Shadows of Consequence - 4. Chapter 4

The Lÿmian ruins were countless centuries old, or so Sam had been told. They were the remnants of a past civilisation that dotted the Kingdom of Alides, his homeland, and possibly the Wardergilian Empire to the east as well. As a child, they were simply interesting places to explore. He never considered the history and stories these places could tell.

He also never envisioned them as a refuge for criminals.

Taking the lead, Sam galloped along the northern road out of Reabury. Graeme questioned their direction since Sam had mentioned the ruins were southwest, but once Sam pointed out the steep topography and dense forest blocking their way, the knight understood their need for a detour. A shallow brook emerged from the southern forest, crossing underneath a bridge they approached. Sam signalled to stop.

“This is how we get in,” he said, pointing at the dry mud banks. “We follow the water for a time.”

“Very well. Lead on, Squire.”

Many of the trees looming over the brook were bare of their foliage. The few remaining leaves were a patchwork of ochre and brown.

“Look there,” Graeme said, pointing to the ground. “Hoofprints. A number of them.”

Despite the fallen leaves, Sam saw imprints in the dried mud. “The bandits left a trail.”

“Indeed. Tread carefully and keep your eyes open. They may have laid a trap.” After a moment, Graeme added, “I question the experience of the militia that searched the countryside last summer. How could they miss such a simple clue?”

Sam gestured at the brook they were following. “In the spring and summer, the water is higher. The bandits would’ve been treading through shallow water, masking their trail.”

The knight bestowed a nod of respect. “A keen insight.”

“Hardly,” Sam replied with a sheepish wave, trying to brush off the compliment. “I just know the area, that’s all.”

“That knowledge is valuable. You ought not to devalue it.”

The knight’s praise caused Sam’s face to redden. He hid it by looking away, as though searching for more clues. Not that they needed any. The bandits had managed to stay hidden all these months, but their ransom letter had disclosed their location. Chances were this kidnapping was their bid for one last score of coin before finally leaving Reabury behind. A caustic smile broke across Sam’s face as he envisioned their surprise at being confronted by a knight, rather than cowering villagers carrying a sack of coin.

“Are there any other pertinent details you can recall about these bandits?” Graeme asked.

“Not much,” Sam replied with a shrug. “My mum didn’t mention it, but I’m kinda hoping we can recover some of the coin they stole.”

“They stole from you?”

“Not me, but they took from a lot of villagers. Pa, too. I was so angry when they took his savings. I wanted to get my sword and fight them off, but knew it was foolhardy. Four men against me?” Sam scoffed at the idea. “But I wonder why the bandits are still here? They’ve got all that coin, but they can’t spend it living in these hills. The reeve said they’d likely moved on, and that kind of made sense, but we still wanted the extra protection to be sure.”

“Certainly. However, given the bandits remained hidden for many months, the militia’s presence would’ve made no difference. That detachment would have departed before this kidnapping occurred.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right.” Sam let out a curt breath. “But if the militia’d found them in the first place, Rebekah would be safe at home right now.”

“It is a series of unfortunate events, Sam. Such is life. Together, we will right it.”

A swell of pride grew in Sam’s chest at those words. “It’s fortunate you arrived when you did.”

“Indeed, and I am honoured to help.”

While following the brook, the growing foothills of the Rothgoraian Mountains became apparent. The trees thinned as they reached the base of a steep ascent, allowing the horses to veer away from the muddy trail onto more stable ground. Upon cresting the top, they broke from the treeline. Beyond them lay a wide meadow of tall grass—grey-brown and long dormant for the season. Beyond, the grandeur of the mountain range was on full display, but a shroud of dusky clouds obscured the sun, causing the sky and mountainside to take on a brooding quality.

Sam pointed to a rocky cliff at the opposite end of the field. “There’s a natural path that leads up there. If you look carefully, you can see some of the ruins at the top.” After saying that, though, he realised he couldn’t spot them. Whenever he’d visited this place in the past, the sun had always been shining. He had no doubt the ruins were still there, only hidden in the gloom.

With the flat meadow before them, they urged their mounts to gallop across the dead grass. A scraggy line of trees bordered the promontory ahead.

“The path’s pretty narrow,” Sam said, “so we’ll have to walk Tusk and Winx up.”

“No. If the ruins are near, we don’t want to be needlessly encumbered. The horses will only become a hindrance if a fight should break out.” Graeme dismounted and tied the reins to one of the trees.

“Oh, okay.” Sam followed suit, then adjusted his sword belt. Despite the shortsword’s light weight, he still wasn’t used to how it hung at his side.

Graeme untethered the metal-braced heater shield from Tusk, allowing Sam the first opportunity to view it up close. What little paint that remained on the chipped wood chronicled many battles, but Sam could make out the same red hawk that was emblazoned on Graeme’s tabard. The leather straps—one as a handhold and the other to secure his forearm—were well-worn. Sam pondered how long it’d been in service to protect the knight from innumerable weapon strikes.

With a clear view of the stony path ahead, Graeme took the lead, but then abruptly stopped in his tracks and turned to regard Sam. In the grey light, the armour’s blue glow was apparent.

“You must heed my orders without question.”

“I will,” Sam replied, “but do you really think they’ll attack?”

“Those who live a life of banditry rarely do so by their choosing. They do it out of desperation, and desperate people tend to be the most dangerous. I've witnessed it often enough to know this will not end peacefully.”

Sam pondered the knight’s grim prediction as they climbed the switchback trail. Back at the house, Graeme had given the impression they wouldn’t need to fight. Perhaps it was said to reassure Sam’s mother. Or perhaps the sullen weather had dampened his spirits. Serving as a whispered answer to Sam’s thoughts, the wind stirred and sighed, carrying the telltale scent of impending rain.

Sparse ruins came into view upon reaching the summit, yet the scene before him no longer aligned with his memories. He and his childhood friends had only visited this place during the summer months. He recalled the green canopy of trees swaying in the breeze, and broad-leafed vines embracing the stonework, creating an enchanting place begging to be explored. Now, the trees were bare—their limbs like clawed beasts reaching for the sky. The leaves of the vines had wilted and fallen as well, leaving behind an unsightly mess of black tendrils clinging to the stone. No friendly birdsong welcomed them, only another gust of wind whistling through gaps in the ancient stonework. Sam shivered, but it wasn’t solely due to the cold. This place felt foreboding—dangerous—and the grey sky had only grown more sombre.

They crossed a stone bridge spanning a treacherous gap and came upon a deteriorating courtyard. The remnants of a multi-storey building awaited them—an empty shell from a forgotten time. With no ceiling remaining, trees had managed to take root within the walls. In the summer, their leafy crowns bloomed out from the top. Sam remembered laughing at the sight. It gave the impression that the structure wore a hat. Now, nothing he saw brought a smile to his lips.

A whistle from above—sharp and distinct—caught their attention. Perched high within a narrow breach in the stone wall was a man, bow gripped firmly in hand with a quiver slung over his shoulder. The whistle wasn’t for Sam and Graeme, though, it was for the three bandits emerging from the building’s wide entryway.

Graeme’s stance changed. It was nearly imperceptible, but Sam envisioned a cat preparing to pounce. The knight tightened the grip of his shield in his left hand. With his right, he signalled for Sam to stay back.

One man stood in front, casually hefting a war axe against his shoulder. The other two, armed with swords and metal bucklers, stood a few paces behind. They wore leather pants and jerkins, all looking the worse for wear. None presented any concern to discover an armoured knight at their doorstep. Perhaps they were excellent bluffers.

To Sam’s surprise, the leader’s attention was on him.

“I know you,” the bandit said. “You’re that farmer’s son. The turnip farmer.”

Sam wore a hardened demeanour and kept silent. Another gust of wind blew across the courtyard. Dead leaves danced and skidded across. A few raindrops splattered on the timeworn flagstones, but the gloomy sky held back its threatened deluge.

“And you’ve brought a friend,” the man continued, shifting his gaze to Graeme. “A bit of protection, huh? So, where’s our coin?”

“Surely you jest,” Graeme replied.

The bandit took one step closer. “Oh, I don’t joke when it comes to gettin’ paid.”

Sam couldn’t keep silent any longer. “Where’s Rebekah?”

“Is that her name? The feisty bitch hasn’t said a word, only some mewling and a few tears.”

“If you hurt her—”

“Oh, don’t you worry. She’s fine.”

“Where is she?” Sam demanded, then yelled out, “Rebekah!”

Graeme signalled again—thrusting his palm down—in an attempt to hush Sam, but the lack of a reply from Rebekah only heightened Sam's unease.

“We’re only here to retrieve the child,” Graeme said.

The bandit let out a harsh laugh, turning to his comrades in a show of feigned disbelief. His back was exposed, as though taunting Graeme to attack, but the knight didn’t take the bait.

“Sure thing. She’s just one hundred silver. A deal, if you ask me.”

“The child is priceless, certainly worth more than you lot,” Graeme said. “She’s not for trade. Return her now, or you shall regret your actions this day.”

“I’m afraid you’re wasting your time, friend.”

“So be it.”

Slowly—deliberately—Graeme pulled his longsword free. The two thugs at the rear stiffened at the display. From his perch, the bowman nocked an arrow, but otherwise held steady.

The leader eyed Graeme’s blade, licked his lips, then adjusted the war axe still on his shoulder. “You’re pretty confident for one man.” He glanced at Sam again. “And I don’t think a farmer’s son is gonna be much help in a fight.”

Sam freed his shortsword from its scabbard and took a step forward. “Don’t assume to know what I’m capable of.”

In a swift motion, the knight swung his shield out and bashed Sam off his feet, out of harm’s way. Landing on his back, Sam’s weapon slipped from his grip and clattered harshly onto the uneven stone tiles.

That moment of distraction was all the leader needed, and he took it greedily. With a flick of his wrists, the axe head turned to reveal a devastating pick. He charged at Graeme, using all his weight and momentum to pierce through the knight’s breastplate. A terrible clang rang out, echoing against the stone foundations, and Graeme crumpled to the ground.

“No!” Sam cried out, stumbling to regain his footing and retrieve his shortsword. They laughed at the fallen knight, only causing Sam’s anger to surge.

“Go on home, boy,” the leader said. “Stop fuckin’ around and get our coin.”

Despite the death grip on the hilt of his blade, Sam’s arm shook uncontrollably. He couldn’t leave Graeme here. No armour could’ve withstood such a fierce blow, and while Graeme would surely be injured, he couldn’t be dead. A muffled groan confirmed that fact.

“Let me take him,” Sam said.

“Nah, he’s staying with us. We’re gonna watch him bleed out, nice and slow.”

But from Sam’s vantage point, there wasn’t any blood. In fact, he couldn’t detect a puncture hole in the armour. With their attention on Sam, Graeme’s forgotten blade swung up, slicing across the leader’s neck, nearly severing his head clean off. The bandit crumpled to the ground, and his weapon followed. The metal axe head hit the flagstone with a discordant ring, serving as a warning to the remaining bandits.

Sam’s stomach lurched at the scene before him. The sudden and terrible violence felt unreal. He averted his eyes from the gore as the knight rose to his feet, ostensibly unharmed.

Arrows rained down, harmlessly bouncing off Graeme’s armour. The archer should’ve known his volleys would be useless, but judging by his expression, fear had taken control. The two bandits rushed Graeme, managing to flank him and strike at both sides. But their collective attacks were entirely ineffective. Graeme used his shield again to bash one man off-balance and swung his longsword to keep the other at bay.

Sam used this opportunity to sneak up behind the nearest bandit, but as soon as Graeme saw this, he bellowed to stay back. Sam complied and stepped away to reassess the scene, discovering the archer had since abandoned his post.

Finding an opening in the bandit’s guard, Graeme jabbed his blade into the man’s stomach. With bared teeth, the man clutched at the wound with one hand while still swinging his sword with the other, but his dismal efforts were not seen as a threat. Graeme turned his back to him, putting all his attention on the remaining combatant. To his credit, the last bandit was able to block Graeme’s repeated attacks with his sword and buckler, but he remained entirely on the defensive. Mere seconds passed before he faltered, and Graeme overwhelmed him with a flurry of slashes, ending the skirmish with a merciless stab to the face.

Sam grimaced at the brutality, averting his gaze again before the image managed to etch itself into his mind. Instead, he peered into the shadowy recess beyond the stone entryway, expecting to find the fourth bandit lurking within.

He saw nothing.

Graeme towered over the remaining wounded bandit now on his knees, clutching his belly.

“Where’s the child?” he demanded, his voice as sharp as his blade.

“Damn you to the hells,” the bandit groaned through clenched teeth. Blood spilt between his fingers.

Graeme angrily tossed his shield to the wayside, kicked the man onto his back, then planted a foot on his chest to hold him still. That didn’t stop the man from struggling as Graeme pulled a knife from his belt, knelt down, and held it to his throat.

“Look away, Sam,” the knight said.

Sam obeyed the firm order, but the bandit’s final breath—an awful, wet gurgle—still brought a crawling chill up his back. He knew violence played a role in a knight’s duty to protect, but this was nothing like reading a book. They never described these visceral details. Graeme’s ruthless yet calculated manner of ending a life was, in some ways, no better than that of a common criminal. Wanting to escape that terrible sound, Sam stumbled toward the dilapidated stone building, albeit cautiously.

Considering the age of the ruins, any sign of wooden floors and ceilings had long decayed from existence. A stone stairwell lined the wall, which would’ve allowed the archer access to his high lookout. Without a doubt, the bandits were using this place as a long-term campsite. Four horses were tethered to a makeshift hitching rail. A substantial pile of wood lay stacked against a wall. In the centre of the room, bedrolls surrounded a smouldering campfire, with a cooking spit nearby.

Heavy panting echoed from a hidden alcove at the far side.

“Rebekah?”

A frightened yelp replied, but it wasn’t a girl’s voice. It was the fourth bandit. Having witnessed the death of his comrades, any fight left in him now was long abandoned. Graeme entered, and the bandit’s anxious gasps turned to frightened whimpers. Desperate to escape, the man fled from his hiding spot and ran to a narrow gap in the wall. Graeme closed the space between them with his longsword in hand, and tried to grab the man squeezing through the crevice. But he was too late. The bandit had escaped, and the knight’s bulky armour allowed him no chance to follow. Graeme uttered what sounded like a curse in his native tongue. Undeterred, he dashed back to the entryway in hopes of catching the fleeing bandit.

“Find the child!” he bellowed, and then fell out of sight.

Sam took a deep breath and wiped his face in an attempt to clear his mind of the grim violence he’d witnessed, but it didn’t help. Instead, he turned his attention back to his surroundings and delved deeper into the building.

“Rebekah? Where are you?”

There was still no reply, invoking a growing concern in his belly. “Rebekah, can you call out? It’s Sam Harkenstone. You know me. I’m the blacksmith who works with Mr Kent. I’m here to take you home.”

A muffled cry finally responded, coming from a shadowed corner. Here, the stone walls were covered with silver lichen. A sack wiggled amidst a midden heap.

“Gods, what have they done to you?”

He carefully dragged the sack away from the refuse and tugged the rope knot free to open it, exposing a pair of frightened, tear-streaked eyes. Pulling the sack down revealed she was gagged, her hands bound behind her back, and her feet tied.

“Hold still,” he said. “I’m going to cut you free.”

With only a shortsword to do so, he prudently held the blade away from her skin and sliced through the coarse rope. Both her wrists and ankles were raw from struggling against the bindings. The cloth gag was tied viciously tight, its knot impossible to untie. At that moment, Sam wished he had a smaller knife. Holding the blade to her head would only aggravate her fear.

“Close your eyes and hold still,” he whispered. “I’m going to cut the gag.”

She followed his instruction with a muffled sob. With delicate incisions, he cut at the fabric until it broke free from the taut strain.

“Sam!” she bleated, and clung onto him. She only wore a long nightshirt. No shoes, not even stockings. She shivered uncontrollably.

“You’re safe now,” he said, stroking her hair. “You’re okay.”