The distant rumble of horse's hooves drew nearer. The ground trembled and shook with a frightening violence. Village women scooped up their young ones, exchanging harried looks as they retreated to the pithy shelter of their huts. The brave men of the town followed their wives to 'lend them protection and comfort.' None felt shame at their flight- the Bottemburn Brigands were coming and all were afraid.
A lone figure stood in the dusty street, waiting. Watching. He was small of stature, with a slight stoop, as though he had spent many uncomfortable hours on horseback. His hair was a shocking tangle of white, falling in curly knots to his shoulders. His skin was tanned, his robe threadbare, but well tended. The small man stood firmly as the wave of riders careened past him. Leaning on a staff, he watched impassively as they went by.
"Ho, there, old man!," shouted a horseman. "Where might we find a tavern in this godsforsaken burg?"
The old man did not speak, merely pointed. Angered at the elder's silence, the apparent leader of the Brigands reined his horse near and drew a formidable looking sword.
"How dare you be so insolent! Cast your eyes to the ground and answer when you are addressed by your betters!"
The villagers peeked cautiously through their windows, afraid for their friend. Their fears soon proved unjustified, however. The little man laid his hand on the horse and it fell to the ground, convulsing, and trapping its rider beneath him.
"Perhaps I shall just cast you to the ground, eh? Mind your tongue, sonny, when you speak to your elders."
He calmly turned and sauntered away with an unexpected grace for someone so old. Through the streets he walked, untouched, as the Brigands milled uncertainly about. Their leader was still screaming, his legs pinned and shattered beneath the weight of his steed. A feathered arrow whispered through the air, striking the injured man, and mercifully silencing him. Those who looked to the source of bolt, saw the approach of a young girl, barely in her teens, trotting after the old man, her bow slung casually across her shoulders, her blonde hair flowing behind her like a stream of liquid gold.
"Hey! Gramps! Wait for me!" she called and quickened her pace.
Catching him, she fell into a comfortable silence at his side. He patted her on the head twice and continued walking.
The horsemen were murmuring amongst themselves, seemingly seeking some new plan of action. Suddenly, three of them charged the unlikely duo, swords raised. The girl turned, a look of stark terror on her face. Her ill fitting tunic fell from one shoulder, creating a stir of interest from the riders.
"Keep the girl alive for now! We'll have fun with her later!"
She was frozen to the spot, a frightened doe, but the old man never stopped. He simply kept walking as though nothing had happened. The horses were but a few lengths away. A sudden blurred frenzy of activity, and the three riders were all unseated from their mounts, and lay on the ground, bleeding from their eyes. Arrows protruded, quivering as they stole the life from the thieves. The peasants cheered from behind the safety of their walls and the girl took a deep bow, then raised her bow high above her head.
A brigand approached her, waving a nearly white piece of cloth.
"Milady, you are a fine marksman. Join me and I will show you treasures and wealth undreamed of. What say you?"
She looked at him for a long time and then spoke.
"I have no interest in riding with your ilk. I am not a whore, to be bought and paid for so easily. You will leave my town immediately, and tell whoever sent you to avoid this place, or it will surely mean your doom. I have no patience for the likes of you. Begone!" Tiny fists curled, she shook with anger.
To her dismay, the man laughed at her.
"Begone? As though your puny arrows can stop all of us?"
He swept his arm in a grandiose gesture, indicating the scores of men with him.
"We do not fear you. We shall go when we please, and not until I have taken you as my own!"
He laughed again cruelly, and his voice dropped to a menacing growl,
"Join me or you will die."
A thunderous roar ripped through the air, followed by the ear-splitting crackle of lightning. The old man had turned, and now pointed at the Brigands. Monstrous blue bolts shot from his fingertips, striking many of the riders, fusing them to their saddles, leaving naught but smoking corpses. The bold man's horse panicked, its eyes rolling crazily, and bolted. He fought to regain control, screaming,
"You haven't seen the last of us, you fools! 'M' will hear of this and woe to you all!" He and the few remaining men rode furiously out of town.
The streets were immediately filled with townsfolk and the air was congested with clamoring voices. They were afraid, but also proud of their saviors.
"What shall we do now?" asked a young mother, her infant held tightly in her arms. "Will they not come back to kill us all?"
The old man looked at her compassionately and said,
"Yes, my dear. They will return. But we shall be prepared. Have no fear, be strong and have faith that Good will always persevere."
He turned to the young archer,
"Come now. It is time for us to leave."
"Where are we going?"
Her eyes shone like twin suns, lighting the darkened hearts of all those close to her. If this young wisp of a girl was not afraid, then all would surely be fine.
"We are going to find the bard."