2-27: Bandits in the Wood
The wind had begun whispering an hour ago—now it howled, low and urgent through the trees, a voice with teeth. It tore at cloaks and tugged at hoods as Otter trudged up the rutted hillside road, his boots squelching in the soaked earth. Behind him, the others followed in a loose, weary line, heads bowed against the gusts. Even the trees leaned with them, creaking and sighing, their leaves silvered by the wind's touch.
Above, the sky darkened, bruised by the coming storm. Clouds loomed like stacked anvils, growling softly to themselves. A pale flash lit the bellies of the cloudbank to the west, followed moments later by a long, rolling rumble that crawled along the horizon like something waking up.
Yesterday had been the same: sudden storms blooming out of blue skies, lashing the earth and vanishing just as fast. That one had only lasted an hour, but it had turned every road into a swamp and left behind a soggy mess that slowed their pace to a crawl.
Another distant rumble rolled across the hills.
Otter glanced skyward. "That's getting closer."
"No kidding," Jasper said behind him, one hand resting lightly on his sword hilt as he squinted into the trees. "Another ten minutes and this road'll be soup."
"It's already soup," Milo muttered. "We're just pretending it's a sandwich."
Erin snorted but didn't comment. Her braid was damp, strands plastered to her collar, and her face was tight with quiet focus as she studied the clouds.
Sage walked slightly apart from the group, murmuring a soft prayer—likely for shelter or divine patience.
"Hold up," Erin said suddenly.
Otter stopped mid-step. The others did the same.
"You hear that?" she asked, voice pitched low.
At first, Otter heard only wind through trees and the distant mutter of thunder. Then—faint and sharp—a voice rose between the gusts. High-pitched. Tense. Not a scream, but close.
Another voice answered, rougher and clipped.
They were nearby.
At Erin's signal, the group dropped into a crouch and crept to the hill's crest. Beyond it, the path dipped into a shallow vale. Trees parted to reveal a narrow road flanked by waist-high grass and scattered stones.
A wagon sat slightly off the trail, its wheels sunk into the roadside muck. Its paint—reds and purples once vibrant—had peeled with age and weather. A sagging canvas canopy flapped weakly in the wind.
Beside the wagon, three ragged figures circled a merchant. The man stood still, hands raised in submission. Another figure—a fourth—was rummaging through the wagon's supplies, tossing bundles to the ground with impatient ease.
One of the bandits held a crossbow aimed squarely at the merchant's chest.
Beside him stood a woman—likely his wife—clutching a child tight to her skirts. The child couldn't have been more than six, their face buried in cloth, shoulders trembling.
Otter sucked in a breath and ducked back behind the rise.
"They haven't seen us," he whispered.
Milo's eyes were wide. "Bandits?"
"Looks like it," Erin confirmed.
"Four total," Otter added. "One's armed with a crossbow. The others might have blades."
"We're going to help them, right?" Milo asked, already tense.
"Of course," Sage said.
"But we need to be smart about it," Otter cautioned. "Right now, they're just stealing. If we charge in and spook them, someone could get hurt. We wait. Let them finish. Then follow them and recover what we can."
"What if they decide not to leave witnesses?" Jasper said. His voice was low, but the edge in it was sharp. "I don't like the look of those bastards."
"Do we bluff them?" Milo asked, hands fidgeting at his coat hem. "Make it look like we've got numbers?"
"If they think we're a bigger threat, they might scatter," Sage said. "Bandits rarely stick around when things turn messy."
Otter shifted his weight, gaze drifting back toward the scene below. "We give fear a chance to work first. But if that crossbow lifts toward the kid—"
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Jasper's grip tightened on his sword. "Then we stop being polite."
Another gust of wind tore through the trees, and the first droplets of rain fell—cold and sudden. They struck the leaves in whispers, a prelude to the storm's full voice.
The moment of decision was coming fast.
"Okay, here's the plan. We spread out. Keep quiet. Stay out of sight. Erin, you make sure that the crossbowman's finger stays away from the trigger. If he looks like he's going to shoot, put an arrow in him."
Erin nodded.
"Milo, Sage, you're our other ranged cover. Jasper, I want you close, but out of sight. I'm probably the least threatening of our group. I'm going down there. That should get that crossbow pointed at me instead of the merchant."
"Hold on," said Milo. "You're going to need a little extra protection." He moved close to Otter and whispered an incantation, casting Armor on him.
"Thanks."
Then they moved.
***
The grass whispered around Otter's boots as he slid down the slope, careful not to slip in the wet loam. He kept his hands visible, away from his weapon, hood down, posture relaxed. Nonthreatening. Unarmed. Just a traveler caught in the wrong place at the wrong time.
The bandits didn't notice him at first—too focused on the merchant's wagon. The one with the crossbow stood closest, dirty leather coat flapping against his knees as the wind picked up again. His grip on the weapon was loose but familiar. Not a rookie.
Otter counted the others as he stepped into view. The one rummaging through the wagon—a younger woman with a chipped dagger in her belt—looked up first.
She froze.
"Hello," he said.
That got everyone's attention.
The crossbowman turned. So did the man with the cudgel near the front of the wagon—broad-shouldered, with a head shaved unevenly and knuckles like tree knots. The third bandit—small, wiry, and half-hidden by the canopy—moved a step toward the merchant's wife but stopped short.
The merchant looked up too. Hope flickered across his face, but he didn't speak.
"Who are you?" the crossbowman said. His voice was rough—flat, not cruel, but empty.
"It seems I'm somebody in the right place at the right time."
The crossbowman's face screwed up in confusion. "You mean wrong place, wrong time?"
"Listen, I can see I'm interrupting your little robbery here, and while I'm certainly not looking for a fight, I wanted to give you the opportunity to surrender and go on your way. Peacefully."
The bandit laughed. "Good one, kid. You've got some balls, I tell you that. But why on earth would I walk away from this score? I could just put a quarrel in your guts and then go about my business."
"You could," Otter agreed, his tone calm. "But the rest of my adventuring team wouldn't look too kindly on that—and would likely cut you down before my body hit the ground."
The bandit's expression sobered. His eyes flicked to the trees, scanning the edges of the clearing. His grip on the crossbow didn't shift, but his posture did. A little stiffer. Less sure.
Behind Otter, the wind hissed through the leaves. A raindrop struck Otter's cheek. Another hit his shoulder. The storm was coming fast now, bearing down on them with the same violence lurking behind the bandit's eyes.
Then that spark in his eye died.
He spat. "Ach. Fine."
Slowly, he lowered the crossbow.
The bandit with the cudgel gave a confused grunt. "What—seriously?"
"We're leaving," the leader snapped. "This ain't worth it."
He turned, gesturing sharply for the others to move. The woman at the wagon hesitated, glancing between the dropped bundles and the tree line, then muttered something under her breath and started backing off.
But the small, wiry one near the canopy didn't follow.
Instead, he moved fast—too fast.
Before anyone could shout, he seized the merchant's child by the arm and yanked them away from their mother, who cried out in alarm. The child screamed.
"Insurance!" the bandit shouted, drawing a rusted knife and pressing it to the kid's throat—not breaking the skin, but making the threat clear. "You don't follow us, nobody gets hurt!"
The crossbowman's jaw clenched. "Rell—"
"I ain't dying in a ditch, I'm not!" Rell barked. "You said yourself, it ain't worth it. So we're making it worth it."
Otter froze.
Erin's arrow was nocked. Otter could feel it—feel her tension like a string drawn back, waiting.
He raised a hand. "Everyone calm down."
"You get in our way," Rell said, "and the kid bleeds. You think I won't? You think I'm bluffing?"
Otter's heart pounded. "You're not a killer," he said. "If you were, you'd have done it already."
"You don't know me," Rell snapped.
"I know you're scared."
Rell's hand twitched on the knife hilt.
The storm was almost here. The sky cracked open with a hard flash—closer now—and thunder roared after it, loud enough to make the trees shudder.
Rain began to fall in earnest.
Otter's voice cut through it, steady despite the wind.
"You can walk away," he said. "Right now. Empty-handed, but free. Or you can take that child and guarantee every hunter, every guild, every town marshal from here to the capital puts your name on a wall."
Rell's jaw worked. His knuckles were white on the blade.
Otter took a slow step forward. "Let him go."
Then, before anyone could blink, Rell jerked like a puppet on a broken string, eyes bulging as his hands flew to his head. At the same instant, an arrow whistled in, slamming into his thigh. He screamed, his grip on the child loosening as he staggered backward.
That's when all hell broke loose.
The crossbowman, already on edge, flinched and fired.
Otter ducked by instinct. The quarrel whipped past his shoulder and buried itself in a tree behind him with a vicious thwack.
"Jasper!" Otter shouted.
But Jasper was already moving.
Steel flashed as he burst from the treeline, sprinting low and fast. The crossbowman tried to reload, fumbled, and cursed.
The woman by the wagon dropped her bundle and ran—no hesitation, no words. She bolted into the woods and vanished in the brush.
Otter lunged toward the child, who stood there dumbstruck. Rell, even half-stunned and bleeding, lashed out with his knife on reflex.
Otter twisted aside. The blade caught his coat, slicing a ragged line through the hem—but missing flesh.
A second later, Sage's voice rang out behind them, loud with divine force: "Drop it!"
The last two bandits ran. No fight. No loyalty.
Only Rell remained.
Bleeding, panting, down on one knee.
Otter crouched low, shielding the child with one arm, and met the bandit's wild eyes.
Rell hesitated. The knife wavered in his grip.
Then, with a trembling groan, he let it clatter to the mud.
"I surrender," he said, voice hoarse. "I surrender, I surrender—don't kill me." He had to shout to be heard over the howling wind and lashing rain, but Otter nodded.
The bandits may no longer be a threat, but this storm was another matter altogether. They needed to find shelter. Fast.