I sat with my back to the large mound of twisted rock, listening carefully. From even ten feet away it would have been extremely difficult to pick me out, wrapped in my green-grey cloak and standing dead still against a large creeper growing up the side of the rocks. I’d been like this for the past hour waiting to hear the sound of Wulf drawing his hand-cart along the highway. The rouges were too. Word had gotten to them of our little “rumour” about the gold for the funding of Lenfalds armies, and they’d taken the bait.
Suddenly, I heard it, faint at first but slowly getting louder and louder; the sound of Wulfs’ unmistakeable low voice raised in song and his heavy footsteps along with the creak of a rusty axle. The rouges moved into position, quite loudly. Strange I thought, What if there are more than we expected? Pushing aside my doubt I slowly started to move up the rock face. Then, as expected, I heard a shout and the sound of the outlaws rushing out onto the road. Suddenly a deafening road split the air. Panic struck me. Quickly I scrambled up the mound, unslinging my bow as I went. When I reached the top I peered carefully over and observed the situation. Three rouges in total, roughly dress and armoured men, loyal to the usurper Stephen. One of Stephans’ men had Wulf restrained; the other two were rummaging through the chest on Wulfs cart. But, to my horror, I saw a huge, grey figure towering over them all, a huge iron club in its massive fist. A mountain troll, huge figures with immense strength. Somehow Stephan had enslaved one.
In a split second, I reacted. An arrow was on the bowstring in a blink of an eye, the bow raised to my eyes I estimated the distant and angles and in one smooth motion I released. The shot was dead on target; right in between the Trolls eyes. A split second after the first arrow was released a second followed it. The huge figure stumbled, taking one giant step and slowly sinking to its knees, blood pouring from the wounds my two well-aimed arrows had punched in its flabby skin. And then, with a crash, it fell on its back, dead.
The outlaws stood for a moment in shocked silence, watching as their succumbed to my two black shafted arrows. And then I was upon them. Dropping my bow and drawing my short sword from my sheath, I leapt down from the rocks and slashed my sword across the exposed ribs of the bandit closet to me. He fell with a startled grunt. I spun around and raised my sword to block a blow from the second rouge and then spun, without warning, and landed two lightning blows on the third bandits’ helmet, knocking him out cold. I then I reversed my grip on my sword and stabbed behind me. I was rewarded with the sound of the final outlaws cry as the sword took him to the chest and he fell, mortally wounded, to the ground.
All in all. Another good days work.