The old road snaked thinly through a vast grove, ancient trees and choking shrubbery encroaching on the paths edge on either side. Noise seeped inside the stage coach from the depths of the surrounding woods. The occasional cracking of branches right at the roads edge, where the moons dim light struggled powerlessly against the consuming blackness of the forest made the situations perils evident. The cobbles quaked under the marred wheels of the stage coach and the iron-shoed feet of the horses hauling the adventurers along their course.
You sat inside the cabin, together with the two mercenaries that had been issues to protect you on this first journey; to the scene of your work and my ambition. They were sitting on the other side of the coach, opposite each other, both looking through the smattered window pane with profoundly disaffected expressions. Their gaze escaped the surrounding scenery, fixated on something far beyond the monochrome blur of the passing firs. The shared coach space was too small, felt cramped and the air tingled with unease. All three of you were strangers, connected through an undisclosed bond, moving towards the same destination, but disorganized and scattered at heart.
What you knew of the men had been relinquished rather reluctantly by your contact at the network. They had gone a long way to cast a shade of utter anonymity over their operations and were willing to budge only under the most dire of motivations. Apt as you were, you found your way.
The man sitting to your left went by the name Reynauld. His long silver-grey hair and beard framed a face weathered by combat and bloodshed. He had been a proud crusader, committing murder and all manner of horrific cruelty in the name of the light. He sat there in full armor, save for his helmet, which he held firmly under his arm. The plates of his protective suit had lost their previous shine, deep dents and cuts told neverending tales of armed, barbaric combat. The scarred longsword he clutched in his gauntlets suggested years, if not decades, of use. What displaced him from the holy frontlines into your scheming, devising arms he would not say. Or rather you had not asked. But you understood that a knight of such obstinate convictions would be nigh impossible to pry from his path of rapturous zealotry under normal circumstances. Something had driven him off the path. To you.
Dismas, who sat across from the broken warrior, was an even stranger encounter. He was dressed from top to bottom in thick ragged clothing, his mouth and nose covered by a crimson scarf. The cloth gloves he wore had the same color, but washed out and pale from the years of use. As you scrutinized him so closely, you realized that the only part of him he allowed the world to see was the bit of his face above the scarfs end. Everything else was shrouded and cloaked underneath layers of worn husky fabric. Even his hair was a pitch black. For a short moment you thought he might notice you studying him so intently, but soon you understood that he too was staring at something far beyond the eyes reach. Far beyond the shaking cart and the surrounding trees. He was not here. Not even the deep forests unlight could parallel the darkness emanating from his eyes. The deep blackness contrasted greatly with his pale skin, at least that which he held not veiled beneath cloth. The blade tucked under his belt was full of notches, yet shiny, freshly sharpened, the leather strap and metal buckle keeping it tightly by his side. He fiddled with the flint lock pistol in his hands, nervously clicking and releasing the activation lever. He used to be a highwayman. A thief and a murderer. Lurking the dead of night in wait of innocent targets to fall victim to his assault. From what you had heard, he had lived the life of a plunderer for years, decades maybe. What brings a man like him into a life like this? What made him give up the freedom of the lonesome road for a life in bondage, cornered and consumed by contract, call and obligation? Ever more coin perhaps?
Most of the networks mercenaries had stories such as theirs. At least that was what you had gathered, when they made it clear to you, that no further information would be given on any of their contacts. Through wit and clever implement you had relieved them of details on these two men, so at least you knew who it was that you had entrusted your life to on this journey. But that was it. You would know who had forsaken their duty when the eventual errant knife or bullet would tear through your throat. But from their rigorously sealed lips you would pry no more. The network and its inner workings were regrettably shrouded in utter mystery.
Though no measure of hidden secrets or shady doings could compare in seriousness to the utter derangement of the man that had been sent to lead your coach. Lashing downwards at the squealing horses, laughing into the emptiness surrounding him, he was a shell of a shell. A husk of a husk. It was hard to imagine that somewhere in the vast recesses of his mind there was still a person, a human man, fleeting and suffering and running from whatever it was that had broken him all this time ago. Snapped him in two, like a matchstick. But for all intents and purposes, his part in this was to haul you and your trusted champions to the end of this forsaken road and bring you to the seat of my research. And then again and again, for all those who followed. As eerie as it was, it was unclear to you who had even chosen this man for the job. The network contact had, as opposed to his stern and irked demeanor when asked about the past of his staff, displayed sober disinterest when you inquired about the handler. "It has been taken care of" is all he said then. In the moment that had been enough for you, but looking back you realized there were a few question you wished you had asked.
With your arrival close at hand you could feel the task before you become dreadfully manifest. Doubt, eagerly pushed aside by an errant, untiring mind, began to seep back in through the cracks left by mounting fatigue. Months of work and a long, arduous journey had left you reeling and now uncertainty was flooding your strenuously beating heart with questions of mountainous nature. Just how bad was it? You had known what you were in for the moment your fingers broke that cursed seal, dragged that damnable prose from its paper shell, but you did not know the magnitude of disaster that awaited you. A mishap so sheer apocalyptic in nature that even your enigmatic ancestor found himself powerless against it. Struggled on, in futility, until he could no longer.
How would you and a band of troubled, murky soldiers stack up against an event such as this? Why had he called you out here? To watch you too suffer the same unavoidable fate and fall to ashes as a final mockery? Or did he genuinely hope you could undo what he did? The lack of answers, the total freefall you were slipping into more and more with every turned wheel, every set hoof, it troubled you. Yet your face remained composed. It always did. Though the bludgeonings of uncertainty rained harshly down upon you, it was your final standard for yourself, that you were not to buckle under them.
Within fractions of a moment your self-controlled expression splintered into a wide-eyed gaze of utter shock as the coaches wall and window exploded right beside you. A barrage of metal pellets zipped past your face, accompanied by a loud boom and followed by splinters and shards of wood and glass. A guttural shout from the forest verified your worst fear. An ambush. The wagon came to a prompt halt as the handler yanked the horses cords backwards and the stunned animals stopped in their track. "Drive, you fool!" you yelled in a panicked rage, but he would not. To your bitter shock and disappointment, this man, unbound and insane as he was, would not risk his life and what remained of his wellbeing for you.
"Yer coin or ye lives!" bellowed an ugly voice from the woods, "What'll it be, yer highness?" You heard the band of bandits snicker and laugh eagerly. There were three or four out there at the minimum. You noticed your companions had broken from their silent stare into the woods at long last and were looking at you, their impassive eyes inquiring your directions. Their gaze fell not on your stoic face, the face of a leader, but on the stunned and strained expression of a person overwhelmed. Your only truly relevant rule, broken within moments. Their faces though were just the same as when you had first perceived them. Uncanny.
You needed to make a decision here, situate yourself as leader. You calculated the odds of the this ambush turning out in your favor. Then the cost of the equipment. Then the cost of your soldier's lives. Disgruntled, you understood fast that neither time nor battle were on your side here. The broken crusader and the unarmored rogue with his dagger and pistol would fade quickly against a band of brutish fiends from the forest. Again, a shout came from the woods, not taunting this time, but wild and angry.
"You can have it all!" your caustic voice rang out to the men around your cart. Ordering new supplies was already a much despised hitch in your plan, but losing two men this early was not an option. This conflict required a quick resolution, so you could move onwards with what remained of your plan. But your retort was met with reveling, gloating laughter. The leaders hail rang nauseatingly in your ear.
"Y'know, yer highness, we been thinkin' it over! An' we came to the conclusion we'd rather take it from ye!"
Again roaring, rapturous laughter escalated outside the coach. Then a shrill, disturbed wail joined in from the front of the coach, before you heard hammers cocking. The situations control had slipped, effortlessly, from your grasp. You were about to order your companions to defend you, when you saw an armored silhouette speeding past you.
Not allowing any more time to slip past, the knight kicked the brittle door of its hinges and leapt out of the vehicle. You peeked after him. The helmet had finally found its place on his head, his visage hidden behind a nameless, imposing iron mask. Sword drawn he took his stand outside the coach. Before him they stood - four hooded and masked rogues, bearing blazing torches and bloodthirsty knives. Surprised by your allies sudden intervention, you glanced to your left, looking for the contracted highwayman, but he was gone. The broken window he had been seated next to still held on to a piece of cloth that it tore from his coat. Suddenly you were all alone in this cart, the soldier outside your only ally. The rogue had betrayed you. You and your wares were merely prey for his bunch in the forest. In retrospect it appeared so obvious, criminals don't change! Time and stress had gotten the best of you, what a fool you had been. Fear and panic burrowed relentlessly into your skull, mounting pressure from within, but the time to ruminate had long passed. Fearing another ambush from the now empty window, you pulled the small knife from your pocket you stormed out the vehicle, taking a stand behind your only defender. Next to the warrior in his thick and heavy armor you felt naked and vulnerable - the small blade in your hand a cynical joke to the weapons wielded by the men around you. Your eyes searched the surrounding shrubbery for an easy escape route. But the tangled mess of vine and thorn chocked every hope of flight.
Perceiving him as an easy mark, the first two attackers charged at the old crusader, waving their blades eagerly. As the first came within reach of his victim, Reynauld raised his blade high into the air, just to bring it back down upon the attacker with the might of a thousand warriors. The sturdy blade broke it's way through the rogues dagger like a sledgehammer through rotten wood, descending directly upon the mans face and crushing his head to bits. There was barely enough time for his expression to turn from an overconfident grin into sheer bloodcurdling panic. He must have underestimated this old knight and surely so had you. Blood ran down the blade embedded in the bandits mangled body as it lifelessly sunk to the ground. The second fighter was quickly disposed of with a gauntlet strike to the jaw and fell down to the earth just as quick as his companion. His blade made contact with the crusaders armor for a few moments, pathetically scratching against it, but powerless against the steel plating. Reynauld let no time go to waste as he quickly withdrew the blade from his previous victim and brought it down upon the man skittering on the ground, piercing him through the back. A squeal of spinechilling agony was all that could be heard from the rogue, before the crusader stomped his head into the dirt. Accompanied by an ugly cracking noise, the mans skull burst under the weight of the metal boot.
The remaining attackers, first frozen in shock, now took their chance, yelling furiously while rushing towards you. Clutching your knife, you beheld the approaching enemies. The brawler attacking Reynauld was swiftly dispatched - parried by a heavily plated left arm he got thrown off balance before too getting skewered on the crusaders blade. As Reynauld withdrew it from the mans body, blood and guts spilled to the floor and into the mans clutched hands. A shriek of anguish echoed along the old road before this thug too fell over, whimpering silently, to rejoin the dirt he was born from. Meanwhile you fell target to a vigorous attack yourself and despite the quick disposal of three aggressors, your armored guardian would not be able to aid you with this hooded outlaw. Terrified by the sudden demise of his comrades, this one had stopped in his tracks, kept his distance and drawn the gun from his belt. The barrel pointed directly towards you, you saw the look on his face, his grimace of distress and fury. Stunned by the imagery of approaching demise unfolding in your head you were not able to bring yourself to raise your blade in defense, let alone fight back. Your jaw clenched as the knife slipped from your hand and fell to the muddy ground.
This short moment of silence, that felt to you like an entire lifetime, stretched out endlessly - before a crackling shot finally ripped it apart. At last, torn from your paralysis, you jumped back in surprise and horror. Blood came spurting from the mans eyes and nose. The loaded gun dropped from his limp hand to his feet as he fell to the ground with a muffled noise. His eyes, so wild and furious mere moment ago had turned glassy and lifeless. Hastily you looked around, scanning your surroundings, unsure of what or who had just rescued you from certain demise. Then you saw him. Within the blackness of the forest stood Dismas. His left hand raised, holding the still smoking pistol, the other keeping another hooded thug in a firm headlock. After returning his trusty weapon to its strap he swiftly drew the dagger from his belt and cut his victims throat in one clean, nonchalant motion. Veins tore and gurgling squeals of approaching death filled the nights sudden emptiness. After a while these noise faded too and Dismas let the corpse drop to the floor.
He freed himself from the tangling shrubbery he was stood in and returned to the coach with a faint hatefulness in his eyes. "Brigands", he murmured. He stepped back into the damaged wagon and so did the crusader. In a moment of shame, you retrieved your dropped weapon before following the men back inside. This weapon must never leave your side again. And something like this, falling victim to ambush, relying on the vigor of others to protect your life, shall never happen again. The madman who had guided you to this point was still sitting atop the vehicle. He had watched the entire skirmish unfold from his perch. After watching you safely take your seats again, he erupted in an ecstatic laughter and forcefully brought the whip down on the animals tied to the front of the wagon. You could not tell whether it was unbridled joy or a faint dread that was there, mixed within the mans cacophonous sounds.
The two dark figures who had just saved your life were looking the other way once more. Into the nothingness outside. Into nowhere. You were the only one to take a final glance at the bloodsoaked mud outside the vehicle. The bodies lying there were left to rot and dissolve into the earth and mud that had spawned them. Five souls, extinguished in the span of a few moments. And you could have been one of them. As you watched the scene slowly slip past the coaches window your rational mind did its best to erase all you had seen and perhaps even more so, what you had felt. But no matter your efforts, you could not shake this intense gloom. This sense of ruin. You had seen their faces as all life finally dripped from their opened veins. The despair, the cries for help that would not come, the agony in every muscle on their strained, dirty faces. The impression of a loaded gun barrel pointed right at your head, mere moments away from exploding death right through your panicked expression. These images, you knew then, would not leave you be for many days and nights to come. They had firmly burned themselves into your memory.
This is the world you had decided to enter. Your initial confidence was gone. The situations dire peril, apparently lost on the two men beside you, had once more reignited the crackling dark flame of dread within your stomach, had reopened the portal through which the old and new fears streamed endlessly. As the wagon sped off once more into the night, you bent every effort towards eradicating the accumulating doubts from your head and fixed your stoic, empty gaze back on the road. The forgotten town was not far now. Not long before you would, at last, reunite with your fateful place of origin. The village by the coast.
