by Lee LaCroix
“Good ‘ay mister, ‘ee hope yee slept well. Can ‘ee interest yee inna meal this morning?” the innkeeper offered as Garreth entered the room.
As the innkeeper was available and amicable and the inn seemed empty at the break of dawn, Garreth felt that this was an opportune time for his questions. The hunter walked over to the bar to grab a stool and sat upon it.
“I was hoping you may be able to sate my curiosity on some matters,” Garreth replied.
The innkeeper’s eyes, still heavy in the early morning, opened wide in interest himself.
“Yee may be in luck, fella. Many tale and rumour pass through this hall either as news, as boast, or as warning. No man is wiser than the one that keeps his ears open in such a busy place. Jorge is mee name. How can ‘ee help yee?” the worker asked with a grin.
“Jorge, can you tell me what happened to the guardsmen of the watchtower? When I came through last, the lanterns had been lit, the sentries were at attention, and the colours were raised by the breeze. Yesterday, the tower stood devoid of guard or flame, and I can’t help but notice the absence of the King’s sigil. The only remnants are torn banners on severed poles,” Garreth began.
Jorge nodded slow and gave thought to Garreth’s question and his response.
“The guards would often stop in here for a drink after their shifts were finished and then saunter on home when they were content. Aye recall many voices were raised in anger and unison as they grumbled about never receiving their dues from an official messenger who had stopped coming to the Crossroads entirely. When the guardsmen’s pay had stopped coming from the city, many members of the watch stopped showing up all together. A few of the guards stayed for a while longer, bound to their oaths of honour. However, they soon ran out of wood and oil, and the tower became too dark to brave without. We haven’t seen much of the Crown Aegis as of late. Their caravans, patrols, and golden tabards seemed to disappear soon after the tower was abandoned. The only thing we do see on this road other than travellers are those damned Blackwoods wagons,” the innkeeper told the hunter, who stood hard-faced in response the tale.
“And the Blackwoods? The name sounds familiar, but I cannot place it,” the hunter asked and bent an arched brow.
“Ah, the Blackwoods…” Jorge spoke and sighed.
“After the King died, the Queen was worried about the kingdom falling into ruin without such a guiding and sovereign voice as the King’s. Like his fathers before him, he wasn’t just a ruler but a compass for all issues that concerned his land. They were born and bred to understand the nation and its people. When it came to the prosperity of coin, the King was lax and giving with the treasury but just and wise in dispensing it. Aye was part of the group that petitioned the King to have the watchtower built when trade started to prosper at the Crossroads. Seeing the benefit to the trade of his kingdom and the livelihood of his people, he was gracious enough to clear the area to make way for the pavilion and aided the smith in constructing his shop. Many said the royal family sacrificed much luxury to support such a prosperous people and maintain a watchful eye such as the Crown Aegis. The people knew this and they loved them for it, for their generosity allowed for the success of his people.
“After the death of the King, the Queen turned to her brother for advice on the division of the kingdom’s wealth, a design that the King had devised solely. With sunsteel being the most precious metal across of all Malquia, and Lord Vyse maintaining ownership of the northern tracts where the mines are found, the young lord had already become quite competent at managing business and wealth. The Queen thought it would only be right that the Blackwoods Trading Company continue to ‘support the foundations of the kingdom’. Now we see those Blackwoods wagons on every road and in every village, hauling away everything precious like metals, lumber, produce, and livestock. It always goes right back to the city. Don’t even get me started on those Blackwoods folk. Aye would love to know where Lord Vyse is finding them,” the innkeeper said with his arms folded across his chest.
“Indeed, such ill-kept folk I’ve rarely seen,” Garreth agreed.
Jorge nodded slow and serious, and silence filled a span of time as they reflected on their exchange.
“When did the King die?” Garreth asked, nearly a whisper.
More silence arose. Instead of a reflection of direness, this pause invoked a reverence for the fallen king.
“A little more than three months now, ‘ee believe. In the tradition of his lineage, there was a majestic ceremony where the King was sent off into the sea to join the house of his fathers over the horizon. For the absence of an heir and the melancholy of the Queen, Amatharsus has had an air of woe and sadness cast over it, which still hangs over it like a dark, pervading fog. The people of our kingdom no longer look into a bright future but hold desperately onto what remains today. A great light has truly gone out in our kingdom, and the sunsteel never shines as brightly as it once did,” alleged the innkeeper, a dour severity to his voice grown low.
Garreth nodded without enthusiasm and continued to feel the loss of a man who guided such virtuous ideals.
“Are yee sure ‘ee could not offer you an ale? We have a fresh barrel opened this morning. Anything to raise yer spirits,” the man offered, his voice picking up out of the gloom.
“Not for me, thank you, but I could use some fresh air,” Garreth replied.
With a nod to the innkeep, Garreth rose from his seat and placed it back in position at the bar before he turned away and strode out the door.
The air was crisp, and the night’s embrace had covered the ground in hoarfrost. In the shade of the inn, the ices hid from the orange glow of the rising sun. Garreth stepped into a resting crossroad, which was quiet except for the smith who was opening up his shop. The plumes of smoke and billows of fire gave way to the setting of metals and the clinking of hammers, which woke the populace of the Crossroads to rise in the midst of the noise. The hunter performed an inventory of his equipment before he left the shade of the inn and began to move east towards the nearby forest. As Garreth crossed the threshold of the inn’s corner, what he saw was so sudden and startling that he leapt back into the shade of the inn and moved to its far side.
From around the inn’s corner, Garreth peeked into the intersection of the crossroad as two thin horses and a weathered cart arrived. It was carrying a small host of men who were led by a figure in a familiar robe. The cart plodded across the intersection, and four men jumped off the sides as it continued slowly in motion. The men split up to cover each branch of the intersection and continued down the road a ways and returned. With their heads scanning in each direction, Garreth thought they were searching for something or someone. One of the men went into the Broken Kettle and then raced out of its door. As he approached the side of the inn where Garreth hid, Garreth sprinted to the back of the inn to hide himself from the advances of the seeker.
The rustle of grass and the following silence gave Garreth the signal that he would be safe to move back to his vantage point at the inn’s corner. When Garreth returned, the cart was parked beside the smith’s shop with its wagon open. His keen eyesight identified the telltale insignia on the wagon, which marked a dark foreboding. Two of the dark-garbed and the robed man stood outside near the open entrance. The men had a grim bearing to them as they stalked the entrance. Their eyes darted around the crossroad, and their sweaty hands made their blades hard to handle. The sound of commotion and raised voices could be heard from within. Two of the Blackwoods carried the smith out of his shop by the cloth of his shoulders and tossed him into the dusty road. Thin but muscled, tanned by the fires he mastered, and grayed by time and the rigours of his work, the smith rolled to a stop not far from the leader of the gang. The robed man kicked the worker, turning him face up towards his attacker and the sky.
“Where’s our iron, Alcort? Where are the blades that you promised us? You said you’d have them, Alcort!” the pale man yelled as he circled his victim, his hood thrown back
to reveal his bruised identity.
The fallen smith choked and coughed, and his throat was hoarse from dust.
“We couldn’t finish them all. We don’t have the materials to make so many. Blackwoods makes it so… so expensive,” the smith spattered through his retching.
“Blackwoods! Blackwoods!” the robed man shouted before chuckling and slapping his knee.
“The Blackwoods are who keeps you in business, who feeds the demand for your labour. Without us, you would be nothing,” the man in black condemned before he delivered another kick to the smith.
The smith uttered sounds of misery as he clutched his stomach in defense.
“You either give us the blades we ordered, or we take back what you have and the coin we gave you,” the figure demanded.
Only moans crept up from the pebbled road in reply to the demands. The leader’s focus left the smith on the street and returned to his comrades beside him.
“Take everything of value and gather the blades and what coin you can find,” he commanded as he flung his hands in the direction of all he wished to take.
Two of the thieves collected the blades from the open-walled smithy, and the two other Blackwoods went inside the attached domicile to pilfer the smith’s belongings. With the exception of the smith’s wheezing, the sack of the smithy was a clatter of tumbling wood and clanging metals until a roaring yell came from inside the small house. Walking backwards, one of the bandits came out of the doorway with his arms raised, followed by a smoking blade. The sword was wet with blood, and steam poured off of it as if the weapon had come made fresh from the searing forge. Appearing out of the doorway, strode a woman with hair as red and fiery as the sword that she held. Her forgemaiden’s dress revealed supple shoulders and a lithe leanness to her arms. A visage of anger twisted her svelte and smooth face, furrowed her short forehead, and tightened her thin, flushed lips. Her forward grip with the weapon showed she was no stranger to handling such weighty steel.
“Enough is enough! We have nothing left!” the woman shouted as she flailed the sword with wide swings.
The way she flung around the sword may have been crude but was dangerous none-the-less.
“She killed Tarm! She was hiding this whole time!” the confronted thief said, turning his head to the ringleader.
The robed figure’s surprised face turned to amusement, and he paced around Alcort’s body.
“It looks like you owe Blackwoods a life… one life which I would be more than happy to take,” the leader said, locking eyes with the woman.
He reached into his robe, withdrew a wicked-looking knife, and twirled it around his fingers as if playing. When it came to rest in his hand, he kneeled and slammed it deep into the smith’s side. The smith winced and then wheezed one final breath, longer than the rest. The girl screamed and made a move to charge her father’s slayer with all her hatred and rage. She came to a sudden halt when the two other bandits stepped out of the smith’s shop with their blades drawn. The confronted Blackwoods thug stepped away and grinded his sword slowly as he unsheathed it. Seeing four blades against one, the girl feared that she would be struck down… or worse.
“I can imagine the fun we’re going to have with this fiery one!” the ringleader stated as he paced towards the girl, twirling the blood-stained dagger once again.
The robed man had hardly left the center of the road before an arrow whistled from behind him and laid him flat on the road only paces away from his victim. The rest of the gang stood in shock for a second before meeting each other’s faces with surprise and temper. With raised blades, they converged, surrounding the fiery avenger. A yell came from the side of the inn as Garreth charged the two men directly outside the smith’s shop. As they turned to face this new foe, the two bandits moved to pincer the hunter, who sprinted in with his blade raised to strike.
With odds changed in her favour, the Smith’s daughter paced towards the lone bandit on her right. As their swords collided, the man could only deflect and skirt out of the way of the relentless blade and the flecks of blazing metal that flew past his face. The bandit raised his blade above his head to deflect a downwards strike, but the collision produced a wave of cinder and sparks as the fresh sword grinded past. The molten flakes shot out into his eyes and settled there with a brief but painful sizzle. With a fool’s hope of seeing his end, the bandit screamed as he lowered his weapon and rubbed at his eyes. The blind thief was then silenced by the blade run through him in vengeance, and the sword grew cold with two coats of blood.
Behind the windowsill in the inn, Novas nocked a fresh arrow into his bow and let it fly into his target. The man to Garreth’s left had fallen even before the hunter had finished his charge. In panic at seeing his comrades fall from the unseen, the last thief ran out behind the smith’s shop to avoid being victim to the bow or sword. As he fled in haste, he tripped over some salvage and rolled into the dirt, hurling his blade aside. As the fallen man turned to face the sky, Garreth’s sword was already placed upon his neck. The bandit swallowed hard and frowned with woe, knowing that his death was upon him.
“Please, spare me from your wrath. I was only trying to make my way in this world. A man needs to eat, and to sleep, and I was just doing as I was told. They said there naught be a noble cause left in this kingdom except for fools and victims. I did not want to be one of them,” the bandit pleaded with tears dripping down his face.
The hunter stared down the man as he retched in his final moments.
“The path you have chosen has changed this kingdom for the worse. These ways must end, even if it means ending you.” Garreth stated.
The woman knelt over her father as the hunter returned from around the smith’s shop. Novas was outside the entrance to the inn, keeping his distance from the mournful woman and her fallen family. In his thoughts of protecting the her, he felt determined and full of purpose, but he felt a deep sorrow for the woman’s loud lament now. This feeling had only increased when he noticed that the still face of one of the bandits could not have been much older than his own. That similarity disturbed him, and he felt the struggle of life and death rise again in him. He became more resolute in avoiding such an end.
As the innkeeper and the bartender stood outside the inn under the overhang, they scratched their heads and surveyed the aftermath of the bloody confrontation. The innkeeper ambled over to the grieving woman and placed a heavy hand upon her shoulder.
“Alcort was a hard worker and a good man, Kayten. He was a welcome guest with an admirable spirit, and he always paid his dues. The loss of his presence will be felt at the inn, and he will be remembered well. Tonight, we will raise our salted glasses, fresh with tears. Aye am sorry, mee dear,” the innkeeper offered, staring into the woman’s enflamed eyes.
The man turned away and returned to his inn where Garreth was now standing with his son.
“A bloody mess yee and yer boy have made of those Blackwoods. Aye would take the bodies off the road before yee scare off any of mee customers,” Jorge chided as he ventured back inside the inn.
“This is no job for a boy. Go back inside and get our packs ready,” Garreth told Novas after his son began to lift one of the bloodied bodies.
He met his father’s gaze and nodded. Novas turned away, went back inside the inn to the room, sat upon the bed, and stared through the window at the scene below. He had wondered if he had angered his father with his actions. He had only done what he had thought to be right.
Novas recalled the frenzied encounter moments earlier. He was awoken from sleep by the clatter and scuffle from the smithy, the clanging of steel, and the slamming of doors. The screams and the yelling prompted him to snap upward out of the cot and peer through the window. He pushed the cloth curtains aside to see Alcort receive his mortal blow and witnessed the same wretched man who rose from the corpse as the robed one the highway from yesterday. The intentions of the gang seemed clear to him then. His heart pounded as the shady gang began to surround the bereft w
oman who screamed at the death of her father. Novas could not imagine life without his father and feared to think of a world without him. Novas imagined the pain of her loss and the pain that was about to follow. The act of the Blackwoods did not seem to be out of survival but of slaughter. Novas thought if he could stop those men, he could stop any more forests from falling, houses from burning, or loved ones from dying. He would not succumb to fear. Novas set up his bow and steadied his shot; he knew he had to act.
Garreth went over the belongings of the fallen, checking through their pockets and pouches for valuables. He found an assortment of tris and tetras on the underlings and pocketed a Blackwoods insignia ring made of lustrous sunsteel belonging to the robed man. As he hauled the first body over to the horse cart, he came across a bundle of bread and dried pork and set it aside for later. Getting his hands bloody was not unusual for the man; he had pulled his share of corpses off the battlefield before, of either friend or foe. These bodies were like all the rest: cold, stiff, and lacking the essence of life that death had taken away. As Garreth had stacked on the last body, the woman appeared behind him. Her face was wet with tears, her cheeks alight with red pigment, and her eyes were stained a similar shade.