The Bandit in the Woods

“Your money or your lives.”

The horseman’s face was hard. There would be no negotiation. The man he was robbing failed to read his expression.

“We need both, we are sorry,” He stuck out his hand, “I am Bren, chieftain of the Maharal.”

The horseman could tell by the strange inflections in Bren’s speech that the Tongue was not his first language, but he still spoke it better than some of the horseman’s own troops. He didn’t take the chieftain’s hand. Instead, he drew his sword and pointed it at Bren, to make his point clear. The chieftain merely smiled and began introducing the rest of his party.

“These four are my guards. My assistants? Commanders? That is what you call them? Por, he does wards and enchantment; Tsamen, she does enhancement and tools; Fleysh, he is a crafter and a dreamer; and Kolek here, he’s the one who makes golems. Our schools. You understand?”

The horseman’s hard expression grew harder.

“You will give us your food and your oxen. Should I repeat myself a third time, we will kill all of you.” The horseman said.

The chieftain’s smile widened, “Listen. I try to tell you. We are a war party too. Good? Better. Better than you. We are not deserters.”

He pointed to the patch on the horseman’s tabard where he had once worn an insignia.

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The horseman snorted. A war party? The chieftain wore only a single loincloth and nothing else. Several of Bren’s people clutched spears, but they were vastly outnumbered by the horseman’s own soldiers. He found his hand wandering up to the patch. Bren’s eyes saw too clearly for his liking.

Bren heard his snort, “It is true. A vow was broken. We look the vow breaker. Leave the path. You may rob others. We must pass.”

The chieftain was irritating the horseman.

“Time for a demonstration, I think.”

The chieftain’s face grew stern. “I agree.”

What did that mean? Was the old man trying to trick him? It wouldn’t work. Even with his momentary hesitation the horseman was the fastest man he’d ever met. He struck at the chieftain, fast as a snake, aiming for his neck. It was as though he was moving under water. The chieftain leaned away from the horseman’s sword so that it only brushed against his jugular, failing to draw blood. In the same action, Bren grasped the horseman’s sword by the back of its blade, plucked it from the horseman’s fingers, and snapped it in two.

The horseman pulled his horse back in terror. Panicked, he gave the signal to charge: hand lifted, two fingers raised. Nothing happened. There was no thudding of hooves, twanging of bowstrings, nor ringing of sword against shield. His soldiers didn’t even raise a cheer. In fact, come to think of it, he couldn’t hear them at all. Had the cowards run from the chieftain and a handful of spears? He twisted around on his saddle, fear turning to outrage. All blood drained from his face. Men, women, horses, weapons and armour, all were mounded together in a great pile of broken flesh. It looked as if they had been crushed like a man might crush an insect. The horseman felt bile rising at the back of his throat.

“What have you done?” he whispered.

There was no compassion in the chieftain’s eyes.

“The vow was broken. We will answer. We are the Maharal. We care for none other.”

“But… We—I, we didn’t…”

“Begone.”