Skirmish in the Sandstorm

There is a tale of bravery and courage that is seldom told in the land of Gielinor. Perhaps it was too long ago for most to remember or maybe people do not like being told how their own skill is less than that of thieves. That is what happened on that day and the prowess of these supposedly ‘common’ bandits deserves retelling once again. So gather round and I shall tell of the desert and the skirmish in the sandstorm…

The convoy of caravans trundled slowly along the dusty, rutted track that led from Sophanem to Pollniveach. Some of the richest merchants in the city were huddled in their carts, laden with the riches of their past exploits as they made their way to sell their wares in the great markets of the foreigners. The linen covers flapped noisily as they were buffeted by the desert winds. This kind of sandstorm was common in the southern desert, where they had claimed many lives. Yet it was not the fate of these men to die at the hands of coarse, raging sands.

Parallel with the ancient city of Ullek, the track passed through a narrow valley formed from two enormous sand dunes on either side. As the wind was sweeping across from the west, it exhausted itself upon the left dune and so the travellers were afforded a brief respite. Or so they thought. This area of the desert was renowned for bandit activity, where the thieves would kill any passers-by from ambush positions on the dune tops and then drop down and take their goods. Surely nobody could dare in a sandstorm, though? This is what the merchant thought as they decided to wait in the gully for the storm to pass – how wrong they were.

Inside one of the caravans, a merchant crouched nervously near the back. He sipped from a taut waterskin before tossing it haphazardly into a nearby crate. Suddenly, a dark shadow loomed at the doorway. “Who is it?” the merchant enquired cautiously before the shape stepped forward and revealed itself to be a caravan guard. The merchant audibly let out a sigh of relief before the guard slumped dead onto the wooden boards. In horror, the cowering man shrunk back into his corner as the echoes of similar kills resounded from the outside. And then silence. In the dead quiet following the attack, the merchant stayed still, hidden beneath a flimsy rag. Several minutes later, the boards of the caravan creaked once more. The sound of the guard’s body being rolled over was followed by the ghastly noise of a used arrow being plucked from the back of his head, wiped it on the dead man’s leather jerkin and slid back into the attacker’s quiver. All of this without sight of the assailant; such was there confidence that there was now no need for stealth. The bandit, for that is what the merchant thought they must be, jumped back out of the caravan and landed noisily on the dry desert track. Still the merchant waited. Hours must have passed beneath that rag and yet the bandits had not yet left. They had moved the caravan so that it now blocked off the road, creating a defensive corral in which they counted their spoils. Slowly, compelled by boredom, insanity or whatever others emotions whirl in the head of a frightened man, the merchant clambered onto one of the crates stacked in the cart and out onto the roof, through a small slit designed for ventilation. Fortunately, the wind direction had changed and now the full strength of the wind pounded down the valley and made vision near impossible. Not that the bandits were watching anyway as their eyes were trained solely on the piles of goods they had amassed.

The merchant watched aghast as years of profits were stripped from his grasp. Piles had been made for all the different commodities – there was a stack of bronze ingots almost as tall as one of the caravans. Oddly, the bandits had neglected to post sentries, being too confident in the sandstorm for their defence. The merchant’s band had made that mistake and now it would cost the bandits in blood. The first warning of doom was the distant sounding of a horn. Some of the bandits raised an inquisitive head but the majority either hadn’t heard or didn’t care. Then, ever so quietly at first, came the sound of pounding hooves.

Yet again, there was no reaction from the bandits. However, as the sound grew louder and louder, more and more of them started to abandon their gains and peer over the southern defensive barrier. One of them shouted something incomprehensible and the rest ran to collect their weaponry. The shouting one, who the merchant assumed was their leader, was dressed from head to toe in a single flowing black garb, which was studded with metal in places, indicating he wore sturdier leather armour below. Crossed on his back was a pair of viciously curved scimitars, each with a glistening ruby implanted in its hilt. Now the bandits were on the defensive.

The head priest of Sophanem was on his way to a state visit to the Sultan of Al-Kharid when the sandstorm began. However, inside his well-furnished wagon and protected by his camel guards, nobody had ever been that safe in a sandstorm. Until, that is, they encountered the bandits. The captain of the guard, like the others, was mounted on a camel and road ahead once he saw the caravan placed across the path. The storm had almost subsided now, with a pathetic little gust of wind picking up a few measly grains every now and again. What the captain saw was, lined up along the top of the cart, a group of unarmed men dressed all in black. Confident of victory, he rode slightly closer and shouted up to them, “You up there! Take this cart from the path and allow the high priest to continue”. The bandits looked at each other and whispered feverishly before of them jumped down and ran off to their leader. From his vantage point on the caravan, the merchant couldn’t see the guard approach but did hear him shouting and saw as the leader was informed of the change in events. He shouted incomprehensibly at the men who began to laden the merchant’s beasts with the richest of their spoils. In all, what they had stored must have been worth hundreds of thousands of gold pieces yet the heavier materials had to be left behind. The chosen riders sped away north with their ill-gotten gains, with the rest left to defend their passage.

The captain rode back several minutes later. Now there were fewer men on the caravan but they were armed, including one with a pair of scimitars. “What is your response?” he cried out. The leader glanced up to the sides of the valley, leapt off the caravan and drew his scimitars. “I warn you,” the captain said warily, “that we have at least twenty armed men on camels. You cannot defeat us in battle”. Despite his face-covering robe, the captain could have sworn he smiled. “We’ll see about that”, he hissed as the battle began.

The captain was about to commence his attack when screams from behind him forced his to spin in his saddle. Archers had appeared at the edges of the gulley and were raining death on the unlucky guards that stayed with the high priest. Their armour stopped most of the arrows but one took it in the gap between his helmet and chainmail and slumped onto the dusty floor. Many of the guards were forced to dismount from injured beasts, which they now used as cover against the ranged attack. As the captain turned round to face his opponent, the bandit leader was already charging with swords drawn – aimed at the captain’s neck. He ducked just in time but the bandit had anticipated this and swiftly plunged the swords downwards into the camel. It squealed in pain and bolted off, leaving the captain dazed on the floor. The leader yelled “Charge!” and the remaining me surged over the valley sides and around the cart in a desperate attack.

They were outnumbered and had far inferior equipment and that is why I love to tell this tale. It is only by the sheer skill of the bandits that they survived for any period of time and survive they did. The merchant had crept forwards and could now see the battle. Blood was spilled all over the sandy track. Dead guards, bandits and camels littered the road and it was clear the bandits were losing. They couldn’t really have won. Nevertheless, they fought to the last man to see the passage of their friends with their wealth to safety. Soon there was only one left – the leader.

For all, this time he had been engaged in a fierce fight with the captain. A bloody gash ran through his robe down his side and the top of his garb had unravelled – revealing a vicious and scarred face. The captain was not unharmed either, his helmet dented and huge swathes of chainmail links missing. Both were exhausted yet the battle had to continue to the death. The captain lunged forward with his longsword at the bandit’s belly but he quickly side-stepped and the brought one scimitar down hard on the longsword while quickly swiping at the captain’s neck. He leant backwards but the bandit was too quick and stuck his leg behind the leaning captain to trip him up. It worked. The captain tumbled to the ground and tried to scrabble away but was too slow. The bandit stooped him with a heavy boot to the back and was about to bring his scimitar down before he looked up.

The guards had now dispatched the remaining bandits and encircled the leader. “You have a choice,” the dying captain gasped, “surrender or die”. The bandit hesitated, though only for a moment, and then responded, “This is so that my friends may live. I hope they forgive me”. The guards relaxed at that point as the bandit seemingly raised his scimitar to sheath it and then brought it down hard on the captain’s neck, decapitating him. Then, the guards attacked.

The bandit leader went into a killing frenzy over the body of the beheaded captain. His duel scimitars whirled through the air, finding and exploiting any weakness in the guards armour. They fell, one by one, to his master hand. Outnumbered ten to one, he had soon halved the number of opponents without as much as a scratch. When all seemed hopeless for the guards, the bandit leader poised to strike down another, his hand just stopped. He tried to strike but the scimitar would not move anywhere near the guards. “You have severely delayed my trip, brigand”, a voice echoed from the wagon. The high priest emerged and stepped onto the sand. All eyes were on him as he lifted the bandit into the air with his magic. “I do not approve of violence”, he said menacingly, watching the bandit leader with a steely gaze, “but it seems you do so I have no choice but to deal with you”. With that, he flung the bandit headlong into the metal rimmed wheel of the nearest caravan and his tale ended. “Place the dead in the merchants’ carts and take their goods as well”, he commanded, “and then we must get moving. And I wish to talk to you”. The last part was addressed to the merchant who had been watching the whole time from the cart’s roof.

That merchant was me. I recounted the tale of our journey to the Sultan of Al-Kharid and he appointed me to be his bard. I am old now and this time is long past. I have seen so many places and sang of so many battles yet this one I will always remember. This one was my first and perhaps the most spectacular. And it was all down to a lowly bandit.