Chapter 3

The tranquil rhythms of the village's daily life were suddenly shattered by the sound of panicked cries echoing through the streets. Endwar's head snapped up from his work, his heart racing as he caught sight of several villagers rushing past, their faces etched with fear.

"Bandits!" someone shouted. "Bandits are attacking the east road!"

Endwar felt a surge of adrenaline as he dropped his hoe and began sprinting towards the source of the commotion, his mind racing. The village had not faced such a threat in years, and the thought of his home and his neighbors being under attack sent a cold chill down his spine.

As he reached the edge of the village, Endwar could see the plumes of smoke rising in the distance, accompanied by the faint sounds of clashing steel and terrified shouts. Without hesitation, he quickened his pace, his feet pounding against the dirt path as he hurried to join the growing throng of villagers rushing to the defense of their community.

When Endwar arrived at the scene, the chaos was palpable. A band of ragged-looking men, their faces obscured by scarves and hoods, had descended upon a group of merchants and farmers, their swords and axes flashing in the sunlight as they ransacked the supplies and wagons. The villagers, armed with little more than pitchforks and hoes, were desperately trying to fend off the onslaught, their cries of defiance mingling with the anguished wails of those who had already fallen.

Endwar's eyes scanned the battlefield, searching for a way to lend his aid. He could see his father, Mayor Windmen, at the forefront of the resistance, his booming voice rallying the villagers to stand firm against the invaders. Endwar's heart swelled with pride at the sight of his father's unwavering leadership, and he knew that he too must do his part to protect their home.

Without hesitation, Endwar grabbed a sturdy branch that had been broken from a nearby tree and rushed into the fray, his face set with determination. He swung the makeshift club with all his might, striking down one of the bandits who had been menacing an elderly farmer. The bandit crumpled to the ground, and Endwar quickly moved to shield the farmer, his eyes darting from one threat to the next.

In the chaos of the battle, Endwar caught a glimpse of a familiar figure slumped against a overturned wagon, his clothes in disarray and his breath coming in shallow gasps. It was Drunkole, the old drunkard, oblivious to the danger that surrounded him.

Endwar felt a surge of frustration and disappointment wash over him. After all the times he had tried to rouse Drunkole from his drunken stupor, the old man had once again succumbed to his vices, leaving the community to fend for itself in its hour of need.

" Drunkole! Drunkole! Wake up!" he tried to sober up the old man who pushed him away " Leave me old boy! Haha, let an old man enjoy his life!" Drunkole blabbered as Endwar groaned " The village is under attack! You'll be killed!" Drunkole scoffs , " Leave me with your stupid jokes child!"

Gritting his teeth, Endwar turned his back on the idiotic Drunkole and rejoined the fray, his makeshift club rising and falling with each swing. He fought with a ferocity borne of a deep sense of duty and a fierce protective instinct, his eyes scanning the battlefield for any sign of weakness in the bandit's ranks.

The battle raged on, with the villagers slowly gaining the upper hand as they rallied together, their collective strength and resolve proving to be a formidable force against the raiders. Endwar found himself standing shoulder to shoulder with his father, their eyes locked in a silent exchange of pride and determination.

Finally, the battered and bloodied bandits began to retreat, their leader shouting orders to his men as they hastily gathered their plundered goods and fled the scene. The villagers let out a collective cheer of victory, their weary but triumphant expressions a testament to the power of community and the indomitable spirit of the hardworking people of this small, resilient village.

As the dust settled and the adrenaline began to subside, Endwar's gaze once again fell upon the motionless form of Drunkole, still slumped against the wagon. A wave of disappointment and resignation washed over him, and he knew that the old man's fate was a sobering reminder of the consequences of choosing idleness and vice over the virtues of industry and civic responsibility.

With a heavy heart, Endwar turned and made his way back to his father, his steps slow and weary. The battle had been won, but the young Windmen boy couldn't help but wonder what other lessons this day's events would hold for him and his community.