The Grave Digger

The Grave Digger, Part 2

 As Ardin ran across the village center, he grasped at his side, but felt nothing. He had forgotten to retrieve his sword from the gatehouse the night before. Cursing his own stupidity, he turned back towards the Lodge. He was starting back in that direction when he saw the first of the raiders. He was a tall man, dressed in rags and carrying a bloody scimitar. He was accompanied by several others, all similarly armed, standing between him and the gatehouse. Looking back towards the front gate, he saw a host of men, dressed in a patchwork of cloaks, jerkins, scatterings of plate and chain mail, and carrying a wide assortment of weapons. They were herding people towards the center of town. The screams of terrified villagers, and the guttural yells of their attackers could be heard ringing out over the din of crackling flames. Smoke clung thickly to the village as fires began to spread. Ardin quickly scanned the square, running through a dwindling list of options. He counted at least a score of men, far too many to challenge, even with a weapon. He slipped into the square, hoping to not draw any unwanted attention to himself. He weaved his way through the growing mass of terrified people, searching for the faces of his fellow hunters. He spotted Zola quickly, his oldest squire, sitting on the ground, alive, but injured. He had a large gash in his forehead, and was leaking blood onto his face. He was being cared for by two other squires, Kirt and Fram. There was no sign of Old Grey or Falon. He tried to make his way towards his huddled students when he became distracted by the distinct sounds of hooves riding up the main path. He looked across the sea thick billows of smoke to see a man, riding up towards the terrified throng.

He rode high in his stirrups, towering above the boiling crowd on a lofty black stallion. He wore a cloak of made out of a rich blue material, underneath which he wore a surcoat of bright yellow, flecked with blood. His extremities where protected by a coat of glistening mail that rose to his neck. In his hand he held a double edged sword, long and sharp, its edge already glistening with droplets of blood. Around his neck he wore several chains, although the hunter could not see the pendants as they were neatly tucked underneath his surcoat. His face was fair, almost too fair, with a strong nose and chin sitting beneath two shining blue eyes. His complexion was light, and his hair was a golden chestnut brown, long and fine, reaching down and resting lightly on his shoulders. He had an almost sympathetic expression as he gazed across the mass of people, but his eyes where cruel. They shone with an icy malice as he surveyed the poor townsfolk, now subdued and at his mercy. He wiped his sword on the rump of his horse before turning to address the apprehensive crowd.

"I am Lord Dale Mordske, of the lands to the east. I think thee for your most hospitable welcome!" several of his men chuckled loudly, but settled when another mounted raider gave them a pointed glare. Ardin counted about two score and ten now, far too many for any man to face on his own.

"I apologize for any inconvenience I may have caused you." the nobleman's words, though fair, dripped with venom thick as honey. "Unfortunately, I am here on royal business, and as charmed as I am by your lovely village, we must attend to the matter at hand." he cleared his throat, as if he was about to speak of something distasteful. "If I'm not mistaken, you have wrongfully imprisoned one of my companions. I request that he is released at once. If my orders are obeyed, then no one shall come to harm." the man in the cage laughed haughtily from the center of the crowd as several bandits pushed their way through the crowd and started cutting the ropes that held the cage together. The brigands, after a bout of struggle, finally cut their companion free from his confinement. He promptly began laughing and dancing about like a madman.

"See! I said you would sorry, you filthy curs!" he cackled, and aimed a vicious kick at a nearby villager. He missed, lost his balance, and fell to the ground, swearing vigorously. There was some scattered laughter among his fellow brigands. Mordske too, laughed, as the prisoner, red faced from embarrassment, got up and hobbled over to the rest of the waiting marauders. The nobleman on horseback began speaking again.