Fog settled at the bottom of the lush, green valley, smothering the thorp of Cobalt Bridge. Hadrian the farmer pushed open his door to the sight of a warm and moist coat of fog. Mist obscuring his vision and direction, he gathered his tools and began his day?s work. By noon, a good deal of the fog had evaporated and he could discern the faint silhouette of his fellow farmer and good friend, Sadon, whom Hadrian had jointly tended Cobalt Bridge?s only field with practically since birth.
?Hello there. And how are you faring this fine morning?? greeted Sadon, pacing toward Hadrian, each footfall sounding with a sticky slop on the wet ground.
?More o? the same, friend. Wife?s laid up in bed again and I?m out early as I please, farmin?, of all things.? Hadrian leaned on his shovel until it started sinking. ?An? now the daughter?s got the cough too. I just don? know what to ??
?Wait,? Sadon cut in, ?I thought I heard something ? like someone talking?
?Come on now, who would be talking out here this early but us?? He chuckled.
?Well, I guess you?re right. I mean?? He was cut short by a sharp thock. He started to look around to see what made it, but he soon realized that there was an arrow protruding through his chest. Gasping for air, he clawed feebly at the arrow. A second later, he was falling. Black.
Ulric the bandit stepped over them, retrieving the arrows. He held one up to his lips and blew on it, a habit he had picked up a few years back. It was supposed to bring him good luck for the next time he shot the arrow. Ulric saw in the distance that his companions were dragging the women and children out of their houses. He wasn?t going to give the order to kill them though, he thought, with a wry smile forming on his lips. They weren?t monsters, after all.
Ulric?s men loaded the supplies?the stolen supplies?onto their cart. The women and children looked on helplessly as they were robbed of all their possessions and left to die, widowed and helpless.
?Please, have a heart, sir? one of them piped up. She was immediately silenced by a sword hilt. In Ulric?s profession, there was no room for compassion. The women and children were unbound. Ulric and company made their escape under the rising sun, heading west. A few minutes later, they arrived at the camp to the sight of a quarrel. ?So another poor soul challenged Althalos, huh? This ought ta? be interesting.?
?Oh boy, Althalos is at it again.?
?He can do whatever he wants. Shut yer mouth.?
Althalos, the bandit king, faced off against a slightly stronger-looking opponent, neither one making the first move, for both new that their next move could be their last in this fight to the death. The circle of onlookers started to chant Althalos?s name. It grew from a quiet roar to a frenzy. Althalos lunged with his sword-dirk combo at the challenger?s side. The man parried the blow and began his counterattack, swinging his broadsword in a mighty arc. Althalos ducked under the sword and swiped up with his dirk, taking advantage of the man?s clumsy momentum. The dirk struck true and the man tumbled backward, protest plastered on his face.
Althalos stepped from the ring, panting and issuing his usual challenge to the masses. His posture was one of triumph. His face was one of a man possessed. There are two reasons that someone would challenge Althalos. First, because if he was killed, his killer would become king, and second, if he was killed, he wouldn?t be king anymore. Some would say that he was a bad ruler? Well, not in public anyway. People who opposed the king usually died of natural causes, for a knife in the chest quite naturally causes one to die.
?The raid on Cobalt Bridge was a success, sir.? Ulric trudged toward Althalos, arms crossed in a respectful manner among the bandits. Althalos, bearing minor nicks and bruises, merely grunted and pushed past and into the war tent, motioning for Ulric to follow. Seated around a makeshift table, a dozen gruff men sat, grim faced, discussing the latest news. Althalos took his seat at the edge of the table and Ulric stood beside, hands flat on the table and elbows locked. The chatter among the men ceased abruptly as Althalos made a sweeping motion with his hand.
?I suspect you have heard the news already?? Althalos began formally.
?That we ?ave, sire? A man in the back piped up nervously, obviously involved in the incident, ?an? I want you ta? know that it?s not my fault?
?I don?t care whose fault it is. I want to know why a settlement as large as Maldon decided to sack an outpost with no warning. Are they looking to start a war? You, man, you were the only survivor of the assault, am I correct??
?Tha?s right, sire.? The man answered triumphantly, ?I musta? killed eight of em?. You should?a seen it. It was me an? a whole??
?That?s enough!? hissed Althalos, rage boiling. Before the man could finish his gasp, Althalos had drawn his dirk and was standing by his side, drawing blood from the man?s throat with the blade?s keen point. ?Now, you will tell me everything you know about the attack.? He spat out every syllable with a nearly tangible animosity.
?Um, they said somethin? ?bout some Cobalt Bridge. You aint? gonna kill me, are ye?? the man quaked in fear at the grimace plastered on the visage of the bandit king.
?No,? said Althalos and released the man roughly. He fell to the ground, rubbing his throat with indignation, ?No, I will not kill you; however, you will serve as a messenger to Maldon. Depart immediately. Tell them that they have but one day to procure a response.? The man stumbled out of the war tent, still rubbing his neck. Althalos turned to Ulric. ?The assault on Cobalt Bridge? You headed it up, did you not??
?By your order, sire? he responded simply.
-----------------------------------------------
The following morning, Ulric peered out of the opening in his tent flaps. The birds were chirping, the sun was out, the bandits were out gathering wood for the cooking fire. A head on a stake. Written in blood upon the forehead of the messenger Althalos had sent out the previous day, were the cryptic words, ?A red mist, this way comes?
Ulric lifted the flaps of the war tent, hands trembling. Althalos was slumped in the chair opposite the entrance. He bore a grave stare, the likes of which Ulric had never seen.
?Rally the troops,? commanded Althalos.
-----------------------------------------------
Nightfall. Althalos turned on his invasion force, his mass of black-clothed assassins. They appeared only as a sea of eyes, obscured by the darkness of the perpetual night. Ulric appeared at the front of the pack. His eyes blazed with a subtle fury. The moonlight seemed to highlight the target, the settlement of Maldon.
?Remember, the darkness is your ally. Open warfare is suicide. Strike true. God guide your blades. Split into groups of no more than two. Comb the city. Ulric, you come with me.?
?I would be honored, sire.?
The band departed into the portentous darkness, leaving behind no more than footprints. Moving inaudibly, Ulric fell in behind Althalos. They entered the settlement unimpeded, for sleeping guards naturally make for an easy entrance. Reaching for the glistening door handle of a small house, Ulric swung the door open. It glided effortlessly on its greased hinges, and Ulric stepped inside the musty interior of the dwelling.
Holding their respective breaths, Althalos and Ulric passed by a sleeping child and into the room containing the man of the house. Ulric recognized the physique of a farmer. He also recognized the form of a sickle leaning against the wall beside the sleeping man. The air was still enough that the companions could hear one-another?s heartbeats. Ulric carefully removed his dagger from his shoulder holster. Shink. Both winced at the sound. The farmer slept still. Ulric placed the weapon at the farmer?s throat.
A scream broke the silence. The farmer bolted straight up, straight into the dagger, instantly ending his life. Althalos and Ulric, weapons in hand, looked about, trying to discern where the wail came from. It didn?t matter. The entire town was awake now. Althalos rushed into the main room of the building with Ulric in hot pursuit, leaving the confused wife and child to learn their loved one?s fate.
Candles sprang up in the windows. Bandits rushed into the streets. Adrenaline rushed into their veins. What men were not killed in the initial slaughter burst out of doors with various weapons. There were katars, stilettos, sabers, cutlasses, rapiers, falchions, glaives, even a halberd. Althalos let out a shrill whistle. All around them, the scenery burst into motion, revealing one hundred or so bandits that were not part of the original squad. The scene erupted into chaos. Althalos fought valiantly, sword and dirk spinning and flashing in a brilliant pattern of twists and thrusts, perfectly complimenting each other.
In his bloodlust, Althalos hardly felt the dagger slide into his back. Behind the dagger was a familiar face, now contorted into a wicked grin. It was his most trusted companion. Althalos looked back in disbelief, his mouth forming the words how could you? But no sound came out. He fell in a heap on the cold, wet ground.
?Don?t worry, Althalos,? taunted Ulric, voice dripping with venom, ?We?ll be sure to give you a proper burial.?
They weren?t monsters, after all.
)
