http%3a%2f%2fi.imgur.com%2fiygO2OD.jpg [http://i.imgur.com/iygO2OD.jpg]

--The sun rose over the sleeping town of Nomad’s Rest. Among the trivial dreams of shallow, unimaginative people run down by hard toil and nigh empty plates, a foul stench permeated, spreading from the tavern’s porch. One fouler than usual. Upon searching for its source, the tavern’s bartender walked up to a barrel of wine he’d left up front just yesterday. A dog was sniffing it, but there shouldn’t be anything in there… The hatch was open, so the curious keg master approached it with apprehension. Upon coming within sight’s range of its contents, he was scared witless, seeing the rotting head of a giant pale spider inside. Worms crawling in and out of its eight dried eyes. Knowing there is most likely only one reason that this foul thing is here, he ran upstairs, to the room old man Jim had rented out yesterday to a man he viewed as a self-absorbed swordsman with a big mouth. This was a funny attitude, as that particular swordsman spoke little, and only when other people forced him to do so. As the barkeep burst into the room upstairs, hot steam blew out, making it hard to breathe. Sure enough, the swordsman was right there, in the tub, soaking his beaten body. The swordsman, Zarak, opened just one eye. Seeing no threats, his eye closed and he dozed off again. The bartender excitedly stormed off… Moments later, joyous cheers rang out all over the tavern. Weary, and annoyed, Zarak mustered a stern groan of disapproval. As if it wasn’t enough that he had to best the beast’s poison with his sheer will, he now had to deal with people again, his least favourite type of activity.

--The day that ensued was a bit too crowded with people for Zarak’s taste, as all of the town’s folk wanted to grip his hand and shout his name. They bought him liquor and food, and insisted that the local musicians don’t stop playing, much to Zarak’s discontent. First chance he got, Zarak packed, grabbed his pay, supplies and rode out. He did mean to say goodbye to Sophie before leaving, but Magda stopped him, insisting that Sophie was much too ill to see him. He left a letter for the spoiled brat, but he had a feeling it wouldn’t reach her, judging by Magda’s vaguely disguised contempt as she took it from his hand. The letter was a bit crude anyway, and somewhat torn between feeding Sophie’s fantasy and warning her to keep away from Zarak. Perhaps it’s for the best that she won’t get to read it.

--As his horse was trotting away, he thought about everything that transpired here. He would come back one day, he thought, and make Sophie his wife. Inherit Jim’s lands and become a rich, fat lord, living off other men’s sweat. These weren’t really things he wanted, but he did want to live it up for a change. He was tired of getting dealt this shitty hand in life. It was about time for his luck to change. And he just might come back for real. He liked this town and its people.

Here, even if just for a couple of hours, he felt acknowledged. People noticed him and offered him their respect. That never happened to Zarak before. Never in his life. Perhaps he would have grown into a different man, had people not stepped all over him, all those years. Maybe he would not have taken up the hilt of a sword to strike down those arrogant bastards. He glanced back at Nomad’s Rest, now off in the distance. The sun was high above it so he couldn’t see anything from the glare, but Sophie was in her room, by the window, watching him as he left. She waited even as he was a tiny speck on the horizon; she waited until he was completely gone, and then some. Somehow, she felt certain she would never see him again.

http%3a%2f%2fi.imgur.com%2fqejC3Tk.jpg [http://i.imgur.com/qejC3Tk.jpg]

***

--When Zarak had finally reached the woods outside of Bartertown, some days later, only one of his men awaited him, hidden by the waterfall where he’d left three of them, about a week ago. Zarak wearily approached on foot, his horse by his side. The remaining henchman, a skinny young man unburdened by wit, ran up to him in tears.

-I knew you’d come back! I knew it! They wouldn’t believe me, but I kneeeww-ew-ew it….

-Easy there fella. – The swordsman said, as he pushed him away to dodge the incoming hug. – Where are the others?

The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

-I buried them by the fall, boss.

-You… what? They’re dead? – A hint of ire rang in his voice.

-It’s not what you think, not my fault! Not my fault!

-So, you… Killed… Them? – Zarak’s eyebrows raised towards the end of his question.

-Well… yeah, but not my fault?

-You lost me there.

-I wouldna done nuthin’ if they just kept they’s dirty mouth shut! Y’see, after you was gone for five days, they said ya dead or ain't comin’ back! Nah me, boss! I said, you be back for sure!

-U-huh. And?

-But they didn’t listen! They grab them knives, screaming stuff like – I'm boss! No, I'm boss!

-And that’s when you killed them? – Zarak asked, patiently wiping the man’s spit from his face.

-Well no, first they started to wrestle on ground, and then….

-Look, the point is – you killed them, right?

-But it not….

--Zarak interrupted him, gesturing with his hand to stop.

-Because they’d have betrayed me?

-Well, yeah. I guess that it. Yeah!

-Good work. What’s your name?

-Rosencrantz, boss! – The henchman replied, with a sudden chirp in his voice.

--As they wandered out into the prairie outside of town to dig out the loot, the jittery twig kept on yapping, irking Zarak as he did so. It would have been preferable if there was a way to make Rosencrantz shut up immediately, but ignoring him seemed to be working out for now. Three barrels of melted gold. It wasn’t melted at first of course, but things happened, and the trading wagon caught on fire… Not a part of the original plan, but hey – life is what happens while you make plans, and this time life decided to be all about flames and burning stuff. As they dug the barrels out, memories of their acquisition came into Zarak’s mind, uninvited. Vile memories. This was the loot that three of his bandits and three of the merchant’s mercenaries paid for with their lives. He remembered almost dismembering the merchant’s arm, as the man was trying to shoot Zarak with his crossbow. The poor fool pulled it in point blank range and aimed at Zarak’s face, betting everything in a haze of misplaced, self-righteous fury. All he had to do was turn around and run, and yet he chose the hard way. Two arrows already stuck in Zarak, burnt and cut by sword, he could still think straight enough not to strike the merchant down with his blade. Instead, he kicked the frail man in his elbow, causing his forearm to come loose, dangling on nothing but tendons.

--The merchant briefly screamed out in pain and collapsed from the shock. The wagon was burning hard by now, and the stench of scorched flesh was in the air. Zarak never felt that smell before. Its foulness bothered him. The merchant’s limp body sprawled in front of him, he was free to sink his blade into it. But he did not. What did this petty and foolish man do that earned him the right to live, while others vanished, unspoken of? Not that they were worth anything more than the merchant himself. Zarak was sure that if they had gotten the same gifts at birth, as this merchant had, the rats that now lay dead in the dirt would have turned out to be just as corrupt and foul as the merchant was, if not worse. He saw little difference between them. As much as it pained him though, Zarak let the merchant alive. Killing a man with such connections was always a risky proposition. The merchant’s “friends” back in Bartertown wouldn’t let such a thing go unpunished, otherwise who knows which one of them could be next. Scores of assassins were just waiting to see the next bounty that the merchant’s guild would post.

--Zarak had lost himself in contemplation for a while… When he came to, the landscape was painted orange as the sun was finishing its tour for the day. Rosencrantz was done washing off weeks of sweat and murder on Zarak’s behest, and managed to dress himself like a big boy. Nothing scarier than a grown man who never bothered to learn proper hygiene. Now that he looked the part, there was only one problem. He didn’t sound like it… Rosencrantz wouldn’t stop talking ever since Zarak came. He seemed to be rather fond of his own voice. It’s as if he grew lonely, having no one to share it with, seeing as he had killed his previous audience. He was constantly chatting about himself, throwing in the occasional question about Zarak, but he would quickly answer it himself, as Zarak remained silent. Ignoring him was getting quite difficult, and Zarak thought to himself that the other two bandits just might have killed themselves to escape Rosencrantz’s voice. Rosencrantz didn’t really seem as if he could slay two men on his own.

--After thinking up a plan, Zarak interrupted Rosencrantz’s pointless monologue. He explained to the man how they needed to practice their disguise so they would have no trouble getting through the gates. Zarak would be the merchant coming back from a successful trip, and Rosencrantz was to be his mute servant. Mute – Zarak insisted, gesturing with his left hand as he spoke. Rosencrantz seemed to want to protest, but as soon as he had opened his mouth, Zarak raised his eyebrows and gave him a quizzical look. Rosencrantz breathed in once more, his mouth still open and moving as if he was about to say something, but Zarak’s look was frozen and he seemed to be expecting something of him.

--Rosencrantz exhaled and closed his mouth; confusion evident on his face. Zarak however, unfroze, and began loading his newly bought wagon. Rosencrantz followed. Now was that really that hard? – Zarak thought to himself. People don’t really need to say a word in order to know what needed to be done. So why bother talking at all? Waste of air.

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-And so, the saga continues. Please point out if there are any mistakes. I work nights, so I'm quite tired at the moment of posting this. Thank you for reading. Next update will be on Friday.