"Mandrashard" Part 3

[zesty_pinto]

“Bah.”
Along the road Northward, this was the third time the word escaped Tyren’s lips on this day. The thought of traveling in the night came to his mind several times, but in the heat of the summer glade, nights were short and days were long; he walked from late evenings into the mid-afternoon along the packed dust of the merchant road towards Alathell. The several coins in his purse, most of them half and quarter-pennies, were enough to get a ride towards the town, but the thought of being low on money again gave him a smirk.
In the dark little makeshift room in the shack he lived in, he pulled open the latch, revealing a rolled up scroll, a bag that looked like it contained a few royals, and a tiny dagger with a silvered lining throughout it. Another case was inside, that he quickly investigated to reveal another scroll; much older in appearance and easily visible as much more fragile.
The scroll was written in a foreign tongue. Thankfully, it was one he knew: Inrian, the tongue of the region of Indrax. Just to make sure he got every bit of information right, he mouthed the words of the scroll as he translated it slowly, trying not to hack the tongue too deeply into the common language without hacking the words into complete incoherence.
“You may need the help of needing a dwarf named Ga-lan-da-rin, short with brown beard, scar on left nose who is to own a tavern named ‘Red of Running’ in the three bridges of Signea. He is to not know of the dealings but he is to know of one named Ga-li-da who is to have some knowledge of what is have said of that is to be the past…do what is must be done to be done of this and to bring Mandrashard back to a master that is to be ours.”
He scratched his head, spat to the wall of his shack, and shook his head. Signea was along the other end of Estran; a hamlet compared to the guild-run towns and cities. Unfortunately, the dead fens ran through Estran with large lakes that made travel through it nearly impossible by foot or boat, not to mention the large river Leed to the North that also provided a natural barrier by cleaving through Estran and the swamp itself. Going around it would take several days of traveling around considering the river and the lakes. The other option would be to take a river boat, which made him groan. The royals in that bag would consume the entire trip along the river. Still, several days of waylaying seemed less appealing.

-even though this was his opinion, he grew to dislike the idea more and more. The nearest river town was Galthell, several days Northwest, with the town of Althell in between. The thought of an odd job or two there reminded him that he only had enough pennies to afford a few nights in a cheap hovel and some old bread to gnaw upon. The royals in his pack burned in his mind constantly: it was enough to afford a decent room, some new shoes that weren’t wearing through, and a hot meal. He missed the hot meals the most.
I still have some bread, quarter slice of cheese… He heaved a sigh. Pelor burn me, I’d like a night when I didn’t have to worry about eating. He felt his pack, his hand familiarly reaching for something that wasn’t there anymore. He sighed again, I had to sell it just to get into Estran… He looked around the tall grass of the prairie fields as they stood emotionless in the afternoon light. He sighed again as his eyes saw nothing that spiked his interest.
He stopped himself, his right hand gripping for the handle of his plain leather scabbard in a fist, blade down.
“So…” His feet continued down through the path, watching a patch of grass as he continued. He saw a shuffle of grass, then noted the unusually uneven patches of grass compared to the others; too incongruous to be from a rabbit hole or the burrow of some other animal. Not food, but possibly an ambush set up. Fairly clever… a shame it’s one I’ve already seen. He continued walking, maintaining his walk, left hand holding his belt as his right hand rested along his blade handle like a cane end.
It was as he expected. Several figures reached up from their positions erupting from the grass in the nets of grass that they wore with their dun brown robes. Their hands held bows, nocked and ready to be pulled, which they immediately did towards him.
“Slow day to be picking on a lone traveler that looks down on his luck?” He grimaced a smile at them.
“If you seem so familiar with this routine,” rasped one of them through the folds of the burlap that they wore, “then you should know to hand over your money before-“ he released his arrow. The target he aimed for had already began to move ahead towards him, and had pulled out a leaf-shape blade from the lower end of his fist as he already pushed forward with a charge. The arrow bit the end of a dagger that he held with his other hand, biting against the sharp end and then hopping up into the air and then harmlessly to the ground. The long blade met against his stomach, but he quickly stopped the edge with his bow. Tyren gave him the stare of a killer through feral eyes into the shadows of the hood and then pushed up the end of the dagger into his chin, biting blood. He could not block it while he held back the sword with his bow like a staff.
Two arrows took him in the shoulder as he growled back, pushing the dagger in deep enough to make it a killing stab before pushing the blade out. The three others already began to renock their bows, stumbling as they attempted to fight time to get another strike in. His foot pivoted and he stepped forward, quickly, charging for the target as he pushed towards. The arrows that bit his shoulder rattled against the force of his movement, and he could feel the drag of the wooden shafts attempt to pull themselves out through the jostling to no avail except to splay his crimson around.
His hand took a swift changing of grip, blade up, and his short bladed sword streamed up, a swift motion that met the man’s bow as he was about to pull it, but with the sharpened end making a thick sluice into his gullet before he gave the man an angry tug reinforced with one of his boots against his belly. The blade fell free with a jostle of blood. The arrows rattled again and he bit his lip against the crying of the wound.
He hopped forward from the pit-like hole of green leaves the two hid in and ran across a road towards the two on the other side as they pulled their drawstrings. His blades were held in front of his chest; makeshift shields in case they were to be necessary. His right hand was growing sticky, Of all the times to forget to tie a blood-catcher, he mouthed it with his combat-minded face ready. He charged again.
The arrow aimed directly in front of him flew off an angle; fear had filled the person, he knew, and this was what he hoped for; a weapon was useless if one lacked the ability to use it properly. The other archer never released his arrow yet, but Tyren didn’t pay it attention, turning as his leg spun, a heavy kick penetrating from the legs forcing the man to crumple into his swing, into a sword that he pulled up to perform a heavy bleeding wound.
As he turned, he fell to the ground; the man was already running off, the burlap form making for cover as far as it could go.
“Pelor burn me…” His eyes squinted to the two wooden shafts in his right shoulder, already caking with his own blood. The pain was a hammering ricochet. His eyes turned to the bodies, and then to his wound. The thought of his purse reminded him of what fortune they might have for his use, the pain of his need to tend to it. He sighed.
“Bah,” he spat to the side again and then began to wipe his knife. I hate this… Grabbing the blade, he reached the sharpened point of the dagger and pulled his teeth into a clench as he began to slit through his flesh along the wound. His finger could feel the edge of his skin, the cut layer slick with blood. The edge carefully probed and finally found its home against something hard against the shaft. His eyes took a heavier squint and he pulled out the knife, reached for the shaft, and forced the arrow out. It came out with a howling surge of pain. When he opened his mouth, he quickly sucked in air, forgetting that he had not breathed through the entire process. His arm grew heavy with his own blood. Three days of healing just to seal each wound… why couldn’t they have just approached me with swords? The pain of the removal overpowered the sensation from the arrow injected in his arm and he almost unconsciously clenched for it. Squinting again, he took his knife and began to work on the other arrow.
He had not remembered feeling this sort of pain for the past few months. It was luck of his own that let him never feel this sort of pain again. Instead, he suffered several days of near-starvation, cold nights in the wild with a worn cloak, odd jobs that ranged from caravan guarding, to personal sparring lessons with the sons of no-name nobles, to moving crates around for a handful of pennies.
“Estran, the land of opportunity,” he grumbled again to his lips. His arm reached close to one of the bodies and took his knife and began to tear along the hem of the good for a strap; something to bind the wound. He then stopped himself.
“In the name of the Retributive One, I command you to stop!” The proud voice that bellowed to him sounded too noble; too much like something the wealthy said when they were too high in their drink or stature. He looked, one eye still squinting from the pain.
Approaching him was a large man in what he could tell was a very elaborate suit of plate armor that was surprisingly well-kept. The hinges of chain and metal looked as though they had been oiled everyday. A tabard of white covered the chestplate and codpiece; a symbol of a makeshift iron cross emblazoned on the armor as an insignia. The man spoke through the smooth polish of his helmet, equally well-kept and featureless save a long slit for eyes and a peppering of breathing holes. His eyes noted how the man did not even attempt to reach for the long handle of the greatsword the man held on his back, nor did he carry a large pack of supplies like most travelers, let alone a packhorse. Arrogance. I hate the arrogance of the rich..
“Who are you to command me?” He looked at the man, peering with his continuous sneer “I just had to save myself from four brigands and let myself bleed all over just to be stopped by some hero?” He turned to spit.
“The only brigand I see here is the one that killed these three hunters,” his heavily mailed glove waved in gesture to the bodies in the grass “Such acts are not welcome here, and I suggest you turn yourself in.”
“Pelor burn you, you’re a daft one.” He gestured around, to the bodies “Look at them. Look where their bodies are. LOOK AT ME!” He gestured to the gaping wound of blood.
The armored man began to approach and he unconsciously raised his bloodied short blade “Let me see that wound.” The helmet turned and looked to the limp corpses as it stepped forward. Tyren took tentative steps back. “I will not plan to harm you.” It said it almost as a command.
“If that is so, then why do you carry that huge sticker on your back?” His eyes watched the hands.
“It is protection.”
“Oh, then what do you call those fifty pounds of iron on you?”
The figure paused, turned the slits to examine the handle, and then reached for it. Almost in reaction, Tyren readied himself into a combat stance as he saw the huge blade pulled, almost as tall as him in length. The blade pointed to him and he flinched back suddenly… and then relaxed as he watched the weapon placed on the ground.
“Will you trust me now?”
His eyes shifted uncomfortably and then he went to the corpse to wipe his bloody blades against the cloth before sheathing them.
“That’s not a very nice thing of you to do.”
“Yeah, well, what I had to deal with from them wasn’t so nice either, so they can burn for all I care.” He spat to the side “I’ll trust you for now.”
The figure came closer and immediately he could tell the sheer difference in size. The armor itself was almost as large as a one-man wagon. The person inside must have easily been a giant in his own respect. The mailed gauntlet reached for Tyren “Do not be worried.” He placed the cold metal against his wound and he clenched his teeth in pain. If the man planned on squeezing the wound into fullest pain, he wouldn’t go down without a fight.
The sensation was stinging, but as he watched the silent figure work, the pain felt more and more minimal. As he stood in curiosity, he then saw the armored hand removed, still marked with the caking of blood along it. The pain was almost gone and as he felt through the reddened stumps of scabs, he saw it crinkle away to reveal unscarred skin. The man turned and kneeled to pick up his large weapon.
“You…” his eye shifted the other way, in a lightened act of surprise “-you’re one of those holy knights, aren’t you?”
“I am Alec, loyal servant to the god of Retribution who looks over all with a fair light. By his eyes, you seemed just.” The heavy blade sheened into its home along the back of his armor in a satisfied sound. He then turned to face the man, the helm shining a polished finish “Would you help me to bury these bodies?”
His mouth ran dry for words, but he nodded, and wondered in his mind along the pocket of his thought as to why he had just foiled himself of the chance to save himself from a possible day of starvation.