A Failed Assassination

The next morning saw Redoran sitting on a mammoth horse with great, white tufts of fur near its hooves. His sword was swaying from the right side of the saddle, while a bow of silverin wood was strung behind his back with a saddlebag full of goose-feather fletched arrows. A pack of food and drink, Redoran had on his back. 
“You will always be welcomed back if you will want our company.” Morindel said as he fitted a bit and bridle into the horse’s mouth. “And there will always be time for us to come to you, if you so wish.” 
	Redoran laughed as he pulled himself into the saddle, his feet set firmly in the stirrups, “Once I have arrived to inspect the damage, I will call upon you to help rebuild.” He removed his wand from his tunic, “and thanks for the gifts by the way, I am sure they will help me in the future.” He tickled the horse’s belly with his heels, and began a quick canter. “Goodbye, Morindel. May you have many years ahead of you.”
	“And goodbye to you my friend.” Morindel turned and began walking back to the mountain, his happiness mingling with his sorrow.
	Redoran stole the sword from its scabbard and waved it in a salute as he rode off into the forest

Redoran dismounted his horse in the middle of the forestation between the Crystal Mountain and Merasena. His horse was growing tired, and he was sore from riding upon the massive horse. 
His feet landed on the soil without a sound. He slipped the sword, Turic from the saddle and clipped it to his left hip, allowing for easy access if he was to be ambushed by the bandits that resided in woodlands all around Irequoci. 
	Redoran walked to the horse’s front and held its head between his hands. He gave the horse’s muzzle a quick stroking and turned, knowing that he would need to set up camp.
	“Time to fix this situation.” He removed the silverin wand slowly from his tunic and brought it to his fore. He twisted the golden bands at either end until the topaz and the ruby were in line with his thumb. His green hair whipped around as magick erupted from the crystal embedded into the tip of the wand. Blue tendrils flew from the wand to a collection of leaves near the roots of a maple tree.
	The leaves burst into a multicoloured flame and grew, the flame receding as the item below came to the appropriate size. The flame disappeared and underneath was a collapsible tent of sticks and a thick curtain of what Redoran thought was cowhide. He returned to his horse and hefted a saddlebag from the saddle, from it he wrested a cotton blanket that he would use for warmth in the cold, spring night. He scrambled over to the tent and ducked into it, the inside providing a shield from the chilly wind blowing around.
	He unfurled the blanket and set it against the cold earth, but as he removed the wrinkles, he heard the shrill neigh of his horse outside. Instantly Turic came to his hand, the opal at the base of the blade glowing intensely. He rolled out of the tent and came up on his feet, feeling the arrival of an unwelcome man. The Onyx blazed as if covered in pitch, knowing that antagonists were near.
	From the trees to the north, ten sparsely clothed men leapt into the small area Redoran was going to camp, nine armed with longknives and the last with a shortsword. The clothing they wore were torn, bloodied and overall distasteful, but as is the life of highwaymen and cutthroats.
	Redoran instantly sprung into action, his sword at a ready stance, his legs spread, toes pointed towards his selected opponents.
	“Well, if it isn’t the whoreget child’s son.” The one with the shortsword snarled, before rushing in with his sword slicing through the air.
	Redoran sidestepped and slashed at the man’s flank, catching him across the rear. He fell to the ground, clutching his bleeding rump. Three more men rushed, carrying their knives high above their heads, hoping to bring the blades down into the soft flesh of his skull, but with a quick curse, the three people fell to the ground, grasping their ruptured chests, blood staining their previously stained clothing. Then finally the last six men came forth, but unlike their predecessors, they were properly trained, they knew the form of offense Redoran was using, and sought to counter his attempts. One removed a small object from a pouch hanging from his belt, and whipped it forward.
	Redoran watched the object sail through the air in slow motion, and analyzed it as a starblade, a weapon of great potential, especially in the hands of a well-trained infantryman, or mercenary. The center poured red liquid into grooves along each blade.
	Instinctively Redoran uttered a spell to halt the weapon in mid-flight, but then reworded the spell to reverse the direction the bladestar originally came from, making it seem as if Redoran himself threw it. The weapon spun towards the one who cast it, the red liquid still pouring from the middle. It struck the man in the sternum, shattering the bone and propelling itself into the heart of the victim.
Another, who seemed to know Redoran’s every move, took a small wooden bar from his trouser pocket. He whipped the object forward and sparks flew from both ends.
	Redoran was caught off guard, but reacted quicker than anyone ever could, and uttered a prayer, then held Turic before him to intercept the wand, a split second before a swirling tendril of blue energy could reach him. The wand split and Redoran drove forward, driving the tip of his sabre into the man’s stomach with a thrust. The others he dispatched with a swift swipe of his blade, beheading each man effortlessly.
	He turned to see the leader struggling to stand, his bloody posterior covered by his torn shirt. His chest was bare and his weapon was held in his hand, wavering. 
	Redoran laughed deeply, “You have learned your lesson, now be gone, I do not want to see your bloody rear or your fearful face.” Redoran held his sword in a threatening gesture.
	“Kill me, I have been shamed, I am nearly dead, and my life is worthless.” He staggered to his feet and held his arms out to his side.
	“No, you will not die today, nor will you die tomorrow. Step toward me and I will heal you, then get out of my sight.” Redoran thrust Turic into its scabbard, and raised a glowing hand wrapped in tendrils of red and blue. The man stepped forward into Redoran’s touch and gasped, he instantly shuddered and collapsed, his torn posterior healed, and him unconscious.
	“Goodnight Eriale, may you have sweet dreams.”