The vision, seen dream-like, where time flowed differently, showed an accelerated route of flight and several flashes of an unpleasant scene. A badly beaten Leif lay bound a few steps from a small campfire, around which armed men either sat or stood. At first glance—raiders. The boy was probably still alive; otherwise, there’d be no reason to tie him up.
Forest Row was the northernmost settlement in the duchy of Aderon. Beyond it stretched days of forested wilderness, once the frontlines of the Hundred Years’ War. Another day’s journey past the thinning woods would lead a traveler to the southernmost village of the Grey Nomads. Between the duchy’s last settlement and the first nomad village lay days of empty, rugged terrain, with no settlements at all or any traffic.
This region wasn’t known for its raider problem. Out west, by the trade route, it was different; there were goods to plunder and caravans to rob. Even between Forest Row and the towns of Aderon, banditry might be viable. But any brigand leader who made a living attacking shipments of timber wouldn’t last long in the underworld. Thus, raiding these empty woods hardly made sense—unless you knew of a new business venture in the area. Moira’s mind focused on this. No one had kept the camp a secret; word of the logging settlement had spread widely to gather enough workers. The raiders numbered maybe a dozen. They wouldn’t risk an attack in broad daylight. Perhaps at night? There were at least twice as many loggers, but after a day’s hard labor and deep in sleep, they might make easy prey. Moira stood, brushed the forest floor from her clothes, and considered further. Leif likely would have told them everything by now, including that Jorgen held their wages in cash. She stretched, rubbed her neck, and spoke aloud, summarizing her thoughts. “I can warn the others, which would lead to a bloody clash, or a game of cat and mouse between the bandits and the workers... or,” she added, glancing at her shadowy crow. The bird tilted its head to the right. “Or we can handle it ourselves.” With a determined look, Moira’s crow cawed and took off, reading her intent.
After they ambushed the young woodcutter and “encouraged” him to talk, the raiders had learned that the camp administrator carried cash—and that no one had yet returned to town with any earnings. It was all up for grabs. The bandit leader was somewhat worried about the number of loggers—they were burly men, after all. But if they struck at night and felled a few with arrows, the rest wouldn’t be so eager to fight. At least, that was the plan. The young man would come with them too. His guilt at betraying his camp would make him easier to recruit later, once he was convinced he’d have no place among decent folk again. It wasn’t the leader’s first time breaking a young recruit this way.
He rose from a stump and called out loudly, “Alright, boys, focus up,” commanding the attention of the gathered bandits. “Just like we discussed. Skinny and Old Edward, you take the left flank—get the ones leaving the barracks, then—” He cut himself off in frustration as Old Edward, instead of listening, was staring off to the right, stepping back with a fearful look on his face. “I’m not done yet!” he roared, but in the same moment, a thick, dark fog enveloped him and the others near the campfire, obscuring everything. The fog was sticky and uncomfortable. The rest of the gang jumped up, shouting over each other, as visibility dropped sharply despite the still faint daylight.
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“Calm down!” he shouted. “Don’t spread out; grab your weapons and—” His words choked off as a shadowy creature, claws sharp as daggers, struck him out of nowhere, ripping his throat and part of his neck before flying on. The leader staggered forward, clutching at his wound, before collapsing dead at Old Edward’s feet. Panic erupted in the camp.
Skinny managed to unsheathe his sword, hands shaking as he fumbled with it. In the thickening fog, he spotted his leader and someone else, so he took a few steps toward them. Then, terrified, he dropped his weapon and grabbed his head, screaming, “What madness is this?!” The leader, with empty eyes and his head twisted unnaturally to one side, stood like a broken puppet in front of Old Edward, stabbing him repeatedly in the chest with a long knife. Edward tried to fend him off but failed, falling to the ground, only to rise moments later like a marionette on invisible strings. Frozen with fear, Skinny watched helplessly as Edward shuffled toward him, picked up the sword Skinny had just dropped, and raised it high. “Ed, what are you doing?” Skinny whimpered before the blade came down.
Leif awoke to the sound of screams—first several, then one, and after a dozen heartbeats, a deep silence. His vision was still dark, likely from the beating he’d endured, but as the quiet set in, his sight began to clear. He turned toward the campfire, blinking until its light finally came into focus. At first, he thought he was seeing things. Maybe while he’d slept, a mutiny had broken out among the bandits, because the sight before him made no sense otherwise: the raiders lay scattered in grim tableau, locked in deadly combat against one another.
Before he could ponder it further, the herbalist materialized by his side. “Leif, dear boy,” she said gently, stroking the uninjured side of his head. “It’s all over now,” she reassured him, “come on, I’ll get you out of here.” She cut his bonds, helped him stand, and handed him something to drink. As he sipped, the pain in his body dulled, and his thoughts grew softer. He had questions, but exhaustion weighed him down, and with each sip, those questions felt less pressing, until he could no longer remember what he wanted to ask. Obediently, he followed her, step by step, back toward their camp. She seemed like an angel to him, so kind and gentle. They reached the loggers’ camp by nightfall, where everyone welcomed him back with relief and concern, patting him on the back and fussing over him. Jorgen and Moira helped him settle onto his cot, and he quickly drifted off into a deep, painless sleep.