A retelling of my long defunct The Longsword and the Bow. It has been ten years since I wrote what would be the last chapter, and it's only recently I had the energy and ability to take it up again. New pairings, new characters, and ten years' worth of editing growth will hopefully help tell a story spanning ten years of my life.


The Rain and the Merchant

In which men swim in mud and a horse is offended

There were brief occasions she'd been gifted a good day, when the roads were smooth, the skies were blissfully clear, and her clients were understanding and well behaved. More so, her days contained roads marred with deep puddles and fallen trees, skies dark and unpleasant, and travelers pessimistic about life in general.

And then came the cold, soaked, and sodden days, with impassable roads and consistent suffering granted by tiresome clients and their tedious complaints. Often, she'd mulled over trussing one up to leave behind on principle alone.

It was one of those days.

The skies had opened hours ago, pouring out in an unrelenting torrent that stirred a chill in the air. She had been hoping beyond hope the weather would hold out, just a bit longer, until they reached the way station. But of course, nature was entertaining other ideas; here she sat wrapped tight in an oiled cloak, hood drawn, one hand kept close to her chest for warmth and murmuring words of comfort to her equally miserable horse.

They had been steadily marching for two weeks, and she thanked the Valar their destination was only a two day's ride from the way station. The weather holding as it was, however, left her uncertain on forcing the wagon and stoic riders any farther; something critical could give in the worst moment – be it a wheel, horse, or temperaments in general. Thus far, she'd been able to keep most everyone in hospitable moods, their spirits only recently drowning in the steadily worsening, wretched weather.

One, however, never reached hospitable.

He was a merchant of sorts, on his way to a town "in desperate need of his wares". An unlikely statement garnering her unamused response; she took his money all the same. For the moment, he was grumbling, mumbling, and fussing about anything and everything he could, shouting out laments about the cold and increasingly rough road, eventually moving to the fate of his clothing on their arrival. His antics were grating even to her, enough to set her teeth on edge; from the temperaments of her men, she knew all were ready to cut the simpering weasel loose and leave him to whatever calamity struck him.

The first half of their payment mutedly tinkled in her saddle bag, temporarily sparing the man of such a fate; if the merchant became removed from his own trip, they wouldn't receive the remaining amount owed.

So, they all gathered a resolve reserved for orc raids and hysterical merchants, each man adhering to his post and praying silently their reprieve was just ahead.

They rode in that fashion for miles, her outriders monitoring the encroaching bramble and thicket. Her own eyes scrutinized the sodden and sloppy trail ahead while her charge groused about it all. A bruised sky overhead darkened the day more than the time allowed; what the sun called midday, the clouds called dusk. Rain blurred the forest edges and tricked the eye into seeing phantoms and specters; progress was delayed as riders slowed to peer deeper in the humid, oppressive darkness.

Fortune had been with them most of the journey, but "luck" had never been friendly, nor had it visited her often, as proved by their situation. On the very rare occasion the traveling went well, she attributed their "good fortune" to skill and experience.

Her associates were men forged from long nights under glinting stars and ragged encounters with beasts in the dark. In honesty, true trust was not shared among them, though admittedly at times their lives had been placed in another's hands. They all were a rare sight: not Rangers, not servants, and excellent at their professions.

They were not all good men, but each worked well for coin and a good time.

The waystation was only an hour or so away, however the weather could skew her estimate by some amount. Her mental strength might hold for that hour if the insufferable man they escorted could keep himself together. If not, the threat of leaving him behind wouldn't remain a simple threat; paying the remainder amount would be the only action to ensure his ending the journey in acceptable health and his wares safely deposited.

Her thoughts had wandered into a state she'd often chastised others for; the musings may have hindered her sight but not her instincts. The lingering pensiveness dissolved with the sharp rainfall and left her eyes free to see the hazy outline of man-shaped objects, all lined across the dismal road a dozen horse lengths ahead. Failing, watery light obstructed an exact count; the shapes appeared perhaps eight in number, stretched in a living barrier designed to impede their progress.

Thieves.

Highwaymen.

The desperate.

With a small change of her grip, her gelding's reins pulled him up and shortened his stride. Her checked speed brought up two of her outriders, sharing not a word as both men scanned the area ahead. The pair's drenched and pitiable horses brushed alongside her, their riders' legs chafing her knees. One held up a gloved hand just outside his cloak and with his fingers motioned "five-three". She acknowledged his assessment, resulting in their retreat back to the wagon and taking up positions; one sent the same gesture to the rider covering their rear.

The pair discreetly peeled away their cloaks, freeing up the well-cared for weapons of their trade. In an instant, they were thoroughly soaked, but preferred being prepared over comfortable. The final rider, seeing the others ready themselves, closed the gap between them and took his overlook position.

In regard to escort teams, a trio was modest in number. The doubling of expectations for their positions could weigh unbearably on other men, but she was confident in their capabilities. Said confidence encouraged a mindful focus on her own tasks, which removed her inclusion in the many minor decisions of the party. To the man, her outriders solidly held steadfast, including the youngest.

Tall and carrying the muscle of a hard-working youth, Tye would throw himself in any task put to him. The older men would tease, but both respected his talent with a bow. Carden, her indifferent, roguish knife-devil rarely had a word for anyone; if he indeed spoke to the boy, his curt comments reflected only on the bowman's performance or attitude.

Glibness was reserved solely for the swordsman Syloris. An elegantly lethal man in possession of devastating beauty, there was little to be done about the duelist's immediate draw to those around him. Their archer, too, had been ensnared by Syloris' vast aura and their wandering conversations spanned a world of interests.

The flesh and bone obstacle ahead inched closer as she rode; more and more of that barrier solidified in the rain and allowed her to discern their haggard appearance adorned with varying drawn weapons. One of their ragged numbers could always create his luck in the messy muck around them, leaving her and her three-man company in a tight spot; the desperation of men often filled the cracks of inexperience, leaving seasoned swordsmen at the mercy of the unknown. Often, she'd seen those "untrained" cause quite a headache to the more experienced; in the wilds she traveled, even the smallest of assumptions could prove deadly.

Heedful of such possibilities, she chose a tactful route, hoping to untangle the situation before any blood could be drawn.

After riding to within a respectful distance of the center group, the woman dismounted. One hand loosely gripped a slippery rein while the other remained tucked under her cloak. The men were harsh in appearance: hair of varying colors laid plastered over their scowling, scruffy faces, and mixed clothing thrown together under ragged cloaks imparted the look of strained intimidation. Their weapons were old and abused, a mix of rusted swords and pitted knives, an axe tossed in for good measure. The presence of bows was lacking, though she didn't think overmuch about it; her own archer would find it tricky to shoot cleanly in the weather they suffered in, never mind the miserable troupe of thieves.

She waited a heartbeat before the man in the middle spoke up, his voice nasally and grating.

"T'is 'ere's a robb'ry."

Exasperation rose quickly. She understood their lack of acquaintance with the nuances of highway thievery, but for some reason their naivety irked her. Professional thieves were to the point, making demands and issuing threats necessary to move matters along. It was obviously, painfully not the case here.

Her accented voice cut through the clangorous rain, pitched high enough to be heard over the din.

"Yes. That is apparent."

When nothing more forthcoming, the man - with an impressive lack of teeth and bountiful angry blemishes - mentally hoisted himself and waggled a dirty butcher's knife at her cheek.

"Yer gonna give'us everthin', includin' that wagun o'there. Them horses, too."

His mouth split in a craggy smile as he reached for her animal's nose. With a toss of its head, the gelding took an agitated step back. The pimply man's eyes narrowed, and he scowled as his sly blue eyes fixed on her. Uncaring, she shrugged and scratched the wet horses' chin.

"I don't think he approves."

Before a retort could be made, she cut in.

"I will speak to your headman."

Others in the line looked slightly unsettled as they cut their eyes to a man just left of her. Satisfied with the result, she opened her mouth to continue when the sly rat piercingly raised his voice, waving his dingy knife closer. The blade intruded her space, enough so she could feel the touch as he brushed the edges of her hood.

"I be the man in charge! Me! So, listen good cause-"

In a startling move, her right hand unsheathed, in part, the sword at her hip. Its pommel impacted the man's jaw with a cracking noise heard by all and sent the thief crumpling to sloppy earth. A gurgling screech tainted the stifling air. He'd bitten his tongue nearly in two and bright red streamed down his chin in impressive amounts; it was no stretch of imagination to think him a dead man.

She'd unexpectedly come to her patience limit, and in the span of a thought she'd partially drawn her blade; the movement had been quick, and the action was completed before most highwaymen were aware. The last third of her unadorned longsword had remained sheathed, the rest returning with a much-practiced, neat motion. Those men who'd managed a look at her swift action whispered to those who hadn't, sharing furrowed brows between them.

They lost their hesitancy. Anger replaced it.

The competent looking man to her left gazed down at the mewling wretch on the ground, showing no emotion other than indifference. As he turned his gaze upon her, his men crept in on her wide personal space. With little passion, his gritty voice issued a few words to think on.

"I don't much like him either. All the same, we're taking the lot of it, including heads if we have to."

Hidden as she was behind her hood, her narrowed eyes and slight frown weren't available for the approaching band. Her thoughts bent to the master of the thieves; he wasn't unprepared, his tone brooked no argument, and the chill in his voice mirrored the bite in the air. She studied his bearing, one of a man accustomed to armor and it required an adjustment to her previous assessment of untrained thief.

Inwardly, she prepared herself for an onerous duel.

Regardless, the situation could have been resolved quietly. It was conceivable she could've diffused their messy engagement, but with a shout, the miserable and overdressed merchant chose to make himself shrilly known.

The balding fop had clambered out of the wagon and floundered in the mire under the protestations of her men. Hearing his sharp yowls, her brown eyes briefly closed; they opened when she noticed squelching footsteps behind her. The stick thin merchant was pompously dressed well above his station and squawked quite animatedly at the flustered thieves surrounding her. He seemed oblivious to the tenseness of the air, as the ragged group decided they might as well finish the unconventional heist with blood.

Primed for the start, she saw their opening move and reacted accordingly. The merchant's collar was snatched in time to haul him off his feet and into the sludge at her back. A sword swiped the space he'd just occupied, with enough force to cleave head from shoulders. The situation then erupts, shouting coming from all directions, the scream of her client mixed with wild utterances from the highwaymen. Above all, the pounding of hooves thundered on as Syloris and Carden streaked through the rain on horseback, blades drawn as they bore down on the hastily scattered line of thieves.

She in turn released the eager animal beside her, taking a single step back to form distance between her and the startled thieves. The client was desperately crawling away, scraping at the muck with hands and feet, the weight of his soaked, fine clothing dragging him down as it twisted about his legs.

The highwaymen registered too late what was happening as her men took a run through their line, opening throats and rending arms; the riders wheeled about for another bloody pass before dismounting. She gazed blankly at the thief captain, his battered sword held high with both hands gripped tight on stained leather, and a knowing look shadowed his face.

He was aware their clash wouldn't end well.

It didn't.

He rushed her in the chaos, no strategy just brunt force intent on bringing her down in a singular blow. He had been a trained soldier once, though there must have been hard years between then and now. No matter, as her mind saw the waiver of his strides in the mud, saw the white-knuckle of his grip, and knew his attack would be faulty.

It didn't mean she should take his charge lightly.

The distance was closed, and she allowed him the start of a downward swing. With swift motions, her sword rang free and snapped up, the knell of clashing steel drowned by the cacophony surrounding them. She made no attempt to stop his attack; there wasn't need to put such energy behind the move. Instead, her body contorted, and her blade caught the incoming blow, harmlessly redirecting it. The action sent his worn longsword out and away, rendering useless his superior strength. Capitalizing on the opening, she stepped in, a knife glinting in her free hand as it was slyly drawn from her side.

With practiced violence, she slid the shorter blade past a gap in his shoddy armor and seated it deeply in his gut.

The captain's eyes grew wide, and his hand reached down to grasp at the knife, attempting desperately to wrench it free but unable to pry her loose. He staggered while scarlet poured from his middle, sword lowering as he stared at her and a curse forming on his lips until she twisted the blade again.

He choked in a breath as his sword was defiantly lifted once more; the stout captain was weakened, and a bat of her blade was all it took to send his old steel away. With no more time to spend on the man, she planted a mud coated boot on his waist and shoved. The highwayman stumbled backwards, tripping over the slurry of muck and his own feet before landing in a bloodied heap. Around her, she could hear the final sounds of combat and caught wind of her men calling to one another over the hushed cries of those still fighting.

The encounter had taken mere heartbeats. The thieves were anything but trained, and the surprise of her men riding them down was enough to scatter those remaining. She took a cursory look around to observe the dead, noting the number of arrows which had found accurate placement in armor weak points. The woman shot a glance to her third rider, noting Tye was still holding his post at the wagon.

Her knife, still in hand, was being washed clean by the deluge, the bright steel reflecting what little light remained. The band's leader was knelt at her feet, holding his insides in a valiant effort to keep them inside. Her instinct called her to ignore his pain, as punishment for what he'd brought on them. A learned behavior overtook those instincts and encouraged her to remember no living thing deserved a slow death. Sheathing her sword, she took a knee behind the chief, noting the suffering and anger and fear in his eyes. There were more differences than not between men, but pain was felt by all. Every man felt anger. Every man felt fear.

Every man suffered.

Threading her hand in his hair, she snapped back the captain's head to expose a vulnerable throat; her blade, sharp and true, slid easily into blue veins just under thin skin. Left behind was a scarlet trail blooming brightly in the dismal light. The blood coating her gloved fingers mixed with the grime on his scalp, an uncomfortable sensation to her skin as she tilted the highwayman's head farther, pulling the wound wide and spilling more scarlet onto his chest. The brilliant color quickly dulled as it met with rain and stiff fabric, creating a dark stain she carefully kept solely on him. He abruptly relaxed, and releasing her hold she dropped his body back to the earth with an expression of distaste; she was never certain if that distaste was strictly for others or herself. Her knife was efficiently made clean with a swatch of wool from the dead man's cloak. The material was thin, barely able to keep warmth and sported holes in some places, patches in others.

They had nothing, so they stole. They were starving and cold, so they stole. They were trying to survive.

They had died just the same.

Finished now with the bloodshed, the weary guide sheathed her short blade and stood; she would forever find disgust in such ludicrous combat but knew too well the hearts of men. She paused at those thoughts, before unexpectedly turning on her heel and searching for the one person she pressingly needed words with.

She found him still crawling his way back to the wagon, covered in filth and lovely clothes ruined beyond recognition. Anger swept up, preventing her from sheathing her sword and instead driving it deep through the mud to stand alone. Upon reaching the merchant, she took hold of his collar from behind and hoisted him to his feet, causing a squeak of fright and pain. With a shove forward, she forcefully slammed the man against soaked wagon boards. He cried out again as she twisted him around, her grisly gloves fisting great handfuls of his tunic.

"Stop! Stop! I hired you! Don't forget who I am-"

His words halted rather abruptly as she cracked him against the boards once more, loosening his teeth and rattling his brain. The woman released one hand long enough to rip her hood back, exposing a face that was, in a word, displeased.

"In this moment, your station means very little. If you instigate another problem for me or my men, I will dump your sniveling arse and leave your flesh for the orc."

Jarring his head one last time, she released his ruined clothing and walked away as he scrambled into the wagon's interior and sputtered out impotent threats. Ignoring the merchant and the amused looks of both the driver and Tye, she strode back out to the jagged line of bodies. Syloris and Carden had already performed a cursory search on the dead, picking out anything of worth, and fetching usable arrows for their archer. They were mounting up again, the reins of her wandering horse already gathered.

She didn't mind they appropriated whatever they found on the once-thieves, as those men were now dead and had no need of anything material. Tired eyes flitting down, she caught burgundy stains mixing in the numerous puddles, watching as interrupted red rivulets from the corpses slushed together in the pounding rain. She didn't know why, but the image caused her to frown; she should have been accustomed to that scene, and though the death of another wasn't nearly the upsetting act it had once been, there were times she felt...soiled. The current casualties were just more added to a growing number, one she thought may never stop climbing.

Eight dead in an avoidable clash.

The dusky-haired woman dragged up her wet hood, cringing slightly at the feel of more icy water trickling down her neck. Though she wished otherwise, she would never escape days like today, where someone took a misstep, and the world went wrong. Her brown eyes were again drawn to the sight at her feet, watching as the rain spattered scarlet onto her boots.

"Rhegda."

Her name softly spoken from above jerked her free of her musings. Glancing up, her gaze met with Carden's as he handed down her sable gelding's saturated reins. The leather was exchanged, and she tossed it over her horse's head. Wasting no more thoughts on the dead, Rhegda smoothly mounted and gathered up her reins, shifting her cloak to accommodate. At her backwards look, the wagon driver whipped up his team and the steadfast trio returned to their normal guard positions.

Rhegda settled in for the ride as her mount picked his way around the dead, and knew full well problems came in threes.