• AMBUSH

    The forest was calm, serene. A vast expanse of green and orange bathed in the brutal midday sunlight. A gurgling stream cut its way through the forest, forming a crossroad with a dusty path pounded by countless generations of feet. The leaves of the overhanging trees made a canopy over the path, riddled with streams of light. Strewn across the forest floor was a thick mat of pine needles, a collage of orange and brown. A willow-dove sang high atop a branch and there was a snap of a twig under the weight of some unknown animal. The forest breathed with life, energy and, other then the stretching scar of the path, was seemingly undisturbed by the touch of humans.

    Suddenly, movement. Human forms flitted between the trees, jogging at a steady pace like silent specters. The hem of a cloak whipped around a tree and a leaf crunched under a padded boot as the group seemed to slip in and out of existence. One could count six shadows slipping through the forest, but their numbers seemed to swell and diminish as they ran. Though they were spread out, they moved as a single entity, feet pounding the earth in a steady pace. Such could only be attained through incredible discipline. The leader of the group, a lithe figure garbed in a simple brown cloak, raised his hand and the group halted. Ahead of them the road was visible through gaps in the foliage. With wordless gestures the group disappeared into the embrace of the forest, some tucked in the branches of the trees, others lying spread on the forest floor. The leader seated himself in the crook of a tree with his hand on the pommel of his sword, longbow tight to his side. The forest regained its serenity.

    Eyes on the path, they waited.

    ---( o )---

    A stick snapped under the wagons heavy wheel and Blunte snarled at his men, causing them to cringe under his piercing gaze. With a grimace he returned his eyes to the road ahead of him, tugging his reins back on course. Perched atop his white steed, Edward Blunte looked like a bear garbed in his polished mail hauberk. His ginger beard was knotted and a braid of hair protruded from the back of his gleaming helmet. His eyes were black and were clouded with the reflections of the gruesome things they had done and witnessed. His tunic was green and stitched with gold, a round shield set overtop of a short, broad sword on his back. The blade was wide and thick, perfect for hacking through armor and bone alike. He was missing the last two fingers on his left hand, a painful memorial of his last skirmish in service of the empire. Never again would he doubt the range of a javelin toss.

    He glanced back at the wagon, as though reassuring himself it was still there. The contents inside the wooden structure were of the utmost value, worth more then all the gold of the king's vaults. Thats why he had been tasked with ensuring they safely made their way to the docks where they would be loaded onto a ship destined for Garret' lok, where it would be safe for eternity in the island fortress. This was when it was most venerable. This is when it needed the protection of the most experienced captain in the Kings service, Captain Edward Blunte.

    The Sentinel, that is what the band of rebels called themselves. The people looked upon them as a beacon of hope, the saviors of all free people who still had a voice under the king’s rule. Petty thieves and cowards, thats what Blunte called them. Indeed, king Praxis had obtained the throne with a bit of force, but he served his people well. The poor worked for their food in the mines, and their sons were given the chance to serve their king and protect their family by the hilt of a sword. They had been a thorn in the king’s side for near a decade now, mostly small skirmishes and the lifting of the occasional lockbox. But there was their defeat on the hills of Daloran. The Empire had been embarrassed by the loss while the people were elated, accounts of the battle speeding fast through the cities.

    They couldn’t have another loss like that. Not again. So that is why Praxis had to ensure that the convoy made its way through the forest intact. Twenty-one men, including the captain, accompanied the wagon. He's like to see the Sentinel even try to attack. He would make them regret ever taking his fingers.

    ---( o )---

    Shimm's brilliant blue eyes scanned the road from his vantage point in the trees, following its length until it disappeared into the crushing depths of the forest. He raised his eyes to the sky, judging the time by the passage of the sun. A sigh escaped his lips. Where were they? The wind breeze caught his cloak, ruffling his cropped blond hair. He had a scruffy beard lacing his chin; his defined cheekbones and brow shadowed his face. He wiped a drop of sweat from his forehead. Shimm's brown and green tunic was cut at the sleeves to reveal a finely crafted chain mail shirt. His boots were padded to reduce noise and his belt snug around his waist. From the belt hung his hand-and-a-half sword, the leather bound hilt separated by a metal rib before ending in a flat stub of steel. The guard curved towards the blade, thinning out at the ends. Along the guard's length, carved in ancient runes that few knew how to read, was the word 'Oblivion'. His sheath was plain with an earthy green colour. Over his back was a simple wooden longbow and a quiver of raven-feather arrows.

    Shimm looked his rogues over. He could just barely pick the five of them off amongst the trees. Good, they’re well hidden. He had been assigned two archers and three foot soldiers from the Sentinel ranks.

    The archers were perched in the branches, one atop of the other in the same tree, bows strung with arrows. The first was Mathis, a tall, mostly carefree youth with a ponytail of crimson hair, his face elongated like a bird. Under him was Jerrik whose face was impassive as he fidgeted with the arrow in his bow. His black hair hung over his face, but his sharp green eyes were clearly visible. Both had larger quivers then Shimm and curved falchions horizontally on the small of their backs. The two exchanged glances, and then returned their eyes to the path.

    Below them were two of the foot soldiers, Galith and Desmon, who were settled in the underbrush. Galith was bald and his thick eyebrows were permanently set in the middle, his mouth set in a grimace. He seemed to always be angry. He had a two-handed sword slung on his back, the blade as long as him. Desmon was an older man, his grey hair receding slightly but thick down to his shoulders. He had a wooden buckler and a sturdy axe. He was soft spoken, but loved his homeland and his wife, always willing to die defending them both. Further along the treeline perched on a root was Brathen, Shimm’s second in command and closest friend. He had a mess of brown hair and a set of bright eyes that glowed with determination. He had been brought up with a sword in his hands and Shimm trusted him with his life a thousand times over. His choice of weapon was a narrow bladed spear and a equally narrow sword at his hip.

    Brathen caught his gaze and nodded, his face devoid of its usual grin. They waited in silence for what felt like an eternity. The sun slowly shifted. Shadows danced across his lap. He was just considering pulling his band out of there when Jerrik let loose a sound that perfectly mimicked a raven's call. He knew what it meant. Straining his eyes down the path, he saw nothing. Then shadowed figures came into view. A man hunched upon a white horse, his head darting from side to side. Another two horsemen behind him, carrying pole arms at their sides. Then the large mass of the wagon came into view, pulled by a pair of oxen. Five men were hunched atop the wagon, bows sitting on their laps and they traded brief snatches of conversation. On either sides of the wagon was another eight men carrying spears and long swords on their backs, while the remainder brought up the rear. These five men had wide shields and thick swords held at the ready. They trudged down the road, unaware of the ambush set up ahead.

    As they rounded the corner and drew nearer, Shimm nodded to the pair of archers. As they silently readied their black arrows, Shimm withdrew his own bow and fitted an arrow. Below him his men drew their legs up below them, anticipating the attack. He drew the bow tight, the string straining, arrowhead quivering. He took aim. Three steps, two steps. He could see the oblivious men’s faces and he knew they would be burnt into his memory forever after today. He nodded.

    The black arrows whistled through the foliage, catching one of the spearmen in the throat, ripping the tendons. He dropped to the dirt, gurgling. The other shaft buried itself in an archer’s leg and he wailed in pain, tumbling from the wagon and landing in the dirt. Shimm released his arrow and extinguished the injured mans life as it plunged into his chest. The soldiers were already beginning to react, the four remaining archers stringing their bows as Jerrik and Mathis pulled back for another shot, as well as Shimm. The horsemen tugged their reins around to face their unknown adversaries. All swords were drawn with a ringing note. The second volley brought down another spearmen, and wounded a horse, sending the rider to the ground. By then the archers had loosed their arrows, the shafts harmlessly plunging into the tree trunks. Shimm released a shrill whistle before they could reload.

    Galith, Desmon and Brathen burst from the treeline with shouts of fury, charging the convoy. Arrows thudded at their heels. Brathen parried a blow with his shaft, spinning and plunging the spearhead into a soldier’s stomach. Desmon slammed his axe against the shield of an enemy and wasted no time leaping forward and ramming his own buckler into the mans weapon, jarring his fingers, causing him to drop the sword. He beheaded him in a quick motion and quickly caught a spear on his shield. Galith was lost in a series of powerful strokes of his massive sword and had already slain an archer and a soldier. Then the man on the white horse reared his steed and charged. Shimm recognized him as Edward Blunte, Praxis's right hand man, his sword raised to bring a deathblow on his closest foe. Brathen.

    With a soundless snarl Shimm abandoned his bow and leapt from the branch, ripping Oblivion out of its sheath with a quick motion. His cloak billowed out behind him as he slammed his feet into the charging captain. It was like hitting a brick wall, his feet singing with pain as Blunte yelped, tumbling from the saddle. Shimm looked up in time to see a blade whistling towards his face. He lashed out with Oblivion, shearing through the attackers calf. The man yelped and landed on top of him, his blades tip piercing Shimm’s unprotected left armpit. Sharp pain, a trickle of blood. Shimm kicked the man off of him and leapt to his feet. He brought Oblivion down on the mans face, hacking it open with a brutal crunch. More arrows rained down on the convoy, killing two other archers and wounding the dismounted rider in the knee. He was dispatched by Desmon.

    He turned in time to see a soldier heave a spear into the treeline and he heard a cry of pain from who could only be Mathis followed by a crash through the foliage. He pulled oblivion back, crossing the length between himself and the man in a few strides. The soldier whipped his sword out when he saw him coming but it carried him too far, embedding itself in the side of the wagon. He cleaved off his outstretched arm then slashed him diagonally upward across the chest. Before the corpse hit the ground Shimm was submerged under a hail of slashes as two soldiers advanced upon him. He blocked one blow, kicked out at one of his attackers then dodged a downward swipe. His left armpit was on fire.

    His sword was battered aside and before he could raise it in defense, the man pulled back his own sword to run him through. A spear burst into existence and caught him below the ear, exploding through his skull. Shimm glanced at Brathen who nodded to him before whipping out his slender sword and leaping in to assist Galith who was taking on three by himself. Shimm spun on his heel and smashed his enemy's shield, dodging a swipe and piercing the mans waist. He shouted in rage and attempted to slash him from shoulder to hip, but Shimm danced back and removed his hand. His sword fell to the ground. He drove oblivion through the mans chest, his final gasp escaping from his lips.

    One of the horsemen had charged at him, he heard it before he saw the pole arm clutched in the mans hand, his other on the reins. He tucked and rolled, dodging the attack as he pulled a knife out of the small sheath on his thigh. The blade left his hand, rotated three times, then plunged into the back of the retreating riders neck. The horse stopped and the corpse was sent flying, slamming into the last archer and he toppled off the wagon, landing on his back. He raised his bow to protect himself but Galith cleaved through it and split his ribs. Jerrik's arrows continued to rain down with an increased fury, striking a soldiers shoulder and killing one of the oxen who were in a frightened rage.

    Shimm could only watch as Desmon struck a man down with a shield to the face, raising his axe to finish him when the man caught his ankle with a sword swipe. Desmon tripped backwards and the other two fell upon him, and he was stabbed twice before Galith and Brathen heaved them off him. Shimm ran towards them to assist, but a hand closed around his leg and he crashed to the dirt.

    Coughing, Shimm rolled over as a sword thudded to the ground where he was seconds ago. He hopped to his feet, holding Oblivion in both hands as he faced his opponent. It was Blunte whom he had kicked off the horse, and he was panting, his face purple with rage. Shimm swung Oblivion and the two swords met in mid air, crashing apart before making contact again. They grinded blades for a moment, then Shimm leapt away. Blunte looked completely mad. He slashed his forearm, severing the shield straps, and flung the large round shield at Shimm. He twisted backwards and the projectile sailed past him, cleaving midway through a tree. The sword was already sweeping down on him and he parried once, twice before Oblivion was sent skittering across the dirt. He stumbled back and landed on his behind. A look of satisfaction crossed Blunte's face. The sword flashed through the air. Shimm closed his eyes. There was a whistling and a scream of pain. He opened his eyes.

    A black arrow was pierced through the Blunte's wrist. The sword fell from his dead fingers as he staggered back. Shimm glanced over and saw Brathen lower Shimm's bow, which he had retrieved from where he had dropped it, and exhaled deeply. Shimm grinned as he took up Oblivion, getting to his feet. Blunte was cradling his ruined hand and he looked up at Shimm. Oblivion sweeped through the air, blood splattered the path, and Edward Blunte's head landed in the dirt, a look of horror forever fixed on his face.

    As Shimm and Brathen walked back to the scene of the battle. "Now that’s twice I saved you, mate." Brathen said with a grin.

    "Did you forget about that time in Forgoth keep?" Shimm asked defensively. "Or in the battle by cliffs? How about that time..." He was cut off when Brathen waved his hand dismissively in his face.

    "All right, all right. Lets call it even." They grew silent as they approached the other two beside the wagon. Jeri had carried Mathis's body out of the forest and laid it beside Desmond's corpse. The spear had pierced Mathis's heart, killing him instantly. Desmond had bled to death while Shimm was dealing with Blunte. Both would be buried when they got them back to camp. Galith had received a long scar on his forearm, a nice reminder of the great ambush. He looked around at the slain soldiers. No burial would grace them. They would burn here.

    The wagon door was pried open, swinging on its hinges. In the middle of the empty space was a small gold-trimmed chest, about the size of an anvil. Shimm and Galith hefted it out. It was surprisingly heavy. Once the chest was safely in the bushes they piled the soldiers corpses in the wagon, shutting the door. The remaining oxen were killed as well as the wounded horse who was thrashing in the dirt. The other two animals were rounded up and led into the treeline. They would serve the Sentinel well. Once they had fled back to the forest Jerrik lit an arrow and fired it onto the wagon. They watched the blaze slithering over the wood for a moment, then picked up the two fallen heroes on their makeshift stretchers, leaving the way they came, the newly gained steeds following behind.

    The gold-trimmed chest shined under Shim’s arm. He glanced at it and smiled.

    END