The Bandits of White Bend
by J. G. Proctor
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Table of Contents parts 1, 2, 3 |
part 2
Almar and the Knights of Trallian sat on their horses and surveyed the destruction.
It was a sunny and clear day. Aside from the corpses and the burnt village, it was an almost picturesque Elatrian landscape. Rolling green hills and vineyards stretched as far as the eye could see. The village of White Bend was small, no more than fifty households clustered around a bend in the Soontra River, a small tributary of the mighty Aralathan River.
The houses were all gone, burnt to the ground. The charred remains of timbers and scorched stone were all that remained to testify that people had once lived here. It seemed that the fire had burnt most intensely in the centre of the village before petering out towards the outskirts, where the timber and stone buildings were mostly still intact except for their thatch roofs.
Slaughtered sheep and pigs lay rotting in the streets. Some of them had terrible burns, but it was the slashes and arrows sticking out of their bodies that had slain them. Flies clung to the bodies like weeds. There were a few people in the street. From his vantage point, Almar could only see two or three.
The knights were appalled at the violent scene before them. They were young, with the exception of Sir Pellinore. Their idea of battle was limited to tourneys and tales of chivalric duels. Almar could hear the younger knights muttering oaths of vengeance on the perpetrators of the horror.
“The bandits sacked White Bend a day or so ago. Most of the villagers managed to flee,” Sir Peillinore explained, eyes narrowed with anger. Gone was the genial lord of the manor who had recruited Almar over a tankard of beer. Now Sir Pellinore looked every inch the proud Elatrian lord: ferocious in the defence of his vassals.
“I will need to be closer,” Almar said, “if you wish for me to determine if magic has been used.”
Sir Pellinore nodded tersely and waved at the knights to follow them while he and Almar rode down the hill that overlooked the village.
The smell was worse as they rode closer. Decay, ash and blood made for a potent malaise. To the mocking amusement of the other knights, Sir Tristane heaved the contents of his stomach over the flanks of his destrier as the group drew nearer the village.
Almar rode to the centre of the village, dismounted, and began casting a simple spell that would detect any lingering elements of magic.
The knights watched with rapt attention. It was rare for them to see magic performed at all. The Mage’s Guild discouraged audiences from watching them work, lest they steal some guild secrets for themselves. Almar generally considered that overzealous paranoia. It took years of hard study to cast even the most basic spell, unless one was Spell-Born, of course.
Almar had scarcely finished the casting before Sir Pellinore called out to him. “Well, Master Kalatis? Is it magic?” Impatient for Almar’s reply, Sir Pellinore steered his mount closer to Almar until his towering mass loomed above him and looked down on him.
“Yes, my lord. It was magic, most assuredly. Powerful magic,” Almar informed him whilst studying the burnt houses across from the main square. These were all but destroyed by the fire, whilst the ones on the outskirts of the village had still been recognisable as houses.
“Powerful magic? In what way?” Sir Pellinore asked, looking at Almar intently.
“If you look at the ground here in the village square, my lord, you will see no scorch marks on the ground, but if you look at the houses,” Almar said, gesturing at the houses nearest to him. “You will see that the fire must have been intense, as they are more damaged than those on the outskirts of the village. Therefore, the spell that destroyed these houses was cast from where I am standing. Not only that, but the spell had enough power to maintain its strength in those houses and keep burning from there.” Obviously, the power of the spell had been more complex than he was suggesting, but it was best to simplify it for these simple country knights.
“You are not dealing with some hedge-witch or rogue guild apprentice. The power and control needed to cast and sustain a spell like this are well beyond their abilities. Only a powerful mage could have caused such carnage.” Almar furrowed his brow in concern as he gazed at the devastation. Absent-mindedly, his hand found its way to the hilt of his sword. The cold metal and well-worn leather were a comfort.
A powerful mage could earn a comfortable living in the Guild or at the court of a lord. Why would one be running around with bandits? Judging by the grave looks exchanged between the knights, they were also concerned by this information. Almar understood their trepidation. These men had likely never faced a mage in battle before. The Mages Guild wielded an effective monopoly on magic and kept their members away from frontline combat as much as possible.
“Can you defeat one such as this?” Sir Pellinore asked, face grimacing in thought.
“Perhaps. It will depend greatly on the mage in question. Raw power is not the only factor. Knowledge of spell craft, temperament and experience can affect the outcome of a mage-duel a great deal,” Almar explained as calmly as he could. He had never faced another mage in combat before, besides sparring with his father, and that did not give him much confidence in his ability.
“My lord, how many villages have been destroyed in this manner?” Almar asked.
“Three so far,” Sir Pellinore replied. “The bandits have also been attacking merchants and other travellers on the road.”
“Are we certain the village is empty?” Almar asked whilst scanning the ruins for any signs of activity.
“The last two villages were empty. The survivors fled to my manor; they knew my guards would protect them.”
There was a moment of silence as the knights and Almar paused in thought. Almar could not understand what these bandits could hope to accomplish with such wanton destruction. Whatever valuables these villagers possessed had most likely been destroyed in the fires.
A clattering sound stirred their thoughts. Hands drew swords with a chorus of sharp metallic rasps. Almar spun towards where the noise came from, ready to unleash a spell.
Sir Pellinore, however, had not drawn his sword. Instead, he rode in the direction of the noise, one of the burnt-out houses. “Whoever is hiding in these ruins, I am Sir Pellinore de Rochemont, Lord of these Lands. Be you friend or foe?” the knight called out calmly and firmly.
There was another long pause. Almar feared the knight would be shot through by a score of crossbow bolts. Almar trusted in his magical defences to deflect any errant arrows.
“I’m sorry!” shouted the scared voice of a child. Stepping out from the soot and ash-blackened ruins was a small figure. She was maybe five or six years old with messy brown hair and a filthy green dress. It was clear that she had been hiding in the ruins. At this sight, Almar and the knights all sheathed their swords.
Sir Pellinore dismounted and approached the child, kneeling before her in the dirt. “Peace, child. We are not here to harm you. Did you see what happened here?” Sir Pellinore asked gently.
The child approached warily, nodding her affirmation to the question.
“You must be very hungry and thirsty,” said Sir Pellinore. He stood and reached into his saddlebags, from which he pulled out a waterskin and a loaf of trail bread. With a smile, he held them out to the girl. “Here, eat and drink first.”
The girl took the bread and water with it and promptly sat down in the dirt and began to eat. Almar watched the child with some suspicion. Could these bandits be cunning enough to use this girl as a distraction to make them lower their guard and then ambush them? It seemed unlikely that men who would unleash such wanton destruction would be so cunning.
Sir Pellinore walked back to Almar and his knights, looking around the ash-strewn ruins of the village and frowning in concern. His right hand rested on the hilt of his sword, and his gleaming armour was somewhat duller from traipsing through the ash.
“If this poor child saw the attack, she may know which direction they took when they left, and we’ll finally have a chance to catch these monsters,” Sir Pellinore said in a low voice. The other knights nodded their agreement.
“Have there not been any witnesses before?” Almar inquired.
“None that could give us a clear or consistent account,” Sir Pellinore replied. “You must remember, Master Kalatis, they are simple farmers, terrified out of their minds. None of them had ever seen magic before. Mages are not well regarded by villagers in these lands,”
“Master Kalatis, would you join me in questioning her? She may tell us more about the mage they have,” said Sir Pellinore.
“I have little knowledge of children, my lord,” Almar said, feeling surprised and unsure at the prospect of interrogating a child.
“Come, Master Kalatis, we were all children once, no?” Sir Pellinore replied with a smile to the amusement of his fellow knights.
“My brothers, whilst Master Kalatis and I interview the girl, I need you to search the rest of the village,” Sir Pellinore ordered. “Perhaps there may be more survivors. Better yet, the bandits may have left a clue as to their location.”
The knights quickly left to complete their mission, leaving only Almar, Sir Pellinore and the girl. Sir Pellinore approached the child. Almar reluctantly followed the knight.
Sir Pellinore sank to his knees in front of the child, who had somehow managed to inhale the bread that Sir Pellinore had given her and was sucking noisily from the waterskin.
“This is Master Kalatis. He is helping me find the men who destroyed your village. You know who I am, of course, but we have not had the pleasure of being introduced to you,” Sir Pellinore inquired kindly.
“My name is Mirabelle. My mother called me Miri,” the girl replied quietly.
“That is a pretty name, Mirabelle. Are you feeling better after some food and water? Yes? May I call you Miri?”
The girl nodded. She looked exhausted, Almar thought, her parents likely dead or fled. She had likely spent the last day or so hiding in burnt-out ruins. She seemed oddly calm, however, not distraught or crying. No doubt fatigue and shock played a large part in that.
“Now, Miri, we need you to tell us everything about the night the bandits came. You must tell us everything; anything you remember would be a great help.”
Almar observed Mirabelle intently as the girl told them in a small voice of how the bandits had come in the night. Her mother had told her to hide in the root cellar. She had climbed the ladder and pressed up against the door to the cellar to hear what happened. The bandits had ridden to the centre of the village and demanded that everyone bring all their coins, valuables and food to the bandits or suffer the consequences.
The villagers were reluctant to give what little they had to these men, so the bandits threatened the use of magic, and their mage had been brought forth to intimidate the villagers. That was when the fire started. After that, it was all chaos and running around. The girl had risked opening the cellar door and peering out the window of her home. She had seen the villagers running away in terror as the magical inferno engulfed their village, and horses galloped towards the southeast.
“Thank you, Miri. Rest now. We’ll get you some more food soon,” Sir Pellinore said gravely. He gestured for Almar to follow him, stepping aside from the child.
“Well, Master Kalatis, any insights from Miri’s testimony?” Sir Pellinore asked whilst absent-mindedly brushing ash from his surcoat.
“If Mirri’s report is accurate, it suggests that the bandit mage may be a Spell-Born,” Almar replied.
“Spell-Born?” Sir Pellinore asked.
Almar sighed. Magical theory had been a core part of his education. He was always surprised when educated and reasonably intelligent men like Sir Pellinore were completely ignorant of fundamental magical concepts. Yet another problem that lay at the Mage Guild’s door.
“To speak very broadly, my lord, there are two types of mages in the world. Those like me, who achieve their spell craft through study and practice, and the Spell-Born, who are born with an innate connection to magical energy. They can shape it into spells almost instinctively. They tend to be powerful and unorthodox in their abilities.”
“These Spell-Borns are surely the responsibility of the Guild, no?” Sir Pellinore asked.
“I understand it is one of their responsibilities. However, there is the question of jurisdiction. The Guild operates in most lands with a royal charter, and I do not know the details of the Elatrian charter; the Guild’s jurisdiction may only extend to the cities in Elatria and not the countryside. Now that we know that is a Spell-Born mage, you might be able to petition the Guild to intervene,” Almar said.
Sir Pellinore thought for a moment, gazing at Miri as she idly played in the dirt with a stick.
“No, we must pursue them now. I will not stand idle whilst my tenants are threatened.”
“We still have no idea where they are, my lord. They have had an entire day to escape,” Almar replied.
“One of the disadvantages of being a wanderer such as yourself, Master Kalatis, is that you do not know the land. I know this land; I was born here, and my father and grandfather are buried here, as I will be. This land is my home. I know it as well as I know my face,” Sir Pellinore declared passionately. “I know where these bandits have hidden like whipped curs!
“My brothers! Mount your steeds, we ride to bring these monsters to justice,” Sir Pellinore declared to the cheer of his knights. Soon enough, all were mounted, including Miri. Sir Pellinore had decided to bring the child with them, for she was not safe alone in the ruins.
They spurred their horses into a hard gallop towards the southeast, determined to catch these evil men and make them pay for their crimes.
* * *
As they rode, Sir Pellinore explained that the only place the bandits could have ridden to from the southeast of the village was an old ruin that the locals imaginatively called the “Old Tower.” The “Old Tower” was supposedly an old watchtower from the days of the Elven Empire. The locals tended to avoid it as it was rumoured to be haunted.
Almar did his best not to roll his eyes as Sirs Tristane, Guilliame, and Everet exchanged ghost stories about the ruin. Most of it was standard folk-tale nonsense, but a few sounded like old defensive enchantments that innocents had tripped over. Still, the tower had been abandoned centuries ago. Whatever enchantments had been laid at the Old Tower would almost certainly have faded away.
Sir Pellinore was distracted from their banter by the presence of the girl whom he had insisted on bringing along. The girl was terrified of the horse, and it required most of Sir Pellinore’s attention to keep the child from bursting into tears. It seemed foolish to Almar to bring along a small child to a battle, but perhaps Sir Pellinore was that confident.
Almar spent most of the ride planning on how to defeat a Spell-Born. He had never met a Spell-Born mage. Everything he had read and been told was that Spell-Borns could be unpredictable and do things with magic that other mages thought to be impossible.
However, Almar was not just a mage, he was a skilled swordsman trained by his father in the ways of the Elven spelldancers. He decided that the best plan would be to get close to the mages and kill them before they could cast a spell. Not the most involved or intelligent plan, Almar thought grimly, but what it lacked in finesse, it made up for in simplicity.
Almar did not wish the knights to die needlessly against a far superior enemy; they would be little match against the abilities of a Spell-Born. Sir Pellinore had treated him fairly and acted honourably, much to Almar’s surprise, and Sir Tristane was hardly the first young squire to accost Almar in a tavern.
What little experience Almar had had with Elatrian knights was that they were pompous blowhards who cared little for anything but their pride. This adventure was proving educational, although it bruised his pride a little to be so wrong about Sir Pellinore. Almar hoped they were not riding into a trap; he would regret Sir Pellinore’s dying, if it came to that.
Copyright © 2025 by J. G. Proctor
