Lucian Boneknitter and The Bandits by Austin Roberts

Lucian didn’t want to comply.

He didn’t want to climb off his horse. Take off his sword. Or throw his money pouch on the ground. He’d been searching for the petty varmint who had stolen his property all day under the scorching rays of a bitter sun. The search left him frustrated. His heavy black robes left him sweaty and tired. And, if he was being completely honest with himself, which he very rarely was, he would have to admit that he just wanted to go home and take a nap in his cool cave and forget the whole ordeal. But certain threats had been made, kingdoms put on notice, graves robbed, damsels abducted, so, unfortunately, he was rather beyond the point of simply stopping. In short, he needed his stolen parcel retrieved and a certain level of theatrics were required to do so.

“Please don’t shoot,” Lucian said, trying to fill his voice with panic and fear and not blatant sarcasm. He was mostly successful. The masked man aiming a crossbow at Lucian’s heart squinted at him, trying to determine if the tone of this new victim’s plea was genuine or insulting. Bandits, by the very nature of the profession, don’t like to be insulted – especially by people they happen to be threatening with death.

“Oh, no! Mercy of the gods, man. Pray, don’t kill me,” cried Lucien throwing a hand to his forehead in the distinct manner of a courtly lady’s faint as he swung a leg over the saddle and slowly slid to the ground. In for a penny in for a pound as his mother used to say. “My child is sick. My pig is dead. And my wives broke out of their pen and ran away.”

“Your wives broke out of their pen?” the masked man asked.

“Don’t be an idiot,” the masked man’s companion said from the branch where he sat above the roadway. “His child is sick. His wife is dead. His pigs ran away.”

“His wife could’ve run away,” a third voice called from the surrounding forest. “Mine did.”

“We know your wife ran away, Gill. It’s all you ever talk about,” the man in the tree said. “If you washed more often maybe she wouldn’t have.”

Lucien had learned two things early in his search. The first being, he would never use a generic kingdom couriers for important deliveries again. They were too prone to being robbed. The second, bandits generally gave information more freely when they were threatening his life than when he was threatening theirs.

“Maybe if you kept her in a pen like this bloke,” started the man with the crossbow, but quickly interrupted himself. “Did you say wives?”

“He meant pigs, Sven. Pigs. You know how people get when we rob them. The blubbering. The crying. The pant wetting,” the man in the tree said with smile, clearly enjoying memories of the last. “Besides, nobody keeps their wife in a pen.”

The real challenge of being threatened, rather than doing the threatening, lay in Lucien’s particular skill set. Lucien’s skills shined most brightly after the “or what?” in a conversation. Such as when Lucien said, “Tell me who stole my package” and whomever he was requesting the information from said, “or what?” Specifically, and these were Lucian very favorite choice of words from any adversary, when they said, “over my dead body.”

“I should’ve kept my wife in a pen,” Gill called from the forest.

“Wouldn’t have stopped her from running off with what’s-his-name, though, would it,” said the man in the tree.

Once they said, “over my dead body” all sorts of delightful options became available to Lucian. Of course, he didn’t actually have to wait for them to say “over my dead body” to do any of those delightful things, but some part of him found great pleasure in knowing his playthings had unintentionally invited it on themselves. And, after years of experimentation, there were many things Lucian could do to a dead body to get the information he wanted.

“Petre,” Sven said, looking at the man in the tree. “His name was Petre, Rook, and you know it.”

“That’s right,” Rook said. “His name was Petre, wasn’t it? Petre! Petre! Petre!”

“Why must you keep saying that name!” Gill cried from the forest, quickly followed by muted weeping.

“You made him cry again, Rook,” Sven said, looking at his companion in the tree. “He doesn’t like it when you make him cry.”

Something stopped Lucian’s revere.

He was tired and his mind was wandering. He needed to focus. Stay on task.

What had that bandit just said?

Petre.

“Petre?” Lucian said, looking at the man in the tree, “you’re not Petre?”

“Don’t interrupt. And no, I’m not Petre. Petres on honeymoon with Gill’s wife by the old windmill. And given what he stole last night, he’s probably out of the game for good.” Rook said to Lucien, then turned to Sven. “I didn’t make him cry. His wife and Petre did that. I just pointed it out.”

“It was mean,” Sven said.

“It was true,” Rook said.

“Three fools and no Petre,” Lucian said, mostly to himself. “How many bandits could there possibly be in these woods?”

“A lot,” Rook said. “And you interrupted again. Sven, shoot him in the knee.”

“It’s still mean,” Sven said, taking aim at Lucien’s leg. “Even if it’s true about Gill’s wife and Petre. Do you think what Petre said was true? About a necromancer?”

Rook rolled his eyes.

“Pure foolishness,” Rook said, “we haven’t had anyone like that in these parts for ages.”

“It is foolish,” Lucian said.

“You only say it’s foolish because you didn’t see the severed head,” Sven said, glancing back and forth between Lucian and Rook. “Or the vials of blood. Or the peeled, gangrenous skin.”

“Just shoot him in the knee already, Sven,” Rook said. “And for the last time, it isn’t a necromancer. No necromancer worth their corpse would have ingredients to an evil spell delivered by a generic kingdom courier, they get robbed too often.”

Lucien closed his eyes and counted down to zero. Sometimes that helped.

Three.

Two.

One.

“It isn’t foolish because of the heads or the blood or the skin – and, by the way, all sorts of people use generic kingdom couriers,” Lucien said.

“Only fools that keep me in biscuits,” Rook interjected.

“We like biscuits,” said Sven.

“What’s foolish,” continued Lucian ignoring the interruption, “is making poor Gill cry because of his wife’s poor choices…”

“Thank you,” Gill called from the woods.

“… robbing me,” Lucian continued. “And, most of all, shooting me in the knee for interrupting.”

“How’s that?” Rook asked.

“Well, if you’re going to shoot everyone in the knee who interrupts,” Lucian said, trying and failing to keep the disdain out of his voice, “then you three should have shot each other in the knees the very moment you interrupted my pleasant ride with your inept robbery and inane blubbering. But I forgive you and will simply carry on from here. You’re not Petre and clearly don’t have what I’m looking for. I leave you to find an old windmill and yet another fool.  Good day to you, gentlemen. I say good day.”

Lucian turned his back to the bandits, grabbed his bridle, and made to climb onto his horse.

“I don’t think so,” Rook snickered, landing gently on the ground with his dagger drawn. “We might not got what you’re looking for, but you sure as well got what we’re look’n for. Gold. A horse. Your screams as we gut ya and leave you to die.”

Lucian sighed. Let go of his bridle. And slowly turned to face Rook.

“And what are you going to do with my guts once you have them?” Lucian asked, for the first time engaged with the conversation. “Anthropomancy? Death augury? Clairaudient communications?”

“Gill,” Rook called, “Get out here and tie him up, then let’s have some fun.”

“I don’t like your fun,” Sven said. “Neither does Gill when you make him cry.”

“Gill!” cried Rook, “Are you still upset about me saying Petre?”

“Don’t. Please don’t!” Gill’s scream echoed through the trees. “NOOOOOO!”

“He doesn’t like it when you say that name,” Sven said.

“Gill!” called Rook. “Get out here and tie him up!”

“Gill?” Sven called.

“Poor Gill,” Lucian said.

A branch snapped just off the path.

“Who’s out there?” Sven called, aiming his crossbow out into the forest.

“Gill’s out there, you dolt,” Rook said, “but should be right here tying this idiot up.”

“Gill was out there,” Lucien corrected, “that is, if we are being accurate.”

“What’s the difference?” Rook asked.

“Tense,” Lucien said. “One is present, the other is past. As in, Gill was out there, but out there Gill is no longer.”

“Where did Gill go?” Sven asked, taking a step away from Lucian. His eyes wide as if he was for the first time taking in Lucian’s heavy black robes, his pale-white skin, the blood caked under his fingernails. “Um… Rook?”

“Gill didn’t go anywhere,” Rook shouted “He’s just out in the woods cry-babying about his bitch of a wife.”

“Rook?” Sven tried to get Rook’s attention. Tried to get him to look at Lucian. Tried to point out a few facts that became clear and obvious now that he was thinking about necromancers and not robbing hapless victims. Rook wasn’t having it.

A loan moan came from the edge of the forest.

“See?” Rook said.

And it was right then that Gill slowly shambled out of the forest. Eyes glazed. Mouth slack. Blood pouring from his torn out throat.

“Get over here and tie him up,” Rook shouted. “Time for the cutting.”

“Gill?” Sven stammered. “Are you OK…”

“That’s not Gill, I’m afraid,” Lucien said. “I tried to leave before my companions got hungry, I truly did. But with all your bickering and threatening… well… you just took too long.”

“Your companions?” Rook asked, scanning the forest.

“Got hungry?” Sven shivered.

“Mmmmmmmmm,” Gill moaned, continuing his slow meander towards Rook.

“A shame really,” Lucian said. “Good luck, gentlemen. I’m off.”

Lucian was stopped once again from climbing onto his horse, this time by a rough, calloused hand.

“I thought I told you, it’s time for the cutting,” Rook said.

Moans began to rise from the forest surrounding them.

“And I told you,” Lucian replied, “that my companions were hungry and they don’t have time for the cutting. They prefer the gnawing. The tearing. The gnashing of teeth.”

In that moment, Rook finally understood the situation he was in. Maybe it was Lucian’s tone, or he picked up on the clues Sven tried pointing out earlier, or maybe it was the ghoulish creature Gill had become tackling Rook to the ground and gnawing on his throat as he struggled in vain. Lucian didn’t have time right then to read Rook’s entrails and find out which clued Rook in. But he would. Eventually.

Lucian brought his horse to a gentle walk and turned back the way he had come. A right two lanes down would bring him to the windmill and Petre. The sooner he retrieved his package the sooner he could get home and finish this business with kingdoms and graves and damsels. He hummed a gentle tune at the thought of a nap, and three new companions joined his horde as they merrily shambled down the road behind him.

Austin Roberts

Image by Dizzy Roseblade from Pixabay – drawstring bag of coins.