The Irregulars

by Neal F. Litherland

  Chapter One: The Setup

  They marched like human cattle through the arid throat of the mountains. Men and women, old and

  young, were all subsumed into a single, shuffling, iron-bound mass. They walked with their heads

  down and bodies slack, broken through and through. Men wrapped in leather and steel rode snorting

  horses and shepherded the herd like overzealous hounds. Lashes snapped, the loud cracks of cruelty

  that made words unnecessary. Dust rose from bare feet and shod hooves, and the hot wind reeked

  like the breath of Hell welcoming new pilgrims. Just more meat for the grinder of Molthune’s

  aspirations.

  “There’re more of them than when we saw them three days ago,” Trilaina whispered. The scout lay on

  a flat rock, a rumpled, no-color cloth thrown over her and weighted down with sandy soil.

  “More slaves or more guards?” Chaplain asked.

  “Both,” the half-elf replied, her lips barely parted enough to speak. Chain shifted below, down in the

  shade where the cleric was keeping out of sight.

  “Torag will provide,” Chaplain said.

  Trilaina resisted the urge to turn and glare at the dwarf. “That’s what you always say.”

  The cleric shrugged her shoulders again. “The day that I’m wrong, child, you may feel free to say ‘I

  told you so.’”

  The herd came close enough that shouts and cries pulled apart and became words. Trilaina saw faces

  over the groove of her crossbow, every one of them minted with the hopelessness a forced march

  brought. An older woman, her strength finally failing, fell over. She didn’t move when the lash opened

  her cheek, but blood ran fast enough to testify that she wasn’t dead. Not yet, anyway.

  “Patience,” Chaplain said, her words more of a prayer than a caution. “Be calm, and wait for the

  signal.”

  Trilaina’s mouth opened to reply when a howl rolled the across the valley. As one, the guards looked,

  goggling like children scaring each other with campfire stories. A black she-wolf, silver in her muzzle

  and fire in her eyes, appeared on an outcrop. She growled down at the mass of men like a judgmental

  goddess, unafraid of their slings and arrows. One of the caravan guards cranked his own crossbow,

  raised it up, and shouted something to the others. The others laughed in reply. Trilaina couldn’t hear

  what he said, but they were his last words.

  A loud twang snapped like a split harp string, and a bolt skewered the would-be archer’s head like a

  practice pumpkin. He sat his saddle another moment, blood dribbling to the thirsty earth, before

  falling like a sack full of meat. Trilaina took a breath, found her mark, and squeezed. It wasn’t until

  her bolt tore into another guard’s guts, right through the weak spot where his armor laced together up

  the side, that the others realized they were under attack.

  Swords cleared scabbards and arrows were loosed into the rocks. Bottles smashed against the hills,

  and gouts of liquid fire spumed up like dragon’s breath. In response, more shafts fell from both sides

  of the canyon, every one of them striking home. The imprisoned horde, scenting that its captors were

  wounded, woke up. They attacked in ones and twos at first, but then the floodgates opened full force.

  They pulled men off horses and snatched weapons from hands and belts. The guards that went down

  screamed and didn’t rise again. The horses, panicked by the potent combination of fear and rage in

  the air, bolted. The remaining slavers, facing the ragged wraiths bent on vengeance, followed the

  riderless mounts.

  “They’re getting away,” Trilaina grunted. She snapped the reload lever and slipped another shaft along

  the groove.

  “Not for long,” Chaplain observed.

  No sooner had the words been spoken than a thick rope leaped out of the soil and barred the way. It

  caught the riders and sent them flailing and crashing to the dirt. Trilaina sighted and squeezed

  carefully, catching the first to rise from the heap between the shoulder blades. The others chose to

  stay down, bellies up like dogs.

  “You know, it’s scary how you do that.” Trilaina cocked the crossbow again. Chaplain hefted her

  hammer and smiled. She always looked matronly when she did that. Stern, but matronly.

  “When you’ve been around as long as I have,” the dwarf started.

  “Then I’m sure I’ll recognize the signs,” Trilaina finished. She tried to brush some of the grit out of her eyes—returning her hair to its previously golden hue was going to take nothing short of a wish. She

  brought her weapon back into firing position. “Let’s just get this over with, huh?”

  “As you wish.”

  Trilaina has little sympathy for those who traffic in flesh and misery.

  They clambered down the rocky slope, each watching carefully while the other descended the rough

  patches. It wasn’t pleasant, and if anyone with ill intent had been paying them the slightest mind,

  they could have turned both women into pincushions. But no one was watching, and soon enough

  their boots were back on level ground. They took a single moment to sweep the area, then headed for

  the far end of the battlefield, where an interesting little group had gathered.

  Four former guards sat on the ground, rusty irons around their wrists. It was amazing the difference

  that only a few moments made in their bearing. The wolf—Denna—stood to the left with her head

  down and her hackles up. Gunner sat on the wolf’s back, holding the infernal collection of gears,

  levers, and bow strings that made up his bizarre heavy crossbow. If not for his eyes—the same

  verdant green as his hair and mustache—the gnome could have been a statue in woodsman’s clothes.

  On the right, glaring over his crooked nose, stood Garm. The half-orc breathed easy, stripped to the

  waist, muscles like steel cables flexing under his charcoal skin. Between the two of them, facing the

  little crowd of captives, stood the Lieutenant.

  Even in a motley crew like this, Lieutenant Sturgeon Hook was impossible to miss. An old buzzard of a

  man, Hook seemed to have been named for the prominent nose that jutted out like a beak over his

  pointed chin and wispy beard. What hair he had left was white, and his skin was the ratty testament

  of a violent vagabond who’d weathered a storm of swords in his day. Of all the team members, he was

  the only one who wore a proper uniform—the faded and dust-stained blue coat of an officer in the

  Andoren army—yet the real proof of his rank lay in his bearing. He glanced up at the last two

  members of his unit, then went back to studying the prisoners.

  “Looks like you caught something, Garm,” Trilaina called.

  The half-orc nodded, his expression thoughtful. “Trying to decide which one to keep,” he finally said in

  his sonorous baritone.

  “I’d throw em back,” Gunner grunted, gesturing with the business end of his miniature ballista. “Watch

  ’em try to swim.”

  The Lieutenant ignored the banter and leaned towards the man in the center. The captive wore no

  armor, but was swathed in desert robes that had probably been fine some time ago. His mustache

  was ridiculous, his boots were ostentatious, and his fat fingers e
ach bore a multifaceted gemstone set

  in heavy gold. The Lieutenant smiled, and the man on the ground shuddered.

  “Harlon Robbes,” the Lieutenant croaked, the smile transforming into a sneer. “A more aptly named

  rut-smear there never was. Where were you planning on going with so many unwilling passengers,

  Robbes?”

  “The South Menador Mine,” the slaver said. Frightened as he was, his voice was still as smooth as

  oiled clockwork. “They have an iron quota to fill, and they aren’t shy about how they wrest the ore

  from the mountain.”

  “And since you’re a patriot, you venture forth to recruit the best and the brightest to clap in irons,” the Lieutenant said. The slaver shrugged, a single, spasmodic jerk. “When are they expecting you?”

  “Shortly,” Robbes replied, licking sweat from his cracked lips. “I was told to expect an escort by noon tomorrow.”

  “Ah,” the Lieutenant said, as if that single fact explained everything. One of the men moved, and

  Denna lifted her lips. The sharp, white fangs made him decide that whatever itch he had could wait a

  little while longer.

  “What do you think, boss?” Trilaina glanced over at the newly freed slaves. The mob looked back, a

  herd of sheep that had stampeded the wolves, but which still wasn’t quite sure what to do.

  “I think the best cure for a blight like this is a taste of its own medicine.” The Lieutenant stepped back and nodded to Garm. The half-orc grabbed the manacle chain and lifted the nearest guard like a child

  caught misbehaving, and marched him toward the eager crowd. Chaplain grabbed a second, and

  Gunner gestured at a third. Before the third man could rise though, Robbes snatched the man’s belt,

  hauled them both to their feet, and ran.

  The other captives all tried their own runs for the sun. The first man struggled, wrenching his wrists

  and trying to throw Garm over his hip. The guard was big and broad-shouldered, but it wasn’t enough.

  Garm smashed an elbow into the side of the slaver’s head with a hollow crunch, and the man went

  down like a slaughterhouse bull. The second guard pulled, and Chaplain let go. Before the prisoner

  could enjoy his freedom, Chaplain rung his bell with the side of her hammer, and he sprawled out flat.

  The third man made it four steps before something wet and sticky exploded against his back like a

  resinous pustule. He tripped over his own feet as the alchemical bag turned him into another graceless

  lump on the valley floor. Trilaina snickered, always happy to use one of her favorite toys.

  Robbes hadn’t relied on his own legs in some time, and it showed. Galvanized by fear, however, and

  with the chill of the grave on the back of his neck, he ran fast enough. The Lieutenant swore as he

  snatched a vial from his belt and hurled. The explosion of the bomb sent up a spray of rocks and dirt

  that sent the man stumbling. Gunner sighted and fired, his hands just one more part of the complex

  weapon. The bolt screamed, a steel-tipped falcon that slashed along the heavy, meaty expanse of the

  lead flesh-merchant’s shoulder. He yelped like a stuck pig and ducked, running even faster. A horse

  whinnied, and by the time the dust had cleared both horse and the rider were dark smudges far down

  the canyon.

  “I told you to miss him,” The Lieutenant said.

  Gunner shrugged and reloaded. “He’ll run faster if he’s winged.”

  Hook blew out a long breath and shook his head. “We don’t want him running too fast.”

  Gunner straightened in the saddle. “Sir.”

  Lieutenant Hook nodded and looked around at his team. They all nodded back.

  “Anyone hurt?” he asked. They all shook their heads. “Good. Fine work, everyone. Consider this a step toward the final goal.”

  The Lieutenant knelt down, wincing, and snatched a heavy, rusted key off a dead guard’s belt. He

  tossed it to Garm, and Trilaina took a nearly identical key off a second’s man’s belt. The Lieutenant

  nodded and rubbed at his bad knee.

  “All right, let’s get to work. Gunner, round up the horses and butcher them—these people are going to

  need some proper meat once they’re not carrying around half a measure of iron each. Chaplain,

  soothe them as well as you can. There’s quite a bit of day left to burn, and we’ve got to make these

  people disappear. The sooner we get that chore done, the sooner we get to go and play king of the

  mountain. Hop to!”

  Chapter Two: Scouting Party

  The place looked more like a kicked anthill than an iron mine. Built of heavy bulwarks of timber and

  stone, its arms curved out from the mountain like a mother’s arms around her belly. A hundred eyes

  peered out of the crenelated sockets, sweeping the land. The gate was simply a drawbridge that

  spanned a dry moat filled with dust and splintered stakes. Pitch or filth lined the bottom—it was

  impossible to tell from so far away. A portcullis hung ready to fall, cutting the people inside off from

  anything short of heavy bombardment. Parties of guards, some on foot and some on horse, went in

  and out, regular as an old man on a steady diet.

  “Place is a fortress,” Gunner said.

  Chaplain snorted. “It’s also poorly built.”

  “A poorly built fortress is still a fortress,” Gunner grumbled.

  They lapsed into silence, lying or crouching along the ridge top and drawing as little attention to

  themselves as possible. The guards would be unlikely to notice the band unless they moved quickly, or

  stood out against the backdrop of the scrub trees and hardy bushes. So they sat, waited, and

  watched.

  “Looks as if our friend Robbes gave the commander quite the earful about what we did to his little

  caravan.” The Lieutenant barked a rough, sharp sound that was as close as he got to laughter.

  “They’re giving us a right heroes’ welcome.”

  “Tell me again why we want them to know we’re coming?” Trilaina asked.

  Lieutenant Hook snapped his spyglass closed and slid it back among the legion of pouches slung

  around his narrow hips.

  “It’s all part of the plan.” The Lieutenant scuttled back from the precipice like a crab, and the others

  followed, slinking and scraping out of the line of sight. Once they’d slipped into a wash, they knelt and

  drew close. The Lieutenant brushed the sand flat and drew in the dust. “Now pay attention.”

  The old man laid out the mine in small lines, giving a rough distance from the front gate to the rise

  they’d been watching from. He mapped out the paths visible from where they’d been sitting, like veins

  stretching out from a hard little heart. He carefully included the hundred yards or so of completely

  clear land leading up to the walls. Gunner reached over and added a few branches, his lines thicker

  and harder. No one questioned the gnome’s eyes.

  “This is our position here.” The Lieutenant drew an X with his fingernail, light enough that it was

  barely noticeable. “We’ve got some daylight left, and until that fades we’ll be most vulnerable. So

  we’re going to hold this position until night falls, and when it does, we’ll-”

  Denna growled, jutting her head forward across the map at Trilaina. The half-elf’s eyes widened and

  she backed away, holding her hands out in front of her.

  “Denna,” Gunner chided, putting a hand on her mane.

  That was when an arrow buried itself in the she-wolf’s side, turning her growl into a yelp of pain as

  she fell
over.

  The Irregulars stood, backs together and hands on hilts. In the time it took them to reach their feet,

  both ends of the little ditch filled with Molthuni soldiers. The rag-tag Andoren squad stood at the

  bottom, looking up at a trap they’d never even noticed. The ambushers had arrows knocked, bows

  taut as heartstrings and eyes cold as winter wine. A man stepped out of the scrub from behind

  Trilaina, pulling a new arrow from a quiver on his hip.

  “Put your hands up and surrender,” he commanded.

  Gunner and Denna make quite the team.

  “I told you they’d be here!” A voice called from the left flank. “I saw the flash on the lens!”

  “Now’s not the time, Theron.” The older man spoke without taking his eyes off the five interlopers and

  their wounded wolf. “If you do not put your hands up and surrender, I will have my men open fire.”

  The captured Andorens raised their hands slowly, gazes sweeping back and forth over the outriders

  that had clearly been dispatched to comb the foothills. They’d apparently doubled back. There was no

  give in them, and no relaxation as their prisoners-to-be showed empty hands.

  “Irregulars,” the Lieutenant said with a death’s-head smile. “Smoke ‘em if you got ‘em.”

  Glass broke, and thick, yellow smoke rose in a plume around the little group. Both flanks of

  ambushers loosed, smooth and cool. The Lieutenant swore, and there was a gnome-sized thud as

  Gunner went down. The soldiers reached for more arrows, uncertain whether their targets were even

  still there.

  Then the smoke cleared, and madness descended.

  Twin daggers flicked through the air, tumbling end over end towards the left flank. One archer cried

  out, his words bubbling from his throat in a bloody spray. Another dropped his bow, clutching at

  fingers cut to the bone. Garm exploded up the hill, teeth bared in a tusked snarl that would have put

  fear into iron. Another Molthuni—the one their captain had called Theron—loosed a shaft, but the half-

  orc slapped it out of his path. His fist swung back like death’s own pendulum, breaking bones and

  sending the injured bowman to join his companion.

  Bowstrings twanged again on the right flank, but before they could be drawn a third time a single