Chapter 4

The campfire of the night watch roared amongst the trees and shrubbery of the thick deciduous forest, fed generously by the logs the bandits had heaped. The newly formed clearing had convenient stumps for them to rest their chapped rumps on and lie about their deeds. The wines flowed free and far from their leather casks, and sometimes even into the portable horse troughs. By midnight, even the biggest of wooden barrels had been laid to waste, broken and merged with the soft forest soil. Bats fell off their perches in the caverns and glided into the forest, seeking the sources of the arboreal insect music. Horses shifted in their makeshift stables.

Long beams of moonlight pierced through the umber canopy like silver knives, falling on a gnarled trunk or two and bleaching them. The lichens looked like patches of virgin snow on mountain stone. The drunken eyes of the guards watched a dark figure emerge from the forest, a shadow puppet walking out of the magnificent theater wrought by the moon and the trees. Adrenaline kicked in and blades were invoked from their sheaths. The puppet had its strings cut and trailing behind it as it walked, invisible bells on its person jingling to the song of the crickets and cicadas. It slipped in and out of the celestial limelight; the body was unusually silent for a paranormal manifestation of such a magnitude. The more superstitious of the night watch had armed themselves with packets of salt and talismans from their hometowns. The puppet danced within their line of sight, humming a long forgotten tune in the voice of a full grown man. It then blended into a tree trunk and vanished.

"Where's it?" One of them asked.

"There, by the edelweiss patch near the—it's gone! It was there a minute ago!"

"Oh for f*'s sake, Arthos."

"Steady, laddies, we've cut down worse. This one little wraith ain't got nuttin' on us. Get some fire and come on."

They picked up a burning log of wood each and followed the speaker into the forest. Thick, hot tree sap oozed down their uneven surfaces as they were waved about. The flames fanned and spalled, teasing the leaves and barks with their heat. A bandit winced and fell back to shake the hot liquid off his weathered gloves. He shrieked when a force tightened around his neck, crushing it with what seemed to be the diamond-shaped links of a chain. He let out a final cry as his head was bashed against a tree and collapsed against a terrified comrade.

The chain-whip retracted into the canopy and lashed out like a python with prey in its sight. It tore through faces, gouged out eyes with the edges of its links and strangled men who were caught in its loops. The puppet tackled a man to the ground, catching another in one of its two chains and bringing him towards itself. The punches dealt to his face were brutal, as were the clawing of the man under it, trying to make it lift the foot on his throat. The moon was a silent spectator to the former marionette's death dance, and gave a standing ovation in the form of rumbling thunder.

Sylas swiped the blood and gore off himself as he exited the forest. He was careful to put out the beacons and drag the bodies closer to each other in a heap for the convience of the carnivores. The drizzle cooled his overheated and strained body, and made the fire splutter. He picked up an abandoned leather cask and sprayed the leftover wine into his mouth. Smacking his lips, he broke into a run up the slope. His stolen hiker boots found traction on them like a mountain goat's and he was the happiest climber in the world for a split second. The drizzle bearing winds scraped against the sweat covering his body, fingers dug into bare gaps one after the other, each one higher than the next. His back muscles strained and fell into a rhythm with his arms and legs as he ascended. It was ecstasy to him, the tingling of his legs as they felt the lack of support under them and fought against gravity to push him and his shackles up the stone wall.

The miniature hill evened out to a platform at the height of a two storeyed building from the ground. He stepped onto the platform and looked over the edge of the cliff to see if he had been tailed by a survivor during the climb. All he could see was a dying huddle of cinders surrounded by a magnificent forest. Sylas stood back up, turning his attention towards the caverns, and to the bandit guarding its mouth. The lady was sharpening her butterfly knife on a whetstone, every screech echoing down the stone corridors of the structure.

"Rough climb, eh?" asked Chantelle without sparing him a glance. "Those chains must weigh a ton each."

"Petricite is quite a heavy burden. It is nothing when compared to that of running a whole bandit syndicate, however. Don't your shoulders hurt from carrying them all?"

"Hahaha never, Merle knows how to loosen the knots and grievances in my back. Plucked her off a disreputable inn where young girls like her offer the good gentlemen who pay them certain. . . services. Funny how the customers are mostly nobles. For all their preaching and rule-following, the numbers they had racked up on a good day were pretty impressive."

"What the nobility does on a free Saturday night is none of my concern, lady. I presume you know why I'm here?"

"I presume that you take me for a child, great mage. My little ones sing of the rebel who brought mighty Demacia to its knees. Their ears have heard of the justness of his cause, oh how they had praised your cause. A land with no lord, no peasant, just people of one heart and one soul. No rich, no poor; no begging, no stealing, no selling your body to a greasy old boy. A land where the resources are equal to all, gold, food and shelter with all alike. It's an honor to meet our future deliverer."

Sylas chuckled as he walked upto her. "Your little ones paint such rosy pictures in their fancy. The reality is less peachy than those in minstrel-songs; I wouldn't suggest it as a career option to them."

"Won't you let us atleast try, Sylas of Dregbourne? We are aware of your situation, and we're more than eager to help you. We are twenty thousand in number, scattered across the cities, forests and countrysides."

"You're quite mistaken; I have a few companions of mine stuck in a cave and I'm here to get them out. Banditry is not my style, and I have no use for you."

The knife missed his ear by an inch and flew off into the forest. He heard the squawk of a falling bat, slayed by the blade. She stood up and moved backwards into the open maw of cavern, enshrouded by darkness. Sylas saw the glint of two blades in whatever little moonlight fell inside.

"I sincerely hope that all those years in the shadows have strengthened your night vision, prisoner. I wonder if that noble girl is worth giving away our generous offer for. My little ones have such glorious tales in their prattles."

"She'll sear off your face, Chantelle Mercy, I must warn you. Oh and good luck, I'll be waiting."

"How do you know my name?" She asked, staying within the comfort of the shade. Her startled voice betrayed the silver of her blades for a second. Sylas seized the moment.

One chain slapped her across the face and the other wrapped itself firmly across her arm. She was lifted off the ground and dragged into the clutches of the mage. Metal bit and clawed against the stronger material in vain. When she was in range, her steel fangs tried to draw blood from the mage. Her strikes fell on thin air as the python wrapped her in its petricite coils. She choked and screamed, but no guard heard her cries. He combed back his disheveled hair and stated plainly, "Don't waste my time any further, bandit. You can either take me to them or fall to your death."