Gold & Glory Page 3

  Not surprisingly, morale was at an all-time low when the two remaining sword-wielding bandits lowered their blades and slowly backed away, faces a mixture of horror and disbelief. The remaining crossbowman was not so easily broken, however, feeling no small amount of hatred towards what amounted to no more than a trio of noblemen's brats who got lucky with their fancy swords. He knew morale would quickly shift, and it would be the princelings viewing them with terror, when one of their own was down with a crossbow bolt cruelly placed deep in his belly, and boy would he make them pay. The marksman smirked in anticipation as his finger slowly squeezed the crossbow's trigger, and at that point was messily blown apart by a stream of magical missiles emanating rather wildly from a shrieking crow.

  "Damn, those things are hard to aim in this form!" Sorn muttered as one of the magical oblong orbs of energy flew away from its fellows to tear into the wagon, shattering some woodwork, and resulting in no shortage of panicked screams from the very people he and his cousins were trying to protect. How frustrating! Truly, it would have been better to use a sleep spell, yet the sad truth was that he had only the barest glimmerings of how to construct such a web, let alone know the spell outright, having only found reference to the hypnotic magics in a recently acquired tome. Besides, in times of stress, the mind was best at channeling one's arcane energies into well-known and well-practiced webs, quickly and efficiently. And time was one thing he did not have to spare with that bastard aiming a crossbow at his cousin! Got what he deserved, the irritated crow thought with a certain amount of satisfaction, looking at the blown apart remains of the former crossbowman.

  Sorn's small frame whipped around to the sound of two swords simultaneously falling from terror-numbed hands. His beady gaze immediately caught note of the expressions of absolute horror that the two remaining bandits, presently on their knees with arms raised in surrender, were sending his way.

  “Oh, bloody hell,” the crow sighed, causing the surviving bandits to whimper anew. “I forgot about that.” At which point he flapped down to his cousins who were, as he would expect, busily congratulating themselves on a job well done.

  "Excellent disarm there Fitz," A grinning Hanz declared.

  "Indeed, it was, quite literally!" Lieberman agreed, smirking at Fitz former opponent, who was desperately trying to stave off the flow of his lifeblood from the stump that remained of his forearm.

  "Why thank you both!" Fitz replied happily. "Dare I say it, Hanz, it appears that your opponent got quite ‘ahead' of himself matching swords with you!"

  Sharing a glance at Hanz's all but decapitated opponent, all three immediately started shrieking with laughter.

  "All well and good, brothers, but seriously, when do we eat? Good swordplay always makes me… hungry!" Lieberman said, eyeing their fallen foes with a look that sent the two uninjured bandits into a horrified whimper.

  "Hanz! Fitz! Lieberman!" shrieked the crow. "Didn't I tell you to wait while I flew reconnaissance? What you did was dangerous as all get out! There were two crossbowmen, and you charged right into them! What would have happened if I hadn't taken both of them out?"

  His beak gestured first to the still squirming form of Bront, weak mewls of pain emanating from his bear-like countenance, hands covering his eyes, both good and bloody socket, seemingly trying to tune out this suddenly overly painful world. Sorn then gestured toward the blown apart remains of the second crossbowman, though in truth the triplets would have to take the crossbow part on faith, as only wooden splinters remained.

  "Now I don't mean to put down your accomplishments," The crow soothed, feeling sad for his cousin's hangdog expressions. "You did a wonderful bit of fencing back there, and I daresay these bandits will never forget it."

  A compliment which immediately perked up his cousins to no end.

  "Why thank you, Sorn!" Fitz replied. "And dare I say it, excellent job on that crossbowman there, by the carriage. Moment's thinking on that one, I have no doubt, and done as a crow, no less! You are the wizard of this outfit, I give you that, Sorn. A fine war mage indeed!"

  "Yes, Sorn, thanks for the quick thinking, there!" Lieberman commended happily. "We're lucky to have you watching our backs... or our fronts, as the case may be!"

  "It's no trouble, really, I'm just looking out for you all, as always." Sorn couldn't help puffing up his feathers just a bit.

  "And don't think we missed that eye pluck!" Commended Hanz. "Excellent form, there! Gave them that second's pause while we rushed them. And dare I say, it was funny as all hell, seeing you pluck it up and swallow it down like a trout!"

  "Yes indeed. Funny as all hell!" commented his siblings, who immediately began giggling.

  "Err… yes." This from a rather queasy Sorn who, unfortunately perhaps, could still feel that eyeball bobbing somewhat accusingly in his all too crow-like stomach.

  "Force of habit, you understand. And it's a seagull that plucks up and swallows trout, not the crow. Though come to think of it, we're not really above a little scavenging when times are tough. Anyways, guys, I just wanted to finish by saying that though our tactics need a little work, your form was excellent! But next time let's do a little more planning, okay?"

  To this his cousins happily agreed, conceding that planning was certainly the more prudent way to go. Between themselves, however, the triplets were in quiet accord that when all was said and done, charging in madly and shrieking your lungs out was certainly the most fun way to go into battle.

  "All right, Sorn, now that we’re done with the blow by blow analysis, what do we do with the captured bandits? The ones that are still alive, I mean," Lieberman amended as his opponent of the shattered ribs and in all likelihood punctured lungs breathed out his last gurgling sigh, leaving behind four surviving bandits whom Lieberman found himself nicknaming in his head as a steadily weakening Mr. stumpy, the eyeless wonder, and the final whimpering pair who had, according to his fine sense of smell, just shat themselves.

  Sorn sighed and shifted into human form, which besides allowing his stomach to settle a bit easier, also left his hands free to better deal with the bandits. "Well first off," he said, momentarily startled by two shrieks as two of the remaining bandits fell into a comatose heap. "Ahem. As I was saying, we first need to take care of the bandit Fitz so expertly 'disarmed'," Sorn smirked.

  "Now have any of you any experience with the caring of injured underling races? No? I thought not." This he said with a sigh, seeing the three simultaneous slow shakes of the head. "All right, first see if you can dig up some strong spirits somewhere. Smell some, Fitz? On Mr. One eye? Makes sense, since I figure he's their leader. Okay, just reach under his vest and grab it. No wait, let me make sure he doesn't try to stab you or anything… you didn't have to hit him quite so hard Fitz, I could have put him to sleep… yes, I know it all amounts to the same thing, consider it a question of style. Crap, did he stop breathing? Fitz, you hit him too hard! Oh wait, he's moaning, he'll be fine. Lieberman, hold his arms and tie him up first. I don't trust him. He's got shifty eyes. Heck, one of them's shifting in my stomach as we speak! Is he tied up well? Excellent. Hand me the spirits.

  "Now this part's important... are you even paying attention? Quit looking at them like that! Now the first thing we do is burn off any diseased essences that may have touched his broken flesh."

  At which point, Sorn began pouring the spirits over the stump of a now wide awake and shrieking bandit, still spurting a bit of blood. "Oh crap. No, hold on, first we have to cut off the blood so it quits squirting from his arm. Fitz, you hold his stump here… All right, we'll use this strip of leather from his shirt, tie it up, now pour on the spirits. Oh good, he passed out. Makes it easier. Do we have any clean cloth? Ah, the dead guard here has a clean shirt. It will do, I suppose. Now note how I soak it in spirits, tie it under the leather strap, and there. It's secure."

  At that point, Sorn finished and looked at his work.

  "Nice job, Sorn," Fitz commented, finally letting go of the arm.<
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  "Yes, wonderfully well done. He has certainly stopped bleeding," Lieberman noted.

  "But um, Sorn?" asked Hanz, a tad bit hesitantly.

  "Yes?" said Sorn, frigid tone speaking volumes, just daring Hanz to say it.

  "Isn't he, um, dead?" Hanz finished timidly. "I mean you did a wonderful job and all. He certainly stopped bleeding," Hanz placated, seeing his cousins growing glare.

  "So what?" Sorn exploded "That's not the point! The point is that when someone has their limbs hacked off, you've got to staunch blood loss and clean the area! That's all! It doesn't mean they'll always pull through! Besides, what do you want from me? I'm not a healer, and it’s not my fault I got the order mixed up. It could have happened to anyone!"

  "Yes, of course, Sorn," Fitz soothed.

  "Not to worry, Sorn," Lieberman added. "Things get confusing in the heat of battle. Next time, I'm sure you'll get it right!"

  "Thank you," Sorn replied frostily. "Enough of this. Did you guys finish tying up the bandits? Good. I distinctly recall one of them running madly that way. Oh well, we can check up on him after we take care of the victims in the stagecoach. Listen! They're still whimpering. No doubt they will be grateful for their rescue, and maybe we'll get a reward!" Sorn beamed happily, he too now caught up a bit in the heroic image of it all.

  "And after that, we can chase down the winged one. Who knows? Maybe he will lead us straight to his lair! Maybe it's filled with silver and gold!" Fitz enthused as they approached the wagon.

  "Quiet!" Sorn hushed, approaching the carriage. "Hello, the carriage! We are noble questing… knights, and we have defeated the foul bandits that plagued you. Is everyone all right?"

  "Who is there?" Queried a shaky voice. An older man, if Sorn had the right of it. Voice no doubt firm and commanding during more certain times, but stress and the fear of imminent death had apparently taken their toll. "Is it true, have you really defeated the bandits? You are not one of them?" At which point, Sorn could make out some excited whispers.

  "It is true, sir," Sorn affirmed. "We have the bandit situation well in hand, and in point of fact, have even captured three… alive. The other four will trouble no one again, though there is an eighth bandit who has, quite literally I think, headed for the hills. Forgive our appearance though, sir. ‘Twas a mighty battle and not exactly… neat." Sorn finished, looking at his cousins' blood-drenched finery.

  "And quit looking so hungry!" Sorn whispered fiercely to his cousins with a stern look. "You all are eyeing our kills like a bunch of jackals!"

  "But we're not jackals," was Fitz's hurt reply. "Your books say they eat carrion, other creatures' kills. Those are our kills, so even if we were to eat them, we wouldn't be jackals!"

  "Fitz is right," Hanz whispered angrily. "We're well within our rights. They were trying to hunt us. We got them instead! We have every right to…"

  "Shhh! Not now," Sorn whispered heatedly. "And Fitz, put down that man's forearm! Yes, I know he doesn't need it, but now's not the time to discuss it!!"

  "As we were saying good sir," Sorn continued in a normal tone of voice, "it is quite safe for you to come out, should you choose to do so."

  "Why of course we will!" Chimed a female voice, youth and exuberance hardly hidden by the door. "Let us step out now and survey the damage!" With that, amidst harsh whispers of objection, the carriage door opened, and a rather comely lass, dressed elegantly in lavender, peeked out at the scene before her. Doe-brown eyes and silky chestnut hair served as warm counterpoints to her pale freckled skin, Sorn couldn't help noting, as the girl gracefully stepped from the carriage to observe firsthand the heroes who had come to her family's rescue.

  Caught off guard by the all too real stench of fear, feces, and gore, it took her a moment to compose herself and her queasy stomach both. The first thing to strike her was how young all of the so-called knights were. Heroes to be sure, in her eyes, but no more than squires she was equally certain. The eldest, shoulder-length glossy dark hair possessing a slight curl, was of middling height and possessed a sinewy build, yet nonetheless appeared a bit gawky, as if still in the throes of adolescence. His piercing blue eyes, graceful features, and somewhat aristocratic countenance foretold a man who would one day make any number of women swoon when he finally did reach his majority, as did the faint olive cast to his skin that bespoke of an exotic southern ancestor somewhere in his line. In truth, adolescent flaws aside, he really was quite beautiful, a thought she pushed firmly out of mind.

  Yet his stance, build, and traces of acne marked him as only on the cusp of adulthood, still as much a boy as he was a man. And as for being a knight, the poor lad was dressed only in woolens. Certainly no serf, yet he was dressed little better than any townsman, with neither weapons nor armor upon him.

  His three companions could more easily fit the mark, she allowed. Their silky hair was a wondrous mixture of silver and gold, graced as well with the same sapphire blue eyes and aristocratic features as was the first, so she supposed they might be related. Perhaps the first was a bastard relative. Further, unlike the first, these three showed the unblemished, almost glowing perfection of pre-adolescent youth. They appeared, not to put too fine a point on it, like an artist's rendering of what the perfect child would look like, fay beauty more the providence of otherworldly beings than flawed mortals. Indeed, the hue of their sapphire eyes was so pristine a blue that they seemed almost to sparkle in truth, as if they really were the gems of their namesake, and hardly mortal orbs at all. Their bloodstained silks however, as well as their deadly looking swords and almost feline grace made her hesitate to call them boys. Perhaps they were twelve? thirteen? She found herself wondering at their age.

  It was obvious that they were well practiced in arts martial, as evidenced by the sinewy musculature she could see defined even under their attire, to say nothing of the carnage manifested around her family's carriage of course, which even now she shied from viewing too closely. No doubt the lads were being trained as knights, an idea she did not find hard to believe at all, given the fine shirts of mail they were wearing. They shown with a rich silver-gray luster, no doubt of the finest steel alloyed with silver, she surmised. Full shirts of mail no less, including a neck guard and going past mid thigh, protecting the upper legs and the groin as well as the torso and arms. They were, she suspected, of far better craftsmanship than the shirts of mail that her father's guardsmen wore. Such armor was well suited to a squire not actively jousting or in full pitched battle. Should a properly quilted gambeson be worn underneath, such armor would be second only to banded or plate armor in terms of protection, as her father might say. Though exquisitely wrought, the fine links looked almost delicate, however, nothing like the thick steel links of chain that comprised her household's mail hauberks. Indeed, she would wonder whether it could stop a strong blow at all, should said armor not have already proven its worth so profoundly in the battle that had occurred but moments ago.

  It was only at that point that her mind would finally focus on the results of the savage little skirmish that had so recently taken place before her family's carriage. Three of the rough looking men were hog-tied, she noted. The largest man was whimpering rather shrilly, probably because at present he had a gaping bloody socket where one of his eyes would normally be. Underneath her disgust, she felt a certain savage satisfaction at that. For she just knew that he was the leader of this now broken gang of cutthroats, and though she tried to put it out of mind, she was well aware as to what that vicious bastard would have had in store for her, had he succeeded in opening the carriage.

  She allowed herself only a guilty moment's satisfaction in his comeuppance before stealing herself to look at the rest of the carnage. There was a fallen man nearby, clawed hands vainly grasping at nothing. His chest, she could tell even from here, looked oddly crumpled, caved in underneath his leathers. Bloody flecks of saliva dried upon his lips, his sightless eyes and gaping mouth gave forth the disturbing illusion that the dead bandit was sta
ring at some unspeakable horror from beyond the grave.

  She had once witnessed one of her father's armsmen suffer a kick by a half-trained and badly mistreated horse that her father had thought he could re-train. Sadly, the horse had to be put down at that point with the help of her father's mage who put it to sleep before it was killed. More unfortunate still, was what had happened to the armsman. His chest had been crushed beyond repair, much like the man before her. The poor man had died gasping for air. All too many childhood nights she had fled crying to her father's chambers, haunted by the memory. Though over time the awful intensity of the image had faded in her mind's eye, she couldn't help but recognize the results of a similar blow, and feel a brief stab of pity for the man who had suffered such, bandit or no.

  Yet a second confirming glance ascertained that the man had not been near the horses when he had fallen, but rather had been part of the general melee that had ensued but moments before. She noted the basket hilts on the young squire's sabers. Even with such, it would be a powerful man indeed who could shatter a man's ribs so severely with a single blow.

  Nearby was yet another bandit, obviously dead from his stillness, yet he had been laid carefully on his back and his arm appeared freshly bandaged. It was to the squires' credit that they had the charity to attempt to save the very men they had fought, once the battle was done. Surgeons, however, they obviously were not.

  The last body was the worst. A man whose expression was one of blank-eyed horror, clearly visible though the body was slumped over on its side, as its head was almost completely decapitated save for a flap of muscle and skin. Fine steel sabers indeed, she thought to herself, and couldn't quite repress a shudder when she gazed upon the three youth’s swords anew.

  It was at that point that she backed up a step, and almost stumbled over. Her hand was quickly grasped, however, and balance restored by the oldest of the youths before her, he of the dark hair and awkward stance of adolescence.