Of Traitors and Thieves
Atorkhan's blade flashed swiftly, in a silver arc as moonlight, the curved dagger's edge hissed sibillantly as it traced the line of the traitor's throat from ear to ear. Unable to cry out, the man crumpled to the ground, clutching at the wound as crimson blood, more precious than any gem and spent more freely, pooled beneath his unbelieving eyes. The Bandit King stepped swiftly away from the dying man, along the cavern wall, staying clear of the firelight when possible.
In the near distance another of the betrayers turned, too late to see Atorkhan's silks slipping around a carved stalagmite, etched with ancient words of power. Instead he beheld his comrade in arms upon his knees, gurgling his final breaths. Where his friend could make no sound, the second traitor screamed so shrilly and so loudly, that it echoed through the ancient vault of the cave.
One scream lead to barked orders, shouts of light, of torches. More and more of the traitors, seventeen in all, now, lit flame to stinking pitch for the chance to see what horror struck in darkness. But these men were no fools. No, they had been well trained by Atorkhan, himself. Soon enough their eyes faced in every direction, with no man out of sight of at least one other. And together they stumbled through the cave. Some walking as crabs, others like ghosts. Forward and Sideways and Backward all.
Onward they stumbled through the tunnels they had once called home, away from the sibilant death that awaited them on Atorkhan's blades. One of which hissed through the air past their number, glinting in torchlight for a moment only, leaving a blazing trail burned into vision like a passing comet or falling star. None looked to where it went in the shadows, but many eyes turned toward the darkness whence it came.
Stillness. Darkness. The torches waved overhead, pressed back the encroaching darkness, one they had held such comfort in, many a time. Darkness which now held only deepest fear of reprisal. Between them, these seventeen held the last of the stolen wealth of Atorkhan. And as he lay, dying, he had spit forth a curse that none of the betrayers would escape his wrath.
A wrath which stretched beyond death. A wrath that chased them through darkened tunnels and twisting paths. But the seventeen who survived knew they were near to the exit, knew every foostep and stone from years of service to the Bandit King.
Sixteen, now. As those who turned to look back at their peers saw Alhamar was now missing. No body. No scream. No sounds of struggle, of flailing arms, only gone. There was no word spoken on realizing this. Only a brief shared look of confusion in which realization dawned.
After that moment, Sixteen men fled at speed, stumbling and crashing into one another in their flight toward the exit. For if numbers and vigilance cannot stop Atorkhan's Wrath, only speed might evade it.
Fifteen. Fourteen. Twelve.
Again and again the wrath of Atorkhan made itself known, tearing into what numbers fled it. Into the traitors and murderers who would kill the lord of thieves, their own friend and mentor, whom some had called 'Father of my Heart if not my Blood'. To whom so many had sworn so many oaths.
Three. And then one. One, alone, burst upon the sands at the cave's mouth, stolen treasure heavy burden upon his back, scimitar in hand. The wrath would follow... in time.
