Chapter 0 - The Shadow's Tower

The Shadow’s Tower
Aranthir I
 
“There,” said the young mercenary, pointing up the mountainside, “that is where they are keeping him.”

Aranthir leaned forward on his courser ever so slightly, his keen, elven eyes scanning the forested slopes with practiced thoroughness. The rest of the party paused their horses on the narrow trail and waited. A mile ahead, the top of a crumbling stone keep poked out of the surrounding tree cover. 

“With a perch like that,” Aranthir said quietly, “they’re sure to see us coming.” The trail ran along the side of the mountain through a bare patch of rocky ground and then a green meadow before reaching the keep, each location threatening to expose them to watchful eyes.

“Can we go off the trail, through the tree cover?” asked Aranthir’s companion, Aigon, a young man of twenty. 

“Take a look at these slopes, boy,” Lutharis, an older mercenary with a demi-lance in his hand, said as he pointed down the mountainside. Thickly forested valleys plunged to the valley floor far below, choked with ferns and vines. Here and there, deer trails and rivulets wound their way up and along the slopes in a wild tangle that defied efforts to plot a course through them. “You’re not getting your horse through that without breaking a leg,” the veteran freelancer scratched at his neck in thought and Aigon settled back into his saddle, sufficiently chastened.

“I mislike the sound of a direct approach,” complained Yvande, the young mercenary at the head of the party. “Is there another path, perhaps higher in the mountains?”

“Perhaps, but we’re not likely to find it before dark,” Aranthir replied. “We should ride quickly and skirt the edges of the open areas. If we are spotted, ride hard for the keep and overwhelm them before they can set an ambush.”

“Load your weapons now,” Lutharis advised the group, drawing out his carbine and powder horn.

“Load on the move,” Aranthir said, spurring his horse forward. “We have a rescue to complete and pay to collect. There are worse things than bandits in these mountains so let’s not spend any more nights out here than we must.”

Twenty riders and two dozen horses moved along the winding trail in near silence, only the sound of hooves on the dirt path and the scrape of ramrods in barrels could be heard in the trees. At the edge of the rock field, they paused a moment and Aranthir studied the keep again, looking for any signs they had been spotted. Nothing moved, and he could not even spy a lookout.

“Nothing at all?” asked Rora, moving her gray palfrey up alongside him. Aranthir shook his head and nudged the horses forward again. “Are we sure this is the right place?” she asked as they slowly made their way through the thick undergrowth just inside the forest’s edge.

“The men in town said the bandits had a keep in the mountains, and their trail led to this road. Unless there is another keep on this path, this is it.”

“Or the men in town were mistaken. Or lying,” Rora said, keeping her musket aloft in one hand. Her other hand held flint and steel, ready to light the match cord at the first sign of battle. 

“They were telling the truth as best they knew it,” Aranthir replied quietly. The forest was calm, but full of noise. Wherever they moved, the birds ceased to chirp. That pleased Aranthir for it meant they were unused to people. Up ahead, they continued to chirp, signaling that the path was safe.

Their small party moved past the rock field, scaring a fox as it went. For the most part, they moved in silence, weapons ready and eyes alert. Aranthir thought ahead to the old stone keep and how they might storm it. Their information from the townsmen was scarce; besides the location of the keep, they had learned that the bandits numbered anywhere between ten and fifty. Their leader was rumored to be either a disgraced partisan of the late queen, a sorcerer or a voracious ogre. One talkative townswoman had warned them that the bandits defended their stronghold with a cannon, but Aranthir could see no cannon tracks on the trail, nor any easy means of navigating such a cumbersome weapon over the rocky ground.

As they neared the meadow, Aranthir slowed the column with a raised hand. The birds were quieter up ahead, and on the wind, he could hear the faint but unmistakable sounds of spoken words.

“Light your cords and pray to Arvoran,” he instructed, drawing a pair of wheellock pistols from his saddle. “They await us.”

--- 

Two miles from the green meadow, on the highest remaining floor, the bandit known as Atarr sat in an inscribed summoning circle. Candles burned along its edge, filling the drafty room with acrid smoke whose columns were sometimes pierced by the afternoon sun filtering in through cracks in the walls. Atarr’s eyes were closed and his palms upturned. Before him was a small bowl of the many rare powders, chief among them the precious indigo spice, worth thrice its weight in gold. 

Deep in a trance, he slowly lifted the bowl and tipped its contents into his mouth. It danced along his tongue and throat like lightning, sending violent tingles throughout his body. Three decades of familiarity with the stuff did little to inure him to its effects. Images danced through his mind, showing worlds that once were and were yet to be. For a brief instance, shorter than a heartbeat, he saw himself on a golden throne, attended to by a corps of slaves who once were kings. They carried him from his vast ivory palace to a wide balcony where he looked out onto a cheering crowd that shouted his name in a thunder great enough to shake the heavens.

As quickly as it came, the vision was gone. In its place was only darkness, and then a voice.

“Do you see what could be?” it asked, slithering into his mind from dark reaches that even the gods avoided. “Do you see what I could make for you?”

“I do, Master. What do you require in return?”

The was a silence that the bandit could only described as amused. Then the voice returned. “Blood,” it hissed. “I demand sacrifice in blood. You have paid with the blood of wretched peasants, creatures that wallow in filth. I wish to taste blood of a higher station.”

“A lord will be difficult to acquire, Master,” Atarr replied nervously, “They are ensconced in their keeps and—”

“Silence, servant. I will not require such a sacrifice yet. You may advance slowly. In time you will slake my thirst with the blood of princes and kings, but this time you will bring me that young merchant in your dungeon. In two days’ time, when the sign of the Crown in at its height, you will give me my tribute. Cut him open and offer up his life force to me. But first, he must be made to fear. Bring him to me.”

“I will do as you command, Master.”

“Enter into the pact,” the voice commanded, and Atarr picked up his knife. He held out his hand and cut it open, letting the blood drip into his bowl. He poured a small flask of oil into the bowl and lit a length of straw in one of the candles.

“With this sacrifice of my own lifeblood, I promise to you, Master, that I will fulfill out covenant and provide you with the blood of the one you desire. I swear this to you on this circle of communion.”

Then he set the oil alight and watched it burn. For a time he stared into the dancing flames, the light searing his eyes. As the flames died down, the voice spoke again.

“Go then, and bring me my prize.” It receded into the dark spaces of Atarr’s mind. He rose from the circle and extinguished the candles. Looking outside, he saw only the waving treetops stretching for miles before giving way to the farmers’ valleys just before the horizon. One day, he would be lord of those lands, he knew.

Atarr stepped into the hallway where his lieutenant Mace waited. The tall bandit stood two paces from the window, peering out toward the mountainside. His namesake weapon hung from his belt next to a long knife and a powder horn. Hearing the creak of Atarr’s door, he turned to face him.

“There’s someone on the trail, boss.”

“Sorj and his will handle it,” Atarr waved dismissively. “Bring me the merchant. I want to introduce him to my patron.”

Mace frowned. “You’re going to open him up? But what about the ransom?”

“We’ll take the money and keep the man. His blood is promised.”

“We won’t be able to find anyone willing to pay a ransom if we keep killing them. Why can’t the patron take more shepherds and woodsmen?”

“He doesn’t want shepherds and woodsmen,” Atarr snapped, “He wants merchants, lords and princes. I told you to bring me the merchant, so bring me the merchant. Is that a problem?”

Though visibly uncomfortable, Mace kept his complaints to himself and went down the stairs. 

---
 

With their match cords lit, Aranthir and Lutharis traversed the edge of the meadow on foot. They moved low, darting from tree to tree to stay hidden. The voices were upwind of them, and Aranthir could hear their voices getting louder whenever the breeze carried through the forest. Thirty paces behind them, the mercenary Deite and his second Limonn followed with three more of the group. Yvande and Aigon moved through the trees further down the slopes. 

Aranthir carried a matchlock musket in his hands, his longsword in its scabbard and a brace of pistols in his belt. He wore a steel cuirass and leggings of mail. Over his pointed ears and black hair he wore a dented old morion, blackened to defeat rust and avoid revealing glints in the sun. Lutharis was similarly attired, carrying musket, saber and a single pistol. With practiced care, they picked their way through the brush until they were in sight of the forest trail again.

Lutharis signaled to Aranthir and they took up a position behind a fallen log, overlooking the trail. Aranthir cocked his ear to the wind. Even in the stillness, he could hear voices. He nodded to Lutharis, who turned and signaled to the trailing group. Deite and his men hurried forward, finding shooting positions for themselves. Rora and three more men dashed to the opposite side of the trail and took their own marks.

Their preparations were just in time, for no sooner had they entered the thick undergrowth to either side of the trail than a party of bandits rounded the bend. In the lead were three men on horseback, followed by four more on foot, leading a pack horse. They carried muskets over their shoulders and axes or knives on their belts. Chatting among themselves, they were blissfully unaware of the impending ambush.

Aranthir flashed a series of hand signals to Rora, who relayed them to her shooters. Aranthir let the men slowly draw closer, until at last he swung his musket over the log and pulled on the trigger. The burning match cord swung forward, igniting the black powder in the flash pan and there was a thunderous roar. His vision filled with smoke, burning bits of powder stung his face and hands, and the others joined in the shooting. 

Through the smoke, he could hear the sounds of pain and panic, and the dying of a horse. Not waiting to reload, Aranthir drew his longsword and charged through the smoke. Two men lay in the road, one underneath a thrashing horse bleeding from the flank. Another man was bent over, favoring his gut. The rest were in a state of shock, one atop his horse had managed to draw a pistol. Seeing Aranthir, he raised and fired, but his panicked horse bucked as he did and the shot went high. 

Lutharis charged through the dissipating smoke to join in, but Rora and her shooters were reloading. The mounted bandit turned his horse around and fled as Aranthir hacked down his dismounted companion. Lutharis speared another with his demi-lance and the final bandit fled as fast as his legs would carry them.

“Bring up the horses!” Lutharis shouted, “Let’s get after them!” Deite fired at the fleeing bandits and the man fell dead in the road. Not waiting for the horses, Aranthir and Lutharis took off running after the final bandit. The narrow trail twisted and turned, steadily climbing towards the keep as it went. 

Aigon and Aranthir’s page, Haute, came thundering down the trail on horseback, leading the other horses with them. Aranthir caught the reins at a run and swung himself up into the saddle.

Rounding a bend, he spied his quarry, but just beyond him was another bend in the trail watched over by a masonry-reinforced sentry post. Two men behind the breastworks leveled their own muskets at him. Aranthir brought his horse to heel as quickly as he could, but Deite and Limonn shot past him as he did. They were caught unawares by the sentries.

The muskets sounded and Deite fell dead. Limonn’s horse fell as well, shot in the head. On the slope above them, Aranthir spotted two more bandits scrambling into position to shoot. 

“Get back around the bend!” he shouted to Limonn. Lutharis rode up, stopping on the safe side of the bend. He threw a musket to Aranthir, who caught it and fired on the flanking bandits. The ball struck the mountainside behind them, but they dropped behind a low rise and stopping running. Limonn seized the reins of Deite’s horse and tried to calm the confused animal.

“Fall back to the meadow with Rora and set up another ambush,” Aranthir told Lutharis and Aigon, tossing the empty musket back to them. Casting a look at Deite’s fallen form, he drew his pistols and rode forward to Limonn. When one of the men in the sentry post peaked over the lip of the wall, Aranthir fired his pistol at him. There was the audible sound of a ball striking his iron helmet, and the man fell backwards. At last, Limonn steadied the horse enough to swing himself up into the saddle and made for the safety of the bend. 

Aranthir discharged his second pistol at the men up the slope and followed the others back towards the meadow at a gallop. He then exchanged the empty pistols in his belt with the loaded ones in his saddle, ready for more enemies. 
Casting looks over his shoulder, he could hear the bandits organizing a pursuit and see a rising cloud of dust. He dismounted at the edge of the meadow, where Rora had set up her ambush position. Limonn laid out two pistols on the fallen log and readied his musket.

Aranthir dismounted and handed the horse over to Haute.

“Lutharis, Aigon, come with me. I’ll set up a position down the slope. When they arrive, we’ll come up and attack them from behind.”

The three of them quickly clambered down the slope, hidden from those on the trail. They picked their way back towards the bend through the ferns and roots. It was not long before they heard their foes coming. First was a mounted contingent of five. They charged headlong into the ambush, where three of them were shot dead immediately. The others fell back on their marching comrades and together they picked their way forward along the trail. 

Peeking over the edge, Aranthir saw two men making their way through the trees up the slope. Concerned that they would do the same on the downslope side, he signaled to Lutharis to keep a watch on their own flanks. 

The dismounted force of bandits numbered nearly twenty and when they reached the spot where their fellows had been shot down, they were wise to the ambush. They attempted to provoke Rora’s men into firing all their shots at once, shooting at her cover from around the bend in the trail. Once her weapons were emptied, Aranthir knew the bandits would charge in with their swords, hoping to put the mercenary troupe to flight with a single stroke. 

Instead, Rora held her fire, rotating between shooters to keep the enemy back while also having a large enough massed volley to break up a charge attempt. The two men making their way through the trees upslope were both spotted and driven into cover by Limonn’s shooters. 

Now satisfied that he was not going to be flanked himself, Aranthir pulled Lutharis and Aigon to him. They each readied a pair of pistols and their swords. Together, they pulled themselves up the slope and into view to fire into the mass of enemies. As soon as their pistols were empty, they charged in with their swords and a ferocious war cry.
Surprised and wounded, the bandits turned tail immediately. Aranthir cut one down with his sword, the runes in its fuller glowing white, but more than half of them escaped down the trail. He and his companions fired what dropped muskets they could find at the fleeing foes. As the last of them vanished around the trail bend, Yvande stepped up next to Aranthir.

“Now what?” the young man asked. 

“They’ll be ready for us at the keep. We can’t fight our way in the front now,” Aranthir replied. He looked down the slope. “We’ll have to search for another path through the forest or lure them out into another ambush.”

---
 
The air in the ruined keep’s dungeon was stale and wet. The only light in the room came from a small slit in the far wall, filtering in from the outside, and from the torch in the hall, dimly visible underneath the door. The cobblestone floor was slick with moisture, in places dark-loving weeds had fought their way through it. Old cracks in the walls afforded entrance to the rats, one of which presently gnawed at a discarded bone in the corner.

Chained to the crumbling wall was a young man named Praden, his once fine clothing soiled with dirt and sweat. His feet were bare, and the embroidered leather boots he once wore were now on the feet of a corpse on the mountain trail. His dark blonde hair was clodded with dirt and grime and a bruise on his brow was nearly healed. He sat against the wall with his arms above his head, shackled to an iron bar.

For all the indignities he suffered, his companion in the cell was in a sorrier state. He and the unfortunate Koaver were the last survivors of their trade mission to the high mountain meadows. The older man had been shot by an arbalist during the destruction of their caravan and his wound was carelessly dressed. For these past several nights and days he had languished in the cell, moaning in pain. Through the rent in his tunic, Praden could see that the wound had turned gangrenous. His old friend did not have long to live.

Presently, there was noise in the hall. The torchlight filtering under the door was obscured by a pair of legs and an old iron key turned in the lock. The door swung open and Praden cringed at the familiar sight of his jailor.
The bandit Jonden was broad-shoulder, fat and hairy. His ample belly spilled over a wide leather belt notched for each prisoner that died under his care, as he liked to brag. His lumpy face hid evil, beady eyes under a craggy brow, and those small black eyes promised wickedness with its mere gaze. Behind him was the visage of Mace, another unwelcome sight. Jonden stomped down the dusty stone steps to Praden’s resting spot.

“Up you go, little brat. The chief wants to see you now.” He laughed with his whole body, spraying spittle everywhere as he did. The iron manacles groaned as they were unlocked and pried apart, and Praden cried out as he was roughly hauled to his feet. “Get going,” Jonden urged, demonstrating his impatience with a kick.

Praden staggered and nearly fell. Doubled over in pain and despair, he made his way to the door with great effort, where Mace seized him by the arm and pulled him into the hall. Spurred on by his captors’ cruelty, he somehow made his way up the stairs to ground level. He blinked his eyes to adjust to the light in the hall. Dimly lit as it was, the contrast between it and the dark dungeon pained him.

At one end of the chamber sat the dreaded warlock Atarr on a makeshift throne. It was once an oaken chair, now aged and partially rotted. The bandits had thrown a richly colored cloth over it to instill some grandeur in it, but Praden had seen finer furniture in the merchants’ modest guildhall. Jonden kicked him once again, knocking him to the ground.

“Kneel, you git. Kneel before the master of your fate,” the jailor commanded. Atarr leaned back on his throne and smirked. Praden obeyed as best he could. 

“What is it you wish of me?” he gasped. “My family will pay the ransom, I promise you.”

Atarr snorted derisively. “Your promise means nothing to me. You would say such a thing even if your family were beggars. Anything to steal another sunrise from me. But no matter, I have no need for your gold.”

Praden dared to look up. No need of my gold? What does he mean? Could… could he mean to free me?

Atarr leaned forward on his throne and smiled a viper’s smile. “No, it is your blood I want from you.”

And now it leaves me, Praden thought as he felt the blood drain from his face. Blood? Why must he be a warlock? Common bandits are easy to placate with gold, but warlocks are madmen all.

“Look here,” the warlock said, rising from his throne and crossing to the room’s burning hearth in the floor. He cast a fistful of colored dust into it and the flames roared and crackled. What had once been small flames sufficient for cooking were now the leaping flames of a bonfire, threatening to lick the old, dry timbers of the ceiling. His eyes quailed again at the bright flames and he turned his head away.

“Look!” shouted Atarr with a lunatic’s flair. “Look upon your doom!” When Praden kept his eyes averted, Jonden took the opportunity to inflict further cruelty. Seizing the young man’s head in his fat hands, he turned it to face the flames, clamping down as hard as he dared. Through the pain and brightness, Praden became aware of something that moved in the flames. Some malevolence moved of its own will. All light in the chambered seemed leeched away, leaving only the roaring fire.

And then he felt the voice. More than hearing, he felt the voice in his mind, winding its way through his memories, tainting each one with its aberrant touch as it went. 

“Yes…” it said, and Praden felt a dread like none he had ever known. “Yes, my servant. This will do nicely. I savor the taste of this one’s lifeforce. Of its fear.” There was a pause and then a gale of otherworldly laughter before the voice continued. “In two days, when the Crown hangs highest in the sky, then we will meet again.”

The voice receded into the flames, and the flames died down. Though they still burned as a common hearth, Praden felt the room was darker than before. The lingering menace of the voice chilled him to the bone. 
Atarr stood looming over the hearth. 

“Think on that,” he said. “Think on your fate. None can save you now. There was a battle on the trail just now.” Praden did not even look up, lost in the horrible memory of the voice. “No doubt your family sent men to rescue you. They have been driven off. Now there is no escape for you. My master will feast upon your blood and soul, and I will have my reward.”

Mace and Jonden each grabbed a shoulder and hoisted Praden to his feet. “Two days’ time,” the warlock said again. “Think on that.” Then the bandits hauled him from the room. They dragged him back to the dungeon and threw him down against the wall. Jonden manacled his hands again and look down, sneering.

“Feeding some awful demon is a better fate that you deserve. I’d have hacked off your legs and let you crawl your way home. At least that would be amusing. Pfah,” he spat and turned to leave.

Koaver raised a pathetic hand, and the grotesque jailor stopped a moment to take notice.

“Please, sir jailor,” the dying man gasped. “Undo my chains. This stretches me so and the pain grows unbearable. I am not long for this world, give me some small mercy and let me die on my side. I will entreat on your behalf with Kanaron.”

Jonden scowled down at the prisoner. “Tell the god what you like, it makes no difference to me.”

“All men die eventually,” Koaver pleaded. “The Lord of the Dead will see it as a good mark in your ledger. I will forgive you and let him know that I have done so.”

Seemingly overcome by a moment of piety, Jonden relented. He unshackled both hands and chained Koaver’s feet instead, allowing him to fall over onto his side. Then he delivered a vicious kick to the open wound.

“See that you tell Kanaron who sent you,” he commanded and left the dungeon in uproarious laughter, echoing off the stone walls as he receded into the keep’s upper levels.

“I’m sorry it has come to an end like this, old friend,” Praden said mournfully. “Our captor is a vile warlock, and he means to give us to his patron in sacrifice. Like demonbinders of old.”

“I sensed some dread presence when they took you,” Koaver gasped. “I knew I could wait no longer. I must see you freed, for your father’s sake.”

“I fear there is nothing you can do,” Praden said. 

“Oh, but there is. The quarrel they struck me with broke off. The steel head is still within me. I think it will make a fine tool for you to work on these shackles.”

“You mean to pull it out?” Praden asked in shock. “You will die for sure!”

“Look at me, boy. I am mere hours from death all the same. I will do you this one last service. Remember me to your father,” he said and then plunged his fingers into the rotting wound. Praden watched in horror as the man fought down the urge to scream in agony as he dug his fingers around inside himself. After an interminable few moments, he pulled out a bloody, broken quarrel with an intact steel head.

“Here, take this,” Koaver gasped as the blood poured out his gaping wound. “My last gift to you. Apliss bring me luck!” He tossed the quarrel to Praden’s manacled hands and the Goddess of Fortune smiled upon them, for Praden caught the bloody missile in his hand. He turned it and stuck the head into the iron lock’s mouth.

“Thank you, old friend. I will have Father sacrifice a bull to Kanaron in your honor.”

Koaver closed his eyes and a worn smile crept across his face for the first time since the bandits had fallen upon them in the mountain pass. Praden worked the quarrel head in the lock until well after dark before finally it sprung open. He was free.

Elation overwhelmed him. The delight spreading across his face, he looked to Koaver, but saw that the old man’s chest moved no more.

---
 

In the forest below the keep, Aranthir’s party found a shallow dell in which to make camp. Rora and her shooters set up a watch from perches high in the trees while Haute and Aigon watered and fed the horses from a small stream down the slope. 

Aranthir accompanied Limonn and Lutharis back to the trail to retrieve Deite’s body for proper burial. Slowly they picked their way up the slope until the were just below the trail. Above them, Aranthir’s half-elven ears detect the quiet chatter of the sentries. He peaked up the slope as much as he dared and saw Deite’s body lying in the road where he had fallen.

It was not undisturbed, however. The corpse was naked, stripped of all weapons, clothing and anything else of value. The wound that had felled him was clearly visible, a red mark of ruin in the middle of his breast.  Aranthir climbed back down to his companions.

“We should ask for a truce under the auspices of Kanaron and Arvoran,” Limonn suggested.

“Their leader is rumored to be an ogre, perhaps a sorcerer of some nefarious sort. They are unlikely to hold to such a truce,” countered Lutharis. “If we reveal ourselves to ask for one, they will know we are still in the area.”

“They will likely surmise it all the same,” Aranthir replied. “I see no other way to retrieve our dead elsewise.”

“We should wait until we have driven them off, then we can retrieve his body at our leisure.”

“We may never drive them off, not once they are holed up in the keep,” Limonn shot back, “Deite is a friend of mine, I’ll not let him wander the earth as a restless shade. He will have a proper burial.”

“Fear not, Limonn,” Aranthir said. “We will not leave him unburied. Ready your weapons and watch over me, I will ask them for a truce.”

Lutharis grumbled his dissent but obeyed orders all the same. Limonn prepared his musket and a makeshift litter for the body. When they were ready, Aranthir climbed the slope up to the trail. 

Emerging into the open, he raised his hands above his head and called out to the startled sentries.

“Ho there, I am Aranthir of Ildranon. Under the auspices of Kanaron and Arvoran, I request a truce that my companions and I might bury our fallen friend with the honors he deserves.”

There was a brief silence over the watchpost before a man put his head up over the wall.

“Very well,” the bandit said, “I am Sorj, late of the Meranna people. In the sight of Arvoran, King of Battle and Kanaron, Lord of the Dead, I promise no harm will come to you while you retrieve your dead for burial.”

“I, Aranthir of Ildranon, promise in the sight of the same gods that my party will honor the same terms.” He then beckoned to Limonn, who hurried up the slope with the litter. In short order, they tied Deite’s corpse to it and were ready to make for the camp. 

Aranthir turned at the sound of more bandits approaching. Sorj and six more men had descended to the trail leading a gaggle of packhorses. 

“They mean to recover their own dead,” Aranthir whispered to his companions. “Come, let us lead them to the meadow and convince them we have made camp there.”

Sorj approached them and called out genially. 

“What brings you into these mountains, half-blood?”

Aranthir afforded himself a smile at the thought of having a friendly conversation with men who had tried to kill him an hour ago. They must know why we are here, so what is the harm?

“We’ve come for the merchant.”

“Ah, I thought as much. Your honesty has won me a small bet, it has. I don’t suppose you’ve brought a ransom?”

“His family decided to pay in steel instead of silver.”

“I predicted as much. It’s just as well. Our chief has other plans for the boy. I’m afraid there will be no ransom anyway.”

“Other plans?” Lutharis asked. “What do you speak of?”

“A blood sacrifice. Atarr is patronized by a fell spirit of the netherworld. The boy’s life is promised to the spirit and Atarr will not entertain any offers of ransom.”

They walked down the trail to the edge of the meadow as Sorj cheerfully explained the sordid dealings of his chief and the previous sacrifice of four mountainfolk they had captured. 

“There’s no crossing the chief, not with that demon at his call,” he assured Aranthir. “You might as well go back to Oakbridge now and tell his family he is dead. If you come to our keep again, you won’t make it out alive.”

“We shall see about that,” grumbled Limonn, undoubtedly entertaining thoughts of revenge as he pulled his friend’s dead body along.

They turned around the last bend before the meadow and spied a figure in the road, kneeling over one of the corpses. It wore a long cloak of forest green with a short hunting bow slung over the shoulders and turned, startled, at their approach. Aranthir saw that the face was that of a young woman, wide-eyed and framed by dark brown hair. He drew his pistol and fixed it upon her.

“Hold there!” he called out. “Who are you?”

“I am a simple huntress,” she replied, her pretty face carefully controlled in the face of sudden danger. “I heard the sounds of battle and came to scavenge the bodies.”

“Those corpses and their things belong to us,” Sorj said. “As will you, little thief.”

“Hold now,” Aranthir cautioned, unexcited by the thought of this young woman dying on a demonbinder’s altar. “The girl is mine. I caught her after all.” He signaled to Lutharis to take the girl before the bandits could seize a hold of her. Though concerned, she did not run from them. Sorj looked unhappy, no doubt thinking of his ruined plans for the pretty girl, but did not fight. The gods hated trucebreakers. Lutharis emptied her bags, spilling coins, knives, hardtack and a freshly caught rabbit into the road.

“The rabbit is mine,” the huntress said. “I caught him this morning.”

“Very well. Sorj, take the coins, knives and the other bodies. We will take the girl. Lutharis, bind her hands. Let us leave these men to their work and make for camp.”

“Come along now, girl.” Lutharis bound her pale, delicate hands in rough cord, took her bow and knife and pushed her down the trail. She went along with them.

Once out of earshot of the bandits and in the meadow, they turned and headed down the slope toward camp. Aranthir caught the captive huntress by the shoulder. He could the thickness of her soft cloak under his fingers, and caught sight of her pale chest beneath her bodice as she turned to face him. Her pale green eyes showed fear but also courage. She set her red lips together with a thin grimace of determination. 

“What is your name?” he asked.

“Callia.” She replied, steeling herself. “I am no thief, but life in the mountains is hard, and—”

“Calm yourself, Callia, I do not care about theft. Those men were bandits, and dead all the same. Do you know these woods?”

“I do. I have been hunting here all my life.”

“Do you know the keep where those bandits lair?” She nodded. “Can you show us another approach? We were hired to rescue a young man from their clutches, and if we do not, he will die in a most unpleasant manner.”

“I know a path. What do I get?”

“You can share our camp for the night, and claim his reward when this is done,” he indicated Deite’s body. Callia considered the offer, concern in her pale green eyes.

“I know a place below the keep where you might scale the cliff. But it will be dangerous.” Aranthir gestured around them and then to himself, his armor, his weapons. “But you are an elf,” she continued. “I need not speak of danger to you. I accept your offer. I will help you rescue this man and then I will go my own way?”

“Once the young man is in our hands, you are your own woman again.”

“Very well. Now release me from these bonds.” She held up her hands and Aranthir quickly untied the knot. 

“Follow me to the camp,” he said, taking the lead of their little party. 
 
---

As dusk fell, they buried Deite, prayed to Kanaron on his behalf and made offerings to the God of the Dead. They then broke camp and Callia carefully led them through the woods by the light of a waning moon until they reached the base of a rocky cliff upon which the crumbling keep was perched. The cliff was steep but not sheer, affording them many handholds to climb. Aranthir threw a coil of rope over his shoulder and began to pick his way up the cliff, one handhold at a time. 

The climb was arduous and he lost his footing twice, but at last he reached the base of the keep. The climb up the side of the tower was easier. Many of the old stones were drifting out of place and offered good grips for a climb. With the moon reaching its height, he soon found himself just below the lip of the keep’s roof.

He cocked his ear to the wind and listened. He heard the soft footfalls of a sentry slowly patrolling the old wooden roof. Slowly, he slid a poignard out of its scabbard and shifted himself around the edge of the tower to peer through a crack in the stones. 

One sentry leaned against the railing of the descending staircase, half-asleep. The other continued his slow circuit of the tower, stopping at regular intervals to peer into the forest below or down at the trail. Neither gave any sign that they knew Aranthir was there, nor did they show signs of know where the party had made camp earlier. He thought to use a bit of sorcery, elvish magic bestowed upon him by his father’s bloodline. Most would need indigo spice for such a feat, but those of elvish blood could practice minor sorcery without such fuel. But the bandits on the trail had said their leader was a sorcerer and like could sense like. Instead, he decided to rely on his other talents. 

He brought himself to the edge of the keep’s crumbling battlements, in the same spot where the patrolling sentry stopped to look out over the forest, and waited. The man approached, and Aranthir coiled like a panther waiting to strike. The sentry reached the ambush spot and stopped.

Aranthir struck. Poignard in hand, he hurled himself over the battlements and plunged the blade into the throat of the stunned sentry, laying a hand on him to guide the dead man gently to the floor, making not a sound. 

His companion was startled out of his catnap by the sudden action and shook himself awake, clutching his musket. Aranthir closed on him quickly, plunging the poignard and a second dagger into his throat as fast as he could manage. He then hurled the body from the keep and watched it plunge into the dark forest. 

He stopped to listen again. The keep remained undisturbed, with only the murmur of nighttime conversation and the crackling of hearths sounding from below. Aranthir tied his rope to the sturdiest of timbers and threw it down to his companions. Slowly, one by one, the lead group made their way up the cliff and keep side and onto the roof. 

Lutharis was first up, and Aranthir helped him over the wall and pointed to the stairs down. The old mercenary perched over them, peering down into the tower’s depths. If any bandit climbed the stairs, he would drop on them like a striking falcon. Hopefully. there would be only one.

To Aranthir’s surprise, the next one up was the girl, Callia. She put her white hand in his and he hauled her over the battlements to stand on the top of the tower. Noticing his surprise, she stared him down, green eyes shining with starlight. He gave her a short smile and pointed to the stairs. She drew a short knife and took a position by Lutharis. 

Next, Yvande reached the top, followed by Aigon. The extra hands allowed them to pull up more reinforcements, though Aranthir signaled a halt when ten of them were on the roof. Limonn and Rora remained on the forest floor to provide a rearguard. Aranthir drew out his poignard and a second dagger silently signaled to the others. With the half-elf at the head, they descended into the keep.

---
 
Far below them, Praden slowly extracted his hands from the manacles. I am free! He thought, but then he looked around. Free from these manacles, he thought, but still trapped in this dungeon. Slowly he crept across the dank floor to the only door.  He paused to listen for as long as he could bear. There was no sound discernable outside the door, just faint noises of chatter from higher up in the keep. 

Convinced he was alone in the lower reaches, he set about examining the lock. The lock was simple, and even with the quarrel, blunted as it was by its time in the manacles, he was able to open it in short order. However, he knew from experience that the door was barricaded on the opposite side by a bar, which he did not know how to bypass. To his surprise, however, when he leaned on the unlocked door, it crept open! His arrogant jailor had neglected to replace the bar after bringing Praden up to meet the warlock. The bandit had placed too much trust in the manacles to keep him imprisoned.

Oh, Apliss, Lady of Fortune, smiles upon me this day indeed! He exulted. A kiss for Lady Luck once I am home safe! A kiss and a grand offering in her temple! His heart pounding with excitement, he slowly pushed the door open and peered into the next chamber.

His jailor sat at the table, his ugly head lay on the table as he drooled in his sleep. two empty bottles sat on the table and the single candle was burning low. Praden took a deep breath to steady himself, the days of abuse endured at that ruffian’s hands coming back to him now. He pushed the door as wide open as he dared, praying to Apliss and any other gods that might be listening that its hinges would not squeal. 

When the door was wide enough to admit he, he slipped out and made immediately for the stairs. In the flickering torchlight, he slowly made his way up to the ground level of the keep. Peering out into the hall, he could see four bandits with their weapons at the ready, dicing next to the main door. He was still trapped. He flattened himself against the wall of the stairwell and tried to think. Could he distract them and make for the door? He knew that adjacent to the keep was a stable where he might be able to steal a horse. But with the alarm raised, they would be hot on his tail. A horse chase down the narrow mountain trail in the dark seemed like as much of a death sentence as the warlock and his demon. He knew that keeps often had sally ports, by which defenders might mount surprise raids on besiegers, but he did not know where this keep’s port might be or if it even had one.

Or he might go higher? Perhaps from the roof he could grab or jump onto a tree branch and climb down from there? It seemed a dangerous path to tread, but every moment he lingered in this stairwell, waiting for the door guards to doze off or wander away risked recapture. Apliss is on my side this night, he thought. I should be bold. 
He began climbing to the roof. 

The second floor of the keep was quiet and still. He passed the opening of the stairwell and heard nothing but snoring. As he ascended to the third floor, he heard something behind him. He turned his head on the spiraling staircase and saw a shadow on the wall, flickering in the torchlight. The icy hand of fear closed itself around his heart. 
He climbed faster, his footsteps growing painfully loud on the stairs as he hurried his pace. He cast another glance over his shoulder, but saw nothing this time. He turned his gaze forward, but ran smack into a man’s chest as he did. Stunned, he looked up into the glowering visage of Mace, the warlock’s first lieutenant.

“Going somewhere, prisoner?” Mace hissed and his big hands closed around Praden’s shoulders. Praden had no reply. Apliss had deserted him. The Lady of Fortune’s favor was fickle indeed.

“Curse that lazy fool, Jonden,” Mace growled. Tightening his grip until Praden cried out in pain he continued, “Let’s go then, back to your cell.”

Praden headbutted him in the face. Goddess’ favor or not, I am leaving here tonight! He told himself. Mace staggered back, but did not release his grip. Looking down at Praden as blood began to drip from his battered nose, he snarled in anger. “That was a mistake, little brat. I’ll open you up myself.”

Something came flying from behind the bandit and struck him in the back. He released his grip and fell to the floor with a loud thud. Praden looked down at him and saw a brass-hilted dagger sticking out the back of his neck. In the shadows higher up in the stairwell stood a man. No, Praden realized, not a man but an elf. His bare head showed two pointed ears, clearly silhouetted against the torchlight. A pair of steely blue eyes looked down at him.

“You are the merchant Praden?”

Praden nodded stiffly, still unsure of whether fortune was on his side. He lifted his left hand, showing a bronze signet ring embossed with his family signet, a swan swimming among the reeds. 

“Your father hired me. Come quickly, while the keep still sleeps.” The elf held out a hand. Praden still stood in stunned silence for a moment, then stepped over Mace’s body and hurried up the stairs.

But fortune turned on him again. As he passed the opening of the stairwell, another bandit emerged from his quarters. Spotting the escaped Praden and Mace’s body in the doorway, he shouted an alarm.

“Quickly, then!” the elf called, drawing a pair of pistols from his belt. Praden scrambled up the stairs as the whole keep stirred to life.

---
 
Aranthir let the young man scurry past him as he trained his pistols on the doorway to the stairwell. With the keep alerted, his escape became dramatically more complicated. The merchant reached the next floor, where Lutharis waited, and tried to keep climbing. Instead, Lutharis stopped him and pointed down the hallway through the floor.

“These stairs are broken and don’t reach the roof here, we’re going to have to go through,” the mercenary explained. Praden looked down the hallway, where Aigon, Callia and Yvande stood guard. The hallway lined with doors, each one leading to a bandit’s bedroom and anyone of them could spill into the hallway without warning. Below them bandits clamoring to arm and rally themselves. One peered into the stairwell and there was a thunderous crack as Aranthir shot him dead. 

Lutharis gave the merchant a little shove. “Run,” he commanded, and the young man ran as best he could down the hall to reach Yvande by the next stairwell. 

Aranthir replaced the expended pistol with another and backed up the stairs to Lutharis.

“I left a fine dagger behind,” Aranthir groused to his old friend.

“Then let’s get this man to his family and collect the reward,” Lutharis replied as they moved off the stairs. “If we get what we’re owed, you can afford another.”

As they reached the middle of the hall, a door swung open and out charged a bandit, his eyes still showing the signs of his sleep and his chest bare. He lunged at Aranthir with a knife extended and the half-elf dodged skillfully aside. Aranthir leveled a pistol and fired at short range. In the narrow hallway, the pistol’s report was deafening, but the effect on bare flesh was worse. The bandit died standing and hit the floor dead, shaking the old timbers with the impact. 

Their trouble was just beginning. In quick succession, the other doors of the halls swung open and more bandits descended on them. Lutharis’ breastplate defeated a killing stroke, while Yvande took a wound in the arm. Aranthir expended his other pistol but missed in the swirling, cramped melee. He struck a foe across the temple with the butt of an empty pistol and then stabbed the man to death with the poignard.

A dwarf, his thick black beard thrust into his gilt leather belt, attacked Callia with a broad knife. He came at her in a frenzy and his knife became tangled in her rough tunic. They were bowled over by a dying bandit who staggered away from Aigon’s bloody blade. As they fell to the floor, there was a loud ripping sound and Callia’s shirt was torn open. She stood up, her torn tunic exposing her stomach and pale, white breasts. The dwarf had noticed it too, and instead of continuing his assault, he leered at her chest and licked his lips.

“That’s a nice pair of tits you’ve got there, girl,” he growled, “I want my mouth on them and my cock in you!” he lunged at her, knife in hand, and it was all she could do to keep him and bay. The dwarf knocked her down again, clutching at her throat. Her knife fell from her hand and clattered across the floor. As if animated by the legendary lust of dwarves for women, the half-naked bandit’s breeches slid down around his waist and the dwarf’s cock poked out, stiff and searching.

Aranthir was on the pair in a heartbeat, sending his reliable poignard through the dwarf’s neck. The bandit spasmed and then lay still in his pooling blood. He extended a helping hand to the huntress. Aranthir found his gaze drawn to her chest and the girl’s small, shapely breasts. Noticing his gaze as he helped her to her feet, Callia pulled her green cloak around herself, retrieved her knife and made for the stairs to the roof. At the opposite end of the hall, a pair of bandits emerged from the descending stairwell, swords drawn. Aranthir drew his second brace of pistols and fired both at the newcomers. Both shots struck the leading man, but his companion thought the better of attacking and ran back down the stairs. For a brief moment, the hallway was quiet and still. 

Aranthir used the opportunity to run for the roof, where he found Aigon helping to fit the merchant with a makeshift harness for the descent. Lutharis barred the door to the roof with a discarded musket. Aranthir looked to Callia, trying to sort out the mess the dwarf’s knife had made of her tunic. The ruined halves were more like a vest, and flapped in the wind. Frustrated by their disconcerting motion, Callia doffed her tunic and stood topless under her cloak.
Lutharis cast a bemused look over her bare breasts and she glared back at him. Aranthir cut past them and helped the merchant over the edge as Aigon and Yvande guided him down. Once persuaded that the young man was in good hands, Aranthir turned to reloading his four pistols. 

The bandits in the tower made only one attempt to reach the roof by hacking down the door with hatchets, which they abandoned once Lutharis fired through a rent in the door with his musket, killing the man behind it. After that, they were assumed a defensive posture, preventing the party from fighting their way into the keep.

Unmolested, the party quickly descended the ropes down the keep and cliff to the forest floor, where Limonn had lit torches to light their way out. Aranthir descended from the tower last. Once they had all stepped off the rope, Rora set it aflame to deny any pursuit. Callia pulled her cloak tight around her bare chest and held a lit torch over her head.

“We should head downhill to the lower loop of the trail,” she called out. “They will take the long way around and we can get ahead of them.”

Aranthir handed her the reins to Deite’s horse and gestured for her to take the lead. Behind him, Rora’s shooters kept their weapons trained on the keep as shouting sounded throughout it and the adjoining courtyard.

“Follow Callia downhill and be careful of roots and vines,” Limonn told his men. “Make for the waystation at the last trail junction. We will hold out there until morning. With luck, some other travelers will be there to help.”
Aranthir thought to set an ambush to persuade his pursuers to take their progress more slowly, but disliked the thought of leaving anyone behind. The company would have to douse their torches to set the ambush, which would leave them blind in the dark while falling back. In any case, the burning matchcords of their muskets would be likely to give them away. Instead, they picked their way through the forest as best they could, all while the bandits in the keep roused themselves and saddled their horses. 

---
 
Atarr was deep in a trance when the fighting broke out. He heard the pistol shots outside his quarters through a haze of spice and incense smoke, interrupting his dream. The voice whispered to him in seductive tones and showed him a vision of himself atop a mountain of gold, having ascended stairs made of gold ingots. The sounds of battle echoed faintly in the distance and only through repetition did he become aware that they were not part of this dream. The dreams of battle were different, never the same as the dreams of gold, power or women.

By the time he broke his reverie and returned to the waking world, the intruders were gone. Someone was pounding on his door. Atarr groggily rose from the circle of candles and moved to the door. He opened it to see Sorj on the other side.

“Chief, the mercenaries from earlier came back. They took the prisoner.”

Atarr snarled. He needed that prisoner.

“Get the men together. All of them,” he commanded. “I promised that wool trader to my patron and I will not break out pact.” It would be a fatal failure, he said to himself alone. He would not admit that part. There is no need to admit the consequences of failure, for I will not fail. 

“The lads are already saddling the horses. They won’t get far. I wager we’ll find a few on the trail with broken legs or necks. These narrow tracks can be treacherous in the daylight, I expect them to be murderous in the dark.”

“Take the lead of the column and bring torches,” Atarr said, pocketing a pouch of indigo spice. “I will take the rearguard. The order is to bring back the prisoner and kill the rest.”

Sorj nodded and hefted a blunderbuss onto his shoulder. “They have a girl with them,” he said hesitantly, “I would like her for myself.”

“If you can capture her, you can have her. All I need is the prisoner, you and the men can sort out the rest of the loot.”

“Thank you, Chief.” Sorj turned and headed down the stairs. Atarr collected his weapons and donned his armor.

“The sacrifice slips away,” the voice in his head hissed suddenly. “Our pact is soon to be broken.”

“It will not be, Master,” Atarr replied. “I will return the wayward whelp to you and you will have your offering in two days’ time. There is nothing to fear.”

“So you say. The price of failure is nothing less than your immortal soul. I will be watching and waiting.” Then it was gone again, leaving Atarr alone in an emptying tower.

“I will not fail,” Atarr declared to an empty room.

---
 
After reaching the lower loop of the trail, Aranthir and his party mounted their horses and rode quickly down the trail. It was three miles to the waystation at the crossroads, to be crossed under a waning moon. They traveled at a canter, with Yvande leading the way and Aranthir bringing up their rear. He carried no torch but kept his keen elven senses on guard for pursuers. He allowed himself to fall behind the party so that his ears were not as clouded by the sound of their hooves. 

Soon, he came up on Callia, who had fallen behind the pack while struggling to control her horse. She sat awkwardly in the saddle, her green cloak thrown wide to reveal her bare chest, her supple young breasts bouncing with each step her horse took. Aranthir brushed the hypnotic sight of them from his mind and reached over.

“Here, girl, let me show you.” He corrected her posture with a few gentle touches and soothed her horse. “You’ve never ridden a horse before, have you?”

Thanks to his elf eyes, he could see her blushing in the dark.

“I am a simple huntress,” she fought back, “and a horse is a great expense.”

“I mean no offense,” Aranthir said easily, “it is no great shame to be new in the saddle.”

Callia said nothing, but instead spurred her horse forward to rejoin the pack. Aranthir cast a look up the trail and saw a distant line of lights, bobbing up and down as they wound their way along the trail.

“Here they come!” he shouted and galloped after Callia. They charged down the trail for three miles until the sole lantern outside the waystation came into view. Lutharis pulled his horse up in front and dismounted.

“Yvande, Aigon, take the horses into the stable and bar the gates. Rora, emplace your shooter along the wall. Limonn, you and yours will command the reserve.”

Aranthir reached them and helped Callia down from her horse. “Lutharis, come with me and bring all the pistols you can.” He drew his own pair from the saddle and thrust them into his belt. 

“What am I to do?” asked Callia. 

“Our agreement is ended. You can melt away into the woods if you wish,” Aranthir replied.

“Or go inside and wake up the station master,” Lutharis suggested. “He’ll get right up when he sees those.” He pointed to her chest. She scowled and pulled her cloak around her tighter.

“Have you ever fired a pistol before?” Aranthir asked. “We can always use another hand and it’s quick to learn.”


---
 
Atarr rode at the head of his company, his sword drawn and a blazing torch held aloft. He had seen the torches of his prey stop and douse themselves at the waystation and knew the hunt was soon at an end. With a wild war whoop, he spurred his horse onwards.

“Surround the waystation and let none escape!” he commanded. “Throw torches through the windows to flush them out! Sorj, you will take your men around the back. Jonden, prepare an assault squad---” 

He cut off as he noticed someone in the brush to the side of the road. Someone aiming a pistol at him. Stunned, he pulled sharply on the horse’s reins and the animal reared up, just in time to save his life. There was a crack of thunder and flame. Blood sprayed across his face and, for a moment, he thought he was dead. More shots sounded, his men screamed and his men died. His horse tumbled to the ground and he just barely extricated his leg from the stirrup to avoid having it crushed under the bulk of the dead beast. But the fall knocked the wind from him and his torch went flying away. 

Gasping for air, he could only listen as the ambush savaged his war party.

---
 
His last pistol expended, Aranthir gathered up the empty weapons and stowed them in his belt. Callia tossed her borrowed pistol to him and ran for the waystation. Lutharis had fired all four of his own pistols and now wielded a demi-lance. The three of them ran quickly from their ambush position two hundred yards from the waystation, hoping they had disordered the enemy enough to throw off a pursuit. 

A lightning dash to the safety of the station’s palisade brought them into range of Rora’s shooters. Three bandits on horseback shook off the confusion fast enough and tried to ride them down, but were killed by fire from the waystation walls. Aranthir and his companions darted through the courtyard gate and Aigon slammed it behind them. A locking bar was dropped into place and Aranthir breathed a sigh of relief. 

“How many?” Limonn asked from the second floor of the waystation. 

Aranthir shrugged. “Hard to know. I killed at least one, I think I shot their leader.”

“I killed two for sure,” Lutharis declared.

“And the girl?” Limonn asked. 

She simply shook her head. 

“Well, however many it was, it wasn’t enough,” Rora called from the palisade. “Here they come.”
Hefting his musket, Aranthir swung himself up onto the pile of crates that afforded the defenders a view over the palisade. Rora spoke true, the bandits had dismounted and split into two groups, aiming to encircle the waystation. Some of them carried burning bundles of grass and sticks.

“They mean to burn us out,” he called out, “let none of them close enough to burn the waystation!” he swung his musket over the wall and took aim.

---
 
Atarr cursed to himself as Sorj’s flanking group panicked and ran, dropping their torches as they did. The withering fire from the palisaded courtyard had proven too much for them. Atarr’s own group had taken a position in the trees looking into the front of the waystation, where they were being fired upon from both the first and second floors. 
Sorj came running to him through the trees, his side soaked in blood but seemingly unhurt. 

“They have too much, chief,” the other bandit gasped, “They hit us good. I saw one of us lost an arm, but I’m not sure who.”

“Kick them into shape again,” Atarr snapped. “Use the trees to your advantage and go without torches if you have to. Burn them out and get me my sacrifice back.” He saw Sorj’s expression and decided to incite him directly. “Remember the girl you wanted. She’s waiting for you in there! Now go!”

He gave Sorj a shove to get moving and turned his attention back to the waystation. Someone inside was screaming in pain. He hoped it was not the sacrifice.

“He is to be mine,” the voice hissed in his mind, “You promised.”

“I did promise, and I will deliver!” Atarr shouted, drawing the concerned looks of his men. “If you would only cease pestering me, I will concentrate on this battle,” he continued more calmly, though the demon was indeed beginning the grate on his nerves. 

“Very well, try to avoid your fate,” it went on. “It amuses me to see you struggle so. I will be watching.”

---
 
Aranthir rushed inside to find the waystation master bent over one of Limonn’s mercenaries, attempting to stop the man’s bleeding. Praden sheltered in the back of the waystation, behind a study oaken chest. The half-elf cast an experienced eye over the wounded man.

“Tie a tourniquet around the leg,” he instructed. “then feed him this.” Aranthir handed over a small ceramic bottle stoppered with a cork. “Quickly, else he might lose the leg.”

He hurried to one of the ground floor windows and peered out. The bandits had taken positions in the woods on the far side of the road and the periodic flashes of their shots were visible through the trees. That suited Aranthir just fine, they were unable to do much from outside and his group could stay holed up all night. He fired into the woods with his musket, keeping the pistols for if the enemy mounted another charge. Twice they attempted to charge the waystation but were beaten back by fire and the barred door. 

After the second charge, the fire from the woods began to slacken. 

“What’s happening?” Lutharis demanded as he took a place at the window next to Aranthir. “Are they retreating?”
Aranthir handed over his musket and ran up the stairs to the waystation’s loft. From there, he climbed a small ladder to the cupola and looked off into the darkened forest. The shooting from the forest and the rear of the waystation was beginning the die off. But, looking up the road, he could see no men retreating. The horses that the bandits had tied up along the road were still there. 

Then he saw two men dart across the road, crossing to the waystation’s rear. Shortly after, three more followed. Aranthir jumped down from the cupola and ran back into the ground floor.

“They’re diverting to attack the courtyard!” Pointing out Lutharis and three mercenaries, he ran back into the courtyard. Rora and her shooters manned the walls overlooking the increasingly quiet forest. Callia stood by the gate, her bow drawn.

“Rora, they are massing for an attack on the courtyard,” Aranthir warned. “Everyone take a pistol and keep it ready. When the enemy charges, we must fire both the pistols and the muskets in rapid succession to break up the attack.”
He drew his pistol and handed it to Rora. Before he could do the same to the next man on the walls, there came a sudden cascade of gunfire. Musket balls struck the palisade, the waystation walls and two of Rora’s men. Immediately on its heels, the bandits charged with a mighty war cry. 

The man Aranthir had been trying to arm fell from the walls dead and nearly bowled him over with his weight. But the graceful half-elf sidestepped him, and the body hit the dirt instead. He darted to the gate and looked out. The bandits were closing fast, and carrying axes. Rora fired her musket and then pistol over the wall, but her men were shaken. They clutched their weapons tightly and hunkered down behind the palisade. Rora shouted at them, tried to pull them to their feet and cursed their names, but it was of little help.

The gate shuddered under axe blows. Aranthir shoved his musket between the gates and fired at point blank range, killing one man instantly. In retaliation, the bandits fired an array of pistols and muskets back through the gate. Some swung a fallen tree as a battering ram and the gate nearly burst from its hinges. Yvande appeared on the second floor of the waystation and fired into the mob. Lutharis replaced him at the window and did the same. It was no use, the bandits swung their makeshift battering ram again.

The blow was too much for the simple gate and it came swinging open. In poured a mob of bloodthirsty bandits. Aranthir was waiting for them. He fired two pistols in quick succession, then discarded them, drawing his longsword instead. Blue-white runes on the blade flashed to life. The first man to reached him was unceremoniously hacked down. Rora turned from the walls and fired into the mass. 

The bandits swarmed over them, one of Rora’s panicking shooters fell underneath the ferocious mob as if caught in a stampede. Aranthir slashed another man’s face open but was forced to give ground before them. 
It was then that he became aware of Callia, pressed into the corner between the palisade and the waystation wall, beset by three bandits. With only her long knife for defense, she was soon to be overwhelmed. She thrust at one, but he caught her hand and pulled her into his clutches. The other men joined in, knocking the knife from her hand. One man grasped her about the throat while his companion pulled open her cloak. She kicked and screamed at them as they clawed at her trousers. One man got a broken nose for his trouble, but their grips were iron, and she could not escape.

Aranthir called upon his sorcerous heritage, spraying sparks into the face of the man in front of him. The ruffian recoiled in shock, and Aranthir used the opening to drive his sword into the man’s chest. He surged forward, hacking down another bandit before reaching Callia’s attackers. They had focused their attentions upon the pretty girl and were oblivious to their approaching doom. Aranthir struck the first one in the back with a two-handed blow from his sword, cleaving him nearly in twain. The others wised to their peril quickly, but not quickly enough. They threw Callia aside and tried to fight, but the half-elf was too quick for them. The next man died with an expression of shock plain on his face.

Now alerted, the final man raised his hands in surrender. He was a truly ugly one, broad shouldered and lumpy faced, with small, beady eyes. 

“Please, master elf, I was only procuring the girl for my master. He wants her for a concubine, you see,” his voice trailed off. Aranthir stepped closer, seizing the man by the throat. Wordlessly, he drew the sword across the man’s neck and dropped him into the dirt. The sword’s runes flashed red, then white again.

Reaching out, he extended a hand to the girl. She took it hesitantly, looking him in the eye as she rose. 

“Thank you, master half-elf,” she whispered. 

“Always glad to lend a helping hand,” he replied with a smile.

“We meet again,” called a voice from behind Aranthir, cutting through the sounds of battle. He turned to see Sorj, the courteous bandit from the trail.

“I told you before you wouldn’t escape our keep alive, but here you are,” the bandit said, waving a saber at him ostentatiously.

“Here I am,” Aranthir replied, positioning himself between Sorj and Callia, although the former still cast lascivious stares towards the latter. “Now that you are proven wrong, what do you mean to do about it?”

Sorj shrugged. “I mean to kill you of course. Once I’m done, I will take your wench for myself. It will make my victory all the sweeter.”

“You and me, then,” Aranthir challenged. “Do you fancy yourself a swordsman?”

“I am an expert swordsman,” Sorj replied with a wolfish smile. “Killing a half-elf would be a true feather in my cap.”

“Come on then, we shall about decorating that head of yours.”

Sorj came at him aggressively, but Aranthir batted the blade aside and returned a killing stroke. However, the bandit was no common brigand and he dodged to the side. They circled each other again, eyeing each other for an opening. Aranthir backed away, always staying a step and a half away from Sorj. Again, the bandit came at Aranthir, aiming his strikes low. Aranthir knocked them aside and then stepped into a shoulder strike. He connected solidly with Sorj, shoulder on shoulder, and threw the bandit backwards. 

Aranthir came on, knocking aside the bandit’s saber with a two-handed swing. The blade sailed away and thudded into the dirt. Sorj backpedaled as fast as he could, desperately trying to draw his dagger. Aranthir gave him no space, backing him against the wall where he drove the tip of his sword into the bandit’s chest. The sword’s blade glowed deep red. Sorj slumped forward and fell to his knees where he gasped in his last breath. Aranthir raised the longsword over his head with both hands and swung down. Sorj’s head fell from his shoulders and came to a rest in the courtyard’s dirt.

At the sight of this, the remaining bandits began to slowly back towards the gate again. Rora knelt to retrieve a discarded pistol. When she locked eyes with one of the bandits, he turned tail and ran, soon followed by the rest of his men. They quickly vanished into the darkened forest, leaving only their dead and dying behind. 
Aranthir bent down and picked up the severed head. Then he went back into the waystation, opened the front door and threw the grisly trophy into the road.

---
 
Atarr stared at Sorj’s head in the road. Around him, he could sense his men doing the same. With Sorj dead, he had no more reliable lieutenants to lead the attack. Instead, he stepped up himself. But he could see right away that his men were not in it anymore.

“Let’s get to it, men!” he shouted, waving his torch in the direction of the waystation. “There are the men who have killed our friends, invaded our keep and stolen away our prisoner! What are we waiting for? Let’s go kill them!”
The men made no move, merely looking back and forth between each other. Atarr tried a different track.

“I have promised that prisoner to my patron. If we deliver him, I will provide us with greater spoils. Gold, land, power, women! It will all be ours once we deliver the sacrifice.”

“You were going to ransom him,” one man called out from the darkened forest. “We could have had silver for the kid, but your patron wanted blood instead. Now here we are.”

“Would you rather have a little silver now or a mountain of gold later?” Atarr demanded of the man, whom he could not recognize in the dark. 

“Now we’re going to get nothing at all,” another man groused. Atarr rounded on him angrily, delivering a sharp backhand blow to the bandit’s jaw.

“Insolent fool! You’ll get nothing by crying in the bushes like a lost puppy. Now let’s get into that station and do us some bloody work! There was a girl in there that Sorj wanted. Now that he’s dead, I’ll give her to whoever first lays a hand on her.”

“I wouldn’t go into there to fuck Nystra herself,” a third man snapped at him. “They’ve got that place locked up tighter than the queen’s vaults. I’m going back to the keep.”

“You will go nowhere.” Atarr raised a loaded pistol at the man. “You will follow my orders, or you will die for your cowardice.”

Someone snorted. No words were said, but men cast their gazes downward and kicked the dirt.

“This isn’t the army anymore,” the deserter said. “I won’t stand here and take this from a man who turned bandit just like the rest of us. You’re no queen’s man now. You’re just a greedy fool who got in over his head, same as me. Least I’ve the sense to quit while I still can. Good night, Atarr. I’ll see you at the keep if you find your wits.” 

He melted away into the darkness. The other men began to drift away as well. Atarr stood dumbfounded and the arm holding his pistol fell limp to his side. 

“Come back here! There is gold to be gained! Power! We will be kings! We will live in palaces built from the bones of our enemies and drinking the finest wines out of their skulls, served by naked slave girls who were once the daughters of kings! We will sleep in beds of the finest silks! All of this can be ours, but you must follow me! FOLLOW ME!”

By the end, he was sharply aware that he was screaming into an empty forest. 

No, not entirely empty. There was still himself, and his patron.

“I told you,” The voice whispered in his mind. “I knew you would fail me.”

“There is still time,” Atarr pleaded. “The Crown does not reach its peak for two more nights, we can come back…”

“You could,” the voice mused, “but it would not matter. I was promised blood in a pact. If I cannot have the merchant, I will take someone else.”

---
 
Aranthir stopped at the waystation door, looking out into the road. From the dark forest emanated a bone-chilling scream. He turned to the men behind him.

“Perhaps we do not need to drive them off.”

“Aye, let us remain in here until morning,” Lutharis agreed. “There are worse things than bandits in the woods tonight.”

They all retreated inside where Lutharis and Yvande barred the door. 

“Shutter the windows,” Aranthir ordered. “Keep an eye open for them, though I doubt they’ll be back.”

He went out into the courtyard, where Rora was mending the broken gate as best she could. Callia sat against the interior wall, her cloak pulled tight around her again. Her white legs showed through the rips in her trousers, shining in the moonlight.

“You fared well in your first battle,” he said as he sat down next to her.

“With your help,” she replied, her head retreating into the cloak’s hood. “I hope it will be my last battle in any case.”

“I had thought to invite you to join our company, but you seem more at home in these woods than in a battle.”

“I have no wish to engage in this sort of fighting regularly,” she replied, carefully keeping her eyes on the ground, “though the thought of sharing your company is a comforting one.”

Aranthir could tell where her thoughts were leading her, even if her voice would not follow.

“Perhaps we could share each other’s company until morning,” he suggested quietly. After a short pause, she turned her head to meet his gaze. “There is not likely to be another battle tonight, after all.”

She smiled shyly. “I think I would like that. Our one night together must have some good parts to it.”

“Come then,” Aranthir stood up and offered her a hand. “We can find some privacy in the loft, though I warn you, when I am hosting women for company, I have been known to keep my neighbors awake all night.” 
He gathered her up in his arms and carried her into the waystation, where Lutharis and Yvande has sat down before the hearth. They passed Aranthir looks of amusement and envy as he carried Callia past them up the stairs in her state of partial undress. 

The loft was deserted, though a hot musket lay by the window overlooking the road, its matchcord still burning. Aranthir carried Callia to the far side of the loft and set her down atop a straw mattress surrounded by a jumble of crates and barrels. She looked to him with a mix of excitement and trepidation. Aranthir paused, unsure of whether to continue, but Callia put a hand to his waist and began to remove his belt. 

Aranthir undid it for her and dropped his trousers to the floor. His sword belt clanged against the wooden floor. Smiling slightly, Callia took his cock in her hand, stroking it gently as he removed what was left of her clothes. In short order, she sat naked before him, her long brown hair falling over her bare shoulders and covering her breasts. She smiled up at Aranthir and slowly touched her lips to his cock. Shedding his armor, he slowly slid his cock into her mouth.
She worked her tongue around his cock, slowly stroking him with both hands as she did. Aranthir caressed her head, working a hand through her hair. He brushed it behind her to bare her breasts again. They were round and soft, with wide pink nipples that he caressed and pinched with his fingers. She giggled softly as he touched them.
Aranthir gently pushed her shoulder, settling her onto the mattress on her back. He lay himself atop her and slowly pushed his cock through the coarse hair around her sex. She gasped as he entered her, then wrapped her arms around his chest and kissed him. He began thrusting slowly, and she kissed him again, locking her lips to his as he fucked her. 

She moaned softly, working her hips in time with his as her legs wrapped themselves around him as well. Aranthir fucked harder, his head nearly banging against the boxes behind the mattress. Seeing this, Callia shoved herself up, rolling over to put herself on top. Aranthir adjusted himself away from the boxes as Callia took control. She rode him with enthusiasm, her long hair falling over her breasts again. She flicked her head back, throwing her tresses over her shoulder once again. She then took Aranthir’s hands from her hips and planted them on her breasts. He squeezed them and she smiled at him in delight.

Callia rode harder, her shyness fleeing her quickly. Her hips rose and fell on his cock and Aranthir became engrossed in the undulating motion of her breasts. He pulled her closer and kissed them between his hands, much to her delight. He sat up, wrapped his arms around her waist, and kissed her on the mouth.

There was a noise from the side, and they both stopped and turned in surprise. Through a gap in the piles of crates, they saw a surprised Praden standing on the stairs, his cheeks turning red. 

“Apologies, sir, I---” he stammered. He looked to Callia’s naked body, then to the floor again. “I did not know where you had gone and I, well…” he trailed off.

“We’ll be down when we’re done,” Aranthir replied. Callia resumed riding, one arm around Aranthir’s shoulder as the other brushed her hair back. Her eyes were fixed on Praden, who stole another look at her before retreating down the stairs in embarrassment.

“I’m surprised he didn’t ask to join,” Aranthir mused as the merchant’s footsteps receded. Callia looked at him skeptically. “You’re a pretty wench, and every man here would no doubt take you as I have.”

Callia looked away in disinterest. “I’m no whore,” she muttered softly even as she continued to ride.

“Of course not,” Aranthir agreed, squeezing her hips, “but all your time spent alone out here and you might forget that you are very pretty.”

Callia blushed, burying her face in his shoulder as his pace of thrusting picked up. She clung to him, keeping her face hidden and fucking in silence. Aranthir smiled to himself. So modest, so shy, even as she is naked and with a cock in her, he mused. A rare find. He kissed her naked shoulder tenderly.

Her bashfulness excited him, and he was soon close to climax. Gathering her up in his arms, he lifted her up and turned around to set her down on the bed. He withdrew his cock and gripped in one hand, aiming for her luscious breasts. Climax came quickly, shooting out from him and decorating her breasts with long lines of sticky white cum. Callia curled up on the mattress, admiring her chest with a shy smile. Pleased with himself, Aranthir lay down next to her and kissed her neck. 

They dozed for a time in silence, until Aranthir spoke.

“Once you have your reward, where will you go?”

Callia said nothing for long enough that Aranthir looked to see if she was awake.

“Would you like me to join your company?” she asked at last.

“We would be delighted to have you. We cannot offer the luxuries, but we can offer adventure, camaraderie and semi-regular payment.”

“I have traveled alone for all my life,” she replied slowly. “How would I even leave the solitary life?”

“Think on it,” he said. “I hear activity below, and it’s nearly dawn. I will see to them and return for you.”

Aranthir dressed and armed himself, leaving Callia naked in the bed when he went downstairs. The merchant Praden would not meet his gaze, and only stared, red-cheeked, into the fire as Aranthir passed. Lutharis and Yvande each gave him wide, knowing smiles of congratulations as he approached.

“Are we ready to ride?” Aranthir asked.

“I hear you’ve been riding,” Lutharis replied. He clapped Aranthir on the back, but the half-elf only rolled his eyes.

“I want to make the town as soon as possible, make sure the horses are ready to go.”

Lutharis sobered up and nodded. “We’ll be ready.”

Aranthir went into the courtyard, where Rora’s sharpshooters were resting while she took watch. He checked their wounds and ammunition before convincing himself that all was well. He saddled his horse and prepared his weapons before going back inside. Lutharis was preparing a quick meal while Yvande had roused his men for departure. The master of the waystation stopped Aranthir at the stairs.

“Before you go, I would ask that your men help bury the fallen. I’ve no wish to see my waystation become the haunt of the restless dead.”

Aranthir nodded. “Kanaron will have his due before we are gone, fear not.”

He climbed the stairs back to Callia in the loft.

“Get dressed and have something to eat before we go,” Aranthir called as he summitted the stairs, but there was no response. He looked to where he had left her, deciding that she had fallen asleep in his absence.

The mattress was empty, Callia and her clothes were gone. Aranthir looked around the loft and found a door to the outside. Opening it, he saw that it led to a stair that ran down alongside the of the waystation to the road. Beyond the road, in the deepness of the trees, he spied Callia’s green cloak retreating into the forest.
 