The caravan trundled along the uneven dirt road, the steady creak of wheels blending with the rhythmic clop of oxen hooves. Morning mist clung to the air, casting a pale haze over the forest that lined both sides of the path. The trees loomed tall and silent — watchful, as if the woods themselves knew the dangers that lurked within.
Dikun Silver walked alongside the second cart, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword. The previous day's lessons were still fresh in his mind. Watch for the unexpected. Listen for the unnatural.
He studied the guards around him. There were six of them in total — including Garon, the caravan master. Most wore patched chainmail or leather, their weapons a mix of battered swords, spears, and crossbows. Hardened men, no doubt familiar with the sting of battle. But they were not soldiers. They were survivors.
"First time guarding a caravan, lad?" one of the guards asked, falling into step beside Dikun. He was a lanky man with a crooked grin, a scar tracing down the side of his jaw.
"It is," Dikun answered, keeping his voice steady.
"Then keep your eyes sharp. Bandits are like wolves — they strike the weakest first."
"And which of us is the weakest?"
The man chuckled. "That'd be you. But don't worry. You've still got time to prove otherwise."
Dikun didn't respond. Proving otherwise was exactly why he had taken this job.
---
The Tension of the Road
Hours passed, the sun climbing steadily through the sky. The forest thinned at times, revealing fields of golden wheat and the occasional farmhouse. Peasants worked the land, barely sparing the caravan a glance. Life continued, even with the ever-present threat of raiders.
Despite the calm, Dikun could not shake the tension that gripped his chest. Every distant crow's cry and crackling branch sent his hand toward his sword. The road was too quiet. The trees too still.
Something wasn't right.
"Hold!" Garon's gruff voice broke the silence. He raised his hand, and the caravan ground to a halt. The guards instinctively moved to the sides of the carts, weapons at the ready.
Ahead, a fallen tree blocked the path. Its massive trunk sprawled across the dirt road, leaves still fresh and green. It hadn't fallen by accident.
"An ambush," Dikun muttered under his breath.
"Quick lad, you're learning," the scarred guard whispered, his grin gone.
---
The Attack
The woods erupted. Shadows moved within the underbrush, and the sharp twang of bowstrings echoed through the air. Arrows streaked from the treeline, striking the wooden carts and splintering the barrels.
"Cover!" Garon roared.
Dikun dove behind the nearest cart as a shaft embedded itself where he had stood moments before. The guards drew their weapons, forming a loose wall to protect the oxen and goods. From the shadows emerged a band of ten bandits — clad in mismatched leather and rusted mail.
"Kill the guards! Leave the goods!" one of the raiders barked.
Dikun's heart pounded. His fingers tightened around his sword. The bandits were not skilled fighters — their movements were reckless, driven by desperation and greed. But desperation made men dangerous.
A bandit charged, his axe raised high. Dikun sidestepped the swing, the blade whistling past his ear. With a swift pivot, he slashed low. His dull iron sword bit into the man's leg, sending him crashing to the dirt with a cry of pain.
But there was no time to think. Another came.
Dikun barely blocked the next blow, his arms trembling under the force. The bandit snarled, his yellowed teeth bared. Dikun grit his teeth, forcing the man back before delivering a swift strike to his side. The raider stumbled, clutching his wound.
A scream erupted from the other side of the caravan. One of the guards collapsed, an arrow lodged in his chest.
Too slow.
Dikun's breathing quickened. Every lesson, every practice drill flooded his mind. Keep moving. Watch your footing. Control the fight.
He surged forward, his sword flashing. Another bandit fell. Then another. The once-scrawny orphan of Rattay stood his ground, no longer the boy who cowered in the alleys.
But the cost was evident. Two guards lay motionless. Blood darkened the dirt. The remaining bandits, seeing their numbers dwindle, fled into the forest.
The fight was over.
---
A Hard Lesson
Garon surveyed the aftermath, his expression grim. "Bastards were waiting for us. Should've known they'd try something like this."
Dikun leaned against the cart, his body aching. Blood — some his, most not — stained his hands. He'd survived. But the faces of the fallen guards lingered in his mind.
"You fought well, boy," Garon said, clapping a hand on his shoulder. "But remember this — even a victory leaves scars."
Dikun nodded, his jaw clenched. The thrill of combat had faded. The weight of reality settled in. Killing was no triumph. It was a necessity.
The caravan moved on. And as the distant towers of Sasau came into view, Dikun Silver knew one thing for certain.
The road ahead would only grow harder.