The Arkanist

Thieves, Heretics, and Outlaws

Thieves, Heretics, and Outlaws

The night was black as pitch when they reached the bandit’s camp. It was situated on a slight knoll of patchy grass, ringed with torches and braziers that flicked gilded embers into the night. Several tents of hide and fur rested inside the fiery walls, and some were nestled in the great arms of the trees. The greatest of them stood in the center of the camp.

         There, a massive oak rose high and broad, with a doorway cut into its thick gnarled bark. Inside, a staircase wrapped down into the earth where the captain of the bandit’s quarters were. It was there, Jakn and Martem were taken, deep into the earth, the smell of fungus and mold growing palpable until it was burned away when they entered a great circular room alit with several garish torches. Jakn was thrown to the ground and his back was stepped on by a hard bottomed boot, and Martem the same.

         The captain sat in a throne of twigs and wood, accented with leaves and dirt and skulls of game they’d killed. Above the throne a giant boar’s skull hung from the wall, its maw barred and its teeth glinting in the flickering light. He was a monster of a man, with corded arms and a broad head. He wore leather to guard his torso, arms, and legs while he adorned a bone headdress that rattled as he moved. He leaned on a hulking double-sided axe when Martem came before him.

         “The great huntsman has become hunted, Martem,” said the captain. “How the tides have turned since your last venture into these parts. I was beginning to think you’d grown scared of us, it’s been so long.”

         “It appears they have,” Martem replied.

         The captain circled them. “It appears they’ve stripped you of your weapons, old friend. What’s say I return them to you?”

         “That would be kind of you, humble host,” Martem said.

         The captain kicked aside Jakn. “Return Martem’s blade to his hand. We have unfinished business we must resume. And this time, you won’t wriggle away.”

         Martem’s hands were untied and unshackled and his sword was thrown into his hands. He swung it loosely about. “Well that’s good,” said Martem, “because I had no intention of running.”

         The captain kicked his axe into his huge hands, muscles bulging as they held the heavy iron. “I’ll see to that, huntsman. Trust me in that if there is anything you will trust me with.”

         “I’m afraid trust, Yaren, is all to subtle a thing to dwell on these days.”

         “Indeed it is,” said Yaren, beginning to step towards Martem. “Let us fight now, and end this talk. Never have words won a battle.”

         Martem did not respond, only smirked and charged the great man, blade flashing in the torchlight.

         The steel met with a clash and a scream as the edges grinded together. Jakn was thrown behind a border of bandits, his shackles biting his wrists. As he watched the men fight, he worked on prying his bonds with arkency. It took long, and especially since he had to be quiet and unsuspecting. Inside the ring of bandits Martem was pounding Yaren with blow after blow and swung this way and that. Yet with the duel wielding advantage, the bandit captain easily shoved each attack to the side.

         For Martem, it was harder to block. Immediately after he’d parry the axe, the hammer would sweep around the other side. Most times, Martem was too slow to deflect it so he just ducked beneath it or dodged it by leaping to the side. The huntsman was definitely using more energy and it showed, leaving him heavy of breathe for the next ten minutes of their fighting. Jakn watched as Martem received a fist to the face and quickly looed down at his shackles, and slowly began untying the rope restraints after whispering the name of wind.