The Price of Steel is a piece of fiction from Sellswords of Sundara, one of the supplements for Cities of Sundara, which is available in versions for 5th Edition and Pathfinder.
The sun was just beginning to set when Dagmar and his Dusk Raiders rode up on the little hamlet of Blackberry. A collection of small houses and dirt streets, with a single inn and two taverns, the place was far enough from anywhere important that it had been a low-hanging fruit for the bandits to pluck whenever they needed supplies… which was often. Standing across the road now, though, was a line of men. They wore black armor and ragged, black cloaks. Some carried spears, and others had shields strapped to their arms. One, who stood a head above the others, rested his gauntleted hands atop the hilt of a great sword. Standing off to one side, shaking like a leaf in a wind, was the town’s mayor Garl Hemley. Dagmar drew rein perhaps three dozen yards from the men, and leaned forward in his saddle.
“Well, well, what’s this?” The bandit chief asked, the knife scar that slashed his mouth drawing his lip up into a sneer. “I hope you hired this crew to make sure nobody stole our tribute while we were off on campaign, Garl. Because if you did, that’s right thoughtful of you.”
“There w-won’t be any more tribute!” Hemley managed, swallowing hard. He drew himself up, and managed to stop his teeth from chattering. “You and your men never harmed us, for all your threats. So we’re giving you this one chance, Dagmar. Turn around, and never come back.”
Silence settled over the Dusk Raiders. As the last lights of the day stained everything red, Dagmar favored Hemley with a wide, wicked smile. Steel whispered from sheaths, and leather creaked as men used to violence readied the tools of their trade.
“You’re a very kind man, Garl,” Dagmar said. He put his right hand in the air, and twirled his first two fingers. A bandit with a greasy leather eye patch nocked an arrow to his horse bow, and took aim at the line of black clad warriors. They didn’t so much as shift their stance. “So I’m gonna show you exactly what kind of mistake you’ve made here.”
The moment hung there, suspended by a single breath. The Dusk Raiders were a tableau of brute malice positioned on a razor’s edge. The hamlet’s guardians stood at rest, unmoving as they stared at the highwaymen. Hemley swallowed, and the bob of his Adam’s apple seemed to take a small eternity. Then the bow string twanged, and the arrow loosed. It flew straight and true, punching through the ring mail of one of the warriors, quivering from where it was buried in his chest.
Barks of laughter went up from the bandits, along with howls of blood lust. As the red light darkened to the purple of twilight, though, the warrior didn’t move. He didn’t stumble, nor did he fall. No blood ran down the shaft buried in his chest. The realization dawned on the Dusk Raiders slowly, and their cries of jubilation slowly died. Dagmar turned, and looked at Hemley with dawning comprehension, and horror, on his face.
“Cur!” Dagmar howled, snatching at the cutlass on his hip. Fear made his hand shaky, and his usually smooth draw was anything but. The rest of the Dusk Raiders milled, their chief’s hold over them starting to slip. Some were eager for the fight, glancing at him and waiting for the signal to advance. Others, the sharper ones, had realized what stood on that road in front of them. Dagmar wheeled his horse, planning on calling a retreat, but the words died on his lips. More figures in black armor had flanked them, walking through the deepening gloom and arraying themselves in a second line to cut off their retreat.
The battle was as swift as it was bloody. The Dusk Raiders were hardened killers who’d spilled a river’s worth of blood between them, but they were ambush predators who’d grown fat, used to dealing with scared townsfolk and the occasional caravan guard. These figures in black armor advanced mercilessly. They showed no fear of flashing steel, and didn’t react to the bandit’s bellowed threats. They fought without tiring, their sword arms rising and falling even as their opponents cleaved at their helms and ran their blades into their torsos. All the blood spilled that day belonged to the Dusk Raiders, even if they managed to bring down a handful of their opponents as well.
Hemley stood there in the darkness, listening. When all had gone silent, a figure joined him. Dressed in a black officer’s tunic with a silver medallion shaped like a grinning skull around her neck, her head was shaved, and her boots polished to a mirror shine. Cayliss made a gesture with a hand, and touched the necklace. It shone like a torch, light spilling out from her in all directions.
“Come,” she said, turning and walking into the night. Swallowing hard, Hemley followed. The idea of declining her command never so much as crossed his mind.
The light fell upon her soldiers, who stood at attention around the bodies of the Dusk Raiders. Arrows protruded from several of the black-armored soldiers. One mercenary’s arm was snapped at an unnatural angle. Another leaned on its spear, its left leg smashed to the point where it wouldn’t support its weight. Cayliss walked the length of the line, examining those that had survived. Once she was satisfied, she turned to survey the carnage her warriors had left behind.
The bandits were splayed out, each dealt a quick, efficient killing blow. Throats were cut, hearts were stabbed, and guts were spilled, but all of them had their heads left intact. Scattered among them were several of Cayliss’s own warriors. They had been shattered by powerful blows, their armor dented, and several of their limbs torn off, but every one of them still clutched bloody weapons in their fists. Cayliss lifted a dented helm, and turned it over. A skull rolled out into her hand. The skull was old, and seamed with small scars. Several of the teeth had been splintered, and a hole had been smashed into the side just above the ear.
“Brekker. One of my most reliable,” Cayliss said, shaking her head slightly. “He will need to be replaced. As will these others.”
“As we agreed,” Hemley said, swallowing hard. “The Dusk Raiders, and whatever loot they have, are both yours. In addition to your fee.”
Cayliss nodded, and touched the amulet around her neck. She gestured at her warriors, and they snapped to follow her instructions. They began stripping the bodies, setting aside clothing, weapons, armor and packs in separate piles. The bodies were stretched out along the road, spaced equidistant from one another. The only sounds made were the clink of bone against armor, and the occasional whispered order spoken by Cayliss in a dead language that only her soldiers seemed to understand.
As Hemley withdrew, doing his best not to run while the mercenaries did their grisly work, he told himself it was worth the price they’d paid. By the time he was home, he almost believed it.