It didn’t take as long as Sascha thought it might to slink through the mesh of trees or the thick hanging vines and protruding knots of roots to their destination.
In fact the camp, the clearing, turned out to be far closer to Ptunem than Sascha expected and no doubt the villagers would ever have wanted. But what did it matter truthfully how close these bandits were? It didn’t for it changed little but the distance over which those forced into criminality for them had to flee once having appropriated their ill-gotten gains.
As you might imagine the boy guiding said very little. If the traveller, the stranger, had been in his place he suspects the outcome would’ve been no different. After all, who is Sascha to this boy? No one is who. Sure, he believed in the boys’ words when the villagers would not but trust is earned, takes time to build. Possibly this boy, a thief for bandits, may never reach a stage where trust can be built.
“Stay here. I’ll handle this.” Sascha commands while squatting low in the tall grasses that provide suitable if not patchy cover. Not enough for him to have the option of sneaking and slowly dispatching the bandits one by one but sufficient for keeping out of sight until he is ready.
“But… but I can…”
The dark eyed man in his late twenties turns to gaze upon the boy whose own eyes, a piercing green, plead and promise.
“You can have no part in what comes next.” And with those words delivered Sascha rises out of his squat, repeater in hand and saunters toward the camp.
The boy thinks this man, his saviour, the stranger, mad. He is walking into danger. He’ll be killed! The bandits will see him and mow him…
At that moment the bandits turn, spot the approaching man brandishing a gun and a severe expression dripping with contained, focused anger.
“Don’t know who you are but this is not where you should be. You’ll get one warning and then…”
The bandit never gets to finish for Sascha opens fire. The bullets from his heavy repeater tear the trio to shreds without warning or remorse. Likely fitting for it is doubtful they offer any to would-be victims either. And eye for an eye Sascha thinks the ancient saying goes.
With three bandits dispatched the remainder of the bandit camp erupts into violence.
Soon bullets pour on Sascha’s position. The boys’ eyes go wide as he watches the stranger fall. It isn’t quick, the stranger proved difficult to take down. Yet, it is when he rises again that the boy is most shocked. He has never seen anything like it. Much like he has never before seen anyone as practiced nor deadly as this traveller, who upon arising eviscerates several more bandits foolish enough to have closed in believing him defeated.
No one else repeats such a mistake. Rather, they keep to their vantage points and positions of cover, popping out only when they hope they will not be shredded. Some are wrong; others are unfortunate in their chosen obstacles of cover.
In all it takes eight minutes for the bandit clan to be reduced to but a slim, injured few stragglers caught between running in fear for their lives and avenging their brothers and sisters.
Their decision matters little for Sascha hunts each and every one of them down, none managing to escape more than a half dozen metres beyond the edges of the clearing before they are dispatched. And when it is over, Sascha, unharmed, returns to the boy.
“How?” Is all the boy can manage staring up at the much taller man towering over him.
“Some in this world are special. I am counted amongst them.” Is the swift succinct reply that gives little actual insight.
“But you died! Death is final. Life is singular.”
“That is true for most, yes. Though what you saw here today must be kept a secret, between you and I. Do you understand?”
In truth it doesn’t need to be. If it were known there wouldn’t be an issue Sascha does not think. It might complicate things for him in the future, perhaps, though would not be a definite. He simply believes everyone’s life will be easier if his gifts are not spoken about.
If the boy has any reservations or issues with this demand he does not show them for he nods, resulting in a smile from Sascha who kneels and then hands the boy a blade, curved and carved.
“Use this only to protect.”
“What about the others?”
The wanderer averts his gaze, only for a fraction of a second, but it is long enough for the boy to understand that there are no other children any more.
Sascha found them, butchered, when he’d been checking for bandit survivors.
“Oh.” The boys head lowered in response, his hand tightening around the blade gifted to him.
“Come, it is over now. You are free. I will return you to the village.”
“It is not where I am from, I do not think.” Is the proclamation from the youth.
“But you do not know?”
“No, I don’t.” The boy admits weakly having stowed the blade into the belt around his midriff.
“Then make this your new home.” Comes the suggestion from Ptunem’s saviour.
“I could wander the roads like you, with you.” Replies the boy ignoring the suggestion offered unto him.
A careful shake of the head is followed by, “The roads are not a place for children to walk.”
“But… I could…”
The man says no more on the matter. In his eyes all that needed to be said has been and so he breaks into a march heading back towards Ptunem.
Relenting, the boy rushes after and catches up to him. They make the rest of the short journey back to the village that had been being robbed by innocents made not at the hands of bandits side by side. Little was said. Sascha left a day and a half later.
Simon A Jackson - Writer 