The alleyways through which the dark figure hurried were enfolded in a stifling blackness deeper than natural night. The figure’s mission was unguessable, but some dark purpose drove it from shadow to shadow – moving unswervingly toward the less-respectable neighborhoods of the waterfront. An aura of the supernatural clung to the cloaked figure, and those few that the figure encountered on its sojourn instinctively shied away from it. The figure paused for a moment before entering what was unequivocally the harbor region, and then crossed the narrow cross-street, and slipped into the walkway between two run-down warehouses.
Deeper into the maze of buildings the figure stole – until finally its path took it to a wider street, and across the street to a noisy tavern known to be frequented by thieves and murderers.
Again the figure paused in the doorway of the tavern, drinking in the riotous atmosphere of the room. The room was large, and had regularly-spaced wooden pillars supporting the low ceiling. Oil lanterns, hung on the walls and columns, lit the room flickeringly. The cloaked figure threw back its hood, and glared about the room with menacing eyes – to discourage anyone who would challenge his right to enter. The stranger was broad of shoulder and feature, and his malevolent gaze made those who dared to meet his eyes uneasy. His hair was close-cropped and jet black. His eyes were black also, and his face was clean-shaven. There was only one to meet his gaze and hold it – a lean, wiry man situated at a table in the corner. This man had a thin bitter face framed with graying hair. Although obviously aging, there was no telltale fat usually indicative of the declining years. The stranger, seeming little more than a youth, moved toward the older man’s table.
The youth, after unfastening his cloak to reveal a deadly broadsword, took the chair opposite the older man. After signaling to the owner for more drink, the older man began.
“As you know – for years, merchant caravans have been raided from time to time as they cross the Western mountains for purposes of trading with the people and lands beyond.
“Up until recent times, the infrequency of the raids has left trade still easily profitable. But recently, nearly every caravan has been looted – leaving merchants, like your uncle and me, with the possibility of losing our major source of income. The raids have taken place at many different places in the mountains, with no pattern of times. Some caravans are not even raided. We need someone to infiltrate the bandit group responsible, and communicate back to us – so that we may trap them to put an end to this banditry.
“The local merchants met and, on recommendation from your uncle, we each contributed – and have fifty gold pieces for you now, and fifty when you accomplish your job. Do you accept?”
The youth had thus far said nothing. He studied the merchants face. “How do I find these bandits, much less infiltrate their group?”
“There is reputed to be a hermit on the south slope of the Whisper Mountain, who is said to know everything that occurs throughout the entire Western Range. I suggest that you begin your search there.”
“I accept. But give me only twenty gold pieces to purchase provisions now, and eighty when I’m done. I shall begin immediately.”
A large black raven studied him from the road ahead, but this was not what drew his attention. What worried him was a familiar tree, blazed by lightning, at the side of the trail. He remembered that tree. He had passed it not more than fifteen minutes ago, and again fifteen minutes before that. But he had seen no side paths. He was following a closed circle. He knew that sorcery was at work here, for he was not totally unfamiliar with the black arts. The raven caught his attention. He addressed the raven.
“If you are some messenger for the hermit that I’ve been looking for all day, or even the hermit himself, I wish to say that I mean the hermit or his friends no harm.
The raven examined him quizzically.
“I am merely seeking information,” added the youth.
After a moment, the raven flew off down the trail. The youth spurred his horse on after him.
This time, somehow keeping the bird in sight as it flew ahead of him, the path he was following led him to a cave into which the raven flew. The youth dismounted, and stepped cautiously through the entrance with his hand on the hilt of his sword. The cave showed signs of occupancy – for there were ashes from a recent fire near the mouth of the cave, and scant furnishings about the perimeter. The cave was dark. A single candle left dancing shadows along the walls. A figure stepped from the shadows.
The hermit was a small man dressed entirely in black, He had the same questioning eyes of the raven – as he addressed the youth. “So, you are seeking information, are you?”
“Yes,” the youth replied. “In return for these.” He withdrew from his belt two small carvings, one in black ivory and one in white ivory – being a mirror-image of the first. “I ask for information about the raider band that terrorizes these mountains.”
The youth had taken the carvings from his uncle’s treasure room – recognizing their magic potential. The hermit, too, recognized the carvings of the southern goddesses of light and darkness. He licked his lips in greedy anticipation, and not removing his eyes from the carvings said: “Their camp is in a valley twelve miles north of here. A stream originates farther up this mountain. Its first westerly branch carves out the valley.” The hermit took a step toward the carvings still in the youth’s right hand – as the youth’s left hand flicked out, and a dagger protruded from the hermit’s eye. The hermit collapsed.
The youth secreted the carvings in the cave for recovery on his return trip. As he glanced down at the unfortunate hermit, he was reminded of a senseless childhood rhyme:
——Cry, baby, cry.
——Put a dagger in your eye.
Outside the cave, he mounted his horse and rode north.
“Dismount.”
Upon nearing the valley, the youth found himself suddenly surrounded by three horsemen with weapons ready. He dismounted slowly and stepped away from his horse while one of the riders moved to examine his saddlebags, “Only food, and little of that,” the rider said in disgust. He moved back into position, as the youth was addressed by a second rider.
“Why are you here?” queried the second rider – obviously the man in charge.
“I have come to join your band. A now-dead hermit told me how to find you, and I offer my sword arm as justification.”
“We have enough men already. For that reason you shall do battle with, and inevitably lose to, my second-in-command – the second best swordsman in camp.” And to the other riders: “Bring him to the river.” He then rode toward the camp, and the youth was forced to follow.
Awaiting him at the river was a man of average height, but with noticeably long arms. It seemed that his hands would reach his knees had they been hanging, but instead both hands gripped the hilt of a broadsword similar to, but smaller than the one the youth carried. The man’s darker skin and slanting eyes distinguished him as a barbarian from the Southeast. A grin split his face when he saw that the youth carried a broadsword also, for it was uncommon for two such swords to meet in battle outside the barbarian lands. The youth removed his cloak, stood opposite his opponent, and the battle began.
Almost before the youth could prepare himself, the barbarian lunged and nearly skewered him – but a quick parry and sidestep left the youth unscathed. The barbarian had thought to end the fight quickly, and indeed it did – for the youth saw his opening and painted a bright-red slash on the barbarian’s side. Blood flowed freely, and a quick, pressing attack toward the river caused the barbarian to lose his footing on the bank, and allowed the killing blow – a clean removal of the head.
The others were momentarily stunned as the youth walked away unharmed, after cleaning his blade on the barbarian’s clothing. The leader looked at him thoughtfully as a winded horseman rode up.
“A caravan is entering from the east through the Cedar Pass,” the horseman blurted out breathlessly.
The leader looked at the setting sun. “We shall take then just before sunrise as they reach the Rockoak Point.” He looked to the youth. “You and I shall keep watch tonight.”
The youth nodded assent. It had been planned for him to sneak off during the night to warn this caravan, his uncle’s, of the raiders’ plans – and then return to take the raiders by surprise when the raid began. Things might still work out – he would have to see.
“‘Where is that boy?” the merchant said anxiously as he peered into the darkness.
“Your nephew, sir?” his private guard asked, “I wouldn’t know.” They rode side by side in the center of the caravan. “Fear not, it shall be dawn soon. Maybe there’s no raid planned at all.”
“Let’s hope so,” agreed the merchant – but he still was uneasy as they rode on into the night.
The youth had made up his mind as to his course of action, but he was uneasy as he took his place among the raiders along the high walls at Rockoak Point. The sounds of the caravan could be heard dimly in the distance. He had talked long into the night with the leader of the small raiding party. He had learned many things of interest, things his uncle would find very helpful in planning future caravans. Listening to a thief’s viewpoint allowed one to see things from an entirely different angle.
The two had talked about their various backgrounds, with the youth even telling of his connection with the merchants – but explaining to the leader that he truly now wished to become a raider, living a man’s life in the wild. The leader believed him, and had instructed the youth to approach the caravan alone and tell them that no raid was forthcoming.
He headed down to the pass on his horse, and stopped in front of the caravan – so that the foreguards, who had been told to watch out for him, could recognize him. He was taken to his uncle.
As he passed through the company of fifty warriors, he thought it a shame that none would live to see the light of day. While talking strategy during the night, he had been told that a single archer could take ten men from the high cliffs of Rockoak Point – meaning that the band of eight raiders could easily take the fifty-odd men in the caravan and, in a short time, none would be left to guard the riches now secured in the wagons.
“There will be no raid,” he told his uncle once he made it to the center of the caravan. “The way is clear to the West. If trouble arises on your return trip back to the East, I shall let you know. For now, I shall remain with the raiders and learn their plans. Now I must return before I am missed.”
“Thank you, my nephew. You have relieved my worried mind.” The youth waved farewell as he rode away finding a path up the side of the ravine, and disappeared into the night.
The caravan rode on toward the rising walls of Rockoak Point.
The sky was lightening as the caravan reached Rockoak Point, and the rain of arrows began. The raiders did indeed make short work of the entire caravan. They laughed and shouted as they rushed down to collect their spoils.
The morning sun shone slantingly into the pass below. The youth looked down at the carnage, and then at the bow in his hand. “It’s true,” he thought, “a single archer can kill eight or ten men from the cliffs of Rockoak Point.”
He went cautiously down the cliff path to loot the bodies of the merchants — and the raiders.
Written long ago — the concept is: the ambushers get ambushed. Not the best written story. It would have been good to know the thinking/motivation of the main character — to understand why he sacrificed his uncle and crew.
