The Shadowed Crown

Chapter 4

The rhythm of hooves against the forest path was a steady, familiar cadence to Col. He rode his sturdy warhorse, a beast as seasoned and unflinching as he was, through the winding trails of the Whispering Woods. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and decaying leaves, the silence broken only by the occasional rustle of unseen creatures in the undergrowth. He was on his way to Westmarch, following a hunch, a feeling that something was brewing in the heart of the kingdom.

The sun, a pale disc in the overcast sky, filtered through the dense canopy, casting dappled shadows on the path. As he rounded a bend, he spotted a figure walking along the road, a lone girl, her silhouette small and vulnerable against the backdrop of the towering trees.

As he approached, he could see she was young, barely more than a child, her clothes torn and dirty, yet strangely elegant. There was a defiance in her posture, a stubborn set to her jaw that belied her delicate appearance. She stopped as he drew near, her blue eyes, wide and wary, fixed on him

.

"Excuse me, sir," she said, her voice clear and surprisingly strong, "could you tell me the way to the nearest town?"

Col studied her, his gaze sharp and assessing. She was no common peasant girl. Her clothes, though soiled, were of fine fabric, her posture regal, and her eyes held a spark of intelligence that was rare in those who lived in the wilderness.

"These woods aren't safe for a young girl," he said, his voice gruff. "Where are your parents?"

The girl’s eyes flashed with anger. "That's none of your concern," she retorted, her voice laced with sarcasm. "I asked for directions, not a lecture." She repeated her question, her tone more defiant this time. “Where is the next town?”

Col pressed his lips together, suppressing a sigh. He pointed back the way he had come. "A few miles that way," he said, his voice curt.

"Thank you," she said, her voice curt, and turned to continue her journey.

Col shook his head, a sense of unease settling in his stomach. There was something about the girl, something that didn't quite add up. He hesitated, his instincts telling him to follow her, to ensure her safety. But he had his own business to attend to, his own path to follow. He urged his horse onward, leaving the girl behind.

He rode for the rest of the day, the image of the girl lingering in his mind. As dusk fell, he reached the outskirts of Westmarch, a city that stood in stark contrast to the rustic villages he had encountered in his travels.

Westmarch was a city of stone and spires, a sprawling metropolis that pulsed with life and commerce. Its walls, tall and imposing, were a testament to its wealth and power. The streets, paved with cobblestones, were bustling with merchants, artisans, and travelers from all walks of life. The air was thick with the sounds of commerce, the cries of hawkers, the clang of hammers, and the rumble of wagon wheels.

Col made his way to the city center, a sprawling square dominated by the grand edifice of Westmarch Castle. He dismounted his horse and made his way to a nearby tavern, a bustling establishment filled with the sounds of laughter and conversation. He ordered a tankard of ale and a plate of stew, his eyes scanning the room, observing the city's inhabitants.

After finishing his meal, he ventured out into the city streets, seeking information. He came across a bounty board, a large wooden placard plastered with notices and rewards. Most were petty crimes, minor thefts, and runaway livestock. But one notice caught his eye: a substantial reward for the capture or elimination of a band of bandits who had been terrorizing the surrounding villages.

He sought out a local guard, a burly man with a weathered face and a stern expression. "I'm looking for information about these bandits," Col said, pointing to the notice. "Where are they operating?"

The guard eyed him with suspicion. "Why do you want to know?" he asked, his voice gruff.

"I'm a hunter," Col replied, his voice flat. "I'm looking for work."

The guard grunted. "They've been raiding the villages to the south," he said, pointing in the direction of the Whispering Woods. "They're a ruthless bunch, led by a man named Vargus. Be careful."

Col nodded, his eyes fixed on the map of the surrounding region. He thanked the guard and made his way back to the tavern, his mind racing.

He decided to gather more information about the bandits, seeking out local merchants and villagers who had been affected by their raids. The stories he heard painted a grim picture: ruthless attacks, stolen goods, and a trail of fear that stretched across the southern countryside. The bandits were well-organized, their attacks swift and brutal, and their leader, a man named "Vargus," was said to be cunning and merciless.

Col purchased supplies for a long journey and set out at dawn, following the trail of destruction left by the bandits. He tracked them through the dense forests and rolling hills, his senses honed by years of hunting. He found signs of their passage: trampled undergrowth, discarded supplies, and the lingering scent of smoke from their campfires.

After a day's ride, he found them. They were raiding a small village nestled in a valley, their figures silhouetted against the flames that engulfed the thatched roofs of the houses. The villagers, their faces etched with terror, were being herded like cattle, their meager possessions looted and their livestock stolen.

Col watched from the edge of the forest, his eyes cold and calculating. He counted the bandits: a dozen men, well-armed and heavily armored. He spotted their leader, Vargus, a hulking figure with a scarred face and a cruel grin, barking orders and overseeing the plunder.

He urged his horse forward, emerging from the forest into the chaos of the village. The bandits turned, their eyes widening in surprise as they saw him.

"Hold!" Col shouted, his voice ringing out across the village. "This ends now."

Vargus laughed, a harsh, grating sound. "Who do you think you are, old man?" he sneered. "This is none of your business."

"You have two choices," Col said, his voice flat. "You can surrender, or you can die."

Vargus's laughter turned into a snarl. He drew his bow, an arrow already nocked. "You think you can stop us?" he roared, and let loose the arrow.

Without flinching, Col raised his hand, his fingers moving in a swift, intricate gesture. A shimmering shield of magical energy sprang into existence, deflecting the arrow harmlessly away.

Col smirked. "The hard way it is, then."

He drew his longsword, its polished surface gleaming in the firelight. He charged forward, his movements a blur of speed and precision. The bandits rushed to meet him, their swords and axes raised, their faces contorted with rage.

Col moved like a whirlwind, his blade a deadly dance of steel. He parried a blow from a bandit's axe, his sword ringing against the metal. He spun, his blade flashing, slicing through the bandit's leather armor. The bandit cried out in pain, clutching his wounded arm.

Another bandit lunged at him, his sword aimed at Col's chest. Col sidestepped the attack, his sword flashing in a swift arc, cutting through the bandit's throat. The bandit crumpled to the ground, his lifeblood staining the cobblestones.

Col moved through the bandits, his sword a blur of motion, his movements precise and deadly. He parried, dodged, and struck, his blade finding its mark with every blow. He was a master of the sword, his skills honed by years of combat.

He also used his magic, creating shimmering shields to deflect blows, and sending blasts of concussive force to knock bandits off their feet. He was not a powerful mage, but his basic defensive magic was enough to give him an edge in the fight

.

Vargus watched in disbelief as his men fell one by one, their bodies littering the village square. He roared in fury, drawing his own sword, a massive, two-handed blade. He charged at Col, his eyes filled with rage.

Col met his charge, his sword clashing against Vargus's. Vargus was strong, his blows heavy and powerful, but Col was faster, his movements fluid and precise. He parried Vargus's blows, his sword ringing against the bandit leader's blade.

He feinted left, then lunged right, his blade finding its mark, slicing through Vargus's armor, and then into his flesh. Vargus cried out in pain, his eyes widening in shock.

Col pressed his advantage, his sword a whirlwind of steel. He struck again and again, his blows relentless, his movements precise. Vargus stumbled, his strength failing, his eyes filled with fear.

With a final, decisive blow, Col severed Vargus's head, the bandit leader's head crashing to the ground with a sickening thud. The remaining bandits, their morale broken, scattered and fled, their cries of terror echoing through the burning village.