by Krpoun, RW
Starr waved a short salute. “Greetings, I am Starr Brightgift of the Phantom Badgers. You are the vessel commissioned to take us to Hohenfels?”
“Aye, lassie, that we are,” the Captain nodded, eyeing Iron Tusk; the pig stared back with interest. “You had best be boarding now, we’ve miles to travel before dark.”
The little Lanthrell smiled a bit uncertainly as she flowed over the rail. “This seems a fine craft; what happened to the Goat’s Horn number one?”
“Goblin ambush, bastards holed her ten miles south of Hohenfels, Purple Spider Keiba. We ran ‘er aground on a bar and held ‘em off for two days ‘til the town Militia came. She was ruined by then, but we salvaged the cargo, cordage, and fittings.” He watched Rolf guide Iron Tusk aboard. “And what the blazes is that?”
“Iron Tusk, a Dwarven komad, or trained war pig,” Starr shrugged. “She’s along as a pack animal. We’ll need to tether her where your crew won’t need to come near her as komad tend to be a bit, well, vicious.”
“Ought to pay extra for that,” the captain muttered out of habit. He had been paid in advance by the scar-faced woman in Teasau to haul a cargo to Hohenfels and then to proceed north to pick up three travelers and up to two pack animals.
“We’ll be no trouble at all,” the pretty Threll smiled, a glint of steel in her voice. The Haffer looked up at that tone, one hand falling to a dirk-hilt; the Dwarf was too busy looking around to pay much attention, but the big sow grunted softly and danced in place as if gauging the footing.
The captain shrugged, writing off any additional fees. “Just so long as you keep it under control.”
“So it is confirmed, then?” The shadowy figure on the far side of the hearth tapped a pipe against the grate, sending a shower of aromatic sparks into the coals. “The Goat’s Horn II sailed north to transport mercenaries here?”
“I’m afraid so, Master Guide,” the speaker slumped tiredly. “I established the facts of it myself. They will be here tomorrow or the day after, depending upon the wind.”
“Poor timing, Master of Bonds, very poor timing indeed, but there are only to be three, and strangers all. There is very little actual threat in their presence.”
“Should we alter our plans in any way, Master Guide?”
“In no primary particular as the concept is both brilliant and subtle. Still, alert the Assembly to redouble their efforts at caution, and set up a system of watchers to keep the sell-swords under observation until we’ve an idea of their talents. Use lower-ranked Knotsmen for the task.”
“By your command, Master Guide.”
The Burgen River was a forty yard wide slash of gray water edged with ice running low between high banks, cold mountain water flowing south-southeast until the northern edge of the Grama Hills shifted it to true south. The lands between the Badger’s holdings and Hohenfels were wild, untouched by any save the native Goblins and occasional trappers and prospectors. Once this area had been wild lands, the last strip of forest between the Empire and the Northern Wastes, a no-man’s-land where Goblin and Orcs warred with the Imperial Legions. Thirty years before, in the years twenty and twenty-one of the Third Age, the Eisenalder Empire launched the Second North War, and in twenty months of hard campaigning smashed the armies of the major Orc Vrapos, or nations, allowing the northern border of the Empire to advance along its entire length to an average depth of a hundred miles, edging clear of the forests and onto the southern-most edge of the Waste itself, the second such expansion of the Empire.
The northern border of the Empire, the only boundary not anchored to a mountain line or set with a Human realm, was marked with what was called the Emperor’s Ward, an earthen rampart (and paralleling road) that stretched for nearly two thousand miles from the shores of Darktower Bay to the foothills of the Thunderpeak Mountains. The Ward was not a defensive work in the conventional sense-a dirt wall could not hold back the ferocity of the Orcs or the savage cunning of the Goblins; rather, it was a line of honor, a physical demarcation between civilization and wilderness. No Emperor, no matter how un-martial, could ignore raids and depredations south of the Ward as there could be no quibbling over was Imperial land and what was not. Imperial Legions were stationed along its length to stop any penetration before it drove in too deep, and to harry the humanoids north of the Ward in reprisal and retaliation, harsh and dangerous duty that quickly forged recruits into veteran soldiers.
The Badger’s holdings were on the extreme eastern fringe of what were called the New Lands, the belt of territory added to the Empire thirty years before, wild lands still inhabited by Goblins who defied the Imperial usurpation of their homes.
The Goat’s Horn II raised Hohenfels an hour after sunup on the twelfth day of Frosteil (the eleventh month of the Imperial calendar), having picked up its passengers on the tenth. The trip had been uneventful, enjoyed by Starr and Rolf, and endured by Kroh and Iron Tusk.
That dawn the boat had passed a pair of pillars, one on each bank, made of river-stones mortared together. Mossy and leaning on foundations battered by frost and riverbank erosion, the structures looked both old and forbidding: markers of the Old Ward, a line now part of history. Immediately south of the markers a good road followed the east bank, and gaps in the trees revealed farmer’s fields. Here and there thin pillars of smoke rising into the dawn air marked farmsteads and herdsmen’s huts, and twice they passed small boats out checking fish traps and trot lines.
Forest quickly gave way to clearings and fields on both banks as Hohenfels came into view, a bustling town of eight hundred souls built on the east bank of the river. It boasted two taverns, a smithy, sawmill, brewery, and a good store, with farming, sheep, timber, and the fur trade creating a cash base for the local economy. Besides the river, Hohenfels was connected to the rest of the Empire by the Burgen Road, which led to the city of Teasau sixty-odd miles to the southeast. Security was provided by a stout log palisade encircling the town to the north, south, and east; log blockhouses warded the river side. Sentries, townsmen serving their weekly militia duties, announced the boat’s arrival with a blast of a horn and a flurry of colored flags.
Starr had ordered that armor and helms be stowed to avoid making too warlike an appearance, and had tasked Rolf with the chore of off-loading Iron Tusk, who stared sullenly at the world from beneath her packsaddle. The lithe Threll was the first to disembark, followed closely by a deeply relieved Kroh. They were met by a hulking slab of a man wearing a good mail shirt, heavy leather trousers, and a well-made conical helm; his wide leather belt supported a heavy falchion and a long dirk. Caught off guard by the sudden appearance of this heavily-armed and armored warrior whose cold blue eyes glared out at them over cheeks reddened by a recent close shave, Starr didn’t immediately notice the ornate device on the steel gorget hanging at the warrior’s neck, rank or title insignia of some sort.
“Good day to you, sir,” she executed a hasty bow of greeting, somewhat red-faced and self-conscious at the soldier’s sudden appearance. “I am Starr Brightgift of the Phantom ...”
“I am Captain Meyer, commander of the Hohenfels Watch and the area Militia,” the burly man interrupted. “And I have no use for mercenaries of any sort. You’ll walk softly in this town or you’ll not live to regret it. Nothing was said about your bringing a pet Goblin along.”
“...Badgers,” Starr mumbled uncertainly, straightening up sheepishly. “Goblin? But...” The sudden understanding of the insult to Rolf seared her ears with hot blood and further tangled her tongue with indigent fury.
But Kroh was not affected by either public embarrassment or personal insult. “Stand aside, axe-bait: I’m thirsty and I’ve only a few hours for drinking before you roll up the streets in this burg.” A tattooed paw darted out and connected with the Captain’s belt buckle. Although a good two feet shorter than the Human, Kroh was nearly the same weight and a good deal stronger; Meyer staggered back a pace, his ruddy face gone beet-red in fury.
Further conflict was prevented
by the arrival of a fat, bald man wearing a leather apron over a simple shirt and breeches; he trundled down the bank and across the length of the dock at a waddling run, red-faced and sweating hard, moving nimbly over the rough ground despite his bulk, and making a fair turn of speed. He came between the outraged Captain and the belligerent Dwarf just as Meyer regained his balance and caught the hilt of his falchion.
Mopping his expanse of forehead with a bright kerchief (and covertly treading on the Watch officer’s boot with a heavy heel, warning that worthy back), the new arrival beamed at Starr, who had recovered from her shock and had stepped forward lay a restraining arm on Kroh’s broad shoulders. “Good morning, good morning, I am what this poor town suffers with in the way of a Mayor, Rudolf Sleiger, at your service.” He stowed the kerchief and clapped his hands together. “I was down in the cellar wrestling with a keg of nails when I heard the boat-horn, caught off-guard as usual, story of my life. I see you’ve met Captain Meyer, our Watch officer and militia commander, a fine fighting man, I assure you. We’ve a bit of a problem with the Goblins now and then, what with the Imperial troops being up at the new Ward; three more fighting...types will be a help this winter, the wee bastards do tend to get a bit eager when the snow starts closing the roads.”
Starr eased Kroh back a few feet while she introduced herself and her companions.
“They brought a damned Goblin with them,” Meyer cut in on Sleiger’s reply, jerking a thumb towards Rolf, who had just finished coaxing Iron Tusk off the boat.
A pained look flashed across the Mayor’s face. “Appears to be of the half-Orc persuasion to me,” he observed, trying for a casual tone. “Still, we can’t choose our parents, now, can we? Otherwise I would be taller, better-looking, and rich. I’m sure Lady...Brightgift was it? What wonderful names you Lanthrell have, no doubt a story behind each one, I’m sure; in any case as I was saying, I’m sure Lady Brightgift has her comrades firmly in hand, and we must always remember that there is a large number of Haffers serving our Emperor in the ranks of the Imperial Legions. I myself served alongside a few while doing my stint in the Marines, good comrades and ready chaps in a fight.” For the first time Starr looked past the bare scalp and jolly laugh lines and noticed the shrewd eyes and blade-scars on the Mayor’s arms; it occurred to her that the Mayor was a much more dangerous man than Captain Meyer ever would be.
“Just call me Starr, if you would, Lord Mayor,” Starr smiled nervously; suddenly, being in command of an independent detail seemed much less appealing.
“And please call me Rudolf, if you would; Hohenfels is a fine place, but not nearly fine enough for a ‘Lord Mayor’. Captain Meyer is a bit blunt and rough, but always alert and conscientious in his duties, which keep him constantly on the go.” Meyer caught the unsubtle hint, and with a surly grunt and a hard glare for Kroh he turned and stomped down the dock towards town. “No doubt the varied nature of your band unsettled him, but in truth a suspicious Watch officer is a good Watch officer,” Rudolf shrugged. “Now, I’ve been in contact with your Captain Toolsmaster by letter, fine chap, writes in a good large hand, and I’ve taken some initial steps to assist you in your operations here. There’s a cottage ready for you, and my wife saw to the cleaning and furnishings. It’s a bit on the plain side, but the roof is sound and the fireplaces draw well, with plenty of fire wood.”
“I’m sure it will be fine,” Starr assured him. “It was kind of you to take such an interest.”
Sleiger flapped a hand depreciatingly. “No trouble at all; in fact, it gave my wife another set of furniture to drag about. Did me a bit of good, actually: my favorite chair stayed in one place for an entire week. Now, I’m hosting a bit of a dinner for a few of the town businessmen tomorrow night, and I would be honored if you would join us.”
“I’m grateful for the invitation, of course I’ll attend.”
“Oh, it’s nothing, really, just simple country fare, but my Britta lays as good a table as you’ll find on this part of the river. It’ll be nice to have a new face around the table, and a pretty one at that. Now,” the Mayor grinned at Kroh and Rolf, who had just joined the group as Meyer had left, “You and your friend will find I stood your first two rounds at the Fisher Hawk, so drink deep and tell a few tales for poor henpecked Rudolf.”
“He’s not my...” Starr’s discrete jab cut Kroh off. He scowled at the bland-faced Lanthrell before turning back to Rudolf. “Thanks.”
“Well, then, I’ll leave you to get settled in; should you need anything, you can find me at Sleiger’s Trading Post, the finest store in all Hohenfels.” He winked ponderously. “In fact, the only store. I’ve arranged for the Fisher Hawk to carry a tab for your meals until you’ve made your own arrangements, and should you desire a maid or cook my wife has several suitable candidates available who will do good work for reasonable rates. Let’s see, Edmund, come here; this is Edmund Forst, son of our brewer. Edmund, take these gentlepeople to Becker’s old cottage, the one with the green shutters, there’s a good lad. And tell your father I found those steel wedges he was asking about, turns out I’ve a dozen on hand after all. Good day to you three, and well met.”
The cottage was a small structure, old but well-built and spotlessly clean, the three rooms (two bedrooms and a kitchen-dining area) furnished simply with sturdy furniture. There was clean linen on the beds and more in the wardrobes, and an ample supply of unsplit log sections piled under the overhang of the eaves. A neatly-penned map of the town lay on the table next to a box of tallow candles, alongside a discrete bill for the rent of the cottage. Starr chose one bedroom for herself, unpacked, and set off to find the Mayor’s wife in regards to hiring a cook, having given her little detachment the rest of the day off.
Kroh promptly dumped his pack into the room he would share with Rolf and set off to find the Fisher Hawk, trailed by the subdued half-Orc.
Rolf sipped his ale and wistfully eyed the chalked menu on the Fisher Hawk’s common room wall, wishing he could read; Kroh was no help, being able to read only his native language. Sooner or later he would have to ask one of the help, an embarrassing action for the shy Badger, although he knew that nearly half of the people in the Empire were illiterate. Starr had promised to teach him the secrets of the written word, but so far all she had had time for was to show him sixteen of the thirty letters of the alphabet.
Not much of a drinker, Rolf had given Kroh his second free tankard, hoping that the gesture would win him some small measure of approval from the manic Dwarf, whom Rolf secretly admired to the point of requesting a back-and-breast such as Kroh wore when issued armor at Oramere. Starr had quietly taken him aside at the cottage and asked him to stick with Kroh and keep him out of trouble, or at least from killing anyone. It was a heavy responsibility to bear on an empty stomach.
The Waybrother scowled into the too-empty depths of his tankard, mentally reviewing his confrontation with Meyer. It rankled him that they had been interrupted, all the more so because it now occurred to him that a watcher could have interpreted his actions as having been in defense of Rolf, thus suggesting a friendship. He hated having to drag the big ox around with him, but Starr had had a quiet word with him back at the cottage, to the effect that he had to keep Rolf close to hand to prevent Meyer from getting the slow-witted half-Orc in trouble. She had also ordered Kroh not to kill Meyer under any conditions other than the purest forms of self-defense, and his Dwarf’s honor thus deprived him of the evening’s planned entertainment.
Draining his mug, he thumped it onto the table and snapped his fingers to catch the attention of a passing serving girl. “Tell your master I need to settle accounts with him, and fill this tankard while you’re about it. What’s the menu for today?”
“Rabbit pie, lamb stew, or fish-and-spud tumble,” the girl, actually a young woman of heavy features whose red hair was straggling from her bun, regarded the Dwarf with little interest.
“A big bowl of the stew, half a loaf of bread, and a block of butter so big. What
about you?” The Waybrother jerked his beard towards Rolf.
“The tumble, a big portion, and bread and butter as his.”
The two Badgers had just finished their meal when a short, powerful man carrying three mugs took a chair at their table. “This round’s on me, lads. Claus Becker, landlord of this miserable dive.”
“I’ve spent a lot of time in worse taverns than this,” Kroh shrugged, saluting the tavern keeper with his fresh mug. Indeed, the Fisher Hawk was a sturdy single-story building with a large common room easily able to accommodate thirty drinkers with no problems, even boasting a plank floor instead of the more usual dirt, which was able to soak up the inevitable spilled drink. “I’ve the first month’s rent for our cottage here, if you’ll just initial the bill as paid.” The Dwarf laid the coins in front of Becker.
“Up front and in hard cash, I’ll enjoy doing business with you Badgers,” Becker swept the coins into a leather purse hanging from his wide belt and noted the payment on the bill in a neat hand.
“How is business on this part of the river?” Kroh asked, carefully pocketing the bill.
Becker shrugged, sweeping the room with a glance, automatically checking the customers and servants. “In my grandfather’s day we had Imperial troops spending their pay, and Legion contracts to fill for ale, foodstuffs, and timber, but the troops have moved to the new Ward since then and the Emperor’s gold went with them. With the New Lands to the north of here being wild and Goblin-haunted, empty till just recently, the town damn near died when my father was young. But since then the lure of cheap land and the demands for furs and timber have been bringing things back. We’re on a solid footing here now, cash coming in, products going out, plenty for everyone. ‘Course things aren’t so good that we wouldn’t be happy to hear the Badgers are starting a new holding to the north. Anything to increase river traffic will ultimately draw more money to Hohenfels.”
