The not-immortal Blacksmith

My Dell, The real Western Wilds.

7th of Amsiel, Second month of Summer.

2138 years since the new gods came.

The bandits came a bit after noon. Ivan was...Impressive. Reminded me of Tristan... I still miss that man. I hope he did well in that foreign land. I hate cleaning up after battles.

*-*-*

The bandits came over the ridge on horseback by the dozen, yelling and laughing. Ivan, crouched in a clump of brush, and aimed his rifle at the lead rider, adjusting his sights. Brandywine was hanging in the air, well above the eye line of the group, and Maxwell was crouched next to where the bandits were coming into the dell.

When the last bandit cleared the ridge, Ivan fired. With a resounding report, a ball of black energy streaked toward the lead rider, clipping his shoulder at 200 meters. The bandit spun and exploded. Ivan stopped, and stared at the weapon for a long moment, then worked the bolt and fired again.

Maxwell stood from his hiding place, drew his magical sword, and leapt on the last rider, skewering him from behind, then pushing the screaming bandit from the saddle. The body fell, smoking, as the enchantment from the blade ate into his flesh.

At this point Brandy shot down from the sky, lifted a horse into the air with a slight (and very unladylike grunt) and hurled the horse and rider into another. The horses screamed and kicked, the riders died in the impact.

Chaos rained across the glen, as combat continued. Max on horseback, riding down opponents; Brandy throwing riders, rocks, and the occasional horse; and Ivan shooting from his concealed position, bolts of black energy exploding on their targets. More than a dozen bandits were down in a matter of seconds. As the battle turned into a grand melee, Maxwell was struck from the saddle, a lucky blow that took the back half of his head off, from a rider swinging a war axe. Ivan screamed, the memory of past comrades falling around him flooded his vision. Then he saw the unbelievable, a thing of tales. Maxwell stood up.

-

Maxwell growled. It had been years since he had last lost his head in a fight. He pointed a finger at the cheering bandit, turned the palm of his hand up, and curled the finger and the rest of his hand into a fist. There was a quiet snap, then the bandit's head popped from it's body. The corpse fell from the horse, and Maxwell took the mount for his own.

Forsaking the sword and shield of before, Max was done with 'fun'. He pointed, and uttered words of power. Bits of light and pure force scattered across the battlefield. Bandits, and sometimes their mounts, dropped dead. Some of the bandits, the ones with some sense of self preservation, fled the dell. The rest perished. Messily.

The cleanup from the battle lasted many times longer than the seven minutes of the battle itself. The fleeing horses were captured. The bodies policed, the wounded killed. Then all of the corpses were buried, in separate graves that Max dug himself, by hand. There was no celebration of the slaughter of the day, and that night they had dreams of the dead looking at them with empty soulful eyes. All seeming to ask “Why?”

*-*-*

8th of Amsiel,

I finished cleaning up the battle site today. I did it myself. Told Ivan and Brandy to take care of the horses. 38 of the things survived. I'm going to have to head to town with most of them, sell them off, or trade for items.

I spent this evening going over Ivan's weapons. The spellwork is the same. THE EXACT SAME. It's like someone copied the spellwork I laid on Tristan's weapons, just stronger than I could manage at the time. And the magic at the core? I laid fire and lightning, with an explosive effect. This? This is straight up Death Magic. Not that shit 'Death Bolt' stuff that Necromancers use. This is a straight up 'Hand of Death' spell, with a complimentary explosive radius. The only Necromancer I ever met that could cast this spell could only do it once per day, and even he had to do a full hand waiving, chanting and throwing of components.

Ilaldin, Goddess of the Afterlife, could do something like this, but it would burn with her aura, and this? It doesn't. I hope I never meet the one who made this...

13th of Amsiel,

Ivan and I are heading to town tomorrow with a train of horses. I am in need for some kind of device for cutting down massive swaths of grass for hay. Failing that, I will need more ore of something, so I can make my own. Doing it by hand is getting old.

14th of Amsiel,

Made it to town. Very late. Set up camp about half a mile outside of it. Kinda quiet.

15th of Amsiel,

I will kill every bandit I see. I WILL NEVER let them walk away again. They torched the town, tortured women and children, threw them down the well! The town will never even be remembered! At least by no one other than me. I cry at the scene I beheld today. And I grieve for Ivan as well.

I hate to admit it, but I don't know what I hate more now, bandits or the gods? Maybe I despise them equally. If I had my druthers, I would wish the both gone. Given the choice between the two? I don't know.

*-*-*

Maxwell and Ivan made it to town several hours after nightfall. The picketed the horsed just off the main road, if you could even call it that, and set up camp. Morning came, much too early. They didn't bother breaking camp, as they would be there all day, trying to sell the horses.

The sun rose, as it always did, in the east, and bathed the town in light. And they looked upon the burned out husks of buildings.

Ivan shook his head in disgust, and turned to Max, “I think we're too late. Should we search for survivors?”

“I think---.” Max started to say, then heard a child wail in the distance. “Let's go.”

The men ran for the voice. They searched houses, small ramshackle buildings at the best of times, but made worse by the fires. They uncovered bodies, men, women, and children. Eventually finding the source of the cry. Huddled in the bottom of a well, several small forms were trying to climb the slick walls, looking to escape. Ivan grabbed the rope, on old thick hempen thing, and prepared to lower himself down. The children began to wail again.

“Ivan wait! Stop!” Max yelled, looking down into the old stone well. “We have come too late.” A tear made it's way down his face. He cast a light spell, and sent the glowing ball down into the well. What they saw made Ivan shrink away.

In the bottom of the well, standing on the corpses of the dead were children. Once. Now they looked up with empty eyes, jagged teeth in the remains of their mouths, white hair, and clawed fingers. The dead, reanimated by the horror of what they had witnessed, stared at the two men at the mouth of the well. Tears dripping from faces and jaws set, Max and Ivan returned them to the world of the dead.

They spent the rest of the day searching the small town for any who might have survived, but found no one. That night, dreams of the dead followed them.

*-*-*

18th of Amsiel,

We arrived late today, just before sundown with all the horses, and several other farm animals the bandits didn't get. I don't know what we will do with them all. I don't think we can feed them through the winter. Starvation is the worst way to go. It's worse than burning to death. I know that first hand. At least, when you die from fire, the smoke gets you first, even as the fire scorches your nerves. And if the smoke doesn't get you, the pain only lasts for a while. Starvation takes weeks, months if you are unlucky. Worse by far. A quick death is better.

Brandy is angry. More so than when she got cut off at the bar. She has been shedding pixie dust everywhere, and some of it has spontaneously caught fire. If we had kept prisoners... It's just good that we don't.

19th of Amsiel,

Brandy has disappeared.

32nd of Amsiel,

Brandy has been gone for a long time. I hope she finds what she needs and comes back intact.

*-*-*

Brandywine was hunting. She had her pixie bow, and poisoned arrows. She had the scent. She had become death on the wing. She had flown for ten days straight. No rest, no food, no drink. She was a creature of the Fey, of magic, she didn't need it. She followed the bandits.

Finally, not long before sunrise she found them. She smiled to herself. This wasn't for fun, this wasn't a gag, or a joke. This was retribution.

-

As the sun rose that day, blood ran on the ground. Tents were covered in it. Pieces of bodies, and parts of limbs were scattered. The last bandit, the leader of the group was tied, arms and legs spread out, over the remains of the previous nights fire pit. He screamed as the hot coals nesting in his entrails kept burning long after the pixie had left.

*-*-*

46th of Amsiel,

Brandy has returned. She refuses to talk about where she went, or what she did. She had more horses for us to deal with. I think I will set them free, to survive on their own on the plains.

47th of Amsiel,

All but the six strongest horses have been released. I wish them well. I hope that Ghondish thing helps them out. I won't pray, but I will Hope.