The Bandits of White Bend
by J. G. Proctor
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Table of Contents parts 1, 2, 3 |
part 1
The tavern door slammed open, letting a gale of boisterous voices blow over the tavern’s patrons.
“Break open your finest reserves, my good man, my brothers and I have a thirst,” the voice of a young man called out, carrying the rich vowels and self-serious tones of an Elatrian noble.
The commotion drew Almar’s attention from the mediocre carin root tea he had been drinking. From his vantage point in the far corner of the tavern’s main taproom, Almar had an unrestricted view of the new arrival. Almar felt himself tense as he looked up. The young man was armed and armoured with a full harness of plate and longsword at his belt.
It was his surcoat that drew Almar’s attention. It was a white hart rampant on an emerald-green field. The symbol of the Knights of Trallian, one of the oldest and most prestigious chivalric orders in Elatria. Almar’s fears were confirmed when another three knights walked into the tavern. They had removed their helmets and were clearly all human, no surprises there. The eldest-looking man had greying black hair and a beard, and as he walked towards the bar, he thumped the youngest knight on the back as if to admonish him.
The other two knights who walked into the room were slightly older than the first knight and looked to be in their late twenties. As they sidled up to the bar, they jostled the youngest knight, who appeared to be far more interested in haranguing the tavern keeper for drinks than engaging with his peers. The eldest knight made space for them at the bar, relaxing against the side of the bar and keeping an eye on the room.
Watching the knights, Almar felt the weight of the sword at his hip, conscious of the points of his ears. Trying to leave now would only draw their attention. So, Almar sat quietly, praying that the knights would soon be too drunk to notice him. He knew he could handle them in a fight if it came to that, but he was trying to keep a low profile. Four knights of Trallian slain in a tavern brawl with a half-elf would create too easy a trail for his estranged father to follow.
The youngest knight called out to Almar. “You there, in the corner, come and join us, sir. The Knights of Trallian never drink alone!”
‘Damn it all to the hells,’ Almar thought. Standing up to his full height, Almar inclined his head respectfully: “I thank you, sir, but no, I am not worthy of such august company.” Almar despised his conciliatory tone; these men were glorified thugs who rampaged across the countryside with nothing in their heads but delusions of grandeur. Yet he was forced to flatter their egos.
The young knight looked baffled at the refusal and turned towards his older companion, who merely shrugged with a bemused expression. “Are you not a knight or gentry, sir?” the knight asked. “I see that you wear a sword.” His handsome young face was scrunched in confusion.
“I am not,” Almar said simply.
“Then who is your Master?” challenged the knight.
“I have none.” A charged silence gripped the tavern following this declaration. Almar looked at the other patrons for a clue as to his misdoing. None would meet his eyes.
“His majesty, King Dalvus, has declared that only knights, those of noble birth, or their entourage may carry swords. You claim you are none of these things. By what right do you wield a blade?”
“I am merely a traveller, sir, one who was regrettably ignorant of your King’s laws when he entered your country,” Almar replied calmly. The younger knights scowled at this statement and whispered to each other. The eldest did not participate, instead ceasing to lean against the bar, his arm dropped towards the hilt of his sword, studying Almar.
The other patrons of the tavern were studiously looking down at their tankards and pretending to be oblivious to the conversation between Almar and the knight. The barkeep tensely cleaned an already clean glass as he looked on, probably thinking of how much any damages from a fight in the tavern would cost him.
“Whoever you are, you are in violation of the King’s Law! I demand that you surrender your sword to me!” the youngest knight demanded, buffeted by the urgings of the other young knights.
Almar sighed in exasperation and got up from his table. By moving closer to the knights, he stepped into a better-lit part of the room. He lowered his hood, revealing the ears and the harsh angles of his face that proclaimed his heritage.
“You are an elf!” The knight recoiled in shock. Murmurs of distress broke out in the room, and a few patrons quickly slipped towards the tavern door. Elves or the Elf-Blooded were seldom seen in these lands. These countries had suffered most cruelly under the yoke of the ancient Elven empire, and Almar could well imagine how terrifying he must appear to be to the knights. Almar’s harsh, sharply-boned features, close-cropped black hair, and poison-green eyes must have struck the knight as something out of a bard’s fable.
“Merely Elf-Blooded,” Almar retorted, readying himself for battle. Sure enough, the young knight drew his longsword and pointed the tip towards Almar. There was a sudden burst of movement in the tavern as the last of the patrons scrambled to get out of the way. Tables and chairs clattered to the ground.
In the confusion, the young knight took his eyes off Almar for a moment. A bolt of force shot out of Almar’s left hand, knocking the knight’s blade sideways. Quick as a heartbeat, Almar drew his slender blade whilst closing the gap and then held it precisely at the young knight’s throat.
“I do not wish to fight you, sir knight, but I will not surrender my blade. If you give me your word, I will withdraw in peace,” Almar offered.
Most of the other knights had seen Almar’s spell and reacted quickly, drawing their swords and spreading out across the room in a loose circle to block any possible escape. The eldest knight, however, had remained in position at the bar, unbothered.
“You are a brigand! An illegal mage and a vagrant on my Lord’s land! I will not give you, my word!” the young knight declared passionately.
Almar looked around the deserted tavern. He could kill this young fool, but then he would need to kill the others as well. ‘A very messy situation,’ he concluded.
“Peace, Sir Tristane,” called out the greying knight from his place at the bar. “Master Mage, if I give you my word as Sir Tristane’s Commander, would you spare his life?”
Not waiting for an answer, the greying knight walked calmly to stand next to the young knight. Almar was unnerved by the old man’s confidence in placing himself so close to Almar’s sword.
“I shall, sir, but first I must insist that your companions also put up their swords,” Almar bargained in return.
“You drive a hard bargain, Master Mage. Very well. Guilliame, Everret, your swords please,” the elder knight commanded politely. There was a pause, but mercifully, the sound followed of two swords being sheathed. Almar lifted his blade slowly from Sir Tristane’s neck and sheathed his sword.
Sir Tristane looked as though he wished to continue the altercation, but the restraining hand of the eldest knight prevented him from doing so.
Hoping that the old man would be true to his word, Almar nodded to the nameless elder knight and made his way carefully towards the exit. He reached the door without challenge. He was stopped by the smooth, deep timber of the voice of the eldest knight before he could finalise his escape.
“Before you go, Master Mage,” exclaimed the oldest knight, “I am curious to hear your story.” He continued, “how does a man of your abilities end up in a village like this? It is most unusual to see a Guild Mage so far from a city.”
“As I said to your companion, I am a traveller, not a guild mage,” Almar replied haltingly, twisting to look at his challenger head-on.
“I see. So, you are not bound by guild by-laws?” the knight asked with a calculating expression on his face.
“No. May I go now, sir?” Almar asked tersely, his patience straining like the leash on an eager hound.
“You are, of course, free to go whenever you want, Master Mage. However, I would ask a favour of you,” the eldest knight said boldly.
“What favour?” Almar asked through gritted teeth.
“Please sit, my friend. I do not believe I have introduced myself properly. I am Pellinore de Rochemont, Knight of Trallian, and Lord of these lands,” Sir Pellinore said with a polite incline of his head.
Almar fumed silently: ‘Damn this pompous Elatrian nonsense. Still, if this man is the Lord hereabouts, he could make my journey very difficult. Best to play along for now.’
“I am Almar Kalatis,” Almar replied whilst sitting down. Sir Pellinore went over to the bar and secured two tankards from the terrified-looking barman.
“I apologise for not sitting with you. My armour does not allow it, you understand,” Sir Pellinore said with a smile and a nonchalant wave of his hand. The liquid in the tankards sloshed alarmingly with the motion. Pellinore placed the tankards on the table with a gentle thud. “We have already caused Jeanne enough trouble, no?”
“Of course,” Almar replied stiffly. What was the old man’s game? Almar glanced at the other knights. Sir Tristane was glowering at him whilst the other two were trying to distract the young knight with stories of their glory days.
“Master Kalatis, you strike me as a man with a rare set of skills. Skills I would like to employ. As Lord of these lands, and a Knight of Trallian, I am sworn to protect the people, and I find that I am in need of your particular skills,” Sir Pellinore explained whilst removing his gauntlets and placing them on the table. Sir Pellinore’s hands were as callused and hard-worn as you’d expect for an experienced warrior.
“You have your swords,” Almar interrupted. “Your armour and your horses, too. Why do you need me?”
“My brothers and I have set out to deal with a gang of bandits that have been terrorising the more remote villages. Normally, this is the sort of thing that my bailiff would deal with. My duties to the Order of Trallian keep me away. The Bailiff would put together a militia, hunt the rogues down, and we’d be done with the whole thing, quick as that,” he said with a snap of his fingers, grinning.
His expression darkened as he continued: “However, these bandits have a Mage with them. I have asked the Guild to help us, but they refused. So, Master Kalatis, I need a mage to counter the magic and possibly kill the mage these bandits are employing. I will not lead my brothers against a mage without magical support,” Sir Pellinore explained earnestly. He seemed sincere in his concerns and his desire to protect his people.
“I see. This is quite a favour you ask of me, sir,” Almar replied carefully.
“Please, Master Kalatis, do not assume that I would ask for a favour without offering one in return. If you help us vanquish these bandits. I will grant you a pass that will allow you to travel unmolested throughout Elatria,” Sir Pellinore offered, taking a hearty swig from his tankard.
Almar considered the offer. Free travel through Elatria would mean a much quicker journey. He could travel on main roads and even find a berth on a ship sailing the Aralathan River. He was not likely to get a better offer from anyone else.
“I accept your offer, sir. When do we leave?” Almar asked resolutely.
Sir Pellinore placed the tankard down and smiled: “Right away.”
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Copyright © 2025 by J. G. Proctor
