18 – Between Sharp Teeth

"Shed not a tear for them, for as we speak they ride the icy winds to Valhalla, carried aloft by their own battle cries." – Barsar of Glorium, "Climbing the Branches of Yggdrasil"

Grunts, gasps and screams of agony accompanied the hail of arrows. Nowhere within the circle of wagons was safe from the storm; even one of the guards who hunched up close against the side of his cart went down, an arrow-shaft protruding from the top of his skull.

Glaring up at the lights that hung over everyone Kagain growled: "Someone put those damn things out!"

An instant later Branwen obliged, raising her hands to the heavens and shouting out a prayer in the tongue of her homeland. "Inavnet pa Foehammer, rensedette stedet for magi!" A blazing flash of light expanded from her palms and the little spheres above them all went out with a buzz and a pop. A few breaths later eight more lights floated overhead and seamlessly took their place.

"Purging magic takes a pretty strong spell," the bandit leader taunted them, an obvious smile in his voice. "And that illumination spell is just a minor cantrip. Come on folks, we can do this all night."

The only truly safe spot for the moment seemed to be under the carts themselves, where many of the surviving guards had crawled. The low wagon bottoms provided shelter enough, but Imoen found there was no way to return fire, scrunched up flat on her belly as she was. No doubt the bandits would send in foot-soldiers next, or worse those spell-slingers would hit them with something. On their stomachs by her side Xan and Coran had also taken cover. Hm. That gave her an idea.

"Coran," she whispered. "Give me your cloak!"

"If you wanted me to strip…" the elf began.

"Now is not the time!" she hissed back in a tone that shut him up. "Stuff the innuendo and just hand over the cloak!"

Coran unfastened the elven garment sullenly and offered it to her, all the little motions still making him cringe. He was certainly in no shape to fight. "Very well, lady bandit," he quipped. "Just try not to rip it."

"I'm sure it will be full of arrow holes in a moment," Xan muttered.

"That's not part of my plan," Imoen retorted as she placed the much larger green garment over her short violet raincloak and fastened it tight. "Okay, now Xan: invis me."

"In-what-now?"

"Cast a spell of invisibility on me."

"How do you even-"

"Because I've looked at your spellbook and the way you study it each night. You have that spell prepared. I know."

"I do," the moon elf admitted. Imoen guessed it was something he was saving for a possible escape. "What is your plan exactly?"

"Be invisible," Imoen replied, "sneak out there, find and kill the bandit spellcasters, then use the cloak to hopefully hide and sneak back after they're dead. Pretty simple." She grinned weakly.

"So your plan is to get the cloak filled with arrow holes," Xan said.

"Not if I can help it," Imoen growled impatiently. "That's a dancing lights spell they're throwing over us. You can produce four lights with each spell, so I'm guessing they have two spellcasters. I think they're holding back cause they don't want to damage the cargo, but if those mages start throwing fireballs or whatnot we're all fucked. So just bloody invis me before they blow us up!"

Xan groaned. "I still think you're going to get yourself killed."

"Do you have a better plan?"

He didn't. So he simply sighed, placed a gentle hand on Imoen's shoulder and spoke familiar arcane words. "Umbriel vistias quiel."

A strange tingling ran through Imoen and a red-and-white rainbow briefly danced before her eyes. When the shimmer faded away she raised a hand up before her and saw nothing. Perfect. Tightening the elven cloak around her shoulders she crawled wordlessly out from under the wagon. Quick and quiet, the girl padded across the open meadow from there.

Infravision gave her a good view of the bandits now: glowing bodies leaning against the trunks of trees or hiding under the needled branches of pine saplings. Most were staggered out pretty far from each other. There were a decent number of archers but not nearly enough to 'surround' the caravan like the leader had implied. What a surprise.

The head bandit had said 'Light 'em up lads' before the light spells flew. Maybe she was reading too much into it but she hoped it was an indication that both of the enemy mages were men. If so it was just a matter of finding two guys who weren't heavily armed or armored, giving them each the old arrow-through-the-eye, and then running the Hells away. Simple enough.

Of course her hands – along with her bow and arrows – were invisible now. Could she even aim properly this way? She had always sighted down the shaft before, and though archery was pretty reflexive by now it seemed the invisible bow might throw her off. Note to self: always try to accompany invisibility with a 'see invisible' spell. That is when you master the darn magic in the first place.

Maybe getting in close and using her dagger would work better. Either way, once she attacked she'd become visible, and then it would be panic-and-try-to-escape time. Great planning Immy.

Skirting her way along the tree line she tried to resist the urge to duck down and hide from the human and hobgoblin archers. Some were looking right past and even through her. Just focus on not making any noise. Move quickly.

As she passed a few more grim men in hooded leather she spotted what she had been searching for: a man who wasn't wearing armor or carrying a weapon. He had a leathery face, sandy-blonde hair tied sharply back and sturdy looking, utilitarian clothing. In the stories mages always had long white beards and wore robes of one sort or another, but Imoen had found that in the real world more often than not they just dressed like regular people. Either way it was easy to spot a spellcaster on a battlefield: look for an important-looking person who wasn't wearing armor.

Knocking an arrow and taking aim while just trusting that the weapon is in front of you did feel a little strange. Still it wasn't hard to play it by feel. Maybe I can shoot people with my eyes closed. As the bowstring strained she knew – just knew – that the arrow was trained on the man. She could do this!

With a twang the string released and the arrow, bow, and Imoen herself shimmered back into visibility. The shaft flew true: right towards the mage's chest. A bubble of violet shimmered into being between the arrowhead and the man before he was struck, and the shot bounced away harmlessly.

One of those magic arrow-shields! Shit!

The bandit-mage immediately swung around and looked in Imoen's direction, his hands raised and dancing through the motions of a spell. As he did she flung her cloak tightly around herself and dashed away, running for a nearby stand of trees where her infravision showed no warm bodies. The elven cloak would match the color of her surroundings, but it didn't mean much when you were in motion. Maybe the darkness was enough. Maybe the mage hadn't sighted her yet.

He completed his spell and pale orange light burst from his hands. It streaked towards the spot Imoen had launched the arrow from and sent a ripple through the air, but by then she was leaning against an oak trunk a good fifteen paces away, wrapped up in the cloak. Good. He hadn't seen her yet.

And Imoen had some tricks of her own.

She had begun to whisper a spell the moment that she reached the trees, her curling fingers pointed at a spot to the bandit-mage's left. A breath later something appeared on the grass near the man. Following her mental directions the something Imoen had conjured up rose silently to its feet and dramatically threw back its cloak to reveal two gleaming scimitars. It was her best illusory imitation of Kivan, done from memory. The image was maybe a foot taller than the real elven scout, and the smoldering rage was perhaps a bit exaggerated, but it had the desired effect on the mage. To him an elven ranger had just made his presence known, drawn his weapons and silently begun to stalk towards him. (Rangers usually fight with twin scimitars right?) The bandit-mage aimed his fingers at the illusion and frantically barked out the words of a spell

Quick and quiet, Imoen thought, silently racing towards the mage from the other side. Bright red flares lit the night as bolts of magic leapt from the mage's fingers and struck the silent illusion, passing right through and making the image waver. By then Imoen was close enough, bow slung on her shoulder and dagger out. With a leap she collided with the mage and plunged her blade into his back. It sunk to the hilt.

Good. No barrier. She gripped the bandit by the shoulder and twisted the dagger. His resistance was feeble and he quickly slumped to his knees and fell over. Must have hit something vital. When the mage hit the ground Imoen yanked her dagger free and ran. A good thing too, as she heard the whistle of arrows at her back a heartbeat later.

She danced under the branches of a pine sapling and wrapped the cloak tight. After a long, tense stretch had passed without bandits approaching she took a chance and peeked around the tree. No one was nearby. So they hadn't seen her yet. But what now?

At the circle of wagons all-out battle had broken out. The wooden barricades had been knocked aside and bodies lay strewn at the gaps between the carts. Most of the fallen were hobgoblin, but in just a glance Imoen saw the lifeless faces of two caravan guards. There was a gnawing feeling in the pit of her stomach. Where her friends even alive? No, no, no, she couldn't think like that. She had to do something; at least take some of the bastards down with her.

After a brief, silent prayer to Mask Imoen plucked an arrow from her quiver, set it to the bow and began to stalk about the periphery of the battlefield. There was no sign of the second spellcaster but she did spot an archer who seemed to be alone behind a tree. Drawing her bowstring back and tight, Imoen waited for any loud noise that could give her cover. When a crashing sound came from the circle of wagons she took advantage and loosed.

The arrow pierced the bandit's throat and he went down gasping and clutching at the shaft. The moment after she fired Imoen was on the move, but by the grace of the gods it seemed no one had spotted her yet.

As she crept past some tall brush, careful not to rattle any leaves, she noticed a man who seemed to stand out in the open. He was constantly gesturing with his sword, directing sorties of hobgoblins as they charged the wagons from different angles.

Imoen guessed that this was the bandit commander, and it would be easy enough to shoot an arrow at him (he almost seemed to be daring an attack,) but unlike most of the enemy the man was clad from head to toe in heavy armor. His chest was protected by plated-mail, there was a skirt of chainmail hanging from his waist to his knees, steel shin-guards protected his legs and he even wore gauntlets, a helmet and a loop of steel around his neck. Along with his sword he carried a broad wooden shield where a few arrows were stuck. Maybe she could have sent an arrow through a gap in his armor with a trueshot spell, but she had already used those up. Dang.

Instead Imoen chose a softer target, picking out a hobgoblin in motley armor who seemed to command a couple of archers and wielded a bow himself. This could be the last arrow –the last chance- before she drew attention to herself and had to flee.

Flee at best. Fight at worst. Die most likely.

No! She couldn't think like that. Shurra's in there somewhere, fighting for her life. And Garrick. She drew her bowstring back and waited for an opportunity; some distracting noise or the flash of a spell. If nothing came soon she'd just roll the dice and shoot. She had to do something.

The distraction came in spectacular fashion. With the whine of steel and the crack of wooden boards four hobgoblins burst through a gap in the wagon circle and came charging out, swords raised as they ran in the direction of the bandit leader. There was no fear in their eyes, just blank looks, and their charge was followed by a ghostly, glowing hammer that skimmed along the ground. Panicked gasps rose from the bandit archers, uncertain how to deal with their strangely behaving companions.

When the chaos erupted Imoen didn't hesitate to loose her arrow. It struck the hobgoblin squarely between his shoulder blades and sank deep into his leathers. He stumbled at first, but a rapidly-drawn second arrow was enough to send him slumping to the grass.

As the hammer of force flew behind the charging hobgoblins its owner appeared, dashing forward through the gap. Branwen was wreathed in glowing lights, auras of white and gold and blue competing to give her torn and dented armor a prismatic sheen. Like all the other times Imoen had seen the priestess arm and armor herself with the power of her god she seemed to move with greater strength and certainty, but beneath the glow the Northlander was in poor shape. There was a broken arrow-shaft deep in her shoulder, nearly half her face was smeared with blood that seemed to seep from a black wound at her hairline, and many of the scales of Branwen's armor were bent or torn away, blackened with blood that may have been her own. The priestess's shield had been torn and smashed into a collection of splinters at her elbow.

Still, driven by the power of Tempus or adrenaline or blood-lust or all-of-the-above, the Northlander charged fast behind her flying hammer. What is she doing? Imoen wondered.

As fast as it had begun, the charge of the insane hobgoblins faltered. One by one the beasts in front broke off, puzzled looks on their faces as they glanced around. Only one of the hobs continued to run full-speed at the bandit-leader, slashing out with his sword when the distance was closed. The armored man effortlessly riposted and plunged the tip of his blade into the hobgoblin's forehead.

The ghostly hammer flew over the dying hobgoblin and bounced off the bandit leader's shield with a loud crack. The hammer sailed back a few feet, hovered, and then swung in again as Branwen neared striking distance with her earthly weapon in hand. Two arrows flew at her as she charged, but both fell away harmlessly, repelled by her divine aura.

For a few quick, furious moments steel rang and wood groaned as the armored man and the glowing warpriestess exchanged blows. The bandit managed to redirect Branwen's steel hammer with his sword and block the magical weapon with his shield all at once, the two combatants circling and twisting. Imoen knocked an arrow and followed them with her bow. Maybe she could help…

When she judged the moment right and loosed her arrow it hit the bandit squarely in the back. Her heart sank when the arrow simply bounced off his breastplate and fell to the ground. She wasn't even sure if he had noticed. Damn.

Fearing that her shot had drawn attention Imoen moved again, crouching and crawling along through the brush and keeping to big stones and trees wherever she could. Her hand slid back to her quiver as she went, and her fingers clutched at air for a moment before finding a handful of feathered shafts. Double-damn! She was down to four arrows.

The ghost-hammer collided with the warrior's shield one last time before winking out in a burst of sparks. The blows had left the tall, reinforced bulwark battered and nearly broken in half, but there was still enough of it left for the bandit to slam against Branwen's next hammer-blow. His sword slipped beneath his rising shield in a quick stab at the same time. The barrier that wreathed the priestess flared but could not stop the blade from piercing her scaled armor and torso beneath. She faltered and stumbled and he pressed the advantage, driving his sword in deep before slamming the remains of his shield into her face and knocking her back and off the blade.

Another step back and Branwen sank to her knees. An involuntary cough ran through her body and pink, foamy blood dripped from a corner of her mouth.

Raising his sword for a wide stroke the bandit-leader took a few deep gasps for air and then spoke. "You should yield while you still draw breath. The Black Talon could benefit from a war-wench like you, and we pay well."

The protective aura still hung, faint but fading, around Branwen. However the blue glow about her hammer burned as bright as ever. Loose hair soaked with sweat and blood covered her face as she leaned forward and fought to stay upright. "My…" she wheezed.

The bandit cocked his head to listen but his sword was one quick stroke from her throat.

"…last…breath…"

"I guess-" the bandit began.

"For victory!" And as she shouted Branwen pushed her hammer and body up in a sudden burst of strength. The chainmail the bandit-leader wore hanging about his loins would have likely protected him from an arrow, maybe even blocked a sword's slash, but it did little to stop a magical hammer slamming upwards into his groin.

The man's slash at Branwen went wide and he doubled over in agony, falling to his knees just as his opponent found her feet. With two hands the priestess hefted her warhammer and slammed it down into the bandit's helm, caving it in and sending a shower of teeth, blood and bits of skull through the gap in the front. At the same time six arrows flew in near unison and sank into Branwen's body. When she dropped to her knees a second time there was no pause before she toppled face-first to the grass.

There were furious shouts from the remaining bandits in the trees, few as there seemed to be left. The word "Teven" was repeated several times. Probably the bandit-leader's name.

Doubtless Branwen had gone for their commander to break the enemy's resolve. The effect his death had was a bit different however. Before Imoen could sight an arrow on any of the murmuring enemies someone shouted: "Fuck this! Fuck the cargo! Burn 'em all!"

There was no debate among the brigands. In an instant six arrows wreathed in magical flames flew through the air in an arc and planted themselves into the sides of several carts. As the fire began to spread the barrage was followed by something even worse: a sphere of white-hot light that streaked through the darkness like an angry falling star. When it struck the caravan it lit the night in an explosion of flame and heat that forced Imoen to look away. With a sinking sense of failure and horror she realized that she had never found the second mage.

Back pressed to the wall of the carriage, Ashura desperately fought to maneuver and repel the broad, bat-faced creature that loomed above her. The hilt of her right sword was locked with the hilt of the hobgoblin's, metal grinding, and her other blade was buried deep in his round hide shield, keeping his arm locked back but doing little else.

Baring sharp fangs and roaring the hobgoblin pressed closer, foul breath and spittle hitting Ashura's face. He was near enough to bite, his braided beard shaking with the undulating howl. She managed to find leverage and deliver a kick that made the beast-man clinch his teeth and reel back before those fangs could clamp down on anything.

As he did Ashura pulled backwards as well. She yanked and twisted, trying to get her sword free from the hobgoblin's shield. With a lurch she succeeded but found herself grunting and nearly losing her breath from the force of a quick shield-bash. The blow slammed her against the wall of the carriage.

The hobgoblin followed the bash by hefting his sword, and Ashura crossed her own blades defensively before her. Before the next blow could be struck a thin shaft of steel flashed by and plunged into one side of the hobgoblin's neck, bursting out the other side in a shower of red. Just as quick the rapier withdrew and the orange creature instinctively dropped his sword and pressed a hand to his throat to stem the sudden tide of blood. Stabs from both of Ashura's blades sent him stumbling back and crumpling over.

At the top of the three steps that led to the carriage door Garrick crouched, trying to hold his dripping rapier steady. The line of hobgoblins that had pressed them up against the carriage was withdrawing for a moment, shields locking together as the creatures chanted something in their deep, guttural language. They growled out the words in unison, rhythmic as any war-drum.

"Thanks," Ashura whispered to her partner breathlessly. Risking a side-glance she confirmed a suspicion: Eddard's bodyguard lay still on the ground. A shame. He had fought well, quick and precise with his dueling dagger and sword. When the most recent wave of Chill warriors had pressed them back she had seen the man take an unlucky blow to the side of his head and fall to the ground, then all had been a flurry of goblin limbs and swords and shields.

Garrick took advantage of the pause in the melee to slap a new crossbow bolt in, fumbling to hold both the crossbow and the rapier at once. Ashura simply tried to catch her breath. There wouldn't be much time, she knew.

"Ahv!" one of the goblins barked and the six remaining warriors repeated the command in unison. The rumbling word of their battle-chant brought the hobgoblins together in a tightly arranged line.

"Kresh!" With the next word they locked shields, each piece of stretched hide painted bright with the upraised fist of the Chill sigil. Ashura would have been admiring their discipline and precision if she didn't want every last one of the orange bastards dead at the moment.

"Mekosh!" The next word brought their longswords forward in unison.

Before the word of attack was shouted something streaked by and sent a wave of heat over hobgoblins and humans alike. It struck one of the oxcarts nearby and the night was lit by a blinding burst of fire. Ashura shielded her face from the light and heat, back pressed firmly against the wall of the carriage and ears filled with the woosh and roar of the explosion.

Quick as she could she blinked away the lights dancing before her eyes and faced the enemy once again. For a tense moment both parties glanced about uncertainly. Crackling filled the air and the fire was spreading quickly, other flames growing where burning arrows had struck. It wouldn't be long before their battlefield was an inferno and everyone knew it.

The stalemate was broken when the door of the carriage flew open, nearly knocking Garrick off the top of the steps. Eddard appeared through the brightly lit doorway, unarmored and dressed in his usual embroidery. He reached out and snatched the bard by the shoulder, ignoring the hobgoblins.

"Garrick! Get in here!" the young nobleman ordered. "Now!"

Garrick obliged and backed up into the carriage. At the same time the hobgoblins made their choice and charged. Eddard had not invited 'Nina' along with her partner, but to the Abyss if Ashura was going to stick around and fight these things alone. She jumped onto the carriage stoop, backing away from a charging female warrior. The hobgoblin's head was covered in tightly-tied braids that were decorated with clinking bones and gems. A parry and a kick managed to knock the she-goblin back at least a couple of steps, and that was enough for Ashura to fully back through the door and slam it shut in front of her.

There was a wooden latch and a steel bolt on the other side, and she tightened them both down just before the door began to shake from the hobgoblins slashing and slamming at the wood. Plush Calishite carpets under her boots and swords out, she faced the door and drew in a deep breath.

Behind her Eddard was frantically begging Garrick for something. It was hard to hear over the panicked wailing of Eddard's lady, who was curled up with her back against a stuffed bed. "You've got to lift the spell that's on the horses!" Eddard insisted. "We're doomed if we don't go now. The caravan's on bloody fire!"

There was a helpless look on Garrick's face. "I would if I could," he explained, "but the spell's Xan's doing."

"Well you know how calming spells work. There has to be something you can do!"

Garrick looked out the nearby window and Ashura's eyes followed. The horses were still alive, four of them lined up in their harnesses, though they were fidgeting and snorting. Perhaps they were strained to the limit of the calming spell or it was wearing off on its own. Eddard must have had them harnessed when the attack started. Probably had his manservant do it. There was no sign of the servant now. Maybe readying the carriage had cost him his life.

"Something…something…" Garrick thought aloud. He had dropped his crossbow and raised his rapier, and his eyes kept shifting from the horses up front to the shaking door in the back where the hobgoblins were battering. A few sword-slashes through the edge of the door had reduced the latch to splinters and the bolt was straining, some of the nails already popping out. "There is something," Garrick muttered. "No idea if it will work."

"Then bloody try!" Eddard ordered. Without waiting for more he yanked the front window open and climbed through the narrow gap, shouting as he went. "I'll drive. Just wake the damn horses up!"

"We're all going to die," the blonde woman in the corner muttered, hugging her chest and rocking back and forth. She wore a white silken gown and seemingly little else. "Lady save us! We're all going to die! Lady Firehair deliver us." Ashura glared at her with a mix of contempt and pity. Silly to be praying to Sune at a time like this. Ugly situations called for ugly gods. It had never been clear to Ashura if the girl was a prostitute or some noble debutante Eddard had taken out on a rustic 'adventure,' but either way she had likely not signed on for anything like this.

Garrick had pulled a small brass horn that she had seen him play from time to time from his belt. He took a deep breath and whispered something to the mouthpiece before aiming the instrument at the open front window. When he pressed his lips to the horn, puffed his cheeks up like a frog and blew there was a brief shimmer around the brass, then that shimmer flew forward. Somewhere outside and to the right of the horses came a thunderous BOOM that smacked Ashura's face with a gust of wind and brought her hands to her ears.

The earsplitting burst of sound must have been meant to spook the horses out of their fugue. And it worked. Very well.

With high-pitched cries of terror all four draft horses began to buck, the front two rising fully on their hind legs and threatening to throw the cart on its side. Then the carriage took off with a jump that threw the blonde woman out of her corner and slammed Ashura into a wall. Hooves relentlessly pounding against the earth, the horses flew while the coach helplessly careened along behind them. Over the scream of the turning wheels, the cries of the horses and the beat of the hoofs came the sound of a whip cracking as Eddard desperately tried to slow the animals. He screamed out commands as he sliced the air with the leather cord, but it seemed to do little good.

Another bump rattled the cart, and the force was enough to snap the bolt fully and throw the door open. By then Ashura had dropped one sword and managed to sheath the other so that she could hug a heavy dresser. The wood shook and rattled against her but it stood up straight for the moment.

The next bump was harder, and the floor leapt up beneath them, everything flying into the air. The blonde girl's head hit the ceiling with a crack and she came down limp as a rag on the floor. A few more minor bumps dragged her to the doorway. Her eyes fluttered and she started to come to and feel around just before another shake of the cart sent her tumbling through the doorway, out into the darkness.

A few breaths later the thump of the horseshoes against the ground became a clacking sound. Are we on the road now? The sound continued, and after a time the carriage seemed to even slow a fraction. The room was wobbling less as well, as if they were straightening.

After a few more terrifying moments rumbling down the road Ashura dared a glance out the nearest window. Even with her helmet it was hard to discern much in the darkness. One thing she did notice though was an absence. There were no trees in sight; just a great gulf and a distant horizon out the window. A closer look gave her the impression that the road dropped off sharply too. Great. Was this the ridge that led down to Peldvale? That landmark had supposedly been close when they had made camp.

The whip was cracking and with a hoarse voice Eddard was shouting: "Whoa! Whoa!"

Perhaps they slowed a little more just before the arrows struck the wood of the carriage with a thunk-thunk and Eddard's next 'Whoa!' became a gurgling cry. In the same instant one of the horses let out an undulating scream and the others ran and tugged at the carriage as if all the Hells were upon them. The injured horse tumbled and got dragged along, crying all the way, and the coach wobbled and rocked worse than it had before, careening from one pair of wheels to the other.

Two breaths later the whole thing pitched fully to the side and slid down the embankment. The fall slammed Ashura and Garrick face-first into the wall and then sent them flying up. All the world was a whirlwind of colliding wood around them, Ashura's head slamming against one wall or another again and again till the last lurch knocked her straight into darkness.

With a slap, a shout and a sting Ashura came to, lying face down in the dirt. There was a heavy weight on her legs and waist and the black of night had been replaced by the dull glow of predawn. With a little wriggling she managed to slip forward. She could move all her limbs. Good. With a scraping sound she climbed out from under the object, which she noticed was a cracked wooden dresser.

Through bleary eyes she looked up at the figure standing over her, and with a thick tongue she asked: "Wha…what?"

A husky female voice replied. "It's nothing dear. I asked you to wake up and you seem to have obliged."

"Who…"

"Not terribly important." The figure was resolving before her now. The woman had stepped back and leaned against the shattered ruin of the carriage, twiddling a throwing knife between her ring-covered fingers. She had an olive complexion and a windburnt face, and though she looked somewhat middle-aged her hair was a rich light brown and there was a chiseled, statuesque beauty to her features. She wore a very low-cut leather halter that bared her midriff, and her tanned shoulder sported a tattoo that resembled a scythe, the blade encircling a large dot. Her legs were clad in the sort of sturdy, shortened pants favored by laborers and sailors above finely made leather boots.

"The important thing," the woman went on, "is that we've taken your cargo and we're taking you as well. Don't fret about it: no harm will come to you so long as you behave. Corsair's code." Behind the woman and the wreckage stood several more figures in cloaks and leather armor, bristling with weapons. Bandits, much like the ones Ashura had been fighting for days. Garrick stood straight and still in front of them, his hands raised in the air and a sword pointing at his back.

Instinctively Ashura's hands shot to her swordbelt. She found nothing there.

The woman reached behind her and lifted the belt, along with the weapon attached. "Afraid you're going to have to part with this beauty," she noted. "Perhaps if you prove yourself worthy you can replace it with company steel later. Now," the woman asked as the bandits silently closed in, "are you going to come along gently?"

End of Part Two

Author's Note: Yep, that is indeed Safana, following this story's tradition of introducing some characters in slightly different places and circumstances than usual. She was a pirate so I figured it wouldn't be a stretch for her to join a group of bandits, and she may have ulterior motives that we'll learn about later.