One hundred and forty three men, and ninety-nine horses were torn to shreds at the hands of the Daemor. Bradford rode with all speed through the foothills, making for Nearborne. Together with his mighty steed Anemodes, he flew down the wide dusty road. He rose and fell through the rolling hills, the winding to the northeast and always keeping the Dragonsback, with its sharp jutting peaks, to his right. All of his focus was on returning to Nearborne and delivering his warning to the warden. The most direct road there cut sharply to the south through Nattvinder Gap, nearly half a day’s ride from where they had been overwhelmed by the Daemor.
Bradford rode for his life, and the life of all he knew. His company had been overwhelmed by the wicked Daemor and their giants. Dumb luck had spared Bradford, and returning from patrol far in the north, he spotted the legion from far off. The things that he seen, however, made him wonder if death would have been more merciful. The giants swung their huge pole mounted blades, and carved wide paths through the armored men. The lesser Daemor preferred no weapons, but overwhelmed the men, through brute force and tore them limb from limb. There was no real opposition to the enemy, and there were one thousand Daemor for every man.
The most horrifying to watch, however, was not the brutal fight, but the quick aftermath of every death. The impish Daemor swarmed each man and consumed him. Each piece torn away was gnawed at by each who could get close enough. It turned Bradford’s stomach. Anemodes had carried him swiftly eastward, circling wide the bloodbath and making for Nearborne. He did not believe that he had much of a head start on the demons, but he knew that there was no other who could compete with his speed and knowledge of this country.
The march that the company had been on had been swift and brutal. His captain Beorlan had been tasked with the cleansing of the western slopes. Riding out of Nearborne with four other full companies of horsemen, it had been a grand parade. After siezing all elven held lands and properties in the city proper, they had set out, each with their orders to retake the Nearlands. To Nattvinder Gap alone nearly five hundred men had ridden together before each remaining company set off in their own ways. Nic set out to the northwest, to establish a forward position upon the plains in the furthest reaches of Nearland. The companies of Beorlan and Timorian rode together southward before separating at a deserted crossroads.
Continuing south, they had encountered the Uite. It was a brutish thing, the way they had treated the mountain dwelling elves. There was no negotiation, only steel and fire and blood. The human losses were minimal, and the destruction of the elves there was quick and complete. Bradford had found that he did had the stomach for war. All of the men did. In truth, the majority of the guard were not much more than boys. In the massacre of the Uite, there had been an air of sport while each man tried to wet his blade before the battle was over.
Slimy Knife-ears Bradford had thought to himself. He heard the tales of their crimes repeated in his head. Murderers and rapists, bandits and vagrants, every last of them. Beorlan had given a moving speech, and spoke of the honor and valor of every man in the company, before they made their break southward again, aiming for the far coast. Bradford remembered his captain’s booming voice fondly. The Uite had fought back, and for this Bradford was happy. It had felt much more like war than the cleansing of the city, where every elf had groveled for forgiveness, and pleaded for their lives.
For now he rode, flying like the wind. The speed of the Daemor had terrified him, and he looked over his shoulder half expectant of pursuers. He had put many miles between himself and the battlefield by now, as he passed the road that forked up towards the Uite encampment. Anemodes galloped smoothly across the rolling hills, but his pace had slowed. Bradford pushed on, and together they carved a path towards Nattvinder Gap. Anemodes was a mighty war horse, taller and broader than most. He stood a full sixteen hands and had been a terribly mean colt to break. Their bond had been formed years ago when Bradford himself, the son of a stable hand, had broken the moody horse.
At Nattvinder, they took their first rest. His heart went out to the many farms he had passed along the way. He knew that there was no way to earn them all, but he wished that he had tried. Leading his horse to a small stream winding down from the tall peaks above, Bradford ate a quick meal. He had stolen away in his saddle a few crusty pieces of bread with his usual hand-dried meats for the scouting trip. He was thankful that he had been prepared, although nothing could truly prepare a man. He thought these things to himself as he cautiously gnawed away and drank deeply from his canteen. In time,
Anemodes grazed lazily now, having rested for some time. Bradford seemed to grow saddle sore as they rested, and for the first time, we considered making camp. Perhaps he had put enough distance between himself and the Daemor horde for the day. He had ridden hard, for nearly a full day. He could not know for sure the direction that the Daemor would take either. Perhaps they would head across the plains to the north. Or to the sea far to the north east. Bradford pondered these things drearily. The sun sank low in the sky as Bradford convinced himself in his exhaustion that he would race to Nearborne after a quick rest. With these thoughts, he pulled off the road some distance, just east of Nattvinder Gap, and laid down a quick camp. With no fire and only bedding laid upon the ground, he found uneasy rest.
Ricky Hurlich Shorts 