Just keep low. Denlo knows he cannot afford to be noticed. Not by this caravan, nor anyone. Certainly not this close to the city. He’s only been travelling a day. While he doubts they have finished the search of the city, he knows better than underestimate the Authority. So he needs to stay low and keep to the foliage. Out of sight of the road, whenever he hears oncomers. Just let whatever carts approach pass without knowing he is anywhere nearby.
His hope that night, after the sword retrieval, had failed. The Authority had locked things down. Denlo barely escaped Tiarta-Urgrin in time. The Authority should still be looking for him. Likely offering a reward. This cart happens to be two large wagons, with at least one guard he notices from the foliage. Likely a merchant, as they have the money for hired help and plenty of carrying capacity in their wagons. Denlo knew plenty of merchants, none of them would turn down a reward, unless there was something in it for them. Greedy bastards. He is better than that, but that is unimportant right now. Now he needs to stay low and let this merchant pass.
Fortunately, being unnoticed is one thing Denlo knows how to do. It comes naturally when pretending to be Elfkin. And the cart passes swiftly, on it’s way down the Coastal Thoroughfare. They could be heading towards Yrsetra or Irritea. At this point, it is impossible for Denlo to tell which. But, either way, matters little to him. They are both ports, and following in the trail of a merchant’s cart will mean bandits should be cleared by the cart’s guards and shouldn’t bother the young fugitive. What that means is if he keeps up without getting too close, he can probably make it to whatever city they’re heading for entirely unharassed. Should be easy enough to keep up, they seem to be travelling at walking pace. The driver of the cart is a middling merchant then, Denlo figures. He only has footmen as guards rather than scouts.
The wrapped blade weighs heavy in his hand, as though it dislikes being left unused. But Denlo is in control, and the last time he used the blade thoughtlessly, he ended up a fugitive for killing the second son of the first son of a minister. Better to avoid that fate twice over, he feels. He keeps the blade, as it is useful in an emergency and likely to fetch a good price at the port, enough to get him onto a boat, at least. And, for the day, Denlo follows the cart, making good time. As night falls, the cart stops. Denlo nearly gets too close, but heads up into the foliage as soon as he notices the fires. It may be his elfish side, or his orkish side, or perhaps just in his life as an urchin-laborer, or some combination of them, but being tired rarely slows Denlo down much. That said, he also knows better than to journey without sleep. Just because he can doesn’t mean it is good for his body or mind. Bodies need rest and minds need dreams, to thrive and be healthy. He finds and heads to the most comfortable of tree branches, just out of sight of the merchant’s camp but close enough to not be noticed by wandering banditry. Denlo stretches out along the branch and, holding the blade across his chest, tries to get some sleep.
He dreams well, though not particularly pleasantly. For a time, how long he can’t tell. His dreams, though violent in and of themselves, are violently interrupted by a scream. He comes to, still lying on his branch, at the clamor. No, Denlo thinks, it isn’t a scream. It’s a battlecry. The mercenaries are under attack, and they wish to awaken their compatriots. Denlo slides on his masked helmet and, like a jungle predator on the prowl, slides from tree to tree to find a better position. To watch the battle.
Seven bandits against three mercenaries. Only two of the mercenaries are in armor. The third seems to have nothing but her tower shield to protect herself and no clue where the attacks are originating. They likely will all die. His thoughts are on fire. To remain hidden is the same as letting them, and the merchants, all die. But stepping in means showing himself. Revealing himself and his blade. No, Denlo quickly corrects his instinctual possessiveness. It’s just another sword, not his blade. He’s no warrior or adventurer, he doesn’t need a blade.
As the bandit archers fire and both arrows strike the unarmored woman true, his mind is made up. Denlo lets the blanket fall away from his wicked blade, wrapping it around his waist. In the darkness of night and the shadow of the canopy, the blade barely glints as he readies it. The first archer is on a rock, just off the opposite side of the road. A good position against the mercenaries. Not against him. He tosses his grappling hook onto a higher branch and, with a push, swings out into the open space, using his momentum to fly at the archer. The blade slices cleanly through her neck as though she were but a figure of butter. One bandit down. Six remaining.
One more archer for him to take care of before engaging the fighters in camp. The archer is just outside the camp, firing from the underbrush. He also notices the death-dealing swordsman who flew through the air and slayed his comrade. Turning towards this new combatant, the archer manages to get a shot off before Denlo makes it to him. The arrow slides between sections of leather, finding purchase in his lower stomach. With a great, arching strike, Denlo clefts the second archer in twain, from the left shoulder down through the right side of his hip. With a flick of the blade, he turns towards the camp. Two down, four to go.
The two on four fight at the edge of camp is going about as one might expect. One of the bandits looks down for the count, though not dead, while one of the mercenaries looks very dead. The woman with two arrows in her looks, much like the one bandit, alive but not for long. Coming up behind one of the three functioning bandits, Denlo stabs him in the chest, the massive blade bursts through the bandit’s chest.
The other bandits see this clearly enough. Trapped between a monster and a mercenary and wanting only to flee, they redouble their efforts to kill the young man with a buckler and rapier. “Well done, good sir,” the mercenary says, as he pokes around and at one of his foes, seeming to put the bandit off-balance. So he has some miniscule amount of training in swordplay, it seems.
Unfortunately, two bandits fighting for their life are formidable in and of themselves. Even off balance, the bandit wielding a short, light sword cuts at the swashbuckling mercenary. That opens him up to the bandit with a massive club, who swings it well and lays the kid out, probably causing a lot of damage inside his body. However, the swing opens the man up to Denlo, who cleanly slices off one arm and stabs him through the side, into his vital organs.
The last bandit, seeing Denlo preoccupied and also definitely ready to do murder, begins to run away from him. He makes it to the road before Denlo says, “I didn’t say you could leave.” The wicked blade hurls through the air and strikes the bandit low, in the leg. Denlo himself quickly follows his blade. The bandit screams in pain. “Sorry, but I can’t have word of my journey getting out,” Denlo informs the bandit before he removes his sword from the man’s thigh and silences him for good.
Wiping off his sword as he hurries back to the merchant’s camp, he scans the forest for foes. None are about. The pair merchants, at the silence, poke their heads out of their tents. “Thanks for your help, but who are you?” one asks.
“Do either of you have any medical training? These two can still be saved,” Denlo says, ignoring the question as he heads over to end the final bandit’s suffering.
One of the two, an elderly human man, rushes out to the woman first. Clearly she was the one in charge. “The name is Timothe,” he says as he pulls the arrows through the woman and dresses the wounds, “And as my partner said, thanks for the save.”
Denlo pulls the blanket off and starts wrapping his blade once again. “It was nothing,” he tells the man, “Anyone would do the same.”
“Listen, we don’t have much, but we could do with your help on the rest of the trip,” Timothe says as he finishes with the woman’s wounds and heads over to the young man.
Still standing by the tent, his partner is more hesitant. “Well, that depends on…” the youthful looking dwarf begins. Though, youth in dwarfs isn’t particularly telling, they live quite long and age quite well.
Timothe interrupts his partner. “No it doesn’t,” he says, knowing what his partner was about to ask. “We need skilled help, and you’re obviously skilled.” Clearly the healer is in charge.
“You have me wrong, good merchant,” Denlo insists, “I am no fighter.”
Timothe begins pressing his fingers against and around the young man. “The bandits would disagree,” Timothe replies with a smirk, “And I am hardly good.” Then to his partner he shouts, “Alorrim, I need the man’s bedroll and a pair of five foot poles.”
“You do not know me,” Denlo tells the elder man.
“No,” the man replies, “I don’t. Nor do I particularly care. That one’s going to be out for the day, and this one likely will be recovering until we reach Irritea, so we could do with someone to fend off the banditry. And you look about scary enough to do that, and are certainly skilled enough. Are you headed that way?”
Irritea would not be a bad place for Denlo to lay low. They have Sea Elfish Caravans stopping by regularly, meaning selling the sword should be easier. They have the second largest kinslums in the United Cities, so hiding from the Authority should be easy enough. And the hardest part is getting into the city, which Timothe is offering to help with. “I could be,” Denlo replies, “If incentivized properly.”
“That one’s dead, and that one’s seven silver is going right back to me for saving his life, so I’ll give you three quarters of their combined pay. You’re worth both of them in a fight, for certain, but since we’ll likely have to take a watch, it seems only fair you don’t count as two full people.” Denlo knows Timothe is right, of course, but he still thinks a moment before he agrees to the job. While the Elf’ika thinks, Alorrim returns with the requested bedroll and sticks.
“Alright,” Denlo agrees, “I will, with one stipulation. You get no questions.”
Timothe smiles. “If that’s the case, let’s call it an even gold,” he offered, grabbing the stuff from Alorrim’s hands. Not bothering to wait for Denlo to respond, the doctor gets to work wrapping the young swashbuckler tightly.
“A five copper for privacy sounds more than fair,” Denlo answers the doctor, then he looks towards the old man’s dwarf partner. After all, the dwarf was the one who was so curious in the first place.
The dwarf shakes his head. “Fine, but if he murders us in our sleep, my ghost is blaming yours.”
“Thanks for that,” Denlo says, removing his masked helmet, “Do you mind if I get some sleep before we leave in the morning? Wake me if I’m needed.” Without waiting for a reply, Denlo lays down on the soft ground and opens his mind. Faster than should be possible, his harsh dreaming returns to his mind, and his body falls back into its restful sleep.
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