks. The first two lines of warriors, clad in heavy chain-mail shirts and riveted leather cuirasses, carried large circular wooden shields and spears. They raised their shields, blocking the arrows. When their shields dropped, their rear line flung javelins with great force toward Reubke’s men. One javelin burst through the man in front of Ekkehard, spraying warm droplets across his face.

Ekkehard's throat constricted, a suffocating dryness making it hard to breathe. They weren’t ready for this fight. He swallowed hard and gave the order to advance. They had no choice; standing here would get them killed. They needed to get in close for any chance of victory.

Further projective flew between the two forces as they approached and began to probe each other, stopping just two meters apart. Some of Haraldr’s men stepped forward, thrusting spears toward the shield wall, trying to penetrate any exposed position. Their comrades shielded them as they did, protecting them from retaliation. Mercifully, the javelin throwers had expended their supply, while the gangers still had bags of stones and some bladed weapons to throw.

Haraldr’s men were far superior in skill. Three of Vedast’s men died, then another two, and then two more. Their little army was crumbling. Something had to be done. Ekkehard frantically searched his surroundings, desperately looking for an answer. Then he spotted the young man beside him a pair of hatchets in his hands held low by his sides. Ekkehard shook his head and snatched one of the weapons from the boy. Startled, the boy hesitated. Ekkehard glared at him, and he shrank away. Turning back to the battle, Ekkehard held the hatchet ready. He waited for an opportunity.

One of Haraldr’s men exposed himself to shield a fellow making a probing attack. Ekkehard flung the axe, which arced through the air and buried itself in the man’s collarbone. The injured man crumpled, falling into his comrades.

Audomar, with years of experience in the Merchant’s Rebellion, reacted without hesitation. He swung the tip of his spear toward the mercenary making the probing attack. The dagger head sank into the man's neck before being wrenched free. The mercenary dropped his spear, clutching at the wound.

“There!” Ekkehard bellowed, pointing to the weakened position with his short sword. Archers loosed arrows, while those in his line hurled stones, swung hammers, and threw farmers' sickles. Any weapon that could be used as a projectile was launched into the nick in Haraldr’s line.

The gap was bombarded. Two more men fell, and many more suffered injuries. Their chance came when a mercenary was struck in the face by a fist-sized rock launched by Dreux. The man stumbled, knocking down the man beside him and sending a ripple through the enemy’s right flank.

“Push!” Audomar screamed, urging the men ahead into the breach. Half a dozen men crossed the two-meter space and flooded the gap. Audomar’s men cut relentlessly at those who had lost their balance and pushed back any attempt to reform the line.

“Third line charge!” Ekkehard ordered.

Men from his line surged forward, following his lead as he rushed to aid Audomar. They collided with both divided flanks of the enemy; the rush of bodies too heavy for them to hold. Several of Vedast’s men died on the ends of Haraldr’s spears, but it was enough. The right flank collapsed while the left was forced backward, scattering to avoid tumbling over one another.

Then it became an all-out brawl.

In an organized fight, Ekkehard’s side would lose against Haraldr’s disciplined forces. In the chaos of this melee, however, the gang's street-fighting style had a better chance, and two veterans like him and his brother could make all the difference. With every heartbeat counting, he and Audomar needed to turn the tide quickly.

Ekkehard rushed toward the nearest mercenary, getting under the reach of the man’s spear and thrusting his short sword into his chest. Another mercenary to the left of Ekkehard’s victim tried to backstep and thrust his weapon. Focused on Ekkehard, he didn't see Audomar’s spear tip coming, which embedded itself in the man’s temple.

“Don’t let them group up!” Ekkehard bellowed, seeing some of Haraldr’s men trying to reform their line. In response, several of the surviving men with makeshift shields charged in, slamming against the gathering foes and forcing them apart. There were now almost two of Vedast’s men for every remaining one of Haraldr’s. Ekkehard used this to his advantage, quickly moving to strike down any mercenary too occupied with another to see him coming. He cut down three men this way before a mercenary finally focused on him, drawing him into an exchange of blows.

Ekkehard’s assailant didn’t last long. A thrown hatchet slammed into the man’s side, dropping him to his knees. Ekkehard thrust his blade through the face gap of his helm, and he crumpled to the ground. Ekkehard saw the young hatchet man from before and nodded his approval, handing him the fallen mercenary’s spear as a reward. Then Ekkehard found another distracted soldier and went in for the kill.

“Are you fucking joking!” a voice bellowed over the battle.

Ekkehard looked and saw another group of men joining the fight. There were only three of them; two looked like the rest of the mercenaries. The third was a behemoth of a man, an imposing figure that immediately commanded attention. He was tall and broad with a bushy salt-and-pepper beard, wearing heavy plate adorned with foreign fetishes. He marched toward the battle carrying a massive war axe, its blade encased in a beast's skull.

That was Haraldr, Ekkehard was certain.

“Do you really think a bunch of fucking street rats can kill me!” Haraldr shouted. As he stormed toward the battlefield, he swung his fearsome axe into the first ganger he encountered, nearly cleaving the man in two. Seeing the man’s might, Ekkehard immediately understood Haraldr’s success as a mercenary commander.

“I wear a crown of Chief Kinggiyadai's horns upon my head!” Haraldr shouted, dispatching another of Vedast’s thugs.

“My boots? Fashioned from the hide of Warmaster Jazolto, scourge of the Harsh Lands!” Haraldr roared, killing a third man. “I earned my command in the cold wastes of the north! I slaughtered upstarts across the empire, and you fucking louts think you will be my end! I will kill you all!” A fourth man died to Haraldr’s axe.

That was enough. Ekkehard charged.

Coming in fast, Ekkehard aimed a low attack, hoping to drive his short sword through Haraldr's side. The blade glanced off the thick plate armour in a clash and clangour, leaving only a shallow scratch. Haraldr swiftly backhanded Ekkehard with a mailed fist. Blinding pain shot through Ekkehard as his ears rang, his vision blurred, and the world tilted. Blood filled his mouth, and he struggled to inhale. Haraldr had busted his nose. It bled profusely.

“Try that again, you twat!” Haraldr screamed before launching a two-handed swing of his axe at Ekkehard’s head.

Ekkehard jumped back, narrowly avoiding the swing. He brought his blade up in a defensive stance. The bones of his arm protested in sheer agony as he parried one of Haraldr’s blows. The impact nearly wrenched the sword from his hands. When a third swing came, it did.

Ekkehard stumbled backward, tripping and falling.

“Haraldr slaughtered the Sciri Tribe!” the mercenary captain bellowed, marching toward Ekkehard. Ekkehard scrambled backward, trying to escape. “Haraldr is the bane of the Scaled People, the Bulwark of the Battersea Pass, Destroyer of Rebellions. Haraldr is your fucking doom!” Haraldr towered over Ekkehard, axe raised high, ready to plunge it into his chest. Ekkehard was unarmed, his face screaming in pain from his broken nose. There was no escape. He was going to die.

“And it was Vedast, the Butcher of Werth!” a voice shouted from behind Haraldr.

Suddenly, a spiked iron maul slammed into the side of Haraldr's head. Vedast had come up behind him, and his blow caused Haraldr to collapse beside Ekkehard, his axe falling, its head burying into the ground at Ekkehard’s side. Ekkehard turned and saw Haraldr's bloodied face. One of his eyes was completely destroyed, the flesh fallen into the socket. Though gravely injured, he wasn't yet dead and reached a trembling hand toward Ekkehard.

“Who caved Haraldr’s fucking skull in!” Vedast finished his war cry.

With a two-handed swing, Vedast brought the crown of his mace down onto Haraldr, bursting his head. A mix of wet liquid and harder clumps splattered over Ekkehard. He stared wide-eyed at the savage death.

Too close, he thought.

Vedast extended a hand and helped him to his feet. “That will just about do it,” Vedast said, pulling Ekkehard up. “You okay?” he asked, looking Ekkehard's face over. “You look a little messed up.”

“Yeah, I’m good,” Ekkehard lied, tipping his head back and bringing a hand to his face. He squeezed his nose to stem the blood flow, and a fresh wave of pain shot through him. “I think he broke my nose.”

“Oh, he definitely did a number on that nose of yours,” Vedast chuckled. “But I’m asking if you are okay.”

“No,” Ekkehard replied. He looked down at Haraldr’s corpse, feeling the tension in his shoulders relax. He felt nauseous. “So,” Ekkehard said, “that is the infamous Haraldr.”

“It was,” Vedast said.

A few minutes later, the last of Haraldr’s men were dead. Of the eighty men who fought against them, only twenty-five survived, most with minor wounds. Vedast inspected the survivors, and Ekkehard wondered if he deemed the price of their victory satisfactory. He worried what Vedast would do if the answer was no. Ekkehard needed this man’s sponsorship, and its price was blood. But had he paid enough?

How have we come to this? Ekkehard wondered. There was a time when consorting with Vedast’s type would have disgusted him. The notion of being beholden to such a man was unthinkable. Yet here he was, killing for a crime lord to secure his family's future.

Any lingering moral conflict evaporated when he followed Vedast and his men into one of Haraldr’s warehouses. The stench of human waste, body odour, and misery mixed with the scent of death assaulted Ekkehard as he entered. Inside the large wooden building, dozens of people, mainly women and children in filthy, torn clothing, were packed tightly in wooden cages. They looked worse than animals, clearly treated worse than vermin.

Before the cages, wooden posts had been erected. Bound to them were the half-naked bodies of several captives, men and women both. They had been beaten, tortured, and violated in various ways. Their decaying forms were left to rot as warnings to those still alive.

“Get these people out,” Vedast ordered his men. They cut the binds of the cages and freed the captives. “Take them to their homes, find them food and water. Make a list of all who need treatment, and I will arrange for some of the city’s healers to visit their homes.”

“That’s generous of you,” Ekkehard said.

“Basic decency is not generous,” Vedast muttered in disgust.

Vedast’s men carried out the orders without hesitation, gently leading Haraldr’s captives out of the storage yard. Similar scenes were found in all three warehouses, and almost two hundred captives in total were freed. Ekkehard couldn’t stand the sight and stepped back out into the night.

“This is vile,” Audomar said, joining him in the fresh air.

While Ekkehard wasn’t sure if Vedast was an evil man, he was certain that Haraldr had been. He could rest easy knowing he had helped remove that cancer from the earth.

“It’s inexcusable,” Ekkehard said, “but it’s over now.”

“Indeed, it is,” Vedast said, approaching the two brothers. “And you have proven yourselves. If you're still interested in helping me keep order in this city, I have jobs for you both. If you want them.”

“We do,” Ekkehard answered. He glanced at his brother; his own determination reflected in Audomar’s eyes. “If only to ensure this sort of thing never happens again.”