A company of five riders rode north on the Greenway. At the head was the infamous Royston Redstem – known as the Hawk of the Greenway. Behind him were his two sons, Geoffrey and Anthony. At the rear of the company were two other lads who fought at Royston’s command. Their destination was a small farm in the northern Bree-land, where a number of brigands had murdered the farmer and claimed it for themselves whilst taking prisoners too. Royston at this time was not the youthful warrior that he once was. Now in his sixty first year, his hands and reactions were now slower. Yet a fearsome warrior he remained.
On the road they came across a young man, carrying a large pack filled with furs and meat. He was clearly a hunter.
‘Name yourself, boy.’ Royston boomed in his deep and coarse voice. He remained on his horse but ordered Anthony to dismount and approach the hunter. Anthony was almost like a dog when it came to his father’s commands.
The young hunter looked petrified at the sight of these five warriors mounted on their steeds. Royston repeated himself, now speaking in a more stern voice.
‘I-I am Grankra, son of –.’ The hunter could not bring himself to finish his sentence - for good reason, too.
‘Son of--?’ Anthony barked at him, placing his hand upon the hilt of his sword. At this point, Geoffrey intervened.
‘Drawing your sword in order to get a name from an already nervous man is rather foolish, brother.’ He urged in a calm voice. ‘All we ask is your father’s name, then you may be on your way.’
Grankra looked slightly more calmed now, though the Hawk still beared down on him. At length he finally spoke. ‘Grankra son of… Lankra.’
Now the company stirred and Anthony drew his sword and held it to the man’s throat. Royston was full of rage. ‘Son of Lankra!’ he cried. ‘Son of that bastard-brigand who calls himself a “Chief”!’
‘Shall I end him, father?’ Anthony asked as he looked up obediently to his father. Royston rubbed long black-grey beard for a moment. ‘Yes.’
Grankra raised his hands in defence as Anthony tauntingly swung his sword at him. Geoffrey rode between the two. ‘You would have a man murdered because of the deeds of his father? You think that killing him will bring Lankra to his knees? Nay to that. It will bring Lankra to our doorstep with the intent of revenge.’
But even as he spoke, Anthony had plunged his blade into the stomach of Grankra. His body fell to the ground and a pool of blood formed around him. Anthony looked pleased with himself and looked towards his father with praise. None came, for Royston looked towards the foliage by the side of the road. Something was rustling.
After a short moment of silence two arrows came flying onto the road. One narrowly missed Geoffrey’s head and struck that of one of their riders. The second arrow hit the chest of their other companion. Both fell from their horses onto the road – dead.
Royston, Geoffrey and Anthony looked around in all directions in confusion, not knowing when the next attack would come. But no more arrows came. Instead six men, dressed in ragged clothes emerged from the east. Whilst they themselves looked rough, they bore well-made weapons and some mismatched pieces of armour. At the head of them walked a tall man wielding a greatsword. His hair was long and his beard even longer, dark as the night. Royston recognised this man in an instant. This was Lankra, the leader of a group of brigands known as the ‘Bloodoath’. They operated in the north and mainly targeted trade caravans on the road.
‘Lankra! Chief of the Bloodoath, is it? Or maybe you call your band of lackeys something else now?’ He mocked, remaining high on his horse.
Lankra laughed menacingly before spitting at the ground before Royston and his sons. ‘What should I call ye, eh? Son-slayer? Kin-killer? Or Boy-breaker?’ He was not laughing now. His face was filled with anger and a lust for revenge. ‘I shall take what you took from me, dog. A son for a son.’
In this moment he swung his greatsword decapitated Anthony, who stood before his father and brother. Anthony’s body fell beside that of Grankra. Lankra waved his arm and his men dispersed back into the foliage. He now stood with Anthony’s head in his hand, gripped by his wispy hair. Royston was too overcome to strike at him, yet Geoffrey made an attempt at stabbing the fiend on horseback. Yet Lankra was able to fend of this lunge. Swiftly, he mounted upon Anthony’s horse, still holding his head in hand and rode northwards. Royston and Geoffrey pursued him.
After a lengthy chase, Lankra rode through the village of Trestlebridge, running down two villagers as he did. At last, the three crossed the Trestlepan Bridge. At the other side, Lankra dismounted. Now he faced off Royston and Geoffrey. Royston ordered his son to stay back “unless it is clear that I need you”.
Lankra and Royston duelled, both with greatswords that required much strength to swing. It was not an honourable fight. The two punched, kicked and spat at each other whenever the opportunity arose. Geoffrey looked on as the Hawk of the Greenway battled with the Chief of the Bloodoath. Lankra struck Royston in the head with his hilt, dazing the older man for a moment. But a moment was all this brigand needed. Cutting off both of his hands, Royston was now completely helpless. Yet he did not scream in pain or yell for help. Geoffrey knew nonetheless that it was time to aid his father. As he charged at Lankra, the brigand struck Royston’s head from his shoulders. Royston Redstem, the Hawk of the Greenway fell here. The man who had killed countless brigands one day, and played with his grandchildren on another. Geoffrey was frozen in his place, yet Lankra still had work to do. Now overcome with the mightiest of rage he and Lankra fought viciously by the edge of the gorge. Beneath them a river flowed fast. Geoffrey was not as experienced in battle as the brigand was - that much was clear. Whilst Lankra taunted the young warrior of the death of his brother and father, Geoffrey remained as calm as he could – lest his rage overcame him. But at last, after a fight that seemed to have lasted hours, Geoffrey plunged his blade into the stomach of Lankra. He whimpered and groaned as he fell to his knees. Now on the very edge of the gorge, Geoffrey placed his boot onto Lankra’s back and kicked him off the side. As he looked over the edge at the brigand’s demise, he thought to himself: “Justice is served. No more and no less.”
