The post official’s body was lain sprawling at the floor, his face cold against the chill of the night, his lips twisted into a grimace as one of his hands, caked with filth and dried blood, was held over his gut. The ransacked state of the rest of the small building was enough to indicate that he was but the victim of bandits, and judging from the relatively little decay the corpse had undergone that it was a fairly recent event. Sighing at his bad luck and yet fearful of bandits, the messenger decided to hide himself and his horse in the stalls until the break of dawn. That, and he would try to sleep as lightly as ever.
Rays of light bounced off his dirt-stained face, playing with his closed eyes until he woke up. Not bothering to stifle his yawns, he simply got up and arched his back, ready for another day of tiring riding until his thighs were no longer sore as of now, but simply raw. Accepting his fate, he simply shook his head, spied outside to make sure noone was close, and mounted his horse. The pain on his left hand was severe, but he was glad he could still feel his hand as well as move all of his fingers, even though it pained him much even to try. At least he had got that bastard good and well before he turned tail and ran for his life. He continued along the cobblestone road with a steady pace, fully knowing that the would not reach the next messenger post until nightfall, and he most certainly would not make it for his hundred-fold prize as he was promised. By the five gods, he’d be lucky if he ever reached it alive, given the circumstances.
This time, he saw them. Three dark figures in the blazing midday sun, some fifty strides in front of him, one of them mounted. He was about to gallop faster and go the long way around them, when something whistled dangerously close to his ear- an arrow. One of the men was armed with a bow. Instinctively, he turned his head behind to seek a way out, when he noticed five more men on foot, half of them equipped with similar bows, nearly a hundred strides away. There was no turning back. He gritted his teeth, made a short prayer to the god of death, and drew his falchion.
Galloping hard and ignoring the arrows that whizzed past him at regular intervals, the messenger haunched over to make himself as small a target as possible as he rode his fast horse. He’d have sworn several of those arrows came from behind him, but he was more afraid of the ones that came from the front, because he was getting quickly to their source. As he was leaning forward, he took a long, good look at the men in front of him. Forest bandits, certainly; their leader, obviously, a broad man with a woodaxe in hand, stood atop a fine horse, obviously stolen, right in the middle, flanked by a young boy with a sharpened staff – a crude spear, as a matter of fact – and a scrawny old man who kept firing arrows at him at his leisure. Two actually grazed his shoulders and back, when he noticed that the arrows in front had stopped for an instant. The archer was aiming this time, waiting for him to get close…
He knew what must be done. He was himself a seasoned soldier before he managed to be made a messenger, thinking it’d earn him a few more years of living- a sad mistake he later realized. But he was not going to give up so easily. Gripping strongly the hilt of his heavy blade, he rode straight towards the mounted bandit’s right, where the little boy stood, shaking in fear. It was a gamble, a risky one, but the best he had at the moment.
It screamed, the young one; it dropped its spear, the sound of wood hitting stone as he jumped to the right, afraid of being run over. The leader cursed, as he lifted his wood-axe to chop horse and rider alike as if they were but a log with legs, while an arrow was fired a second too early. The messenger didn’t even notice it as it grazed his scalp ever so little, buzzing like some killer bee right above his head, while relieving him of his hat. Instead, he was solely focused on the leader, and he bought that necessary second, where he swung his blade with all the might of his good hand at the man as he rode by, spurring his mount to speed up at the last instant.
A sickening crunch filled the air, the sound of metal cleaving flesh and bone in twain, as the heavy blade lodged itself deeply inside the man’s ribcage, sending shockwaves of pain and deathly surprise as he dropped his axe on the ground, forcing the archer to move aside or be hit by the falling woodcutter’s implement. The jarring impact of the blow wrenched the weapon free from its owner’s hand, leaving it deep inside its mortally wounded target’s chest. But he had no time to pull it back- he had to run as fast as possible before someone grabbed that horse and ran after him. Leaving his weapon behind where his head ought to have been was some comfort, however, and he rode hard and fast down the road. He didn’t even have the chance to see the fine mare rearing as she was soaked by the man’s life-blood, throwing him on the ground as it galloped away wildly towards the forests, earning her a round of curses and vulgar language from the leaderless bandits.
Only when he was safely away did he permit the poor, heavily breathing horse to halt to a slow trot, so as not to lose time. He rubbed his right wrist with his injured hand- he’d sworn it was sprained from the looks of it and the feel of the impact, but it didn’t seem nearly as bad as he’d feared. The grazes were even less important, it seemed, except for the last one that had removed a fair amount of hair from his already slightly balding scalp. He growled and thrice cursed the vile bandits. Then it dawned on him. He was alive. If he had survived all that, why not go forth and claim his prize? He would be a rich man after that for at least a year- a hundred golden eagles? That was more than he had seen massed in his entire life time, as far as his own purse was concerned. And thus, like all men, greed filled his heart, and his spurs dug deep into the wretched mount’s belly, forcing him to pick up speed.
