They say that back when the demon-speakers were in power, the roads were so secure that you could take a stroll alone from town to town with a sack of gold and nobody would bother you. Light strike me if i think that we aren’t better as we are right now, but damn, i almost envy them for that. Forget the gold sack. Today, if you walk away from your village alone, you’d lucky if it’s the brigands that get you and not, you know, the other things.

Ah! Another thing we have to thank the demon-speakers for, am i right?

Ted, port worker

Robin Rickter was having a really bad day. The Arrow - as allies and enemies knew him, but not friends since he had none - was a man of remarkable patience. Tall and well-built by a life passed on the road as a bandit, he had elevated the ability to lie to an art form. He always smiled, to the point that that had become his default expression even if for the greater number of times there was nothing for him to smile about. That smile was his sword and he was able to control it like master sportsman with his weapon; he was able to make it turn cheerful and sunny, a small beacon of infectivity that made him endearing to others; turn it cheeky and brave, the perfect tool to inspire confidence; or make it into a little half-moon of teeth, just suggestive enough to convince that stubborn merchant to pay up.

Robin was proud of his smile, like a pirate would be of his favorite saber. It was an ability he had picked up during his youth, when he had tried to become an actor. He had come a long way since then, the first thing he learned was that dreams don’t make you rich, but he had never left the skill rust. Sometimes, he wondered if his henchmen knew that their beloved leader passed at least two hours a day making faces in the mirror. If they did, they always made sure to never talk about it at his face. Smart dogs. He would have gutted anybody that knew too much.

His smile had been instrumental in his group becoming the merry companions that beggars everywhere in twenty miles around had come to admire and love. It had given the Arrows their tone of jolly troublemakers and justiciars. It was their banner and had made him the standard-bearer to which happy housewives presented gifts of food and clothing and at which passage men cheered and waved their hats.

Anybody close enough to him to see through his facade knew better than to believe in the image of the cheeky, smiling companion of the poor. If asked, those few would say that Robin Rickter was a snake in human form: coldblooded, with an abacus where the heart was supposed to be, the leader of the Arrows was one of those human specimens that thought the world as a place of taking and losing, where what his fellow man lost was his win. He smiled all the time but in truth, the only moment he really meant it was when he was with his favorite wench, indulged in some vice or went to bed with his pockets filled with someone else's coin. As in every human being, there was good in him as well, but it was a little speck, despised and drowned in a sea of calculations, envy and ambition.

Right now, this champion of human morality wasn’t having a good time. Anxiety gnawed at him as he paced endlessly in the untidy room he held as his own in the Arrows’ home camp.

To be honest, there shouldn’t have been a reason for him to feel like that. Gus had taken some of the boys - fifteen of them, give or take - to attack the caravan of some Seven scum on his way back home. Their guide, some dandy that had spent too much on mustache cream or something and was in search of quick cash, was in cahoots with them and would lead the caravan where nobody could hear them scream.

On paper, it should have been easy. The guide was to take hostage the caravan leader and force the others to surrender. If that failed, they still had numbers, surprise and, more importantly, those stinky beasts. The thought of the Dire sent a shiver through him, but he pushed it aside. A simple assault on paper, so much that he had sent out only a part of the boys and had decided not to get involved personally. He preferred to remain with the majority of the men, and those days Gus was in need of a reminder who exactly was the boss around there. After years of being the quartermaster for the group, the fat man was starting to think too much of his own importance. A bit of time without his wine, slogging away his lard in the forest, was sure to put his boiling spirits to rest.

If he was lucky, Gus’ rotundity would make him do a mistake and he would return a crippled and more manageable henchman. Missed that, maybe he’d be stupid enough to think that one victory in the field was enough for him to try and undermine his leadership with some measure of success. In that case, he would have all the excuses in the world to put him back in his place. He was the Arrow, and the men followed him and nobody else. Or better still, but he believed little in the chance, he would simply get the message and step back.

A win-win situation, or at least it had seemed like that at the time. Now, he wasn’t so sure anymore.

Stopping by the window, he drew aside the tattered flap holding it shut and peered outside. The sun was still high in the sky. Far too soon to think that they were late. The assault itself should have taken little time, but moving the goods was another pair of hands altogether. Nor there was to be surprised about the lack of messages. The ambush site was far. A messenger would take quite some time to make the trip. The chance that the assault somewhat failed was so remote to be laughable. They had scouted the target extensively and had all the advantages. They couldn’t fail.

And still…

The Arrow had learned to trust his instinct. It had taken him out of trouble more than once, even before becoming a bandit leader, and it had ended on leading him to the alliances that had secured his present prosperity. Right now, he didn’t like at all what it kept suggesting to him. Something wasn’t right. There was danger in the air, but where was it coming from?

Cursing under his breath, Robin stormed out of the room.

The camp of the Arrows welcomed him with a vision of woods mixed with a small village. Log huts stood beneath the trees’ shade, connected by beaten paths carved through the underbrush. Wooden and rope ladders allowed access to small buildings built on the trees, which were connected with rickety bridges. There wasn’t a precise border that showed where encampment finished and wood began. They were mashed together, fused like plants intertwined. That choice of building had served the Arrows well through the years. It was difficult to find their camp for those that didn’t know its position. A refined series of fences, ditches and traps increased with natural obstacles and scouts made sure that those who knew it knew it as a true, hidden stronghold. A small army would have been needed to burst through the Arrows’ home camp, and armies didn’t come out there in the woods.

The sight didn’t carry any solace to Robin. Still fuming, the Arrow made his way down the path leading from his house to the wider camp.

People walked about, busy with the daily activities of the camp. They greeted him as he passed, to which he replied with the toothy smile, the one he gave when he was in a bad mood and wanted everybody to know it. The bandits were quick to scamper out of the way. Differently from gullible farmers, they knew about their leader’s true attitude and what kind of trouble you could end in when you crossed him during one of those moments.

Robin felt his sour mood increase of the tiniest bit: as much as a lover of recitation he was, sometimes it was simply better to enjoy the truth.

Detaching from a small group of females, a sleazy woman swaddled in cheap fabric sauntered to him, a suggestive smile on her lips.

“Hey, Tanya,” Robin grunted. Usually, he was happy to see his favorite wench - the girl knew just how to tickle him the right way - but that wasn’t one of those moments.

“Someone’s angry,” the woman said, showing teeth only slightly yellowed by life in the woods. She pushed herself against him, swaddling him in cheap perfume. “Worried about Gus? Like if that fatso had even a chance.”

Normally, Robin would have welcomed the compliment. Right now, he just frowned in irritation, eyeing critically the earring dangling from her ear. Did he gift her that?

Tanya traced his chest with a finger. “How about you let me help you to relax? Then, maybe, you can make me happy with that little money you promised… I’d make your time worthwhile.” She fluttered her lashes.

Her sultry expression turned surprised as Robin pushed her away, making her stumble.

“Not in the mood for your bullshit, woman,” the bandit leader said with irritation. “It’s always about the money with you. You aren’t any different than a leech!”

The woman made an outraged sound.

“Asshole! Animal!” She hissed. She retook her posture and covered herself with her shawl. With a disdainful sound, she turned and stomped right where she had come from, the women quick to welcome her.

Robin watched her go with the teeth behind his smile pressed tightly together. She was going to bitch about this for the next week, he just knew it. Anyway, who gave her that earring? Someone had some explaining to do…

A bandit came running, taking him out from his thoughts of jealousy.

“Boss!” He called, coming to a stop before him.

The man was short and lanky, the sunburned skin of his face pocked with yellowish stains left by a past sickness. Nominally the second in command of the group, he was more like the errand boy of Robin, assigned to the place more for his eagerness to please than for any real ability. Always ready to snitch for the boss, he was universally hated by the rest of the gang. His name was Rikker.

Robin gave him the hard smile. “Where have you been?” he asked, irritated for him to not appearing earlier and sparing him from the unpleasant meeting.

To his satisfaction, the man squirmed under his scrutiny.

“You’re right, boss, i am sorry boss,” he stammered, nodding quickly. “There’s something i need to tell you,” he added, looking at unease.

Robin felt his own anxiety rear its ugly head. Still, he had been far too successful during his career and that had ended on cementing in him an arrogance mixed with a tendency to discharge his own doubts and problems on those around him. And so, rather than accept his own uncertainty, he felt his irritation toward the sniveling man raise for bothering him with his useless alarms. He had enough thoughts by himself, he didn’t need Rikker to add his imaginary ones.

Putting a hand over the snitch’s shoulder, he grinned to him. Rikker almost writhed but didn’t dare to draw back, and the bandit leader enjoyed his distress.

“What is it, friend?” he asked almost amicably.

Rikker trembled but knew better than to protest. “It’s the boy, boss,” he said. “He says that the wolves are antsy.” He swallowed. “They smell trouble.”

The boy. That’s what they called him in the camp, not really because of age and inexperience but rather to exorcise the fear they had of him. A young’ un couldn’t really be so fearsome, could he?

The mention of him set Robin’s heckles up. Like all his bandits, he was afraid of the boy; differently from them, he hated it and refused to admit it.

Still grinning, he roughly pushed the snitch away, almost sending him with his arse on the ground.

Hatred or not, there was a reason why he has a successful bandit leader, and that was the ability to think coolly when the situation called for it. His instinct had rarely led him astray, and the instinct of the boy’s beasts was nothing to sneeze at either. If both sniffed trouble, it probably meant that there was trouble for real.

“Round the boys,” he ordered. “Tell them that trouble might be coming. Set them alert. Make sure that the sentinels aren’t sleeping. And tell John to come to me.” He added the last part almost as an afterthought.

Rikker nodded repeatedly at any order, fiddling with his fingers. The man looked like a dog faithfully listening to orders and putting them to memory.

Robin‘s irritation surged. “Move, damn you! What are you waiting for?”

Rikker started and scampered away, so quick that he was still nodding and assenting even when he was ten meters away.

Robin watched him go, feeling irritation mix with anxiety. He had nothing but contempt for that obsequious worm. He had his uses for now, but one day…

“What’s the matter, Arrow?” Tanya mocked sourly. “Getting cold feet about ghosts?”

Robin turned slowly to her, his grin all teeth. He liked Tanya, she was her favorite; but there a limit to the freedom she could take with him, especially when he was in that kind of mood.

Realizing his mistake, the woman blanched. Understanding where the wind was blowing, the members of her group shirked away from her, and she suddenly found herself isolated.

Robin kept her pinned with his gaze for some moments, wordlessly promising that they would have words about this. Not now, now he had more important things to take care of, but soon, soon…

The woman lowered her gaze, trembling as she clutched the shawl to her body.

Robin smirked, feeling a bit buoyed. She wasn’t a bad girl after all. She only needed to be reminded of her place from time to time.

Feeling of humor noticeably better, the bandit leader turned and walked away. He would make a round of the camp, make sure that the defenses were up and running and that the boys were ready. His earlier anxiety was somewhat offset by a small surge of optimism. Their camp was strong, and he had a lot of meat to throw against trouble if necessary. If his hunch turned out to be true, they would be more than ready to meet it.

And if bandits, palisades and traps weren’t enough, and he doubted that was to be the case, he still had the boy with his beasts, and that bitch. He’d resent having to resort to them but he’d still do it. Survival came before pride, after all, and Robin the Arrow had always prided himself with being a pragmatic first and foremost.

If his years on the road had taught him something, it was that you didn’t become a successful bandit leader by being sentimental.

Gorren watched thoughtfully the roughly sketched map spread before him. His officers waited by the sidelines, dutifully silent to keep the Master’s thoughts clear from disturbances.

The archmage put a finger on the parchments, thinking. The map showed a rough reproduction of what was supposed to be the Arrows’ bandit camp. A dense tract of forest dotted with symbols representing traps and hidden sentinels circled an irregular-shaped woodland camp; ditches and palisades provided with shooting positions defended it, engrained with and reinforced by natural obstacles, mostly boulders too big to be removed or clumps of trees clustered too thickly to be traversed.

Gus had revealed that more or less fifty bandits remained in the camp, plus a small number of non-combatants such as women for the officers and specialized workers like a smith. The bandits did works like hunting, cooking and maintenance by themselves, preferring to limit access to their home base as much as possible.

Gorren tended to believe what the fat man said. He was far too scared to try something like lying. Of course, he had cross-confirmed, through separate interrogations, his pieces of information with what the other prisoners knew.

It had been a stroke of luck to capture the quartermaster of the camp of all things. The man had a good grasp of the place's layout, as well of the stock of weapons and materials the bandits were provided with.

Gorren made a mental list of the objectives he wished to see fulfilled. First, the Arrows as a group had to disappear. To reach that goal, the majority, or a great deal, of the bandits had to be killed or captured, so that the remnants would lose heart and scatter. Eliminating the leadership of the group would go a great deal to see this to completion but it wasn’t strictly necessary. As long as the group was gone, the leaders would lose their clout as well.

Another secondary objective included capturing some bandits for interrogation, preferably the leader. He wished to know the extent of the Crow’s involvement with this operation. Gus seemed to know little about it; the only thing the fat man was privy to was that they had some kind of big ally in the city keen on helping them. Support from this mysterious benefactor had materialized as training for the bandits, money for the original funding of the group and, from time to time, information about the targets and food and weapon supplies.

Gus was an officer of the Arrows; if he didn’t know anything about this deal, it was likely that only the leader and his second in command were privy to its details. Knowing them would help him to settle a better deal with Joseph back in the city. Still, it wasn’t strictly fundamental, something only to follow through if possible.

So, kill as many bandits as possible first; kill or capture the leadership second.

That said, how to proceed?

Gorren peered at the map for some moments.

He had fifty soldiers more or less, strong and devoted but without formal training. Against fifty bandits, provided with some training and fighting in their home turf. Alongside them, there were officers that had clawed their way to leadership through cunning and force of arms, and as such were not to be underestimated. First of all, Robin, the undisputed leader of the group. Gus spoke with little respect of him, but Gorren had drawn from his words the image of a cunning liar, a cruel thief and a fearsome warrior. The man was an exception to the rules: he needed to die or be captured. If he was allowed to go free, it was a strong possibility that the group would reappear somewhere else under another guise. After him, there was Tall John, the second in command. More brawn than brain, the man had been described by Gus as a giant, a true whirlwind of destruction; a champion rather than a leader. His death would provide much-needed chaos in the bandits’ ranks. And then there was the big bruiser of the group: Og, an ogrekin. It wasn’t surprising that one of those misbegotten creatures worked for bandits. Ogrekins feasted on violence and a life preying on innocents would appeal to them just right.

Finally, the wolves. Minus the trio of ambush, Gus said that there were ten of them, keeping to themselves into a small cave some distance from the camp proper. That was good: it meant that they would need some time to gather their wits and come to assist the bandits. Interestingly enough, a young man lived with them, acting as a liaison between the pack and the men. Gus knew little of “the boy”, aside from that he was some kind of half-feral creature of the deep woods. The bandit seemed to fear him greatly.

Gorren was quite intrigued. Some kind of druid maybe? His own interests aside, the Boy was the link between bandits and wolves. If he was to fall, he expected that whatever pact bonded was to fail.

That was the force arrayed against his own. Stroking his short-cropped beard, Gorren weighed his options.

A direct, brazen assault was out of the question: the defenses of the camp would provide the bandits with a decisive advantage and his soldiers would just be repelled with heavy losses.

Gorren thought about it for some moments, pondering various paths.

“We’ll burn them,” he said eventually, provoking a ripple of attention through the officers.

Walking around the map, eyes peering sharply at lines and symbols, Gorren explained calmly.

“Gus has given us the passwords the bandit scouts ask when someone arrives. A group will dress as bandits and approach the camp. They will try to take out the sentinels as they approach them. I want to try to avoid setting off an alarm, but it’s possible that this fails. In that case, we will have to be ready to move in quickly. Traps won’t be a problem. We know the secure paths that the bandits use to avoid them. Once the first group has opened a path, or if an alarm is set, the rest of the soldiers will move in. They will attack in two groups, one here, “ he pointed at where the doors of the camp were supposed to be, “and one here,” he gestured for a point where the palisade ran into a straight line. Owing to some irregularity in the terrain, the ditches didn’t cover that small tract. “Speed will be paramount. I want them to be beyond the palisade before the bandits can muster a defense. Each group will be provided with a supply of flammable material - we’ll use oil and pitch -. A part of them is to cause as much ruckus and mayhem as possible. They will focus on attacking the bandits inside and making noise. The materials provided to us by the prisoners will be good for this. The others are to set fire at everything they see.” He gazed sharply at the officers. “I want chaos. I want them to not understand what is happening and what the scope of the danger is. I want them to start clubbing each other in confusion. Am i clear?”

A series of firm nods was his answer.

“Good. We’ll use what we know of the layout of the camp at our advantage. Each group will be assigned half of the camp and a series of preferential targets. Their officers, the facilities they use, where they keep their food and supplies; if we hit them, they are sure to lose cohesion even more.”

More nods passed through the officers, their minds already turning with images of the operation and the best ways to execute their orders.

“While this happens,” Gorren resumed grimly. “A third group will go straight for this point.” He pointed at the rough center of the camp. “They are to move quickly and not to stop for any reason. Their objective is the house of the bandit leader. That man has to die, sooner rather than later.” His level gaze conveyed the importance of the task. With his weight amongst the bandits made clear by Gus’ revelations, the death of Robin the Arrow would play a pivotal part in marking the end of the group. “Tur, you will lead this group,” Gorren said, turning toward his most able commander.

Standing amongst the officer, Tur just nodded dutifully, but he stood a bit taller. The others cringed a bit at being overlooked but ended on approving. Their chief was the best Gremlin for the job, and the Master’s will was too sacred of a thing to be hindered by their own petty thoughts.

“Bring your group with you for this. Sun, Gunnar and Dara will come with you. I reckon that Sun will be useful in case the fire becomes a problem, and Dara’s influence over animals will come in handy before this task is done. With his martial ability, Gunnar will help you well.”

He straightened up, his features turning almost solemn.

“I repeat: this operation’s success will hinge over speed. We’ll need to be in before they can muster their defenses, or we will be shut out of the camp. The same for the exit. It’s summer, and fire spread well. If we don’t want to be caught from the blaze, we’ll need to strike fast and decisively.”

None of the presents had the smallest inkling of objection. They were born for this.

“As your will,” they said, bowing their heads as one.

Gorren nodded. “Gus and his goons were waited for the evening of the day after tomorrow. I expect us to be at the Arrows’ camp a little sooner than that.” He waved, turning back to the map. “Prepare the soldiers and the equipment. Later, i will give each of you a copy of the map. You’ll need to familiarize yourself with the layout. After that, there will be some training. It’s all. Dismissed.”

The officers didn’t need to be said twice. Bowing once, they retreated, hastening to execute the orders they were given, leaving Gorren to muse over the map and refine the details of the plan.