Slumped over his horse, Taraborn rides through the night into early morning. Riding through Breeland, he searches for Narys at her favourite campsites, hoping to find her there. No luck. Only one had signs of a recent fire but it might not have been hers. So, he continues, heading to the next spot. Not far from that old fire, from his bent over position in the saddle, he manages to see something glinting on the ground, a chance beam of sunlight hitting it. Frowning, he attempts to climb down from the saddle but ends falling to the floor, his hands coming out to prevent his fall.
Pain shoots through his hand, the sharp blade of the arrow slicing his hand as he lands on it. Wrapping the cut in a rag he’d torn from his clothes, he picks up the arrow, inspecting it. It takes a moment before he recognises the craftsmanship.
“Narys…” He whispers to himself.
He looks about, she wouldn’t leave an arrow lying around, he knew her better than that. Looking about he tries to find a sign as to where she had gone. His tracking ability was not the same as Narys’, who could track a hobbit over a stone path. All he can see is a couple of drops of blood some distance from himself, it wasn’t his. The sense of worry only begins to rise in him. Not seeing anything but this, he resorted to a more time consuming method. Wearily he pulls himself up onto his horse.
Riding out till he was out of sight of where he had found the arrow, he begins to ride in a circle, keeping about a few hundred yards out. Finding nothing, he moves out another few hundred yards. Eventually, he hears sounds of life somewhere to his right.
Riding away from the sounds, he climbs down from his horse and with a quick release knot, he ties off the reins of his horse to a tree. Keeping low, the strain on his aching muscles was unbearable. Coming over a small rise, he drops onto a bruised stomach and looks down on the brigand camp ahead. Peering down, he watches from a distance, taking in the layout of the camp, counting the number of brigands, their armour, their weapons, their morale and behaviour. Were their sentries alert or just being lazy on the position? Where were good entrance points to the camp, and where could he hide? Who was the leader, how much authority did he have? All these questions Taraborn goes through as he watches. After what might have been an hour, he crawls back painfully. Once out of sight, he moves around towards the East before crawling forward again, finding a position from which to see but not be seen. Again, he watches for an hour or so, running through the questions at all times. After that, he moves to the North and then the West.
From the West, he crawls up onto a small rise and can watch the camp only to see one of the authoritative figures of the camp striding towards him, making his way West. Hurriedly crawling back into a bush, he buries his face into the ground.
“Gav!” Shouts a voice, presumably the brigand he’d spotted, “What in the bloody hell are you doing?”
“What does it feckin’ look like?” A response comes, from just below the rise. Taraborn’s eyes widen, how close had he been to this brigand? He must have been behind the large bush just below the rise. Too close for comfort.
“You were supposed to bring her to the camp to be questioned. Cut this out and get her over there.” A small pause. Taraborn’s mind races. Her? That can only be Narys. If they get her back to the main camp I won’t be able to help… The man continues speaking, “She’s beat up pretty bad. You damn idiot.” A sigh, Taraborn curses himself internally, the rage building inside of him. He may not be able to fight the whole camp, but one brigand distracted by a girl should be easy enough, even in his current state. “Stop playing around, before you wind up killing her, and then you’ll have to answer to the boss.”
“…I’m almost done, just give me a minute” A response from the older sounding brigand. Hope sparks within Taraborn, if the superior outlaw grants this wish he might be able to save her. The rage however, continues to boil. He could only guess what this filth was planning to do her, my Narys, he says inwardly.
Something was muttered, then a single pair of footsteps began making their way back to the East. “Oh, you owe me now sweet thing.” Comes the voice of the filth. Taraborn begins to act. Drawing his dirk, the foot-long blade with a jagged edge on the back near the hilt a couple of inches long seeming to gleam at the thought of blood.
The sounds of a slight struggle come from the other side of the rise as Taraborn crawls forward, his whole body crying out in pain. He ignores this, the rage pumping through his body and blotting all else out. Over the top he crawls, behind the bush as he pushes himself to his feet. Peering round the edge he spies a disgusting older brigand, pants pushed down and his appendage out, seconds away from forcing himself on a red headed girl. Taraborn recognises her instantly as Narys. He sees red, his mind knowing nothing but the desire to end this filth. Darting from behind the bush he grabs the man’s hair and pulls it back, punching him in the throat to silence him. Holding him by the hair, Taraborn kicks viciously against his knee. The bones snap, and his leg bends the wrong way.
Gav falls to the floor, gasping for breath and clutching for a weapon. Deciding to grant him his wish, he grabs his wrist, yanking it back and trapping it against the ground before his dirk is driven through his palm, and embeds itself into the ground, pinning his hand. Gav tries to scream but only manages a hoarse croak. Taking a punch to the side, his armour protects him mostly, but the sensitive cuts beneath it crack open. Not even feeling this, he punches Gav in the throat again and forces his other hand to the ground. Standing on the brigand’s wrist, he pulls the bandage from the cut on his hand and stuffs it into his mouth as a gag. Snarling, he draws his long sword.
While this is happening, Narys had fallen away in shock, though Taraborn was only slightly aware of her standing up. He was focused and lopping off the man’s hand as it tries to pull him down. The gag muffles the screams as the hand lands with a thump a few feet away. In a mindless rage, Taraborn continues to punish Gav, one fell swoop of his sword taking his feet. The man’s limbs flail about and spurt blood, much of it soaking Taraborn. He doesn’t care.
After taken the man’s other hand, he drops his sword and yanks his dirk from the severed hand and ground. Kicking Gav onto his back he pins him there, and holds his head steady. “Not… my… Narys… filth!” He snarls, and with each word his dirk comes down, first his eyes, then his ears.
“Tara…” A quiet voice croaks. He ignores it. The filth must be punished.
In one final brutal act of revenge, Taraborn removes the final offending appendage and stuffs it into Gav’s mouth. Taraborn had tortured before. It was part of the job. This, this was different, this wasn't an indifferent infliction of pain for information, this was an act of savagery driven by animalistic hate and rage. This man deserved everything he received and Taraborn would never once regret it.
Panting heavily, he stands up with a wobble and picks up his sword before leaning on a tree, finally looking at Narys with bleary eyes. “How much did ‘e ‘urt you?” He asks quietly. His rage fades, replaced now with overbearing pain and weariness. She just needs to be safe and well, that is all that matters now.
She ignores his question, rushing to him and helping him stay upright, “Tara…” She whispers.
Oh, how he loves her in that moment, “Narys...” He whispers in response, My Narys, my love. Looking back, then again to her, “We should go…” She needs to be safe… far from here…
Helping each other along, Taraborn guides her to his horse, keeping out of sight of the camp. Releasing the knot in the reins, he kneels painfully, offering her his knee to step up onto the horse. She refuses, pulling him to his feet. She climbs up, then pulls him up after herself. Pulling his arms around her waist, she places his hands on the reins and they ride South to the homesteads.
Taraborn remembers the journey little, recalling odd moments here and there. He does remember falling from his horse outside the Bloody Dawn barracks where he was staying, and managing to get to the bed where he collapses, still in his bloodied armour.
She’s safe…
