Windy Trails of Jalvern

The small village of Jalvern, was quiet—deceptively so. Residing in northern Starklevende, the jagged mountains dwarfing the little town from either side gave its deep valley an ominous whistle of wind that flowed through the damp roads, lifting skirts and disheveling hair. The sign out front of the tavern creaked and swayed with the gusty breeze, echoing its rusty cry across the buildings’ stony faces.

The few denizens of Jalvern silently went about their morning business. Eyes focused on feet, rather than meet the gaze of passersby. Hardly a word was uttered between neighbors—once friends. What used to be bustling streets full of smiling faces, laughing children, and ox-drawn carts, was now nothing more than empty plots seeing the occasional pedestrian stumbling through muddy ground. Along the dryer edges, hoof marks could still be seen, haunting the area where oxen once hauled ore and gems from the local mine. All ghosts of the past now.

An old woman trudged along; a basket of vegetables pressed against her hip. Each step through the mud a tremendous feat for her aching bones. She was one of few to remain in Jalvern. Too old to find a new home; too old to travel. The wind whipped the shawl from around her head. It felt as if it would lift her tiny frame right off the ground if it hadn’t untangled and drifted to muddy road.

Making chase, she slipped and fell to one knee. Crawling along, she finally came upon her shawl. It sat under the boot of a stranger—worn boots, but of good quality. Her sight rose from boot to knee, knee to hip, past the shirtless torso and eventually upon the face of a tall, younger looking man with short, nearly shaved dark brown hair. His reddish-brown goatee accentuated his strong jawline and stoic hazel eyes. The man didn’t scare her, but the gigantic longsword hanging from his back scabbard left her with an inexplicable unease.

He reached down and took the shawl in hand, brushing off the excess mud before giving it to her.  

“Thank you kindly, young’un.” She wrapped it back around her neck, despite the filth. With a gasp, her eyes went wide as she turned to her basket. Surprised, she saw a demon, one of undoubtedly Kumzik origin given the jet-black skin, picking up her fallen vegetables and placing them back in the basket.

The demon then walked over as the man helped her to her feet. He gave her the basket with a cordial nod. She could see his pale blue eyes shining brightly under that dark tunic hood. Two aquamarine gems floating in a sea of black.

“And I thank you, young Kumzik,” she bowed her head slightly, taking the heavy basket in hand.

The demon grinned.

The old woman noticed the tall man looking around the village, his face one of confusion.

“Oh, you wonder why the town suffers? My bones are too old, my mind too foggy to stand in the road explaining things to strangers. Head to the tavern. Doan’ll be more than happy to have your custom and fill your ears with all sorts of tales. I thank you for my shawl, and my basket. Let me be now. I must get home and clean these pitiful parsnips.” She shuffled past the man, not looking back.

The Kumzik looked to his companion, raising a silver-white eyebrow.  

A shrug from the tall swordsman.

The tavern door creaked as the two strangers entered. The place was mostly empty, save for two men sitting at a table together, and a woman by herself in the corner, knitting. The man behind the counter looked up, his eyes widening to untold proportions. “Welcome, yes! Come! Sit!” he immediately pulled out two mugs and began filling them with what appeared to be beer.

The tall stranger grimaced before pointing to the keg of mead and one of the bottles of wine that sat on the back shelf.  

“Ah, of course.” The tavern owner emptied the contents of the mugs back into an unseen container. Then he poured the desired drinks, rushing over to the two travelers. “Here you are.”

The demon nodded his thanks, placing four coins on the table.

“Oh, my friends, that is too much. I need only half,” the tavern owner scratched his head as he looked at the coin, almost licking his lips.

“Extra for information,” the human finally spoke, sitting down at one of the tables and leaning back.

“I see. Very well. I've been told I talk too much, ha! No strain on me. Comes from me ma and da. Quite the conversationalists they were. Main reason I opened up a tavern. Love the commotion, you see.”

The tall man smiled, his head tilting to the side. “Then this should be a simple task for you. I brought my friend here to introduce him to a woman. One who is quite skilled in the art of blacksmithing.”

 It was at that moment the tavern owner’s face went dark. The two strangers noticed the drifting eyes of the other patrons suddenly averting themselves.

“Now your reaction’s got me curious.” The swordsman’s grin widened. The mug of mead rose to his lips, his eyes never leaving the tavern owner’s. “Mmm, a bit tart, must admit.”

“Apologies. We’ve no good honey stock in weeks. Not many traders come through here anymore. Not since—”

“Yes?”

“Just tell ‘em Doan,” the knitting woman spoke up. Her eyes held a hint of sadness.

“Aye. Well, bandits. They took over the mines some months back. Foisted out all our people. Now they take what gems they can, selling them to whoever still passes through while using the mine as their headquarters. They slaughtered many. Those who fought back, anyways. The rest of us they leave alone, so long as we give them whatever they want. Free drinks and food in my case.

“It was our main resource, you understand? No mine means no ore or gems. No ore or gems means no trade. No trade, no commerce. No commerce—no livelihood! To be blunt, gentleman, our town is dying. Those of us who stay do so by stubbornness—” he nodded to the two older men sitting at the table across the room “—or we’ve no other choice. Such as me and my tavern here. Put everything I had into this sanctuary. Not possible to pack up and take root elsewhere. I'm stuck. We’re, stuck.” The man sniffed back tears.

The two strangers looked at each other; the swordsman’s grin never faltering. “Well, it looks as though we’ve stumbled upon a crisis.”

The black-skinned Kumzik grinned himself, taking a shallow sip of wine. His lips pursed at the taste, much to the tavern owner’s dismay.

“And as for your blacksmith, Viveka,” the owner crossed his arms, eyes closed and head shaking slowly, “she’s been taken, along with other women and girls for…well, you know. They keep Viveka inside to work her magic on their weapons and ore. She knows what to look for when it comes to gems. Sadly, they completely discard all the other precious metals. Iron is good material, but those brigands don’t know otherwise. The fools.”

The swordsman and the demon looked at each other for what seemed like minutes, but was only seconds. Then, the demon sighed and nodded.

At that, the swordsman drained the last of his mead and briskly hopped up. “Ha! Still tickles the chest. My good man, allow me and my friend here to take care of this bandit problem, yeah?”

“What now? Surely you jest? Not even the magistrate at Toulson would get involved. Said it was a lost cause he did. The coward.”

“Consider it a favor. When we complete the task, you owe us all the mead and wine we can drink.” That large grin grew ever wider.

“Bah! If you drive them wretches out, I’d give you me daughter—if I had one.”

“Not necessary. Mead and wine will do. A deal then! Come Deacon, let us be off.”

“Oh, but what is your name, good master?” The tavern owner clasped his hands together in thanks.

“Jarek. Jarek Defiler.”

***

They waited until nightfall, as they always did. Bandits were often drunken louts, always deep in cups at the start of the night. Deacon and Jarek stealthily dragged away the bodies of the two standing watch at the mine entrance. They couldn’t hear it from the village, but now the tapping of a blacksmith’s hammer echoed from within.

Jarek unsheathed his sword, jerking his head to the mine. Deacon nodded his understanding, nocking another arrow in the string of his black bow.

The layout of the mine would have been a problem if not for one of the men sitting in the tavern. He used to be a miner, and knew the place like the face of his wife, one who was lost in the initial bandit raid. He drafted a makeshift map that Jarek and Deacon studied throughout the day in preparation.

They came upon their first opposition within. Three more dregs sat in an alcove along one of the shafts. They weren’t on watch, rather the hovel was used as a sleeping chamber, with soiled pillows and furs. With all three asleep, the slaughter was simple, quick. The last woke during the assault, but Jarek’s sword ended him before a shout could be uttered. They didn’t bother hiding these bodies.

Deacon’s keen demonic eyesight granted them safe passage in the pitch-black tunnels. Even though they knew the layout, the sound of the blacksmith’s hammer served as a guide, growing louder and louder with every step taken, every corner turned—a beacon in the darkness.

Five men this time. Three snoring under furs, two sitting at a rickety table, playing some manner of dice. Deacon focused the one who appeared less drunk. Before his head hit the table from the arrow lodged in his temple, Jarek was on the other who sat there stunned in his drunken stupor. His throat gushed red. Jarek caught him, quietly placing him on the ground. It took a moment for him to pass. His eyes wide with shock and horror. The remaining three didn’t make so much as a peep, other than the expulsion of bowel gas when their souls left their bodies.

The hammer blows were bouncing so loudly off the walls Deacon was tempted to cover his ears. They headed toward a light that came from around a bend, as well as the hammering.

This time there were voices: women and children. With extra precaution, Jarek crouched down and slid along the cave wall, taking scrapes and cuts along his shoulder and arm. He didn’t seem to notice.

When they arrived at the next chamber, they were granted a horrific sight. A makeshift pen was constructed in one corner from old wood and iron scraps. It held several women and children, bruised and battered. Dried blood and cuts littered their bodies. The stink was enough to make a basilisk gag. What little furs and pillows they had sat soiled with all manner of stains. And in the far corner, lay three dead girls, no older than seven. That was one thing Deacon did not tolerate: the harming of children. His eyes burned with fury, but his composure maintained. He was a professional.

Opposite the slave pen was the origin of the hammer blows. Viveka stood at an anvil, wearing nothing but an apron, hard leather gloves and boots. Her body was of bronze, in color and in strength. The sinewy muscles gyrating up her arms and along her back was enough to shy away any man who dare approach her. Her long, disheveled red hair sat jumbled behind her, tied with rough leather straps. They must not have been as deep in the mountain as Deacon thought, for they were able to dig out a chimney above the forge. Despite that, Viveka’s damp, sweaty skin was still lathered in soot and ash. But it wasn’t enough to cover the whipping scars down her back and legs.

No time for pity. Deacon took note of the several men and women bandits sitting about the chamber. They were all awake. Some talked with each other, some drank, others sharpened their weapons.

A hand on Deacon’s shoulder caused him to fall back. Jarek nodded to the left of the chamber and pointed to himself, then pointed to Deacon and signaled to the right of the chamber.

Deacon nodded back.

Jarek charged without making a sound—sword grasped tightly in his iron grip.  

Deacon managed to land two arrows before having to pull out his daggers. When Viveka noticed the commotion, her hammer suddenly left the anvil and found the head of the nearest bandit, splitting it in two like a melon.

The alarm was raised, but the unsuspecting brigands were no match for the Defiler and his companion. With Viveka taking up the rear, the remaining bandits were pushed into the middle of the chamber, eventually succumbing to violent hammer blows, precise sword strikes, and jabs from daggers. The sounds from the slave pen were one of simultaneous fear and praise.

“Not done yet, love.” Viveka lifted her hammer to the tunnel in the back of the chamber. “Boss man’s in there with his woman. She’s a wild one, that. Be on your guard.”

Jarek nodded, signaling Deacon to take the rear as he stood to the side of the tunnel entrance. A banshee’s wail and out came the wild woman. She wore a thick leather vest and wool skirt, both soiled with what appeared to be old, dried blood. Her teeth were sharpened and her grey eyes crazed with madness.

Jarek swung, aiming for the neck. But be it fate or pure luck, the wretched woman dove forward onto all fours, crawling as swiftly as a lion to Deacon. He had little time to react, for she was on him in an instant.

Stomping behind her was the head of the gang: a behemoth of a man carrying a battle axe with an iron helm that covered his entire head, leaving only eye slits. His breathing was like a dragon inhaling before blowing fire. But he wasn’t Deacon’s concern, for Jarek was on him the moment he stepped into the chamber.

Deacon rolled back, stumbling over one of the corpses. The wild woman lunged, gnashing teeth and slashing with her own daggers. He expertly parried each thrust, sending her off balance and tumbling to the side.

Sword and axe clashed, as Jarek and the bandit leader fought ferociously. Jarek was nearly as tall as his opponent, but the brigand had probably eighty more pounds on him. But one thing few ever beat Jarek in, was that of speed. The battle axe missed, leaving an opening. Ducking under the heavy blow, Jarek spun on his knees, flinging the blade of his sword in an upward arc that sent both hands of the bandit leader sailing through the air.

Deacon’s opponent noticed Viveka smashing the chains on the slave pen. She wailed, charging at Viveka’s naked backside. But before her daggers met that bronze flesh, she collapsed to the ground with a throaty excretion of hot air. The black arrow in her spine made quick work of the harpy.

Viveka broke the chains with one final blow. Women and children slowly stumbled out, frail and malnourished. Some could barely walk.

Jarek chose to spare the bandit leader, chaining him up after cauterizing his wounds with hot iron from the forge.  

“Jarek Defiler. Here I am, owing you once again, ha!” Viveka stepped forward to hug him, but thought twice after acknowledging her soiled form. “I need me a bath.”

“Desperately. Viveka my dear, I introduce you to the second in command of the mercenary company known as The Defilers—Deacon of Kumoziko.” Jarek held up a hand to Deacon who stepped forward, making an effort not to observe the woman’s nakedness.

“It is an honor, madam.” Deacon bowed.

“Ah, don’t be so shy Kumzik! Any friend of Jarek is a friend of mine.” She held out a hand. He took it, reluctantly.

“It’s just—making you work the forge in such a state. Barbaric.”

“Huh? Oh this?” Viveka looked down at her apron. “Ah no. I always work in the flesh. I relish the feel of the forges heat on my skin. Besides, any clothing gets ruined in an instant. Skin just heals, ha!” She pounded her buxom chest with a heavy fist.

“I see…”

“Viveka is a master of steelwork. She’ll have your daggers repaired in no time,” Jarek nodded to the chipped weapons now hanging from Deacon’s belt.

“And here I thought you came back just to save us,” Viveka shook her head, pouting playfully.  

The freed women and children were brought back to their families, or those who would take them in, as most of their relatives had fled or were slain in the initial bandit raid. The bandit leader was taken to the magistrate who made great show of enforcing justice by hanging the brute. The rope snapped on the first attempt.  

Days later and Deacon slid a finger along the edge of his newly repaired daggers. Blood was drawn.

Jarek heartily slapped the tavern owner on the back before waving goodbye. The townsfolk were rushing about. Word had it a new trade caravan was heading to the village. Deacon was pleased to see so many smiling faces now.

Jarek reached to the sky with a stretch. His back cracked and popped.

“Too much sitting in that tavern guzzling down all that mead,” Deacon smirked.

“It would’ve been rude not to. Come. Let’s be off then.”

Deacon chuckled at his commander and friend. They headed off, never knowing where the road will take them. And in the distance, the sound of a hammer hitting an anvil echoed off the canyon walls.