The Swordsman

Argen, wrapped in cold calm, tightened his grip.  Blood trickled down his face through sweat-matted hair.  Argen’s coat was slashed in places, and wet red patches slowly grew.  Three men lay dying already.  The last brigand rushed, bellowing a bestial growl, cudgel raised.  Argen rolled to the side. The man pivoted to correct, but the curved blade opened him across the belly as cudgel crashed down on Argen’s shoulder.  Calm exploded with pain, as he rose to survey the fallen.  Stiffly, he cleaned his blade, replacing it at his hip.  There were more brigands than ever this year.  Why?