Attack of the Frigid Sword

Like most tragedies, it all happened so fast.

Flashes of steel in the pale moonlight. Splashes of flame that made that moonlight seem dull. Shouts, screams, terror. A group of bandits had set upon the caravan Demalo was traveling with. They had watched the caravan humbly roll up the high road to Neverwinter, hugging the Sword Coast to the east and the Sword Mountains to the west. They counted the group, 11 strong, more than the average. Leading them was a brawny, blond-haired human in full plate armor with a longsword at his side. His name was Leon Fellfold, a former member of the now-fallen Flaming Fist from Baldur’s Gate. Normally, a man like that would deter any bandit attack, but this band was led by an enigmatic figure, Serif Rakishi. Serif used to be a Flaming Fist too. And two things were true about him: he held the element of surprise, and he hated Leon Fellfold.

Some of Serif’s men had climbed high up the nearby mountains, ready to roll down rocks to harry the caravan. Serif himself would lead an assault, throwing lit oil bottles to weaken them further. Then, as he’d instructed, his men would rush in with bows, bags, ropes, and short blades to loot and capture. Meanwhile, Serif would face Leon in single, thrilling combat. His men liked the plan and rushed into position under the cover of night, invisible in the mountain shadows.
~~~

Demalo was not a fighter. More like a glorified speaker, a mediator, maybe. He could even be a scout. But he was no fighter. So in the first moments, as dark massive shapes descended from the sky, rocking and splintering the caravan like a hammer of shadow against a flimsy paper box, Demalo panicked. He was walking, not sitting in the caravan, so whatever wraith had decided to lay into the vehicle mostly ignored him.

Then the fire came, motes of light sailing through the air, before splashing onto the caravan and the ground and the people. The screaming started then. Men rushed out of the brush, and Demalo for the first time knew it was men because of the light of the flames, and unsheathed blades, grabbing people and supplies that were light enough to carry as if they were taken what had always been theirs. It was a raid, a vicious one, one in which the victims of such a raid would be slain and left to rot on the side of the road. No sooner had the thought flashed through his mind than Demalo shouted, something subconscious within him forcing action, “Run! It’s a raid! Drop your possessions and run!”

A man in weathered piece mail wielding a shield and mace all but erupted out of the shadow, the faded symbol of a fist emblazoned with fire barely visible on his shoulder piece. He pointed his weapon at the strongest of them, Leon, and began shouting something. It seemed important and personal to the man, and perhaps to Leon as well, however, it mattered very little to Demalo, who was too busy running to listen to the impassioned exchange. All he heard was, “Run from my Frigid Swords! They will find you, no matter how far you go!” And for a moment, Demalo almost thought this bandit leader was speaking to him directly, but he elected to focus on sprinting rather than to look back and be sure.

A few individuals had heard his cry, and sprinted alongside him, while others ran into the hills. Leon stayed back and fought, both flame and darkness paradoxically closing in on him. Heard a sound he recognized, a wheezing of arrows above his head, and stumbled into what he wished was more of a graceful roll, but instead was more like tripping, falling onto one’s side, and curling into the fetal position. Demalo heard another thud, a woman fell over and landed in sight of him. Demalo cursed as he looked, seeing the horrid eyes of a person with an arrow lodged in her back, her chestnut eyes unfortunately highlighted by the moon and fire light. Demalo would always remember those eyes, not cold and dead, but pleading, begging, desperate, and horrifically alive. People didn’t die so fast in real life.

As he stared, he felt someone tugging at him. He almost resisted until a thickly accented voice shouted, “Come, boy! You said run, so run!”

Demalo scrambled to his feet with the stranger’s help, breaking into another sprint. The road before him was dim, the flames receding behind him. He ran until his legs felt like they would give out, finally sliding to a stop in the shadows of some brush. He looked back, expecting pursuers, but there was only darkness now. He leaned against a tree, breathing hard, and stared down the road. Beside him, two others gasped for breath: one in leather armor and the other in robes. He guessed the man in leather had been the one who’d pulled him to his feet. They all sat there, silently asking themselves if they’d speak about what just happened. They all decided not to.

“We better find somewhere to rest.” Said the man in the leather armor with the accent. The robed man gave a slight, shell-shocked nod, and Demalo returned it. “Yes, we should.” It took considerable effort for Demalo to stand, and the others followed suit.

“There were other caravans. We weren’t the only ones sent this way. They’ve likely set up camp somewhere. If we head south, we might find them.”

The robed man spoke up for the first time, “W-what other choice do w-we have? W-we can't go north.”

Demalo’s brows furrowed at the dire situation, a gesture lost in the darkness.

“And our other options are into the sea or the mountain.”

“Then south it is, lads. We should move. We have a wee benefit of speed, but it’s useless if we stand still.”

They were in profound agreement and began to walk. They did so for almost an hour, walking in the trees and brush to stay off the path, when finally, after scaling a small hill that sat off the Long Road, they saw another light in the distance. A small camp, those within just settling down for the night. They were a caravan, just like Demalo had hoped. He made to move down the hill before the robed man called to him in an urgent but whispered tone. “W-wait! Look!” It took a moment to determine the subject of his gesture, but once he had, he noticed several bodies strewn about nearby. The trio hadn't even noticed them until now, a clear indication that the individuals at the camp were dangerous. The robed man rubbed his hands together, another nervous tick he had, besides the stuttering, “So, are w-we sure this is a Caravan from W-Waterdeep?”

Demalo looked to the dimming campfire, his brows furrowing again. “They have to be. Why else would they be coming this way?”

The man with the accent approached and looked over the hill, and as he got close Demalo noticed for the first time that he was much shorter than the other two men, a Dwarf.

“Aye, but there’s really no way to tell from here. And we can scarcely afford to make assumptions.”

Demalo surprised himself with his own words, spoken with unexpected resolve: “Fine then. I’ll go talk to them. A single man is hardly as threatening as three.” He half-expected them to argue, but they said nothing.

“Stay here, and stay low. I'll return.”

The dwarf looked to Demalo, “Hold. What is your name, boy?”

Demalo hesitated. “Why?”

“What you’re doing is brave. Might get you killed. I'd like to know your name first.”

Demalo paused, his nerves too raw to question his reluctance. “I’m called Demalo. Demalo Harrieta.”

The dwarf nodded.

“Baelen Stonebrand.”

There was a moment of silence, as the third man realized the other two were looking at him in anticipation.

“Oh! Sorry! My name is, uh, Warren Finch.”

One of Demalo’s eyes raised, “You don’t stutter your name, Warren.”

The robed man shrugged, “I’ve been saying it for a w-while, I suppose.”

They laughed—a nervous, brief laugh—and then the laughter faded. Demalo nodded. “I’ll return.”

Finally, Demalo made his way down the hill, towards the camp, preparing to speak with its most certainly dangerous inhabitants.

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