A makeshift tent in the dark and rain; cloth flapping in the wind- nearly threatening to rip itself off and fly;
to see itself carried off and away into the surrounding steppe. Seven stood within. Anger, despondency,
hatred, greed, and jealousy seeping out into the cool air of the night. Finally, the eighth arrived; pushing
past the flaps and slipping within what was meant to only be standing for one night, now had been set up
for nearly three days, because the eight within had stalled, delayed, and sabotaged their very own camp.
"We're all here. Good. This is our one and only chance at setting things right. A return to how things need to be."
The man at the far end of the tent spoke in hushed tones. A camp as large and cramped as this necessitated
hushed tones to avoid disturbing neighbors and the night-watch. Hardly an unusual sight. Others gathered
for a night of cards, drinking, planning- nothing about today's affair was suspect. Even the topic of murder
was hardly unusual for the warriors of this camp. Save only for it's target: their commander and leader.
"Taras. His immediate removal and death, it's the only thing that would save us from starving out here or
being cut down by our pursuers. Food will be on our plates, and we will live free once more. It must be done."
The seven others, including the new arrival, took in the words. A reminder of why they were doing this. Or, at
the very least; the explanation they would give to everyone else when this whole affair was done with,
because, save only for the speaker and the new arrival; the remaining six all had their own reasons for taking
part in this grim assassination. Jealousy of his wealth. A desire for his position. A lust for revenge.
The sick thrill of murder. Long-held grudges. Not one underneath that flapping cloth had pure intentions.
They were, of course- all reprobates. Infamous murderers and pillagers. Thieves and brigands, and Taras'
state of affairs could not go on any longer. It had been too long since they had last run down a caravan.
Stockpiled food, at least- for these greedy fools, was beginning to run low. The old fool wanted to negotiate
a return to how things 'were'. Back to a mercenary lifestyle; dying for the pitiful coin of the weak-willed and
defenseless, yet impressively rich. A growing resentment for their lowly position in society had seen them
take the first steps in turning to raiding the very same people that once paid them for protection. Now,
only the foolish and old wanted to return to how things were. There was no chance they would ever be
accepted back into the fold. This, is simply the way things were. Their fate was long-since ordained.
Silence. Not a single person spoke a word. In truth, nobody was assured of this plan. Or- perhaps, it
was that nobody was assured of each others' plans when the deed was done. Everyone gathered knew
that, soon after; they would find themselves at each other's throats in a power struggle. That, was a
problem that would find its solution in another day. Today, they were co-conspirators, and time was
fast-approaching for action. Some stood in silence, simply waiting for their moment to strike. These
were of the old guard of the Hundred Horses. Men and women who remembered how it once was,
before they had turned into a lawless war band of chaos and destruction. Soldiers who had dutifully
followed Taras' every word without failure for nearly four decades now. There were those who arrived
after, too. The disaffected, those seeking an escape from execution or prison- who knew of only one
group that would take them in. Even if it meant they would face death young, they would face it with
their own sword in their hands, and riches beyond what they would have ever made on their own. Then,
curiously; there was the youngest- the one whose arrival signaled the beginning of the end.
Despondent, lifeless- it was, perhaps; him, that the rest feared. Completely dedicated to the cause, but
with dulled eyes and hollowed visage, not a single soul within that tent trusted him, save only for the
plan's mastermind and his owner. In due time, such trust would find itself sorely misplaced. Still,
nobody doubted he would follow through in the drawn-out silence of their tent. Waiting. Finally, the
man at the head of the table spoke up once again. Hushed, but firm and commandeering.
"The night's watch is changing. We strike now."
And with those final words; the eight conspirators turned and stepped out of their tent. They had but
a few scant minutes to enact their desire. Each of their steps crashed into the mud underfoot; leaving
an unfortunate trail of boot prints behind them as they made way past tents of their companions and
makeshift hitching-posts for their veritable army of horses. Scant few in the camp were awake, and even
fewer cared enough to peek out their tents to see what all that marching was about. It was, after all; the
time for the night watch to change. Each step brought them closer to the grand carriage, watched over
by two of Taras' personal bodyguards. Brutish thugs, standing a near head-and-a-half taller than any
other person within he camp. One was half-asleep, the other; drunk. Neither offered resistance in
the dark. Crimson streaks spilling into the puddles of muddy rain below, bodies collapsing against
the carriage, then slumping into the ground. Noisy. Unfortunate, but distant thunder would not sound
too dissimilar. They did not have time to disguise their murders. Instead, the carriage's door was unlocked,
a stolen key long-since procured in preparation for this, and the eight shuffled in. Dripping mud and blood.
Opulent, was one word any of them could use to describe the interior. A carriage long-since stolen from
a rich merchant, a horde of wealth further stolen was now added onto it. Enough gold, silver, jewelry,
and pilfered artifacts and artistry lay within this singular room to rival even landed nobility, and this was
only the central room of the grand carriage. The second door, leading deeper within, had to be ripped
off its hinges. Taras held the only key, and he lay within. It was unfortunate then, that; when the wood
splintered as it was torn away, Taras stood before them. Clad in armor, weapon drawn- lunging forth.
It was one of his first followers that he cut down in a single, swift motion. Piercing right through his
eye socket and through the head. Dead, in an instant. One less for the remaining seven to fight when this
affair would spiral out of control, and in the short-lived scuffle, despite their leader's half-century of
skill in warfare; only one more of the conspirators lay dead. One of the younger women, who had joined
to escape her execution for crimes she had committed. Irrelevant, now; as her body hit the floor, followed
by Taras' armor-clad and now-limp corpse. Sabers, picks, daggers- all of them found cracks and weaknesses.
Exploiting them ruthlessly, until Taras was nothing more than a mangled husk that poured blood
onto the masterwork carpet he had personally looted years ago. Three corpses, now.
Then, in an instant. The remaining six turned on one-another. Brutal, close-quarters stabbings and slaughter.
As soon as it began, it ended, that flash of ferocious clattering of steel and flesh had disappeared, replaced
only by the pitter-patter of rain atop the brass-plated roof of the caravan. Silence, from the remaining two.
Their will was done. Every single man or woman who would stand in his way had been slain, save only for one
final loose end. The despondent servant. The young man who had already begun cleaning off his weapon. Unaware.
He lunged forth, the blade drawing a cut across the young one's abdomen. A little further inward, and he would
have hit vital organs, but before he could strike him down; the young one bolted into the rain. The distant splash
of footsteps far too quick for the aging warrior to catch up with, and by the time he had unhitched a horse; the
young one's silhouette had disappeared into the dark horizon. A distant shadow over the rolling hills.
This, would be fixed, eventually. For now; he needed to carefully maneuver the dark days that would
come. To hold together this band of criminals and proclaim himself as its new leader. Then; the escapee
would be used as a scapegoat. A target for the army to focus on and hunt down. This situation would
work itself out in due time, and time was all he had; now that his enemies lay dead.
Ilya Repin (1844–1930), The Zaporozhye Cossacks Replying to the Sultan, 1889-96, oil on canvas, 174 x 265 cm, Kharkiv Art Museum
The Hundred Horses
For as peaceable as many Falstoners oft were; whose lands were plentiful and rich with natural wealth, the Hundred Horses might be seen as the shameful thorn in their collective side. Born out of a need for a smaller strike-force that could handle smaller troubles within Fallstone without needing to divert the Feyguard's attention, or mustering a large collective force between each caravan and town. Founded by a successful mercenary by the name of Taras, the Hundred Horses served within Fallstone and some of the frontiers of Valkia and the North; beating back small-time thugs and bandits; rampaging monsters, or the odd necromancer with middling ambitions. For nearly twenty-and-some years, they served with modest distinction; near-every one of its warriors was expected to ride. Capable of responding to threats in short-order; where the Feyguard would take time to muster, organize, and move; the caravans of Fallstone needed only to sent a swift messenger off, who would be followed back to their troubles by a small army of experienced and well-equipped horsemen.
Troubles brewed; however. Fallstone and the nations at large grew increasingly peaceable, and work steadily lessened. The steady income of crowns they relied upon to maintain morale and cohesion; along with repairing or purchasing new equipment was beginning to slim. Hearty, luxurious rations of meats, ale, fruits, and exotic local delicacies turned to porridge made of cheap grain, and whatever game animals they could run down. Desertions grew common; many men simply chose to return to a normal, peaceful life of farming, caravaneering, or in the hopes of attaining a permanent position within the Feyguard. Others, though; stuck with Taras, even as he revealed his solution to their woes.
Fallstone was rich, richer than ever; with fewer serious troubles. In truth, over the decades, he had come to learn that middling caravans and towns often only kept a few guards for the purpose of collecting tolls, hauling away drunkards or breaking up local quarrels. So, they would take what they needed. Few caravans, save only for the richest of them all could truly withstand a lightning-raid from the Hundred Horses. A near-horde of men would appear at sudden in the distance, charging across fields of wheat and the open plains of the steppe. Caravans would be emptied of their lightest valuables, along with whatever sundries the Hundred would need to keep going until their next target was scouted out.
Now, the Hundred Horses aren't unstoppable. At their best of days, they mustered nearly two hundred warriors. Even at their most numerous, they were not enough to withstand the combined Feyguard. Even it's permanent detachment was too dangerous of a threat to engage head-on. Instead, whenever the Hundred Horses' scouts would sight any notable armed force, the entire camp would pack up and begin their escape. This leads to an endless game of cat-and-mouse. The Hundred Horses would strike. Word would reach the Feyguard, who would muster a response. In turn; the Hundred would escape deeper into the frontier, waiting until some other trouble would demand the Feyguard's attention and force them to quit the chase, buying them just enough time to find yet another target to pillage and raid.
These raids were not without risk, of course. More often than not, scouts would fail to account for actual armed presence, and the Hundred Horses would take grave losses that often took far longer to recover than for any other militant organization. These were, by now; a horde of well-drilled, organized bandits. No well-meaning warriors would ever enlist with them, leaving the Hundred solely the dregs of society to recruit from. Small-time bandits, escaped criminals, disturbed killers, and those with murderous grudges that needed settling had steadily become their primary method of recruitment.
In time, the 'old guard', the men and women who had been at Taras' side prior to their change had become outnumbered. The war band's culture shifted. Raids became increasingly violent. Where their first attacks truly only took what was desperately needed in an attempt to maintain some semblance of normalcy; perhaps, in the vain idea that they might yet return to how things once were, now- their newest recruits would thoroughly sunder and tear apart anything and everything in the search of wealth, or to sate their wicked blood lust. In time, though; with their worsening raids, they Feyguard would grow more proactive and attentive. For longer stretches of time, the Hundred would be forced into uninhabited wilderness and plains, stretching their meager, stolen foodstuffs while sitting upon their veritable horde of wealth.
Another change was needed. Taras could see as much, and so, contact was made with the Feyguard and representatives of the greatest of the caravans. A request for amnesty and a return to mercenary life. These messages would never reach the Feyguard, nor would Taras live to ever know if he had succeeded, for elements within the Hundred Horses sought for increasing levels of brutality, to be able to engage in unrestricted warfare against the people of Fallstone who had shunned them for a decade-and-then-some.
He was replaced. Assassinated within his own caravan-cart by failed group of conspirators; each one bringing their own reasons with them to their deaths. His most influential lieutenant, Bohdan, took over command of the Hundred Horses. A period of instability, desertions, and internal strife followed, resuming their pillaging and wholesale raiding of whichever border towns and lightly-protected caravans they would get a hold of. Yet, one particular thorn remains in their side. One of the conspirators had escaped; whose disappearance could not be tracked. Yet- in the intervening months, as a small settlement within the Southern Reach grew, a name familiar to the remainders of the Hundred graced the winds headed out the Spire.
Mykola Samokish (1860–1944), Fight Ivan Bohun with Prince Stefan Czarnecki under the Monastery in 1653, 1931, painting, Arthive
