We will traverse the northwestern trading road to the citadel for roughly two weeks, one extra week early in case something goes awry. Banditry is the concern. Kirk is less populous with lower densities. The first leg leading to the main trade road will be easy because animals are the only real danger.
The next portion will be dangerous before reaching Brinx. From there, we will try to pay for our passage as extra arms in the Kandor caravan heading to the tournament. Excitement courses through my labors as I plan and re-plan every inch. Our departure comes after a never-ending wait, waking up hungover. After washing and dressing, I find my father, Jer, and Balduan redying Jer’s pack outside.
"There you are; I thought I would be lugging your mattress to the road."
“I doubt you’ll notice the weight.” I jest, slapping his broad shoulder as I walk up.
“You’ll have to make a stricter schedule going forward; the road ahead is a long one,” Balduan gruffs, a gruff attesting to a long life of early mornings.
“Always so serious, Balduan. Lighten up. We’ve raised good people who will do the right thing,” My father advocates, clapping Balduan on the shoulder.
“They are making a mistake. You will both fail,” Balduan predicts.
“Father— We will fail and succeed on our merit. Let it lay,” Jer speaks with similar certainty.
There's a moment of silence as I sling my pack and strap on my sheaths; once complete, the halted pace forces me to force the matter, “So we’re off then?” I ask.
“Before you go, we have a gift for you two. This money is all I can give you, but it should be enough to get you on your feet.” My father offers, handing me a small bag that clinks with coins as Balduan hands a similar bag to Jer.
Jer and I echo gratitude. I conserve aspects of his embrace, invading my nose with sweat and dirt. The ground at our feet dampens. My Father’s trembling smile burns a hole, yet I still can’t see through. Goodbye, my world.
The path to the trading road is walkable but far from well-worn due to the willow roots obstructing the way. Weeded reeds encroach on the purloined property. Several younger people are traveling with us; we know them from the village, but they are not well-known. There is the stout baker's boy Kerten. The younger blonde seamstress's daughter Gale. Museph, the third son of a local seasonal worker, whose siblings left to compete a year prior.
Being ever the sardonic child, I prance abound with my new blades. My thrusts stick in trees as I parry vines, tossing quips at the trees for their lack of fortitude or asexual prowess. Grabbing my shoulder and pulling out a tone with a measure for such giddiness, Jer says, “I know you’re excited, but we must stay vigilant, Vesh.”
“Oh. Come now. We trek some run-off stream of a trail to a know-nothing village; what bandit worth their salt would hunt around this empty fish barrel?”
“A bandit who won't have difficulty putting an arrow in your flat butt.”
“Yes. Yes. I must keep the sanctity of this butt pure for you, my love,” I quip, puckering my lips.
“You are too thin for me. How many times do I have to tell you?” Jer jests, pushing me ahead of him.
“So Kerten, are you going for trade skills? Are you going to enter the tournament?” I ask, saddling up to the born baker.
“I am thinking of entering, just for fun.” Kerten mumbles, playing with his fingers.
“I think you should try it. You never know what you like until you try.”
“We-” Kreten squeaks an anxious laugh, covering his mouth.
“It's okay to be nervous.”
“Leave him alone,” Gale defends, bumping me into Jer.
“Woah there, big guy. Let's save that heat for the butt bandits. I am just trying to lighten the mood. Kerten is nervous, so I plan to assuage him.” I calm Jer, along with a hand to hold him back.
“Assuage em’ into ya pants,” Museph mutters.
“No, assuage him that the tournament is meaningless to him and that with his mother's baking tutelage, he will make any trades professor in that field burst with envy.”
“I agree; most are in the tournament for fun. You shouldn’t worry about it,” Jer confirms.
“Well, I am worried about the entrance exams and the tournament. But I appreciate you saying that about my mother's baking.”
“Least ya have som' skills comin' in. I’d be lucky to hire on som’ z rated mercenaries.” Museph adds, hiking his pack further on his shoulder.
“Come now, Museph. We all received the same general education,” Jer advocates.
“Families skilled n’trades always talkin’ the ‘equality’ of gen ed, though ya’ll get a leg up with the resources ya privilege wit.’ us are as likely to end in the mines as a hovel.”
“That's why the academy exists. You may not get a scholarship, but there are a lot of affordable trade skill certifications. I can work with that.” I argue.
“That’s the hope; I hear: the prices can fluctuate,” Museph’s heat petters off.
“Maybe you should check what you can afford?” Jer whispers to me.
I glance into my coin purse and falter in my gait. I now openly stare at the riches in the bag, contemplating the sacrifice it took to scrounge together such wealth. We are well off, Balduan more so with his constant requests. Still, this is more than I can imagine, remembering and now understanding repairs going untended, treats abstained-
“Yes, from what my father experienced during his time at the academy, as guilds gain and lose, they have to change the cost,” Kerten supports me as I regain the thread.
“I never looked much into trade guild certifications, seeing as I will crush the tournament. Why do people join the guild if they can learn the trade skills without doing so? My father isn’t a member, and he never really mentioned its importance,” Jer blusters.
“Primarily, access to resources and infrastructure that benefits commissioning work. Those benefits have diminishing returns for lower tiers in any trade. Considering your father is the highest non-guild affiliated artisan in his field, it is not surprising that he won't need help from guilds. My mother told me that only the higher-tier classes change. Lower-tier classes and certain skills don't change much,” Gale explains.
“Still a long shot, but it’s possible.” Museph relents, smiling.
“And you, Gale?” Jer winks.
“What about me?”
“Tournament, certifications, what are you into?”
“I hope to hire on with an outfit scouting at the tournament. Merc's work always seemed appealing to me.”
Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
“That sounds interesting.” Kerten notes.
“My parents didn’t think so.”
“Ours too. You think my father wanted anything other than a smith as a son,” Jer snorts.
“Exactly... They fought me until I left.”
“Well, looks like we will get the last laugh,” Jer predicts.
We have a day of traveling through Willow’s Grove before reaching the road where we will be camping under the canopy. Wild plants gather on the way for a hearty soup to pair with the chill of an early spring morning. Kerten shares some of his mother's sourdough bread, which we gratefully consume. During the day, I learned Museph and Gale were together for a few summers. They broke up months before this trip and are unsociable towards each other. Kerten is a closed book. It isn’t until we are alone, scrounging for soup vegetables, that I finally get through his defenses.
“Did you ever consider doing something other than baking?”
“Yeah, for a bit, I wanted to be a cartographer. But there is no way I could do that.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know. I am just a baker. I was raised for it, you know?”
“Yeah. So, have you decided if you will test your might?”
“I think you have a point. Why not just try it out? Right?” Kerten laughs, stopping and facing me. My final step brings me close to him.
“Exactly, it's usually good to do things you want,” I affirm cautiously, smiling at him.
Wet, soft lips press against mine, gentle, only pressing enough to make contact. It isn’t bad, but it isn’t good. Pushing pulls Ker away with a look of confusion. I continue walking on our trail, looking for a topic to distract from the situation. I don’t feel uncomfortable; I just wasn’t expecting the contact. It's something that I sometimes forget about, at least in a practical sense.
“I’m sorry.”
“You know that you can’t just kiss people?”
“I’m sorry, it went differently in my head.”
“I like where your head's at, but I am uninterested. You’ll have to find that out before you go kissing people.”
“I apologize if I made you feel unsafe.”
“It did. If anything, this proves my point, though.”
“How so?”
“Because now you have fucked up and can do better; next time.”
“That’s true,” he agrees, pausing a moment before continuing, “do you think we can keep in touch at the Citadel? It will be nice to know someone there.” He hedges, shoulders slumping in anticipation of rejection.
“Yeah. I will try,” I confirm.
We make it to the northwestern road in good time. When we arrive, we don't see anyone, making camp that night in a clearing half a mile off the road, with no fires and a watch schedule that keeps someone alert at all points of the night. Ambushes up here are frequent, so I scout ahead. Pattering myself along the willows and high reed grass precludes visibility. That makes this a sweet spot for sneaking up on unsuspecting paydirt.
The vines stretch and interlock, encompassing everything. A knife in the roots allows me to hear the vibrations of passersby. They know this trick, so I have to outsmart whoever is out there, a stationary bandit who will listen for a catch.
Assuming the scout will be too hard to sense, I must check each side of the road. With this strategy, I can pick up the activity of the larger group the scout is scouting for. I must also worry about panthers lying in the trees to catch any prey foolish enough to slip the cover of the grass.
The way is silent, and I only encounter a few weary Willow Panthers and smaller animals. There are encampments off the road; at each, I check for indications of blood or anything amiss.
A strange, heavy vibration halts my route as I double back on the eastern side of the road. I am trailing behind, and my group is closer than I like. I can faintly pick up my group and another presence deeper in the willows. As I listen, my group travels further down the road. I hear a distinctive vibration that appears close and moves toward the group in the willows.
You stand there a second when horrid things happen. After my denial passes, I am up at dead scrabble— I forgot my knife. I have to grab it before rushing to my group. The scout will take at least three and a half minutes to reach the camp of bandits, as they were at the extent of my senses. Assuming they are ready to set off, I will have, at most, eight minutes until they meet us.
Bandits are coming, the weight falls on my shoulders, and everything snaps into focus. We will not make it in time; depending on where they plan to attack us, they will only be slightly behind, even if we all run. I’m unsure of everyone's speed, but Kreten is slower with his bulkier frame.
Alright, options: We all fight the bandits; there are six. Nope, there are too many. Is there any way to lessen the number if there are too many? I only have a little in my bag that will help. There is no way to plan a counter without knowing where they will ambush us. If we ambush them, it will be bloody, with bad odds. We can hide; this offers the safest outcome with a successful evasion but offers little room if they have a good tracker.
I would have gone for this option if not for the scout who’d spotted us. Their skills are good, and they won't have trouble uncovering us in the forest. As I stride from root to root, my pace reaches a crescendo, the reed part to greet me and close behind. I clear the grass ahead of my companions.
“Run,” — I wave — “approximately six coming up on the east, six minutes from an intercept point. I don't believe we can outrun them or hide.”
“That leaves fighting,” Jer enthuses.
“I’m in,” Gale accepts.
“What?” Kerten freaks.
“We can just give ‘em our stuff.”
“If we fight, it will be tough on even ground. What if you go ahead to dissuade a portion of the group?” Jer offers.
“Alone?” Gale fretts, measuring me.
“Who else could?” I ask with more heat than intended.
“Can you do this, Vesh?”
“We don’t have time for a better plan.”
“Do not engage in direct combat.”
“Wasn’t planning on it.”
“Stay safe,” Kerten calls behind my back.
“I was planning on that,” I mutter.
A gorilla assault, they will not be expecting that, and I’ll hit them. Lessening their numbers makes both retreating and fighting more palatable. With plans in place, I disappear into the reeds. My body strains, pushing farther in faster than ever. My feet coast along from root to root, grass parting before me and together again behind. The scout will alert his camp, and I must predict their course to the road. They'll adjust once they figure we are trying to outrun them; I’ll need to plan accordingly.
I need to be on a course that takes me to where their group will pass; I then need to strike the latter portion of the bandits silently. A large willow in my path offers my next glance at the enemy’s position. At first, nothing is discernible, but then something starts low and spaced out.
The vibrations vary, which is good because they are grouped in halves, allowing me to attack the latter portion with less risk. They are alarming because the low vibrations mean they know this area well and are moving fast. Also, I will overshoot their course on my current trajectory; my group is far from clearing the intercept— maybe more bad. Our disadvantage is predictable. Banditry in these parts takes knowing some hows. I change my vector before starting up again.
The few times my father and I ventured from the village, we never encountered anything like this. My father’s knowledge of this land makes me look like a novice. With him, we never experienced anything like this. This intense situation constricts my body with regret. Though some bandits left people alive, the papers write of murders— they are trying to kill us. That means I am about to start stabbing actual people, people with families, lives, and a distaste for being stabbed. I have trained for this and chose a weapon of Creations’ mercy.
Will rules body, will rules mind, will rules all.
There is no means to avoid hurting people, which won't put us all at the mercy of others. The group's position on the road further affirms my violence. I am doing this to help my friends— not to hurt the bandits. Swift, non-lethal damage to incapacitate them makes it not worth their time.
Forced awareness bypasses concern, and I am sticking my knife down. Aways from a tree, vibrations are weaker, yet the enemy is close. I need to stay away from the willows as the reeds are denser between them. They are moving to the road, but I still overshot the bandits' path. Those ten steps could be the difference that decides life or death for the people counting on me. I draw my rapiers as I crouch among the reeds. A debate starts on whether there's enough time to correct my overstep; should I wait?
The grove is still; only the rustle of foliage mars foreboding tranquility. Panting breaks in the distance, revealing the bandits. My indecision proves beneficial, as they are now moving toward me. The first group passing rustles the reeds around me, so I hold. The moment comes between breaths. A bandit, or rather a person, enters the range of my rapier, and I pounce; my trust dislodges a gurgling cry.
“Mg-nck,” the cry gurgles.
Wait. Is that gurgling? One expects a scream from striking a leg, but not that wet slapping that sinks into me. I shuffle aside, stumbling a step, hardly able to see half a meter in front of me. Without vibrations as guides, I have to focus intently on my senses. Moving forward, a crack of steel slices at my midsection, destroying grass but avoiding me as I fall further back. Steel follows me.
The threat doesn’t feel real— am I shivering? When did I get cold? I creep farther away to sink my knife into the roots. The two vibrations ahead of me are sweeping through the grass, moving towards me. I assume that this will hold their advance here, and I will be able to leave. I slink farther away while trying to get my shivering hands under control; I don't even feel cold. A few moments later, I burp, but vomit spills out on the ground— yet that wasn’t me. Had I vomited?
Before I am halfway back, I hear metal clanging on metal, forcing me to run. One of the attackers pursues me, but I don’t care. Grass surrounds me; then the grass is gone, replaced with battle. Jer and Gale face three people. Jer’s nose is bleeding, and he has a couple of knicks, but nothing unmanageable. Gale holds at Jer’s side, looking much better than him, having only a cut lip.
I run up on one before a pain rips through my shoulder. I throw my rapiers out into a retreating form and shift to Jer’s side. The pain in my shoulder is a dull throb, but I don't feel a difference in speed. The rest have fled or are hiding in the grass, readying to shoot an arrow.
Four oppose our way, looking fed but unkempt; the stench of sweat rolls off them. They shade in a spectrum of dark dyes, ranging in build, but share the same dull expression. The one who stabbed me is the largest of the bunch.
Alone, I would have no chance of survival. However, together, Jer and I are worth four. His force sucks all the attention, as refusing means six feet of steel carving into your chest.
They free me to come in with measured strikes, incapacitating the farthest left bandit with a clean hit on their arm. Something about having Jer there, next to me, calms all worries. Here is what I fight for and against. Moving into a parry of the next blade thrust at me, I overextend my grip, and my rapier sails overhead to land behind us. Gale flows from outside my field of vision, under Jer’s swing, slamming away the rest of the blow with her long sword.
The save gives me the momentum to overwhelm my opponent as Jer distracts both the remaining. Gale uses this to make the knee of the farthest bandit crunch. Jer switches his grip, stepping into the third bandit with the flat of his blade, sending them into the last bandit and three feet past that. Heavy breathing intersperses the groans of people we've injured. We look at each other, then at the bandits.
"Where are the others?" I ask.
“Kept— going, got hit— keeping them— clear.” Jer pants, grabbing my other sword.
“Should... Should we help them?” I think aloud, grabbing the sword from Jer with shaking hands, trying to keep up for once.
“Was that a joke? No. We don’t help them, Vesh. We run.” Jer shuts down, making his case in deed by staring us off.
“Yeah, my bad,” I mutter.
“If it makes you feel better, they will be fine.” Gale consoles after thinking a moment.
“They will be fine.” I echo, remembering the person I attacked— might have killed?
“What?”
“We can talk about it when we meet everyone and find some damned people.”
We likely wouldn't have been ambushed if we had met another group before this encounter. The bigger a group, the less likely they are to be ambushed, while we are hardly a half dozen kids from a piss-piddly village.