The party followed Duke Phillip's retinue for a few miles, keeping him in sight, but staying far enough back that his retinue never caught sight of them.

Unfortunately, his voice carried well enough that they could hear him for the entire trek.

“Maybe we should just end him now and be done with it,” Bardy grumbled, as the Duke stuck one pale, hairy leg out of his palanquin and asked the nearest guard if a bug bite looked infected.

“Six guards,” Malakos reminded him. “We're here to stop Keuren, Tadwick, and Gipton from trying to take them on, not get slaughtered ourselves.”

“No, we're here to team up with Keuren, Tadwick, and Gipton and do the slaughtering ourselves,” Deruque corrected.

“Think of the peasantry, Malakos,” Bardy simpered.

“If...if there is to be an assassination,” Malakos said, slowly. “We will be very careful to only kill the one guilty. Guards generally operate only under orders. Try to spare them.”

“In my experience,” Deruque scoffed, “anyone that gets too close to rot starts getting a little rotted themselves.”

Before Malakos had time to rebut, a familiar voice hissed at them from the trees.

“Oi,” a large orc came into view. “Wot're you lot doing out ’ere? I fought you were meant to be distracting some rich lump?”

“Oh Keuren, I'm so glad we found you first! That's Duke Phillip over there—we wanted to warn you, before you tried to...uh....collect from him. As you can see, he has six--”

“Oh, that's a great idea!” Keuren breathed, staring at the troupe ahead of them. “I bet they're loaded!”

“Woah, okay, yes, probably, but that's a lot of guards—don't you think it's a bit...”

“We'll take three, you take three, okay?” Ruby said.

“RUBY!” Malakos scolded.

“Right then, I'll let the others know,” Keuren nodded. “They're hiding behind that overturned cart.”

“Now hold on--!” Malakos said, but Keuren was already gone.

The tiefling let out an exasperated growl. “Okay, fine. Fine. Let there be bloodshed. But listen up—we kill only Duke Phillip. Understood? Where's Deruque?!”

The bronze dragonborn was thirty feet ahead of them along the path. As soon as he had heard that regicide was on the table, he had started sprinting forward, determined to land the first blow.

Ruby saw him moving and raced forward to beat him. Bardy and Malakos looked at each other and started running after them.

“Guys!” Malakos raced after them, gasping for air. “Guys, wait! Don't get too far—I can't heal you if you're too far!” He had been doing a lot more running in his plate mail today than was reasonable, in his mind. The others were putting even more distance between him and them. Even Bardy outstripped him with ease. (Although, not before casting him a particularly cheeky grin, first.) The tiefling growled and kept plowing forward.

By this time, Deruque had gotten in range of the troops, who turned and drew their swords. In a practiced motion, the dragonborn pulled his longbow from his bag and loaded it. He let his arrow fly into one of the guards carrying the palanquin, causing him to fall to the ground.

Somewhere behind him, Malakos was screeching something in either Infernal or unintelligible Common. Didn't matter—Deruque wasn't listening anyway.

The other three carriers teetered, before hastily placing the palanquin on the ground to draw their swords. The two guards who had been in front moved to draw their own crossbows, but suddenly found themselves grappled by two goblins, who had sprung from the cart, and Keuren, who had emerged from the surrounding trees.

Ruby pulled out her longbow and added an arrow right next to the one that Deruque had landed in the guard's chest. The guard fell back from trying to reach his crossbow and lay still on the crimson-slick grass.

“I softened him up for you,” Deruque snapped.

“Still my kill,” Ruby sang.

“QUIT KILLING THINGS THAT DON'T NEED KILLING!” Malakos screeched, still some distance behind them.

The other three palanquin-bearing guards loaded bolts and fired at their attackers. One missed, one grazed Ruby's cheek, and one struck Deruque in the shoulder.

“Hold on, Deruque,” Malakos reached for his amulet. The guard was dead—he was beyond the cleric's help, now. But Deruque was nearly close enough for him to--

“Too slow, cleric!” Bardy shouted, scampering ahead and strumming on his lute. “I got you, Deruque!”

The lute's soothing music filled Deruque's ears, and he felt his shoulder tingle. The muscles knit back together, pushing the arrow out as they did.

“Thanks, man!” Deruque said, drawing another arrow.

Malakos shot a dirty look at Bardy, who gave him another cheeky grin, and instead turned his attention to the goblins. The guards were skilled—one was giving Keuren a decent battle, while the other grappled both goblins at once. Tadwick was bleeding out, with an eye swollen shut. Malakos focused on him and whispered a prayer. The bleeding stopped, the swelling went down. The goblin looked down at himself, determined himself healed, and then threw himself back into battle.

Deruque drew his rapier and moved forward, engaging with one of the guards in swordplay. His pulse raged in his ears.

Yes. This was how things should be. Metal against metal, muscles straining, blades flashing, the coppery scent of blood filling his nostrils. Words were all fine and good, but swords were the only thing that made change happen. He pressed harder. The guard stumbled backward, but kept upright. He returned to the fray with Deruque.

Ruby, meanwhile, shot another arrow at the guard who was busy with Keuren. It missed, but the near hit caught the soldier's attention for just the instant that Keuren needed to land an overhead blow.

Two of the palanquin-bearers fired bolts at the dragonborn again, but both missed. One drew his sword and ran toward Ruby.

Bardy strummed his lute to a faster tempo, driving Deruque into greater mania and giving him the strength to knock his opponent to the ground.

“S-stop!” Malakos shouted, imbuing his voice with higher authority to command the soldier going after Ruby. “Hold! Please!” He stuttered, his voice caught in his throat, and the command fell flat, leaving the guard to swing at the blue dragonborn. She blocked him with one of her daggers and dealt a blow with her other one.

Malakos was near enough now that he could smell the blood.

His time attending the ill in the sanctuary had given him plenty of exposure to the scent, but it wasn't the same. This was more like before the sanctuary.

The tiefling thought for a moment he smelled brimstone.

He stood, frozen, as another guard caught sight of him and leveled his crossbow at him. Suddenly, Patch erupted from the ground and tackled the guard, before disappearing back into the earth as the bolt flew harmlessly into the woods.

Deruque kicked his opponent, now disarmed, aside and leveled his longbow at the palanquin. “Time to see a little blue blood flow,” he said and released.

“Aaaargh!” Duke Phillip's voice cried out in pain, finally putting an end to the indignant prattle he had been giving off since the battle began. “My shoulder!”

“Missed the vitals,” Deruque berated himself, then cursed in Draconian.

“Allow me,” Ruby said, placing a foot on her attacker's chest and kicking him a fair distance from her. She drew a great breath and released a barrage of lightning into the palanquin. Another cry responded as the cloth fried.

Then, all was silent.

One of the palanquin-bearers threw down his crossbow, rushed into the blazing mess, and ran out with a body. He dashed into the woods, passing all of the attacking party so quickly that none of them could make out if the Duke were alive or dead.

Malakos hissed and tried to follow them—if the Duke lived, all of this was for naught, and the peasantry would go on suffering under his rule—but the guard was too fast, and escaped into the woods. The tiefling heard the battle continuing behind him, however, and stopped his search to return to the action.

“STOP!” He yelled, this time frustrated conviction coursing through the single syllable and echoing across the field. The soldier who was grappling Keuren dropped his weapon and stood to attention. The other soldiers followed suit, and the party ceased as well.

“Did the Duke get away?” Deruque asked.

“He did. He's likely halfway back to Whispenshire, at the pace that soldier was carrying him. Now,” he turned to the captured soldiers. “You gentlemen, on the other hand, are going to Dunshire with us.” Defiance raised itself on their faces, before he continued. “There are medical facilities there, and it's closer than Whispenshire at this point. First, you will kindly strip off your armor and place it in the palanquin.” He made a motion with his hand, and a small storm cloud rained out the fire on the vehicle indicated before it could lose its structural integrity; then, with another motion, dismissed the cloud. “I will do what I can for each of you, here, then we will drop you all off for more long-term care. Those of you who are uncompromised will help carry the injured. Keuren,” he turned to their tusked friend. “You will carry the front of the palanquin. Tadwick and Gipton will take the back. Bring the armor and spoils back to base. We'll be along after.”

Malakos removed the armor of one of the fallen and checked his breathing. It was shallow, but present nonetheless. “Hang in there,” he said, placing a hand on the injured's gash and healing it. Bleeding stopped, breathing returned to normal, but he remained unconscious.

“There now. Up we go,” the cleric said, looping the soldier's arm over his neck and hoisting him up.

“So...” said the guard that Malakos had commanded earlier, taking another unconscious soldier over his own shoulder. “You guys are like, altruistic terrorists? Why go around killing people just to heal them?”

Malakos bristled, but couldn't fault the soldier for his assessment. “Less talking, more walking,” he grunted. Plate armor and now a whole unconscious soldier on top of everything. This was just not his day.

“I'm just really confused. What's your angle, here?”

“Our angle is freeing people from the iron grip of the nobility's boot!” Deruque roared triumphantly.

“That's a malaphor,” the tiefling said.

“You're a malaphor.”

“I'm a Malakos.”

“How long have you been waiting to make that joke?”

“What crushing grip?” The soldier protested. “I mean, yeah, the guy was annoying as all nines, but is that really deserving of murder?!”

“'Annoying?' He hunted the peasantry for sport,” Malakos spat.

“What, the javelin?” Asked the bewildered guard. “It's blunted. I mean, yeah, it hurts, but you can walk it off and be back at it the next day. You miss your taxes for the month and you get a bruising. Other nobles will just straight up take your land or your family from you.”

Malakos's blood turned to ice. Had they just murdered an innocent man?

“Don't listen to him,” Deruque said. “He's on the Duke's payroll!”

“Yeah,” the guard said. “He pays me. I feed my family from this job. He pays all of his employees well--most of the people in his duchy live happy, secure lives.”

Malakos's shoulders slackened for a moment, until the soldier supported by them began to slip.

The tiefling readjusted him and pushed his thoughts to the back of his head. “I said, 'walk,'” he said quietly. “We have injured to attend to, now.”

“Okay...” the guard, still very confused, said and hoisted his companion up higher before following the team toward Dunshire.