Guardians of Tisdonia

The Problem of Bandits

Life in the village of Pembrick was nice. Some may even call it quaint. But every village had its problem, and for Pembrick, that was bandits.

Pembrick's problem with bandits was a complicated one, existing only because of Pembrick's thriving trade. Merchants and farmers came and went, traveling caravans passed through on their way from the North to the South (or the other way around) bringing goods from one end of the kingdom to the other.

Of course, these travelers needed rest, food, and a warm fire. That's where the old Venerable came in. It could provide all that and more to any traveler on the road with good folk for company at no extra charge.

Because of all this trade and attention, Pembrick had grown from a measly little town to a bustling village in no time at all, but with that growth came the bandits. The thing about bandits is that they like to hang around close enough to big villages like Pembrick to not get eaten by bears or creatures worse than bears, but far enough away to ensure that when their victims cried for help, nobody but the bears would hear them. For the bandits slinking around the roads into Pembrick, this meant that they made their headquarters in the Ridgewood Mountains, which were only a few miles outside of town.

Ashton had grown up hearing about the bandits. The people of Pembrick chatted  about them as they chatted about the weather. 

"Ya hear about the caravan last week?" someone would grunt casually to the men who had gathered in the pub of the old Venerable after a long day of work. "Bandits took every last wagon! An' I hear the guards didn't e'en put up a fight. Just let 'em take it."

Ashton would watch as the other men would shake their heads indignantly and say something like, "For shame!" or "Serve 'em right, then!" and other foolish things.

During such conversations, Ashton would also watch his father. He was a sturdy man with a kind face and knowing eyes. He would stand across the bar from the men and listen while polishing a glass or wiping down the bar. For the most part, he listened with a fairly docile indifference, allowing storytellers to tell their only tale for the twelfth time in a row and the wannabe politicians to shake their fists and solve all the world's problems. However, when it came to men making unfortunate comments about the bandits and their recent atrocities, he never remained silent.

"If you think those lads were cowards to turn and run, Ross," he would say, "why don't you go and do something about the bandits yourself?"

"Well now . . ." Ross would say, straightening in an indignant sort of way. "It's not my problem! Why should I go and do what they ought to have done? Not my caravan, not my problem." And he would nod his head to the general agreement of the other men. What came next was always Ashton's favorite part.

"Not your problem, eh?" his father would ask. "What would make it your problem? If Susie was one of the travelers who got robbed? Or if it was your shipment of mackerel that got stolen? Then would it be your problem? Or how about if it was one of your lads who got killed by those bandits? Aye, then it'd be your problem, I imagine. Then what would you do? Nothing. It'd be too late. Your boy'd be dead and you couldn't do a thing about it."

"Well now, see here, Arnie," the man would start in, offended.

"But guess what, Ross?" his father would interrupt. "You can do something about it now. Right now. There's an evil on your doorstep and you can stomp it out before it's too late."

"And what do you know about fighting bandits?" another man would pipe up.

"I know that it takes more than pub gossip to stop 'em." his father would say solidly. "And it takes more than one man."