It had been several days since I had left Roslicay, and to be honest, I really had no particular destination in mind. With me dodging the guard and the tax collector in Roslicay it was time to move on to another town. I was currently wandering across the hilly countryside of western Tamden, the tall glowing peak of the Dragon Mount was visible far off to the east. I had actually never been this far east before. Typically I traveled along the coast in the northern part of the kingdom to put as much space between myself and The Wilds as possible. The Wilds were a section of southern Tamden, part of Tamden according to the King but not the inhabitants mind you, that was overrun by the Ghorim, orcs, trolls, goblins, giants, and a host of other nasty critters. Ghorim do not really take well to beggars, they do not really have great markets to plunder, and I just did not really want to be carted off and used for whatever purposes they would find for me. So the northern coast is where I made my rounds, and I was okay with that. I’d been around Roslicay for several decades and hopefully, that would be enough time for people to forget me in previous places that I stayed in for too long.

Now, I have been wanting to visit the capital city of Aquneum for a long time, even though I had a seemingly unnatural aversion to any seat of power. Despite hearing that the capital city was a beggar’s paradise, I had never ventured there. There was affluence in abundance and the city guard were so busy that they rarely had the time or inclination to bother a poor beggar. Then again, the Tin Cups were based out of Aquneum and it would be an almost guarantee that they would catch up to me there. The Tin Cups were a “guild” of beggars and thieves that had been after me to pay my “dues'' for decades as well. They found me in Roslicay twelve years ago and demanded that I pay membership dues because they claimed Roslicay as one of their territories. I do not pay dues any more than I pay bloody taxes. Nevertheless, every couple of years they sent some poor slob or three to try and rough me up to collect my membership fees, to an organization that I never even signed up for, mind you. Every couple of years the Tin Cup’s membership mysteriously shrank by one or three.

I eventually found a merchant road that led off to the southeast later in the afternoon. There were a few modest-sized towns in that area so I decided that, for now, I would see what southeast Tamden held in store for me. I figured that eventually if things were not looking too good this way, I could curve back towards the north and visit Shafworth, the City of Legends. That was another place that I had a longing to visit. According to kingdom legend, there was a great battle more than fifty years ago and the city was nearly razed to the ground. The citizens of the city, which at the time were mostly fishermen, merchant guards, and adventurers, held off and finally destroyed the horde of Ghorim that had been attempting to make their way to the capital city. For their sacrifice and bravery, the King of Tamden paid personally for the rebuilding of the city and since then it has been a haven for adventurers and mercenaries.

I’d been walking for three days since I left Roslicay, and I decided to stop. There was a small cleared patch of the hill off of the north side of the road with several large evergreen trees growing on the backside of the hill that created a nice little shelter. I pulled what was left of my animals, my goats, and the mule, under the boughs of the trees and settled in for a bit of stale bread and hard cheese. I decided that it was a good time for an afternoon break. The goats were amiable sorts, though they needed constant reminding that they were not allowed to eat their rope. The mule, on the other hand, was the most disagreeable animal that I had ever encountered. It almost took an effort of will of nearly titanic proportions to keep the creature following a path or road, and that was on the occasions that you could get him to actually move. It was the act of moving that I was trying to impress on the dim-witted creature when the scant trees around me burst with all sorts of clatter.

Despite my refusal to admit it, I really was a thief. At least, I had all of the skills of a thief and had put those skills to use on more than one occasion. It did not take a brilliant man to recognize the sound of a battle and that was exactly the sound suddenly erupting around me. So like any other person who does not particularly want to find themselves in the middle of a fight, I ducked behind some foliage and hid to watch.

Two skittering pack horses were the first thing to break from the tree line and onto the road. They ran a few hundred feet down the hill on the opposite side of my hiding place and began to pace around nervously looking towards the commotion in the trees. A few moments later a man riding a winded stallion came through the trees and stopped on the road. The man was fairly large and dressed in the full battle raiment of Shada’Val, the God of Battle and Justice. He wheeled the stallion to face the woods and grabbed the large hammer that had been slung across his back. Calling it a hammer may have been a disfavor to the weapon, though that is what the battle priests of Shada’Val called them. The thing was more like a sledge than it was a hammer and it was made of solid steel, not a sliver of wood could be found on the entire thing. Most amazingly, the priest hefted the hammer one-handed and waited as the sound of running men came closer and closer.

Then an arrow whizzed by the priest's head, followed by another that would have taken him in the chest had the first arrow not startled the stallion and caused it to step to the side. The priest sat high in the saddle, and with his free hand grabbed the amulet around his neck and shouted a few words. His voice thundered past his well-groomed beard and as the sound settled a pail nimbus of red light appeared like a shield in front of him.

“Arrows are the weapons of cowards and thieves, you dogs outnumber me by eleven men so show your faces and fight like men. Shada’Val will not suffer his priests to die by the weapons of cowards.” He boomed forth challenging whoever stooped as low as to attack a battle priest. It was most likely bandits. The battle priests patrolled the roads of Temden to try and keep the bandit and Ghorim population as scarce as possible. The capital city of Aquneum was a well-traveled seaport and the single most important port of trade for the entire kingdom. Almost anything produced outside of Tamden eventually went through the capital. I then picked up the sounds of running footsteps and so I slinked closer to the ground and watched as arrows bounced helplessly off the shield of light in front of the battle priest.

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The bandits either ran out of arrows or got frustrated, so they charged out of the clearing at the battle priest. Half of the bandits charged the priest and it looked like the battle was not going to go well for the man, the remaining six bandits stood at a distance with their crossbows armed and held at the ready. The bandits looked like bandits, but they did not fight like bandits. They coordinated their attacks and moved with much more skill than any bandits I had ever seen. Two bandits were struck down by the battle priest’s enormous hammer, and another two by the hooves of his well-trained stallion, but both had taken potentially serious wounds and it was likely that neither of them would survive the encounter.

I really should have just stayed hidden until the battle was over, I could probably finish off the stragglers and end up with enough scavenge to get by for a year or more. For some reason though, I was compelled to do the opposite. I stepped out from under the concealment of the trees and shrubs and quickly stuck my hand into the sleeve of my robes. With a practiced motion, I grasped one of the daggers that were tethered to my forearm and with a fluid motion flung it at the nearest bandit with a crossbow. With blinding speed, I repeated the process another three times and sent four small daggers flying towards the bandits. Each dagger struck its target in the back, most in vulnerable locations. At the same time, I began running towards them, my body moved with incredible agility and grace. Anyone in Roslicay or any other of the towns that I had frequented in the past would not believe that I could move like this, though most of them did not realize that I was not really five foot seven and I did not really have a hunched back. I closed the distance between the last two crossbowmen that did not have daggers protruding from their backs and pulled my long daggers. These weapons I had “borrowed” from a weaponsmith long before Shafworth had become the City of Legends. They were nearly identical, both had long dark grey steel blades that were unnaturally sharp on both sides. The blades were about 8 inches long and maybe an inch wide at the base and they slowly tapered to the points. The one that I usually used in my right hand had a ruby in the crossguard and a silvery lion's head for the pommel while the other had a sapphire and the pommel was in the shape of a wolf’s head.

The first bandit that I was engaging was still looking around with shock trying to figure out what was happening and reacted too late as I slipped my dagger between an unarmored section near his ribs, the man was dead before he could even drop his crossbow. The last crossbowman spun and blocked my strike at the last second turning the dagger away before it plunged into his neck. He leaped back a step but it was already too late. My left hand, now free from the dagger that was stuck in the ribs of his partner, was already moving in another series of gestures and then a rasping word of power slid from between my lips. When the word was completed a small arc of electricity leaped from my free hand and burned into the chest of the last remaining bandit. The bandit fell, his chest blackened and a smell similar to burnt bacon wafted through the air as he did. It was only a matter of seconds before the fight was over and all the bandits either were lying dead or terribly wounded. Moving with pure instinct I spun around facing the four bandits with knives in their backs and pressed my thumbs together and fanned out my fingers towards them. I spoke another word of power and four darts of pale emerald light shot from my fingers into them. The battle was now officially over.

“Thank you, friend, I owe you a debt of gratitude.” The priest said in a very deep and powerful voice. It was then that I had realized what I had done and began to frantically look around for a place to hide.

“Hold! I will not harm you! You rendered aid to me so I will not be able to lift my hammer against you nor speak a prayer that is not to your benefit. From the looks of you, I’d say that you could use whatever coins you can find on these vile miscreants. Feel free to take what you need, I am forbidden to loot the dead.” The battle priest slid off the stallion and made a loud whistle to call the two pack horses. The priest then pulled off his helm and looked at me, I was already pilfering the belongings of the bandits. I mean, I was just given permission by a member of the clergy after all. The priest was not elderly, but he certainly was no spring flower. He had steely grey hair and his beard was streaked with white. His face had a few wrinkles, but his eyes were the most vivid blue eyes I had ever seen on a human being, and they were as bright and aware as the eyes of a child.

“You don’t speak much do you?” The priest shouted jovially towards where I was rifling through the pockets of another bandit. He then pulled a water skin off of one of the timid pack horses and took a drink while tending the wounds on the stallion. After examining the stallion he pulled out a small earthenware pot and began rubbing some sort of jelly on the stallion's more serious wounds. “My name is Flint Hardgrave, First Prelate of the Temple of Shada’Val in Kuris. Give me your name stranger so that I know to whom I owe my debt.”

I was barely listening and was beginning to separate weapons and more expensive pieces of armor from the bandits, putting them into piles, and all of the coins, jewels, and other small valuables vanished quickly into my robes as I did. My animals and cage were still stashed in the shelter that I had previously been relaxing in before the commotion and I could hear the pigeons cooing softly. I took a moment to look at the priest as he was now tending his own wounds with the salve from the small pot, and in a raspy, dusty voice I replied “Most people call me Wretch, though that ain’t my name. Mah name is Nibingul.”