“So I find you at long last,” Scar stated, smiling, all the while brandishing his blade in a none-too-friendly manner and bringing it in close to his chest. “Did you really believe you could evade me forever?”
One of the three men by the blazing campfire had seen his approach and all three had stood up to face the newcomer, their own weapons drawn. The encroaching darkness of the moonless night made identification almost impossible until he was right up on them; a few steps separated them.
“I don’t know you, friend,” the sandy-haired man spoke, evidently the leader of the group. “You’d best keep your distance if you want to live,” he warned, scowling.
“Oh we’ve met. Many times. And you are coming with me, willingly, or if unwillingly, in parts. I am taking you into custody, Torak,” Scar retorted.
The three men laughed. “Torak? Never heard of him,” the leader remarked. “But I will tell you what, if you leave right now we might let you go,” he added.
A short, thick set, burly member of the group laughed, “Then again, maybe we won’t.”
Scar shrugged. “Have it your way…” and then his eyes narrowed menacingly, “but if any of you try to stop me from bringing in your friend here, I’ll leave your bleeding corpses for the birds. Now, have at it, make your play, or leave me to my business,” he warned solemnly taking one calculated step forward.
They did, of course, attack together, as a team, one in which they had dispatched countless victims either in defense or through robbery. Scar ducked under the leader’s swipe that would have taken off his head, spun quickly to his left and ran his poisoned kryss through the burly man’s leather jerkin and deep into his chest. He fell with a groan. The leader had recovered and, to his credit, lay on with a series of feints, jabs and slashes that, had Scar been lesser trained, would have not failed to injure or kill him. Instead he dodged, sidestepped, and tossed a handful of gold dust into his face, forcing him to lower his guard and step back. The third member made a brief, futile, stab but fell back bleeding profusely from a deep slash from the dagger that had suddenly appeared in Scar’s off hand after throwing the dust at the leader. The man cried out and ran into the darkness of the surrounding thicketed woods. Scar ignored him, focusing on the leader, maintaining a classic fencing posture, weapon lifted in front and dagger arm held at ready. “This is your last chance, Torak. Surrender and face the court, or die tonight. There is no third option.”
After wiping the dust from his eyes the man grimaced and composed himself. “Why do you keep calling me that? You are mistaken! I am not who you are looking for!” he countered.
Scar smiled. “You won’t fool me like you have so many others. Just come along quietly. Drop the weapon and lie down face first… now!”
“Nobody has ever beaten me in a sword fight, friend! You won’t be the first one!” he cried as he lunged but feinted. He quickly drew back and swung again, stepping forward and then pivoting to his right, hoping to land a crippling strike on the left leg of his opponent. Scar was too quick for him; stepped back, waited for him to commit, and quickly nicked the man’s sword hand. The poison went to work instantly; burning, searing, pain erupting. The man winced, momentarily taking his eyes off Scar for only a fleeting moment. And then his head rolled cleanly away from the top of his shoulder, spinning around on the ground as the rest of his body flopped and fell, jerking spasmodically.
Scar wiped the blood off his sword and sheathed it. He picked up the bloodied head and placed it carefully in a pack he had brought with him. “The first and only,” he said, smiling. He doused the fire with kicked up dirt and headed back to Sanctuary with his prize.
One of the three men by the blazing campfire had seen his approach and all three had stood up to face the newcomer, their own weapons drawn. The encroaching darkness of the moonless night made identification almost impossible until he was right up on them; a few steps separated them.
“I don’t know you, friend,” the sandy-haired man spoke, evidently the leader of the group. “You’d best keep your distance if you want to live,” he warned, scowling.
“Oh we’ve met. Many times. And you are coming with me, willingly, or if unwillingly, in parts. I am taking you into custody, Torak,” Scar retorted.
The three men laughed. “Torak? Never heard of him,” the leader remarked. “But I will tell you what, if you leave right now we might let you go,” he added.
A short, thick set, burly member of the group laughed, “Then again, maybe we won’t.”
Scar shrugged. “Have it your way…” and then his eyes narrowed menacingly, “but if any of you try to stop me from bringing in your friend here, I’ll leave your bleeding corpses for the birds. Now, have at it, make your play, or leave me to my business,” he warned solemnly taking one calculated step forward.
They did, of course, attack together, as a team, one in which they had dispatched countless victims either in defense or through robbery. Scar ducked under the leader’s swipe that would have taken off his head, spun quickly to his left and ran his poisoned kryss through the burly man’s leather jerkin and deep into his chest. He fell with a groan. The leader had recovered and, to his credit, lay on with a series of feints, jabs and slashes that, had Scar been lesser trained, would have not failed to injure or kill him. Instead he dodged, sidestepped, and tossed a handful of gold dust into his face, forcing him to lower his guard and step back. The third member made a brief, futile, stab but fell back bleeding profusely from a deep slash from the dagger that had suddenly appeared in Scar’s off hand after throwing the dust at the leader. The man cried out and ran into the darkness of the surrounding thicketed woods. Scar ignored him, focusing on the leader, maintaining a classic fencing posture, weapon lifted in front and dagger arm held at ready. “This is your last chance, Torak. Surrender and face the court, or die tonight. There is no third option.”
After wiping the dust from his eyes the man grimaced and composed himself. “Why do you keep calling me that? You are mistaken! I am not who you are looking for!” he countered.
Scar smiled. “You won’t fool me like you have so many others. Just come along quietly. Drop the weapon and lie down face first… now!”
“Nobody has ever beaten me in a sword fight, friend! You won’t be the first one!” he cried as he lunged but feinted. He quickly drew back and swung again, stepping forward and then pivoting to his right, hoping to land a crippling strike on the left leg of his opponent. Scar was too quick for him; stepped back, waited for him to commit, and quickly nicked the man’s sword hand. The poison went to work instantly; burning, searing, pain erupting. The man winced, momentarily taking his eyes off Scar for only a fleeting moment. And then his head rolled cleanly away from the top of his shoulder, spinning around on the ground as the rest of his body flopped and fell, jerking spasmodically.
Scar wiped the blood off his sword and sheathed it. He picked up the bloodied head and placed it carefully in a pack he had brought with him. “The first and only,” he said, smiling. He doused the fire with kicked up dirt and headed back to Sanctuary with his prize.