"He was short-sighted. In fact, almost blind."
"So he didn't even see it coming."
***
Arthaxiom travelled through the wastelands. On foot. In full armour. He was a Hero, so he didn't mind.
He carried no food nor water. It was not a problem. Heroes don't die from hunger or thirst. That wouldn't be very Heroic.
He walked alone through hostile, uninhabited territory. There was no one to keep guard when he slept. He could have got ambushed and eaten by wild animals. Nothing like that had happened. Wild animals suddenly became polite and well-mannered. They attacked only when the Hero was ready to fight, and only in limited numbers. Swarming a Hero would be really inappropriate and could tax him unduly, whereas they were only supposed to be a mildly entertaining food source.
It is hard to say if crossing the Desolated Wastelands took the Hero a few days, a few weeks or a few months. It is not important. Every day was almost the same. Wake up, find a small water reservoir cleverly hidden where no water should ever be, have a drink. Get attacked by a random animal, kill it. Find some dry twigs despite a distinct lack of trees in the vicinity. Strike a fire. Cook and eat the killed animal. Walk, walk, walk. Kill more random animals. Eat some of them for lunch. Walk some more, kill some more, have another meal, find some more water... And find a comfortable spot for a good night's sleep, however improbable it would seem.
Only the animals varied. The wastelands had a surprisingly rich ecosystem. Things like snakes, rats, and even an occasional hyena were quite understandable. On the other hand, a polar camel certainly wasn't, and neither were a flying swordfish and an obese orange opossum, to name just a few. A lesser man might have been startled by those, but not Arthaxiom. They were something to fight, so he fought them. They weren't something to think about, at least for him. He wasn't big on thinking. The origin of a white rabbit wearing fancy clothes and a top hat was of no importance to him. He appreciated the taste, though. Only the round ticking thing was somewhat difficult to chew.
Encounters with wildlife posed little trouble to Arthaxiom. They weren't supposed to. Having an epic fight with each one wouldn't be very Heroic. They were too random and not quest-relevant enough for that. That is not to say that they were completely defenceless. The camel, for example, had a nasty icy spit.
One day the scenery changed. The wasteland ended. Arthaxiom entered the Northern Wilderness. It was covered in snow, like everything named 'northern' should be. The paladin didn't waste a thought on absurdity of a snow-covered forest bordering a scorched wasteland. He had more important things to do. Like being a Hero, for example.
The snow-covered forest contained, not surprisingly, snow. Also cold and icy wind. It didn't bother the paladin any more than heat of the wastelands did. Not at all, that is. He continued forward, even though he didn't know where exactly he was going. He was supposed to reach the Northern Wilderness, and here he was. Now he was supposed to find a cave inhabited by a wise man. Or a mage. Or a hermit, maybe. He wasn't really sure. That was just a small detail, unworthy of a Hero's attention.
Another small detail, also unworthy of a Hero's attention, was the size of the region. It never occurred to him that the Northern Wilderness could be huge and that finding the hermit-containing cave could take him weeks, or even months. He just went there and found it, without a need for any sort of directions. Heroes always find their way.
One thousand, three hundred and thirty-seven steep, narrow stairs led to the cave. Each one covered with ice. In case of a fall, Arthaxiom would have a fair chance of ending up in a nice deep chasm. It would be an instant death with some luck. Slow and painful otherwise. He went upwards anyway, without regard for his life, and he succeeded. After all, it would be very inappropriate for a Hero to fall into a chasm. He almost slipped once, but it was just to add some tension.
There was a sign next to the cave entrance. Arthaxiom couldn't read it. Mainly because he didn't know how to read. Fortunately, a small magical invisible little blue bird was there just in time to tell him that it said "NO SALESMEN, EVIL DEMONS, SNOW PUMAS". The paladin was pretty sure he was neither a snow puma, nor an evil demon. None of his titles suggested that he was a salesman, but he wasn't entirely sure about that one. He entered anyway. Signs don't stop Heroes.
The cave, as it is usually the case, was full of interesting rock formations. They were conveniently illuminated by some fluorescent fungi. After all, a Hero can't be expected to lug a torch with him wherever he goes, just in case he needs to go underground.
It was long and convoluted. One could easily get lost in there. Arthaxiom didn't. He found the right way, guided only by his Heroic instinct. Getting lost in a cave and starving to death wouldn't be a demise worthy of a Hero. Suitable for a secondary character maybe, and not a very likeable one too.
The paladin encountered rats, bats, spiders, and other cavelife. None of these challenged him. He was rather pleased about that. Littering someone's home with corpses would be a bit rude, and he needed that someone's help.
There also were skeletons. The lying around, unmoving kind. Arthaxiom somewhat expected them to suddenly turn into the walking around, bone-rattling and hostile kind, but they refused to. He briefly wondered why, but came up with nothing. What he didn't wonder about was why would all those lie around. Skeletons in a cave seemed quite natural to him.
Finally, he reached his destination. In the middle of a small chamber there was someone. Or something. It looked like a heap of grey hair. Was there a person underneath? Arthaxiom wasn't sure. He wanted to ask, but he felt it would be rude to intrude on someone just like that. He decided to knock first. There was no door, so he improvised.
"Knock knock!"
"Gaaaaah!" the heap of hair screamed and leapt in the air. Indeed, it was a person. A person wearing dirty gray robes. His hair was so long that the end of it was still lying on the floor when he stood up. Same with his beard. The colour also was dirty gray, matching his clothes nicely. Overall he looked he had been living in cave for quite some time. Which was obviously the case. That had to be the hermit who the Hero was looking for. Or a wise man. Or maybe a mage. Possibly some combination of these.
"I apologise, I did not mean to scare you..."
"Begone, foul demon!" the hermit interrupted.
"I am not a demon. Demons are not allowed here," the paladin replied calmly.
"They enter anyway! These scamps, scoundrels! If you are not a demon, then take off that steel can and show me your face!"
The paladin did as he was told. The old man saw his neatly cut brown hair and his square face without a trace of facial hair. He looked into his blue eyes which seemed focused, yet completely devoid of intelligence. He instantly realised who was standing in front of him. He wasn't an old wise man, a hermit, and possibly a mage too, for nothing. Recognising a Hero from not a long way away wasn't hard when one knew what to look for.
The wise man wasn't at all happy that a Hero came to visit him. He would definitely prefer a demon. Some of them weren't all that bad. Those of female persuasion were even quite pleasant sometimes...
"Well?" the paladin broke the hermit's daydream.
"Ah, yes, right. You're definitely not a demon. Also not a salesman I suppose?" He would even prefer a salesman to a Hero. They were nasty, nasty beings, but he knew how to deal with them. A nice, large stick usually did the trick. He had quite a collection of those. An old wise man has to have some pieces of wood lying around. Quite handy for chasing off unwanted guests. But not Heroes. You can't chase away a Hero with a stick. That just doesn't work.
"I am not a salesman. I am paladin Arthaxiom the Great, Deliverer of Light, Slayer of Evil and Wicked, Guardian of the Ancient Secret..."
The wise old man didn't expect that. He couldn't have. Nobody could have. He just stood there, with his eyes wide open, not really believing in what he was hearing.
"...Sword of Justice in the Gloom of Uncertainty!"
There was an awkward pause. E
vidently, some sort of a reaction was expected from the mage. "Yes, yes, very nice. Why did you come to see me, Apostle of the Sturgeon?"
"The Rainbow Sturgeon," the paladin corrected.
"Right, the Rainbow Sturgeon." The old man rolled his eyes. "So, what do you want?"
"I want you to help me! Come with me! Together, we will defeat the Empire of Evil!"
"Of course, I'll be delighted to join you.... gaaaaaah!" the hermit bit his own tongue just in time. The need to accompany the Hero was tremendous. Only those strong of will can resist that. He was taken by surprise and was having a really hard time. If only he could find an excuse... "I mean, I mean, I would, if I could, but I can't, because, because... because I have a headache! And hernia! And magnesium deficiency! Don't mind me, young man, run along and defeat the Empire of Evil while I recuperate here in my cave."
"A pity," Arthaxiom replied. The old man sighed with relief. He wasn't sure he'd be able to resist if the paladin had persisted. "In this case, could you possibly point me towards an ancient artefact of great power which would aid me in my quest?"
"Yes, I could do that." The hermit was happy to survive the temptation, so he decided it couldn't hurt to send the Hero somewhere. Possibly far, far away. "What artefact are we talking about?"
"I do not know. An ancient one. Powerful."
The mage scratched his head. "Very well... I know of a Magical Ladle of Taste."
"What does it do?"
"Makes every dish you cook taste like the excrements of angels, or so they say."
"It is not what I had in mind." The paladin looked disappointed.
"A Nimble Needle of Nirvana? With this you can sew thrice as fast!"
"I sew quite badly."
"So you would sew badly with triple the speed!"
"I do not think I really want to. Perhaps something else?"
"The Jolly Rake of Precision! It makes gardening not only easy, but also fun!"
"No, no, no! I am looking for an artefact that will help he to defeat the Empire of Evil! A sword! Or an axe! A mace maybe, or a spear! Some sort of armour! Magical gauntlets! Or bracers! Or shoulder pads! Perhaps a halberd, or a trident..."
"Stop! I get it! You don't need to list every possible type of weapon!"
"Sorry, I got carried away."
"So... the Singing Axe of Heavens?"
"What does it do?"
"It sings, I guess."
After a long discussion Arthaxiom finally settled on the Shining Slaughtering Sword of the Silver Sun. It seemed to fit his titles well. Also, a shining sword would really suit a paladin. Last but not the least, he really liked the letter S.
The hermit merrily informed him that this sword was hidden in another dark and foreboding cave, located somewhere in the Gloomy Jungle. Well defended, of course. That was to be expected. Arthaxiom wouldn't have it any other way. An ancient artefact that isn't guarded probably isn't any good.
Thus, the paladin continued on his journey. He only knew in which general direction he had to proceed, but it was enough. Heroes need no maps.
The old man returned to his duties. They mainly consisted of sitting on the floor and staring intently at rock formations, while occasionally letting out a wistful sigh. Being a hermit wasn't an easy job.
***
Glorm the bandit chief also didn't have an easy job. The westernmost part of the Empire wasn't a good place to be a bandit. Lack of people to rob was somewhat problematic. It was a downtrodden, rural area, with population consisting mostly of peasants. Peasants were poor as a rule. A rich peasant wouldn't be a peasant anymore. And probably would have moved out immediately.
Peasants were a lousy target for bandits, but it wasn't as if they had much choice. And they needed to rob a lot of them, cause the loot was just horrible. A bag of beetroots was the best one could hope for. On a lucky day. Sometimes it was an empty bag. Or a hit in the face with a rake, because some peasants could wield a nasty farming implement and they weren't keen on giving up their beetroots.
More wealthy travellers happened very rarely. It wasn't actually a bad thing, because they were even worse. They had better things to steal, but they also had guards. Nasty, nasty guards with even nastier cutting and stabbing things. They never hesitated to inflict some nasty wounds with those. No fun for a bandit, none at all.
Decent targets were few and far between. Therefore Glorm was pleasantly surprised when one of his men told him about a lone traveller.
"Ya sure, Flam?" he asked warily.
The other bandit scratched his straw hat. He realised something was wrong, so he took off his hat and scratched his head. With his hat. Something was still wrong. He moved his hat to his other hand and finally scratched his head. Only then did he reply. "Yah."
"Why is he alone?" Glorm was somewhat unconvinced.
Flam scowled. These were difficult questions. He didn't like difficult questions. That's why he became a bandit. He got fed up with having to respond to things like 'Flam, ya fed da pig?' or 'Flam, wat happened to da bottled spirits?' or even 'Flam, why ya has no pants on?'. Unfortunately the questions followed him even here. "Dunno," he replied and shrugged.
"He's not a mage?" The band had bad memories after trying to rob a sorcerer once. He simply laughed at them. So Rude Lenny stepped up and called him an 'old fort'. Lenny wasn't good at insulting, but made up for it by making an effort. For that particular effort he got turned into a frog. Nobody else bothered the mage. As for Lenny, the bandits took good care of him. They didn't leave their own behind. Unfortunately, during a very harsh winter supplies were scarce, so he ended up eaten.
Flam thought about this question. This one was important. Even he knew that. He remembered eating Lenny's leg all too well. Tasted a bit like chicken. "Nah. No beard."
"Good. So where is he now?"
Flam sighed. Being a scout was fun until one actually spotted something. And then the questions came. Where did he come from and what does he look like and all that stuff. He really pushed his brain to produce coherent answers. He knew it was worth it. If the robbery was successful, the one who spotted the victim would get an extra share.
Come morning, the bandits were waiting in an ambush. The whole band gathered for the occasion, all seven of them. It's not like they had anything better to do. Their idea of ambush was simple. They waited where the road entered a forest. Three of them were hiding in the bushes near the road, and the remaining four with their horses hid in the trees a bit further away. It usually worked well, so there was no need to change anything.
They knew their victim was coming their way. He came to the village by the road from the east, so he had to leave by the road to the west. As simple as that. The bandits' logic, flawed as it might be, worked. There simply was nowhere else to go. Nobody ever came there just to visit that village. It was way too small and hopeless for that. It didn't even have a name.
Their victim wasn't an early bird. They couldn't have known that beforehand, so they had laid the ambush at dawn. Now it was almost noon. Glorm had a lot of time to regret his choice of companions. Flam had been chewing on a bush for the last hour, and Sig was passing gas from time to time. The bandit chief a bit philosophically decided that he shouldn't be too annoyed with himself for picking them. The other ones would surely annoy him too. He knew them all too well.
Finally, a lone horseman appeared. A slim figure, clad all in black, riding a big brown horse. He didn't look like a mage. That was fortunate. If there was a slightest hint he might be one, the ambush would be off. Glorm squawked loudly. It was a squawk of a wounded desert owl, which he had always used. It signalled the other group to get ready. In response he received a howl of an angry wolf, which meant that the horsemen were ready, and a scowl of an annoyed fox, which meant that there was an annoyed fox nearby. Everything seemed to be in place, so he braced himself and jumped out.
The ambush went flawlessly. The bandits sure knew how to ambush someone. They did it many, many times before. The three footme
n blocked the road, swords drawn, ready to strike if the victim tried to charge through. The horsemen burst out of the forest: two were flanking, and the other two blocked the rear. Now it was their target's choice: talk or fight. Glorm always preferred talking. Fighting was bad for business. Bandits could get wounded, horses could get wounded. Loot could get covered with blood. Really unnecessary. Should the man cooperate, they might let him go. After taking all his belongings, of course. Unless they decided they really disliked him for some reason, in which case they might kill him anyway.
"Your money or your life!" said Glorm. It was a good old traditional approach. A choice and a threat. He had witnessed many responses to that. Some tried to fight, some begged for mercy, some gave up their possessions while trying to keep their pride. This one did none of that.
"Ah. Finally." The man was smiling. Smiling! He shouldn't have been smiling! Glorm was pretty sure of that.
"What?!" he asked, incredulous.
"What I was meaning to say is that I was beginning to get worried that you wouldn't ambush me," the man replied pleasantly. Seeing the outlaw's surprise, he continued. "Yes, I knew. I noticed your friend. The one who's busy eating a twig." Glorm looked at Flam angrily. Flam guiltily swallowed the twig and started coughing furiously. "I can recognise an inept bandit sneaking around, you know. By the way, nice signal you made there. Let me guess, a mating call of a moose?"
The man's perfect calm made Glorm uneasy, but he tried to compose himself. This wasn't going well, but they still outnumbered him seven to one. And, oddly enough, he seemed unarmed. "All right. You knew. But you fell into our trap anyway! Don't try to run! You can't escape!"
"Because those guys have horses, right? Are you sure you are feeding them well? I'm no expert, but they look awfully skinny. And that one seems to be a donkey."
The bandit gurgled in fury. "Now you give us all your stuff or we'll kill you and take it ourselves!", he threatened.
"Yes, yes, that's how it works usually," the man replied. "But not this time, you see. This time I will do the killing. Quite some time since I killed someone."
"You don't even have a weapon! Surrender, and I'll let you live!" The bandit leader's shout sounded more like desperation than like a threat. He suddenly realised he didn't want to fight this man. He didn't know why exactly.