24 Summer 510
He was in the middle of the road, eyeing the tracks carefully. He was squatting down, running his finger gently along the outline of the track; his eyes followed them along the ground and off into the forest. He sighed and pulled the cigar from between his lips, smoke billowing from his mouth. He squinted off through the smoke, into the depths of the woods.
He straightened and replaced the cigar between his teeth, calculations running behind his eyes. He was perhaps a day north of Syliras, and the tracks led east. He paced carefully around them, eyes attempting to take in every detail. It was a small herd, that much he could tell. He'd made out six, maybe seven sets of tracks throughout a morning of careful observation.
One set in particular interested him. Again he removed the cigar from his mouth, spat off to the side of the road, and knelt down by the tracks. This set was different. One of the hind legs was bent at an awkward angle, dragging painfully along the ground behind the animal. He hadn't noticed any blood, so he imagined a simple broken bone. Perhaps it had escaped a trap. They weren't that far from the city.
He puffed pensively for a moment, letting the smoke linger in his mouth before expelling it slowly.
"What to do? What to do?" He mused from around the cigar to the empty forest. He took a long look up and down the road, not truly sure what his eyes were searching for. He'd know if he saw it. Again his eyes were drawn to the tracks.
"They look old lad, older than you'd like them to look," he continued, thinking aloud. Smoke continued to drift from the tip of his lit cigar. He looked up at the sun between the treetops. It was nearly overhead. That gave him a good bit of time before nightfall, hopefully time enough to get out of the woods and make his camp on the road. He chuckled wryly to himself. The road wasn't much safer than the woods, especially at night.
He took the cigar from his lips, examined its length, and continued to stare pensively off into the forest. He licked the back of his hand absentmindedly, creating a thick layer of spit, which he dabbed the cherry of the cigar in until it was extinguished. He tucked the remainder of the charred stub behind his ear and slowly began to string his bow.
He did it methodically; it was a practice ingrained in his being. He didn't have to spare a thought for it, hands moving entirely on their own as his eyes continued to scan the forest. He strained his ears, hoping for footfalls but hearing only the chattering of birds. He removed an arrow from his quiver and nocked it to the string, giving it a quick test draw before he was satisfied. He felt complete with his breath held, standing in the middle of the road with the feathers of his arrow's fletching tickling his cheek.
He relaxed his draw but kept the arrow on the string. It paid to be cautious, a lesson he had learned as a younger man. Again he laughed to himself. It was a lesson he'd learned more than once. He stepped carefully off of the road and into the woods.
Even here, only a step from the road, was different. The light diffused through millions of leaves, creating an artificial gloom, which he knew and loved. Especially in the Bronze Woods, whose leaves made the gloom warmer with their metallic radiance. Sound was dampened, and there was a closeness to the air that reminded him of home. He took a deep breath and the ghost of a smile played across his face.
He took another look skyward to gauge the position of the sun and set off. He strove to move as quickly as possible, while being as observant and careful as he could. A mistake in the woods often led to a serious injury, if not a bloody death between the teeth of some forest horror. He'd seen it happen on more than one occasion, or seen the aftermath. He shook his head to dispel the images and focused on the tracks on the forest floor.
They were still heading roughly east, and perhaps further south than they had been before. He kept a steady pace, eyes scanning for signs of the animals' passage. Once, he found a tuft of velvety hair caught on a low hanging branch. He plucked it from its resting place and examined it, rubbing it between his fingers before letting it fall to the ground. He was on the right track, but he wasn't catching up. The tracks were dry, their edges crumbling and powdery. Several times he'd had to clear leaves from atop them.
The signs did not bode well for his hunt. He stopped and took another glance skyward. Another hour or two further surely couldn't hurt. He continued on, still wary of his surroundings. The tracks continued to drift southward toward Syliras, and after a bit he began to notice another change in direction. He'd stopped several times to examine the trail more closely, to ensure he stayed on the right path, and had checked the sun to determine the time and his direction each time. They had begun to turn west, back toward the road.
He didn't mind the change. This way would put him closer to the city, whether or not his hunt was successful. So he continued on the track of the deer, hoping that his luck would improve.
It wouldn't be too terrible if he came back empty handed. He had enough coin to pay for a meal if he needed to, and while he preferred to eat what he caught, even the greatest of hunters came back with nothing on occasion.
"That's hubris lad, is what that is. You're no' one of the greatest of hunters. You better get your mitts on something if you want to earn a living," he mumbled. From then on he was less focused on the deer tracks, old as they were, though he did continue to check to make sure they continued west. Slowly the sun was beginning to dip overhead. That made him the slightest bit nervous. If he had judged it correctly he'd be back on the road by the time the sun dropped below the trees...or close to it.
He paused briefly when the tracks brought him through the center of a clearing. He entered it carefully and when satisfied that he was alone, he gathered a quick bundle of tinder from the surrounding forest floor. He laid it in the center of the clearing and struck his flint and steel quickly, all the while keeping his eyes on the surrounding woods. He glanced down in time to see the tinder catch, and smiled. He kept the bundle in one hand, blowing on it gently to create a small flame.
With his free hand he plucked the cigar from behind his ear and stuck it between his teeth. He leaned closer to the flame, inhaling once. He was rewarded with a moutful of smoke, after which he dropped the bundle of tinder and stamped it out with his boot. He left the cigar clamped tightly between his teeth and followed the deer tracks out of the clearing. He paused momentarily as he left the clearing, bending down and examing the tracks once more.
He was surprised by how well the injured deer had kept up. He'd expected it to lag, to give in to its injury. Perhaps he'd underestimated the gentle deer.
Another wry chuckle, cutting through the silence of the forest.
"More will to live than all tha'," he said, blowing a ring of smoke at the forest floor. He straightened and continued on his journey. He billowed smoke as he walked, unconcerned by the smell. He'd realized by this point that the tracks he'd been following had to have been at least a week old; that the deer who had made them were a long time gone. He kept his bow at the ready nonetheless. One could never be too careful.
At least the tracks were still heading west. He'd still be cutting it close, but he was more confident now than before about making it back to the road before the sun fell. He was deep in thought when the hare darted across the trail.
Time stopped then for Matty Mauklin.
The hare could only have been ten paces ahead of him, moving at a quick clip. It was a tough shot, but he could make it. He didn't think. His head was empty, eyes looking beyond the thin screen of smoke trickling from the corners of his mouth, focused on the hare. He could hear his heart throbbing in his ears, feel it pounding through his shirt. His hands moved reflexively, raising and drawing the bow. The feathers were comforting on his cheek, a thought which skittered briefly across the still pond that was his mind.
Perhaps ye drew back too far. It's no' that far away.
He chuckled as he released the bowstring, leading the hare ever so slightly. The arrow passed through the beast cleanly, proving his thought correct. He had drawn the bow a bit too far. He sighed and made his way to the corpse of the hare, which had already gone still and begun to cool. It was a clean shot, and the animal had died a quick death. That was important to Matty, something he strived for. Everything that lived deserved a death with dignity.
He bent and grabbed the back legs of the hare, holding it up and letting it hang in the golden light. It was dark grey, covered from eartip to toetip in luxuriously soft fur. That'd fetch a decent enough price in the city. It was big as well, hanging down from his outstretched hand nearly past his waist. He sat his bow down quickly and removed his backpack, tying the hare to the leather drawstring by one of its silky back legs.
"No' empty handed at least," he muttered, standing and grabbing his bow. He looked around for the arrow and found it not too far away, lodged in the base of a tree. He wrapped a hand around the arrow's shaft and put his boot against the roots. With a quick jerk he freed the arrow. He took a quick glance at the tip to make sure it was undamaged, did his best to wipe the gore off on the floor of the forest, and replaced it on the bowstring.
With the secured to his pack, he returned his attention to the tracks. His eyes drifted again to the sun. It was still high enough in the sky, but it was beginning to touch the treetops and the sky around it was beginning to redden.
Sundown was coming.
As long as he could get to the road, he'd be fine. He could walk all night if he had to, and if he decided to camp he had a tent. He doubted he'd sleep if he had to camp. It wasn't safe to sleep, even in the center of the bloody road. The tracks had taken him south a fair deal, but it was still hours to the walls of Syliras. He'd camp there. At least under the watchful eyes of the Knights he'd be safe enough.
He let another mouthful of smoke escape as he continued his trek through the woods. It was nice to be out of Syliras, clear his head. It was hard to find a moment's peace in the fortress. Too many damn people. It was like an anthill hit with a plow. Even at night, the noise never stopped.
There were benefits, that was true. He couldn't deny the city of that. It was difficult to find a pint in the wilderness, more so to find a lass. He chuckled again around the cigar, ducking under a heavy branch and continuing on his way, hare thudding against his pack with every step. That put a smile on his face. He puffed contentedly on his cigar, and found his pace quickening.
"A pint and a lass. The only two things a man can no' find in nature," he said, hopping a miniscule brook that trickled languidly in his path. He was a young man, yes, but he was worldly enough. He knew his preferences and what he enjoyed. Hopefully he'd be able to find someone looking for a night of companionship when he returned to the city. Nothing wrong with a bit of fun.
His eyes had left the deer tracks. They'd begun to take another turn, perhaps half a wheel back, angling back off to the north. He had no use for them any longer. Now he was navigating by the fleeting glances of the setting sun through the treetops. It wasn't the first time he'd done it. Even the greenest of hunters knew it rose in the east, set in the west. He whispered a half-serious thanks to the sun for its reliability and began to pick up his pace.
Before long he was jogging, ducking under branches and hopping over streams and gullys like the hare on his pack. His footfalls were loud in the darkening woods. His teeth gripped the cigar gamely, holding it in his mouth as he jogged. He paused briefly, stamping it out against a close-by tree. He tucked it in a pocket and again began to jog. He kept his bow readied, and his eyes never rested. He had no plans of ending up anything's bloody dinner.
He continued on like this for what felt like a long while, but he knew the forest had a way of making time seem...different. So he kept his eyes on the sun. It was going down in earnest now. He felt a pang of worry deep in the pit of his stomach, like a knife made of ice lodged in his petching guts.
He was running now, small branches whipping his face and body as he stormed past. He'd pay for that in the morning, probably be covered in tiny scratches. Better than getting torn to pieces by a pack of wolves, or something worse. He forced those thoughts to the back of his mind and concentrated on getting his breathing under control. He'd never enjoyed running, preferring a slow creep to a sprint. His sister was the one who'd loved to run.
He needed to visit the Outpost, see his family. It'd been at least a full season since he'd last been back. He had no excuse not to visit. It wasn't like the Outpost was on the other side of the world. Hells, it was probably closer to the city than where he had been earlier that day.
He was deep in his thoughts when he burst out of the trees and onto the road. A hearty laugh escaped his lips and he paused. He took a brief glance skyward, to see the sun still sinking below the horizon. He sat his bow down and put his hands on his knees, gulping in air like a drowning man. When he had regained his breath he retrieved his bow and turned south, setting off at a brisk pace as the sun continued to sink.
He felt his feet moving faster as his surroundings darkened. Luckily, the moon kept the forest illuminated and the sky above the road was unobscured. Another smile crept across his face. Hadn't he been a lucky bastard today. First the hare, then making it to the road, and now a wonderful night for travel. It was warm, a bit sticky with promises of rain to come. He took a deep breath through his nose, inhaling the hot smell of flowers and earth. It was the smell of summer.
It'd always been his favorite season. Winter was a close second, but gods how he loved the summer. It was a bit easier to hunt in the winter, if you didn't mind the wolves. They were ferocious in the colder months, even more so than usual. There was something about summer though. He paused at the thought of wolves. He hadn't heard them yet tonight, and had seen no signs during the day. It explained why a lame deer had managed to survive as well as it had.
Naught to say it wasn't set upon further along the track.
He allowed himself a moment to listen for the sound of wolves on the wind. He thought about relighting his cigar but decided against it. No sense lingering.
He continued along the road, moving rather easily in the moonlight. He was keeping a good pace, and barring any unforeseen circumstances he imagined he'd make the walls of the city about midway through the night. Better time than he'd expected to make.
It was as if the thought summoned trouble.
Ahead he'd noticed the flicker of torches. It looked to be two, still a fair ways down the road. That was odd. The Knights were known to patrol the road, but he doubted there would only be a pair of torches for a full patrol.
"So what's that leave lad?"
Maybe a small caravan, or some fool travelling in from the north. They didn't seem to be getting closer, nor did they seem to be growing fainter. So perhaps it was a camp? He thought carefully for a moment, and stepped off the road, back into the woods. The difference in lighting was drastic. Where the road was bright and well-lit, the woods were dank and dim. The comforting closeness of earlier had become something sentient and hosile.
It felt like a thousand eyes were on him: watchers in the darkness.
He continued, moving slower and more carefully now. He picked a path cautiously, treading lightly so as to remain silent. He moved as if he were hunting a prize buck, doing his best not to upset so much as a branch. He hoped he was being over-cautious, that it would turn out to be a camp full of friendly traders and the torches would be those of their sentries. Something in his gut told him that couldn't possibly be the case. Nothing ever seemed as easy as all that.
He continued on slowly, moving a few steps and pausing to observe. Still the points of light seemed to flicker in the same spot, perhaps one moving back and forth as if its holder was pacing.
Could always be bandits.
He groaned inwardly. He was relatively close to Syliras, and he hadn't heard of bandit attacks this close to the city before. Although, there were always disappearances whose causes were unknown. Further from the city he knew there were bandits. He didn't see why they couldn't work closer, if they didn't stick around after a raid and were good enough in the woods. He drew the bow ever so slightly, unconsciously preparing for a confrontation he felt was surely coming. He had no reason to be so sure, but he couldn't shake the feeling.
"Aye. It's probably petchin' bandits," he said, voice dropping to a whisper. Sound carried in the forest, and he had no intention of betraying his presence before it was absolutely necessary. So he continued to creep through the forest, breathing slowly, each step taking a lifetime. His heart was in his throat, pounding so loud he couldn't hear himself think.
He paused after closing half the distance and took a pair of calming breaths. It would not do to work himself into a panic before observing the situation. For all he knew, it could have been a pair of guards sharing a midnight flagon, perhaps a midnight piss. He was calmer now; his thoughts were more orderly. He whispered a quick goodbye to his brothers and his sister, on the off chance he was hacked to pieces, and plunged ahead.
A bit further he began to voices, carrying through the still night.
"...Knights can't be petchin' everywhere. What are ye a blasted coward? If ye are then I suggest ye get to runnin'."
"How can you be so sure? You told me not two days ago you were as nervous as a maid, so give me none of your bluster."
Bloody feckin' hell. I knew it was bandits.
He steeled himself as he slowed further. It was imperative he move in total silence now. An errant noise could mean his death. He moved so slowly it felt as if he weren't moving. He could hear the two talking, but he'd stopped listening. He knew all he needed to know and he'd made his choice. He knew they'd kill him had they come upon him in the wilderness.
He was finally even with the torches, peering from behind a screen of foliage at the scene before him. The torchlight gave him a relatively good view of the grim happenings. There were three of them, not the two he'd pictured. He could see hand crossbows on two of their belts, and an assortment of blades between them. They stood by a wagon, covered for travel. In the dirt at their feet were bodies. Matty could make out a pair of guards, both with bolts punched through their chests.
Aw shite. What 'ave ye gotten yourself into?
The guards, he assumed they were guards by the swords on their belts, had been taken unawares. He couldn't make out any features on the rest of the bodies, aside from clothes. He thought perhaps he saw a dress, maybe two and at least three pairs of pants. He stood still, hidden in the forest, and continued to watch.
Two of the three were pulling trunks and boxes from the wagon, while one leaned against it eating what sounded like an apple.
"Think we did well enough for are first time eh?" One of the two in the wagon asked, leaning out to be heard.
"Luck," the third replied through a mouthful of fruit. "Besides," he continued, swallowing, "we've not gone through the loot yet."
The pair in the wagon climbed down, each holding their torches high and close. For the first time Matty could make out the faces attached to the voices. They varied in age. The oldest was the man eating the apple. He seemed to be the most dangerous, the most calm and composed. Matty imagined he was the brains of this particular operation. His scarred visage certainly looked the part.
The other two looked the everyman. One wore clothes that were perhaps more well tailored and spoke as if he had received some education. Why was he robbing travelers? Didn't matter to Matty. He took a long look through the leaves and drew the bow. He held the arrow to his face as he finished taking in the scene. The third compatriot looked and spoke like a laborer, someone's peon who had finally had enough. It was he who would die first.
Matty inhaled, and with a calm exhale let the first arrow fly. Again time seemed to slow, as it had when the hare had darted across his path. His hand was already reaching for his quiver before the first arrow had even found home. He knew it would strike where he had placed it. He had hunted long enough to be confident in his shots.
His faith was well placed. The arrow punched into the bandit's chest and a throaty gasp pushed its way past his lips. Matty watched from the corner of his eye as the torch dropped from the man's hand and he clutched at the arrow that had grown from the center of his chest. The educated bandit turned, a look of sheer panic on his face, to face the third man, who looked on unconcerned. He simply dropped the apple, and drew both his hand crossbow and blade.
The second arrow took the educated man in his ribs, punching through his lung and heart like the proverbial hot knife through butter. It was the same shot one used to bring down a deer. It seemed that man and deer weren't so different. The bandit uttered a strangled cry and collapsed, dropping the second torch as he crumbled. Matty ignored it all, only having eyes for his next target.
Again, he drew and fired smoothly. It would have been a beautiful shot, pinning the man to the wagon like a butterfly. As it were, a strong gust of wind came tearing down the road, shaking the branches and ruining the flight of his arrow. It thudded harmlessly into the wagon, more than a foot away from his target.
The third man smiled, and with a lightning quick motion pulled the trigger of his miniature crossbow. The bolt whizzed into the dark woods and he was rewarded with a piercing cry. His smile widened to a grin. He hoped he hadn't killed the mystery archer. As one of his late partners had said, the Knights couldn't be everywhere, and he wouldn't mind a little bit more fun before he headed north.
He replaced the hand crossbow on his belt and retrieved apple with his now free hand. He rubbed it on his jerkin and took a bite, chewing wolfishly, unworried about the juice that spilled down his chin. He still kept his blade high. No sense in being careless. He'd just survived quite the ordeal after all. He snorted gruffly and took another bite of the apple, taking another step closer to the forest.
He was close now, but the darkness was still impenetrable. It made him nervous, and for a moment he wished he had grabbed one of the fallen torches. He shook the feeling quickly. What did he have to fear? His last shot had been true, and his assailant was surely lying dead or dying on the floor of the forest. He leaned a bit closer, pushing through the screen of leaves with the tip of his blade.
It happened like something out of a nightmare.
Without warning a hand shot out of the leaves, grabbing the wrist of his sword arm and jerking him forward. He howled with a mixture of fear and pain as a second hand, wrapped around the shaft of an arrow, rocketed out of the forest. He never stopped screaming as the arrow pierced him again and again. His hands had gone limp, he had dropped his sword. He couldn't tell if the warmth in his pants was piss or blood, leaking from the perforations in his chest and guts.
Matty Mauklin stepped out of the forest then, hand still wrapped around the bandit's wrist, a grim yet determined look on his face. Blood dripped from the bandit's lips, and Matty watched as the life left his eyes. He released the man's wrist and he stumbled backwards, falling to the ground and kicking for a moment before he was still.
Matty stepped over the bandit's corpse, glancing downward at his handiwork. He was calm and cool, surprisingly so. He walked into the center of the road, to where the fallen torches burned slowly, smoking impotently in the night. He retrieved his arrows easily enough, though it took a good amount of wrenching and twisting to get the second shaft from between the bandit's ribs. With a sucking noise, the shaft popped free.
Matty continued to work, cleaning the shafts, almost methodically. He paused for a moment, took a quick look at his hands. They were still, and surprisingly clean. With one hand, he felt up his side, putting his index finger through the new hole in his shirt. The bolt had come might close to piercing his chest. It was laughter that broke his composure. He couldn't believe his bloody luck. He kicked a quick jig, and took an even quicker bow. He felt no guilt, no remorse.
What was a man but another beast to hunt?
"Well," he said, before pausing to laugh. He wiped his eye and continued. "That was no' so hard was it."
He continued to laugh for a moment before turning to a grim task. The pile of bodies he set one the torches in, after surrounding them with some of the trunks. He was confident they'd burn. He took the second torch and tossed it in the back of the wagon, turning and walking away before waiting to see if it caught. There was nothing for him there. There was nothing he could do for the dead, so he walked on into the night.
It was not long before he began to jog, as always keeping his bow at the ready. His feet pounded the well-worn road steadily as he made his way back toward the city.
A pint and a lass. That's exactly what I need after a bloody night like this. A pint and a lass.
