The Bandits of Soad Lake

Strif and I hacked out our meager existence as bandits. Strif was strong, but this strength was more inherited than through any effort of his own; he was born large and broad with a constitution that put most to shame. Over several seasons, I looked on as Strif would bludgeon man and beast with his gnarled oaken staff; he called his staff henbane, and when it struck solid, the reverberations would hit like a thunderclap.

I lacked the constitutional power of Strif, but where I lacked strength, I made up for it with precision and cruelty. The edge of my blade knew no mercy and saw no distinction: Knight, hare, monk, or fawn. All blood was the same in my eyes.

Strif and I met by chance in a small country village named Mendon. We immediately recognized each other for what we were and decided to work together as our solo endeavors had reached a natural end.

Mendon rests near a rarely used trade route and a large lake named Soad. I recognized that the sheer cliffs surrounding the lake would give us a strategic view of the entire road, and I chose an alcove on those high cliffs to begin our plundering. Our cliffside nook served as a vault, abattoir, and home.

My plan was a simple one; we would watch the road from our high perch and strike out at select targets. The length of our alliance benefited from its spectacular strategic height. Another advantage of our location was the relative obscurity of the road; it was undiscovered by the more tactless and greedy bandits of the area. I explained to Strif that if we maintained our decorum and struck only select targets, we would avoid drawing too much attention.

The lake possessed a nasty reputation in the countryside, and naïve superstition was rampant around Mendon. The folktales of curses and ghosts helped to ensure that only uninformed outsiders would choose the route by the lake.

Strif and I concluded that if we dumped all the evidence and victims of our crimes into the lake, we could cover our tracks almost indefinitely. Our effort to conceal any misdeeds would ensure that by the time anyone knew anything was missing, all material evidence would have disappeared into the murky depths of the Soad.

I remember those odd nights and harsh conditions nearly as keenly as the vast spoils we accumulated. Despite our distrusting nature and relatively new partnership, Strif and I never squabbled over our shares. I was too weak to best him in battle, and he was too aware of his human disposition for sleep.

Mutual fear kept an uneasy alliance.

Daily, we would sit perched in that alcove and watch the road for signs of life.

A victim drove every carriage or cart that passed.

Strif and I always had ample time to scurry down and verify that the loot was unaffiliated with any “attention-grabbing occupants.” We would then lay traps and hide nearby. Malice and precision would always ensue. Strif would lug the goods, and I would mop up the remnants of life that persisted following our attack.

Once or twice, we got a little lazy and nearly flubbed the whole game on some loosely affiliated lord or lady, but we always lucked out and could pull back at the last minute.

On some nights, up in the alcove, I believed the ravings of the people of Mendon.

Certain feelings and motions drove me to wrestle with the rumors of a curse.

These legends did serve Strif and me. We, as bandits, were starting to embody the horror of this folklore.

The stories of ghosts and curses seemed to give us dominion over that region.

But as we became more familiar with our surroundings, we started spotting strange things; we noticed dark stirrings would happen in that lake. Large masses would shift or move, and…sounds bellowed against those cliffs.

When the rains came, it would be much worse.

On rainy nights with my vision obscured, I thought I could see all manner of things in that lake. Odd light would flash, and large, hulking masses would breach on that black water.

Dim shapes crawl up on the shore.

Strif swore he saw things that looked like shadowy dogs on the road, and once, we almost went down to investigate, but a bellow rang off those cliffs and sent us darting back to our perch.

I laughed after, to think big old Strif running from shadows and spooked by some stray mutt.

We tried to shrug off those unsettling nights. Soon, we could shrug no more.

One rainy night, we suffered an invasion from hundreds of unnatural beasts; these frog-like creatures were small and strange.

Their unearthly croaking shocked us to attention as we slept. Once awoken, Strif was whirling henbane like a cyclone; each impact emitted a squelch, and those frog creatures would nearly explode with a viscous slime.

I stomped and laughed like a madman, my boots were caked thick with quivering, rank remains.

I grabbed one of those beings in my left hand and gave it a long look; it was like nothing I had ever seen. The scant moonlight shining through the clouds lit up the creature’s purple skin and swollen grey tongue.

It also had little bull-like horns on its diabolical head, and on each of the beast’s feet was a single hooked talon. I squeezed that bizarre little demon in my hand till it popped like a ripe fruit; the little bastard’s guts were as rancid as a crypt, and later the spots where my flesh met the viscera broke out in excruciating ulcers.

I was startled by the event, but I eventually began to laugh as the mad frog stomper I was, and the rain washed away most of the foul innards.

Lights kept flashing. Strif called those lights wisps.

Another episode with the frog beasts occurred.

I had just loaded up the bodies of a few unlucky travelers with stones, and Strif went off hauling them down to the lake for dumping. Moments later, I heard yelling and glanced in the direction it was coming from. I slowly ambled over to survey the scene. I took my time, stretched my back, and wiped the sweat from my brow. I was in no hurry to aid my giant companion. I had begun growing tired of our alliance and knew that even Strif would need dispatching before long. I thought if something else could do it, more power to them. I approached the shore and saw Strif standing by that blighted lake, henbane in his right hand and the body of some poor sod on his left shoulder; he was staring into that lake and shaking. He just said,

“Frog!”

I shoved him hard, but he did not budge.

“Stop with your nonsense,” I said.

He responded, “Big, this one was big.”

“Dump that rotting sod and help me lug the goods,” I said.

I spotted a few frogs jumping around and, with exactness, stomped several on my way off.

I thought Strif was cracking up, and it might be best to cut him loose.

A few more carts and I would be moving on.

Frog creatures, bellows, and wisps be damned. I was disappointed that all this fortune and luck would come to this end, chased off by shadows and sounds.

I knew I needed to kill Strif, and my best option was to strike while he slept. So, I started to lie awake at night. I was trying to get the pattern of Strif’s breathing; he was a strange character, and I never could get the hang of his breath.

I began to think that he was trying to stay awake too. The lake had Strif spooked, or he knew I was up to something. I had to get some good wine, and if I could get Strif drunk, I could put him down for good, or maybe I needed to poison him.

All blood is the same: Strif, those frogs, the travelers, those wisps.

We knocked off a few more carts in quick order. My impatience was starting to make the whole ordeal sloppy; I stopped caring about keeping our low profile or stealth. I wanted nothing more than to murder that giant, grab my loot, and flee those cursed surroundings. Things kept getting worse at night; the Soad was alive. Every time we dumped a load of bodies in the lake, the nighttime activity would double or triple. It was like we were stirring the pot.

Strif would mumble, “feeding them,”

Feeding what I thought, those little frog creatures? And what if there was a big one? I have seen henbane take down bears, horses, and oxen.

“Feed those little bastards till they choke,” I remember saying.

But Strif was scared, like he knew something was coming for him.

I had to be careful; if old Strif dropped the fantasy of those legends, his attention would shift to me. I was coming for him.

The whole lake was alive all night now.

Lights flashed incessantly.

I stayed awake and listened to the breathing and the croaking.

I stayed awake and watched the lights pulsate.

There was no rest. A grave odor permeated the entire region, and we never saw a soul from Mendon out after dark.

Not long after that, the lake came for us in earnest.

It rained nearly nonstop for several days, and the roads flooded out; no travelers came, and we lugged no loot. It just poured, and Strif and I sat in uneasy silence.

This night felt like a fever. Croaking and bellowing would rise to a roaring cacophony of sounds that displaced the senses.

I could not tell where the flashing lights began or ended, and the cliffs vibrated with noise.

Those small frog beasts were everywhere. We just stopped squishing them and ceded to the fact that we could not stem the invasion. They flopped and wriggled in the pools at our feet; they infested the supplies, food, and loot. In the distance, the fetid lake bubbled with activity; it frothed like a mad animal, and monstrous black shapes were visible between those putrid waves. Strif noticed the road first. He saw them coming, hollered, and pointed,

“Here they come!”

I saw five or six large shadows lurching down the road. These shadows were more massive than before.

Large as bulls and moved with a nightmarish rolling or slithering.

By the time I collected myself and reached for my blade, Strif had hoisted henbane and was charging down the cliffs with violent intent.

When I caught up to Strif, he was in battle position in the middle of that sodden road. Strif held henbane above his head with both hands and was screaming his war cry.

The rain was coming in buckets, and the wind was at its full icy fierceness. The croaking bellows echoed around us so loudly that they nearly drowned out Strif’s rageful yell.

The lead shadow rumbled slowly towards Strif. I strained my eyes and began to perceive our head assailant’s form;

It was a giant, monstrous frog creature, nearly identical to the miniature version, but at this size, the horns on the fiend were enormous, and the foot talons were as long as the blade of a scythe.

The beast approached nearer, and the horns lit up with an unwholly glow. The white glow illuminated the horror’s ragged lips and leering amphibious eyes. The monster’s aspect and ravenous furor froze me in terror.

Strif did not waver; he stood firm and relaxed his fierce raving into a sneer that was, somehow, placid and sardonic.

The monster charged at him with mouth agape, and with an impeccable timing born only from practice, Strif swung henbane with the desperation of imminent demise. The noise from that stalwart oaken staff splintering was as loud as a forest of trees cracking at the base.

Henbane had shattered in Strif’s mighty hands. He was left holding a mere stump of its former glory. The Frog beast paid the blow no heed and chomped Strif in two with its massive batrachian jaws. The front end of Strif found its final resting place in that demon’s mouth, and his back half sputtered limply down that rain-soaked pass.

More were coming; If I wanted to survive, I would need to run.

I turned and raced for those sheer-jagged cliffs.

I stumbled forward and began my vertical ascent. The rain had washed everything out and made my madcap dash more difficult. I held out hope that those infernal hunters also would be hindered by the downpour. Terror tangled in my guts like a thornbush. I clambered and clawed with rampant desperation.

At each moment of egress, I seemed to be thrust backward by a torrent of violent droplets; I clutched my blade so hard between my teeth that I could taste the blood oozing from my gums. My fingertips were shredded by the rocky surface, adding a crimson tinge to the cloudy streams that sped past. Those beasts pursued me with a lolling ardor. I could smell their swampy odor.

I made progress slowly upwards and caught sight of a deep crease in the cliff face. If I could wedge myself into that crease, the frog beast might miss me or be unable to continue their pursuit. I reached the crease, and with an agonizing effort, I managed to squeeze myself into that cramped nook.

I cowered as far back as possible and could see the approaching light that drifted off those massive horns.

I thought of Strif and how he called those lights wisps.

I thought of how he said we were feeding them.

Is this what our deeds had wrought? Had the act of dumping those bodies in the lake been us heaving dirt on our coffins? Did the blood I spilled seal my fate?

Was all blood not the same?

Did some blood have a cost?

Was this meager crack on some abandoned cliffside where I was to draw my final, horrified breath?

It seemed like a hellish eternity as those glowing wisps approached, but when that giant soulless amphibious eye peered into my hiding spot, the fear forced me to wish for the eternal limbo I was previously enduring.

I was sure that from their outside vantage point, these beasts could not devour me. Quickly, my confidence was shattered by the bolting of a long, bulbous, grey tongue; in a split second, that viscid tongue was wrapped around my left arm and ripped me forward with overwhelming strength, nearly pulling my arm from its socket. My reflexes kicked in, and I slashed at the beast’s bloated appendage. I managed to sever a length of tongue from its main body. The demon retracted its volley, but what remained continued to stick and contract on my arm; I felt my bones crack. The tongue remnant finally relaxed and fell to the ground, spraying acrid blood.

I was left with a lone working arm.

I received a moment of respite as the frog beasts rancorously jostled for position, but soon they stopped the infighting, and in a coordinated effort, they all struck forth with a deluge of tongues. I dodged, ducked, slashed, and poked. During the battle, I desperately escaped garrotting several times, but, in the end, fortune favored this cowardly mole.

The dawn had begun to pinken the sky, and the torrents of rain waned to a fine mist; the beasts retreated.

I was alive and had left those creatures to suckle the noxious blood from their shredded appendages.

My blade and this blessed crease had done what all Strif’s constitution and henbane’s might could not.

I screamed hysterical curses and cackled like a mad frog stomper until my throat was raw.

As the dawn passed, I cowered in my crease and wavered between exhaustion and agony until midday; I was worse for wear and had received more injuries than I initially thought. My left arm would never work again. That acrid blood that wept from those beast tongues destroyed my flesh.

I left the loot up in that alcove. The beast can keep it; let them count it a tribute.

Even if it were a midsummer afternoon during a drought, I would never return to Soad Lake.

I am not some brazen fool!

I did not survive because I was skilled or brave. I fought like the rat I am, and fighting like a rat is all I know how to do.

I will die in a ditch somewhere with my throat slit by a hungry go-getter, but I will not rest in some frog belly.