Rove
10 km north of Handport, Grasping Isle
The Heraldry of the Grasping Isle [https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/492636828311093249/1025904548910485504/The_Grasping_Isle.png]
'This is turning out to be a very, very bad day...', Rove thought, ducking behind a tree as his leather armour groaned in protest at the sudden movement. An arrow, aimed for where his head was half a second ago, slammed into the tree next to him, quivering angrily. Arrows always seemed angry to the human Herhor, always buzzing and whizzing past, then quivering with rage when they failed to hit their target. They didn’t like him, and he didn’t like them in return.
Tightening the grip on his bronze sabre, he made a run for the next tree, drawing fire from the hidden archer once again. He rolled the last couple of meters, and he heard the arrow flying overhead. The enemy knew what he was doing.
Meanwhile, his client, an old but seasoned merchant by the name of Brenstead, lay motionless on the floor, an arrow sticking out of his shoulder. Rove’s dark brown cloak lay on top of him, covering about half of the old bearded human’s body. If he didn’t get to Brenstead fast, he would bleed out. No money, no further contracts from him and most importantly, his reputation would suffer.
Letting out a soft “Tsk”, Rove recalled how he and Brenstead were ambushed just a minute ago. Brenstead steered his cart of goods, which mostly consisted of fabrics and dried foods, while he held watch near the back entrance of the cart. They were headed for Handport, the major port city in this region. While taking a turn in the road, Brenstead was felled by a sudden arrow to the shoulder, while another missed him and slammed into the bench instead. At the same time, a sturdy crossbow bolt slammed into the wheel, temporarily crippling the cart. The horse pulling the cart wasn’t hit, most likely left alive for the work after the raiders were done.
So, two bows, one crossbow. For the crossbow to have done its work, it had to be fired fairly close to the cart. Which meant he had a potential target close by.
Rove’s thoughts were interrupted by a shout, the voice high-pitched.
“Iron Herhor, we have you surrounded. If you surrender now, we’ll let you live. You’ll fetch a good amount of coin dead, but more coin alive.”
So they want to keep him alive. Big mistake. Keeping silent, Rove kept low and used the surrounding brush as cover, moving slowly to make sure they didn’t notice his approach. His well-maintained leather armour did not make a sound.
As he crept forward, he heard a small, dry snap to his right. Freezing up, he waited. After a few moments, he saw his first quarry through the undergrowth, moving into sight about five meters ahead of him. A crossbow-wielding Lon. Was to be expected. The Lon were the most common humanoid race in these parts. A small people, they were well adapted to the hazards of their original mountain homes. The Lon were rather stout and sturdy, although it didn’t appear to hinder their agility in the slightest. Their extremities were also covered in a thick layer of hair, insulating them well against the cold. Lastly, and perhaps importantly, the Lon tended to be crafty and tactical. Finishing the fight quickly was mandatory.
The Lon mercenary slowly, calmly and fluently moved forward, his small stature not hindered by the undergrowth. Fortunately, his small size also meant he had the advantage in a straight-up power struggle.
After noting the speed with which the Lon moved, Rove crept backwards a bit, making sure that he didn’t step on any dead branches. Counting down in his head, he waited. On the count of ten, he shifted his balance and lunged at the spot where he thought his opponent would be. His guess was spot on. Rove’s bronze blade flew through the air in a gleaming arc towards his opponent’s head. However, the Lon, in an impressive show of reflexes, managed to raise his crossbow and block the blow. A panicked shout rose from the mercenary’s throat, signifying his and Rove’s position. Staying calm, Rove knew had to be fast or he wouldn’t survive.
Feigning an attack to the stomach, Rove swung his blade in an upwards crescent arc. The Lon, already panicked, fell for the deception and moved his crossbow towards his stomach. Before the realization of his mistake reached the Lon’s eyes, Rove’s blade already cut deep into his neck, crimson blood gushing out of the wound. The light in the Lon’s eyes swiftly vanished as he slumped to the ground.
Rove heard his remaining two enemies shout, moving to try and get a clear shot at him. There was no time to think. Throwing himself in the direction of the nearest shout, he broke out in a half-crouched run, trying to use his remaining cover as effectively as possible.
The first archer, another Lon, didn’t have a chance. Anticipating a more careful strategy, he didn’t expect an angry Herhor barrelling toward him. The archer’s eyes grew wide and fired a hastily aimed shot, which ricocheted off Rove’s armguards. Smashing into him with a crude tackle, Rove knocked the bow out of the archer’s hands. While his enemy lay dazed on the ground, he quickly took his dagger and plunged it into the archer’s throat. The archer died with a soft, bubbling gurgle.
Several arrows hit the surrounding undergrowth, forcing Rove out of the bushes. Around fifteen meters away, the remaining Lon archer crouched down, his quiver empty. For a long second, Rove was filled with relief. The archer was out of arrows. Then that relief was replaced with terror. Why would the archer fill the bushes with arrows just to run out when his target presented himself? Unless he didn’t.
Rove threw himself sideways, just as the Lon archer drew an arrow out of his sleeve. With a smirk, he nocked the arrow on his bow, drawing and shooting it with one smooth motion. Rove’s quick motion saved his life, barely. With a heavy thud, the arrow burrowed itself into the Herhor’s right shoulder, ripping straight through his armour. The pain was unimaginable, a fierce fire radiating through his arm. With a scream of pain, Rove fell to the ground, his weapon falling amongst the leaves.
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“You ass-faced bastard!” Rove managed to spit out. The archer, sniggering at his victory, came closer, dagger in hand.
“Funny that.” He said, twirling the dagger in his hand. “I should be saying that to you after killing my colleagues.” The Lon shrugged. “Then again, it does mean more pay for me. And being known as the Lon who killed the Iron Herhor never hurts.”
While his would-be killer was talking, Rove noticed movement in his field of vision. Brenstead, the sturdy old goat, was still alive. Better still, he held a short shovel in his hand, his other arm dangling uselessly to his side. Calmly, the old merchant nodded to Rove. He needed to provide a proper distraction. Time to put his tongue to work.
“Really? Money and a slight boost to your reputation? You aim low, for a marksman of your skill. Who taught you how to shoot? Must have been quite the master!” Rove called out, raising his voice to drown out Brenstead’s movement.
The Lon smiled, leisurely walking closer. He did not seem to notice the impending danger. Tactical yet too cocky. Good. Very good.
“Well, yeah. My teacher was a veteran of the Imperial Lon army. Taught me true discipline during my training. Not as lazy and chaotic as what you Herhors call training.”
Clutching his arm, Rove winced with pain. He made sure to make it nice and noticeable. Which wasn’t hard to do considering the constant pulses of red-hot pain.
“I noticed. I consider myself soundly bested at this point. Would you do me the final honour of telling me your name, as fellow mercenaries?”
The Lon stood next to Rove, momentarily in thought before answering. Brenstead saw his opportunity, gaining enough distance to strike the Lon. Rove, despite knowing better, looked at Brenstead’s approach expectantly.
“I think not; I will just finish you off no-.” The Lon started, his speech halting and eyes widening with realization as the archer started to turn. A moment later, Brenstead’s club connected to the Lon’s skull with a hard crack, knocking him out cold. Not skipping a beat, Rove worked himself to his feet with a loud grunt, grabbing his dagger with his good arm and slicing the Lon’s throat. In the end, his overconfidence proved to be his undoing. And that mistake was duly noted. No loose ends.
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It took Rove a good hour to fashion three rough graves from the forest’s soil. After checking their surroundings for more threats and tending to their wounds, paying respects to your opponents was just the right thing to do. Throwing Brenstead’s now dented shovel in the back of his cart, Rove worked himself on the trestle next to his client. Blenheart smoked a pipe, releasing sharp herbal fumes into the air around him.
“Never understood why you’d do that, burying ye enemies,” Blenheart grumbled.
“I never understood why you would smoke a pipe, but you don’t hear me complain.”
“Hah, at least my arm isn’t slashed and battered. We’ll see who is crying with pain first, m’boy.”
Rove checked the bandage on his shoulder, making sure it was tight and secure. Brenstead’s shoulder was wrapped in a similar construction but included a sling to support his arm. With his functioning arm, Brenstead urged his horse into action. Keeping a slow pace, the two men sat next to each other, enjoying the silence as the two of them collected their thoughts. After a long while, Brenstead spoke up.
“We’re havin’ too many bandits and mercenaries in the woods these last couple of moons. Not good for business, I tell ye. Any idea what the cause might be, Herhor?”
Rove took a minute before answering.
“Hard to say. Might be that merc work is running out in these parts, which I highly doubt. Or somebody is hiring forces to get trade routes and patches of land under their control, which seems like the more likely option to me.”
“How so?” Brenstead asked, one eyebrow raised.
Rove grabbed his pack, pulling out three insignias he cut from the men’s clothing. They all depicted a spear, with a white wing on the staff’s end.
“They are all wearing the same insignia. Last two weeks, the number of mercenaries wearing this insignia rose too fast to be a coincidence. Somebody is either taking control or is searching for something.”
“Or someone?”
“Exactly.”
“Hhhmmm…”
“So, Brenstead. Let's talk payment.”
Brenstead let out a short bark of laughter.
“Don’t worry about the gold, m’boy. Without you, I’d be dead by now. The fact that I took down the last one doesn’t change that. I’ll keep my part of the deal. As long as we’re up for business in the future.”
Brenstead refilled his pipe, after which he offered it to Rove. The Herhor reignited the pipe with some flint.
“Ah, that’s better. So as I was saying, our contract is unchanged. Besides, I want to keep myself on your good side. You are one of the better Herhors around, after all. One of the better talkers too, boy.”
Nodding, Rove accepted the compliment. The majority of traders and mercenaries on the Grasping Isle had heard of him, the Iron Herhor. In the ten years of being a Herhor, he took on seventy contracts, with only one failing due to a betrayal. It had almost killed him, but he’d come out stronger and more importantly, wiser.
He was known to take almost any job, provided the pay was right. Collecting information, leading a battle, protecting a caravan or just assassinating a rival, if you needed a combination of those kinds of errands, you came to Rove. There was a saying about Herhors on the Grasping Isle. ‘A Herhor can be an ass, but a true ass will never be a Herhor.’ Stubbornness and inflexibility would kill you in a job like this. And Rove took it to heart.
“So, heard somethin’ about ye sister yet?” Brenstead asked, knocking Rove out of his musings. Rove sighed and took out his most prized possession: the necklace his sister gave him when he left home.
“Still nothing, I’m afraid. My contacts do not reach as far as Zavand. Even the tiniest bit of information costs more than I can manage, and when I do get information, it’s too vague to be of use. I reckon you didn’t get any information either?”
“For the most part, no. Although I did look into it for ye.” Brenstead started, blowing out a big cloud of grey smoke above him, making Rove pull up his nose a bit. “I did hear one interesting fact though, although it doesn’t directly concern ye sister. Care to hear it?”
Rove shot a glance at the old merchant. “Out with it.”
“Alright then. I heard that several prominent families of Zavand made contact with them Hybrids. Several emissaries have been sent to Marlight, it would seem. Made quite a stir, dealing with the Hybrids so openly.”
“Hybrids? Out here? They’re so rare here they might almost be considered a myth, to be honest. Even for my family, it would be hard to cooperate with spectres. Strange... Thanks for the information, old man.”
“Ye’re welcome, m’boy.”
The rest of the journey to Handport rolled by in peace and silence, having said what needed to be said. No other enemies, Lon, Human or otherwise, showed themselves. Maybe it wasn’t such a bad day after all. At least he was alive and getting paid.
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