The road to Ivereth was a vein of dust and moonlight, winding between the forested hills where night gathered thick and heavy. Lanterns swung from the corners of a single carriage, their glow casting pools of light that didn’t quite reach the tree line. That’s where they waited. Dark shapes swallowed by shadow, the faint shimmer of metal betraying their readiness.. The horses’ hooves clopped steadily against the dirt, untroubled until one shied, nostrils flaring, as if it sensed something unseen.
A soft whistle cut through the night, and in an instant the plan snapped into motion. A spooked horse, a loosened wheel bolt, a rope drawn taut across the path, and by the time the driver and the guard even realised something was wrong, the carriage lurched to a halt.
Another whistle answered from the shadows to the left. Then to the right. The sound echoed in quick succession until the forest itself seemed to breathe around the panicking beasts.
From between the trees stepped the outlaws. Six of them, with faces covered with scarves, eyes glinting beneath the hoods of dark forest cloaks. They moved like shadows made solid,, efficient. One carried a bow already strung; another, twin axes that glimmered dully in the half-light. A woman with a scar across her cheek twirled a hooked knife in her hand as she circled to the rear of the carriage.
The man who walked at the centre of it all wore no crown, no emblem, but he carried the kind of confidence that made the air bend around him. A scarf hid his mouth and nose, and his hood shadowed everything else, but even half-hidden, there was an unmistakable, easy arrogance about him; shoulders relaxed, his gloved hands twirling one of the many throwing blades that hung at his belt.
“Evenin’,” he drawled, voice warm with mock courtesy as he came to stand before the trembling driver. “Long night for travel, isn’t it? Dangerous roads, this time of year.”
The driver swallowed hard, his gaze darting to the shadows that flanked him on every side. “W–we’re bound for the city,” he stammered. “Royal delivery. You’ve no idea who you’re-”
“Oh, I’ve every idea,” the man interrupted lightly, stepping closer until the torchlight caught the curve of his grin beneath the scarf. “That’s why I’m here.”
He leaned one hand against the side of the carriage, peering up at its ornate crest, polished bright against the dark.
“King’s gold,” he said with a quirk of his brow, a muscle feathering in his jaw. “You lot never tire of hauling it past starving villages, do you?”
He tapped the hilt of one of his daggers against the wood, a rhythmic, thoughtful sound. The others waited, silent and alert. One of the rebels cracked open the door. "Oh shit.." he said, his soft brown eyes settling on the woman inside. "Uh, boss, I don't think--"
“Here’s what’s going to happen,” Thorn went on to the driver, his tone light but his eyes unwavering. “You’ll hand over whatever treasure the King deems too precious to share with his people. You’ll go home to your wife, have your supper, tell her the road was blocked. Everyone wins. I don’t have to stain this road with blood, and you get to keep breathing.”
"Boss..." the man at the carriage door insisted before another rebel peered over his shoulder..
"Thorn.." he called over.
The driver opened his mouth as if to protest, but stopped when the dagger Thorn had been idly spinning flashed and buried itself in the wooden frame beside his knee with surgical precision.
The outlaw smiled beneath the scarf, his voice dropping low. “Trust me, friend, you don’t want to see what happens when I miss.”
"Thorn!!" several of them said in unison, and he turned.
"What?!" he said, striding to the carriage, brows shooting into his hairline as he saw what all the fuss was about. "The fuck is this?" he said, ignoring the woman to peer around the carriage, seeing no gold. "This was supposed to be precious cargo." he growled.
"Shouldn't precious cargo be a little more... protected?.." the woman with the scarred face said.
At that, Thorn held up his hand to silence them, for in the distance came the sound of hooves, several horses riding this way. He glared at the woman as though she'd jinxed them, and turned his attention back to the 'cargo', dragging a hand down his face. She was a pretty thing, high born, wealthy. Her clothes were fine, and no doubt her jewellery would fetch a decent price, not to mention the ransom for her return. He'd never resorted to kidnap, but ...
"Fuck it. Just take her." he commanded, "Here-" he added, throwing a hessian bag at one of the men. "For her head."
After a shared look of confusion, two men reached for her with a quiet 'sorry miss' as the bag was pulled over her head.
Olydia
A soft whistle cut through the night, and in an instant the plan snapped into motion. A spooked horse, a loosened wheel bolt, a rope drawn taut across the path, and by the time the driver and the guard even realised something was wrong, the carriage lurched to a halt.
Another whistle answered from the shadows to the left. Then to the right. The sound echoed in quick succession until the forest itself seemed to breathe around the panicking beasts.
From between the trees stepped the outlaws. Six of them, with faces covered with scarves, eyes glinting beneath the hoods of dark forest cloaks. They moved like shadows made solid,, efficient. One carried a bow already strung; another, twin axes that glimmered dully in the half-light. A woman with a scar across her cheek twirled a hooked knife in her hand as she circled to the rear of the carriage.
The man who walked at the centre of it all wore no crown, no emblem, but he carried the kind of confidence that made the air bend around him. A scarf hid his mouth and nose, and his hood shadowed everything else, but even half-hidden, there was an unmistakable, easy arrogance about him; shoulders relaxed, his gloved hands twirling one of the many throwing blades that hung at his belt.
“Evenin’,” he drawled, voice warm with mock courtesy as he came to stand before the trembling driver. “Long night for travel, isn’t it? Dangerous roads, this time of year.”
The driver swallowed hard, his gaze darting to the shadows that flanked him on every side. “W–we’re bound for the city,” he stammered. “Royal delivery. You’ve no idea who you’re-”
“Oh, I’ve every idea,” the man interrupted lightly, stepping closer until the torchlight caught the curve of his grin beneath the scarf. “That’s why I’m here.”
He leaned one hand against the side of the carriage, peering up at its ornate crest, polished bright against the dark.
“King’s gold,” he said with a quirk of his brow, a muscle feathering in his jaw. “You lot never tire of hauling it past starving villages, do you?”
He tapped the hilt of one of his daggers against the wood, a rhythmic, thoughtful sound. The others waited, silent and alert. One of the rebels cracked open the door. "Oh shit.." he said, his soft brown eyes settling on the woman inside. "Uh, boss, I don't think--"
“Here’s what’s going to happen,” Thorn went on to the driver, his tone light but his eyes unwavering. “You’ll hand over whatever treasure the King deems too precious to share with his people. You’ll go home to your wife, have your supper, tell her the road was blocked. Everyone wins. I don’t have to stain this road with blood, and you get to keep breathing.”
"Boss..." the man at the carriage door insisted before another rebel peered over his shoulder..
"Thorn.." he called over.
The driver opened his mouth as if to protest, but stopped when the dagger Thorn had been idly spinning flashed and buried itself in the wooden frame beside his knee with surgical precision.
The outlaw smiled beneath the scarf, his voice dropping low. “Trust me, friend, you don’t want to see what happens when I miss.”
"Thorn!!" several of them said in unison, and he turned.
"What?!" he said, striding to the carriage, brows shooting into his hairline as he saw what all the fuss was about. "The fuck is this?" he said, ignoring the woman to peer around the carriage, seeing no gold. "This was supposed to be precious cargo." he growled.
"Shouldn't precious cargo be a little more... protected?.." the woman with the scarred face said.
At that, Thorn held up his hand to silence them, for in the distance came the sound of hooves, several horses riding this way. He glared at the woman as though she'd jinxed them, and turned his attention back to the 'cargo', dragging a hand down his face. She was a pretty thing, high born, wealthy. Her clothes were fine, and no doubt her jewellery would fetch a decent price, not to mention the ransom for her return. He'd never resorted to kidnap, but ...
"Fuck it. Just take her." he commanded, "Here-" he added, throwing a hessian bag at one of the men. "For her head."
After a shared look of confusion, two men reached for her with a quiet 'sorry miss' as the bag was pulled over her head.
Olydia
