Page 107 - full

106 Amit Bobrov
I felt a chill when I came within viewing distance of his cabin,
as if someone had passed over my grave, though as yet I saw

nothing out of the ordinary. For a moment my mind recalled
an image of a lord in dirty armor, his skin sickly, and then the
vision ended. A keenly dire feeling filled my heart with mortal
dread, but I dismissed my fears because I saw no evidence to
validate them. The smoking chimney gave a pleasant smell,
and I approached rapidly, bearing a log over my shoulders from
which two water buckets hung. I carefully kicked the door open,
and then stared, mouth agape, at the sight which confirmed all
my fears.

Two armed men sat at his table. I remember their faces as
if they were carved on my soul in blood. As they ate the fish
which Raymond had cooked, a spear rested, leaning on the
table within reach of the man sitting opposite to me. His hair
was black and his face dirty, his palms covered in some fabric:
I don’t know if they were bandaged or gloved. I can’t forget his
face or the chestnut brown mass of hair which belonged to his

friend. He sat with his back to me, his club of carved wood lying
on the table right next to his right hand. A third bandit minded
the cooking pot; he was dark-haired as well, perhaps a brother
to the first man. But what struck me the most was not the sight
of the bandits, but Raymond’s dead body laying at the cook’s
feet. His head was cleaved — probably by his own axe, and his
insides littered the floor. None of the bandits seemed to care;
they had been eating as if nothing extraordinary had happened
until I came.

“Hey, you!” The black-haired one roared, and grabbed hold
of his spear as he stood up abruptly. I dropped the log with the
buckets to the floor, stunned. The chestnut brown-haired man
turned and grabbed his club. I managed to see his face for only a