by RW Krpoun
“Kind of odd they’re setting up so close to New Fork,” Axel pointed out. “Could it be a trap?”
“They probably aren’t aware where New Fork is,” Arian answered before Durek could. “Odds are they started in or near Teasau and made their run north non-stop to avoid detection; after all, trading with the Goblins gets you a rope collar and a short drop. New Fork might be news in Hohenfels, but I doubt many people in Teasau know or care.”
“The area they’re in, but for New Fork, would be a prime spot,” the Wizard conceded. “Shouldn’t be much of a problem, Durek: give me Henri and twenty rankers under Janna and we’ll hit them at dawn tomorrow, catch them in their blankets and sort them out once and for all. We’ll need to hire somebody to sail the boats back downriver, sell off the goods and the boats and have a nice profit all around.”
“Instead of selling off the boats, we ought to keep the skiffs here for our use, and send the fishing boats up to Badgerhof; we can get fishermen out of Hohenfels who would crew them under a sort of lease agreement, we take a cut of the catch and they buy the boats from us over a period of years, that sort of thing,” Henri suggested. “That would help get a fishing business going there and bring a few more people into town, young men who would hope to own their own boats, and probably net us more gold over the long run than selling them outright.”
“Clever,” Durek nodded. “We’ll run the boats to Teasau to sell off the goods, and pick up the crews there. There’s always plenty of fishermen crewing boats who dream of owning their own. Axel, you’ll be in charge of the operation; do we have enough Badgers with sailing skills to get the boats back here?”
“Barely,” the Wizard shrugged. “But it shouldn’t be too hard. We can keep them here until we can hire crewmen off the river boats to make the trip, or maybe send for crews out of Hohenfels.”
“You know, you are all missing the point,” Bridget said slowly, tapping her chin. “Dawn assaults and disposing the loot is all fine and good, but hardly the real opportunity here, nor the best way of doing things.”
“And what is?” Durek had always encouraged his officers to speak freely; good ideas were hardly a commander’s prerogative.
“Take some of the smugglers alive, and then take their places entirely.”
The group was silent for a moment. “Interrogate captured smugglers, then use the knowledge to make contact with the Goblins, and when the main trading party shows up, ambush them,” Axel mused out loud. “We hurt the Spider, and capture their trade goods as well as the smugglers’.”
“And create a sense of distrust for dealings with renegades within the Spider,” Bridget pointed out a bit smugly.
“Of course, this involves capturing at least three or four of the smugglers alive, most particularly their leader,” Durek pointed out. “These are well-armed and armored fighting men who are engaged in a capital offense; prisoners are going to be a very chancy matter, and will involve considerable risk to the Badgers. It’s always easier to kill an opponent than to take one alive.”
“That’s true in general terms, but I have an idea that will make it considerably easier than the norm,” the advocate grinned. “Being a Dwarf you may not understand it at first, Captain, but the smugglers are going to do the bulk of the work for us.”
Nagel Sterndale had decided to lead the patrol himself when Turhan said to send a few lads out to check the area and make sure the Goblins weren’t out to get the goods without paying; sitting around the camp was boring, and while trudging through the woods wasn’t much better, at least it was something to do. He had grabbed three of the boys who weren’t doing anything useful and set out to have a look around, not really expecting to find anything.
Thus it was quite a shock when, on the river bank a few hundred yards upstream of their camp, he heard the distant sound of voices. Signaling his men, who had heard it as well, to follow silently, the smuggler moved up to see the source of the sounds. As they drew closer Nagel was amazed to realize that it was female voices he heard, women laughing and talking loudly, as if they didn’t have a care in the world. He found them where the river had cut a depression in the riverbank, creating a tiny bay with clean sand and shallow water lying like an opal sheet over a gravel bank. A skiff had been pulled up on the sand, with shawls, dresses, and wool stockings hung on the gunwales and three pairs of shoes on the main rowing bench; a green tablecloth had been laid out on the grass of the river bank, weighed down by rocks at the corners and a wicker picnic hamper in the center. A couple bottles of wine were cooling in the water, tethered by lengths of twine tied to their necks at one end and a large rock on the beach at the other.
But what truly grabbed and held his attention was the sources of the noise: three women in their slips, bare-legged, smashing and laughing in the water, as carefree as larks.
“We must have been very good lads lately,” Stormy whispered, kneeling behind the same bush as Nagel. “Look what the Eight has sent us as a reward.”
“What in the Void are three women doing out here all by themselves?” Tuttle whispered from behind a nearby stump.
“Havin’ a picnic, stupid, use your eyes,” Stormy hissed back. “At least, that’s what they was planning; what they will be doing is us.”
“I mean, where did they come from, there’s nobody along this stretch of river?” Tuttle persisted. “This isn’t right.”
“It isn’t right ‘cause I’m still here, talking to you, when I ought to be down there, giving that little dark one a full mounted charge, lance right on target.”
“Shut up, both of you,” Nagel muttered. “We’ll do this the right way. Tuttle, look at the bow of the skiff: it belongs to a river boat, these three’re probably part of some boat captain’s family, the boat itself is probably just a few hundred yards away. We’ll snap them up and take ‘em back to camp before we do anything else.” He studied the women intently: other than the fact that one was a dark-skinned Suflander, nothing appeared out of place. The dark one was young and pretty, another was a few years older, a bit homely but built for a solid ride, while the third was dark-haired and lithe, the kind of woman you wouldn’t see in a tavern, proud and haughty around men like him. He nodded, mind made up. “Willock, you circle around and come from the other side, Tuttle, you go straight to the skiff so they don’t jump in it and run. We’ll round ‘em up, give ‘em their shoes, and skip back to camp.” He glanced at his companions. “And Tuttle, since you’re so worried about things, you can row their skiff back; no point in passing up a profit.”
“We’ll have them good and broken in by the time you get there, Tuttle,” Stormy sneered. Tuttle replied with a simple but emphatic gesture.
The four smugglers, weapons ready, were on the sand and Tuttle was in control of the skiff before any of the women noticed them; with shocked screams, all three covered themselves as best they could and backed deeper into the water. Nagel motioned for them to stop with his cocked and loaded crossbow. “That’s far enough, ladies, there’s no point in being hasty. Just stroll on up here so we can talk.”
“Who are you?” the lithe one demanded.
“We’re going to take you to our camp, where you’ll be safe.”
“My husband will pay well for the return of us unharmed,” the woman stated. “He is a man of wealth and influence.”
“That’s the idea,” Nagel lied. “What’re your names?”
“Bridget,” the lithe one muttered as she trudged ashore. “Duna and Veda.” She indicated the dark one first and the homely girl second.
“Put on your shoes, ladies, no, don’t bother with your dresses, I don’t want to muck around with hidden knives and all that; we’ve things for you to wear back at camp. Grab the food and wine, Tuttle. Let’s go, Willock, you lead the way.”
Willock set a fast pace, obviously interested in getting the festivities underway; Nagel followed, enjoying the view the slips gave him; most were nearly soaked, and the thin undergarments became transparent wherever they were
wet. Transparent, and clinging. The three seemed dazed or in shock, hustling along meek as lambs, whimpering a bit but not making any hysterical outcry. That would come later, he knew from experience.
Peden was on sentry at the north side, and his eyes nearly fell out of his head when the patrol marched by with the women. “Where the Void have you been, Nagel?”
The smuggler laughed. “They grow on bushes around here, Peden, didn’t you know? That’s why the Goblins fight so hard for this land.”
Turhan Capron was playing draughts with his brother Hanns when the patrol returned less than an hour after it had left. The smuggler hadn’t expected that Nagel would be back so quick as his lieutenant couldn’t have checked very far in that length of time, and Nagel was usually very reliable. The sudden outburst of loud talking and laughter angered him: they were supposed to be quiet around here, you never know what was moving through these woods. Standing, he caught sight of the three woman and froze, the words dying on his lips. Nagel marched up to his leader, a broad grin showing every tooth and gap. “Quite a job of scoutin’, don’t you think, boss? Three tender chickens ready for the pot.”
“Where in the Void did you find them?”
“They was planning a little picnic upstream a bit, they’re off a river boat that’s stopped nearby. I had Tuttle bring their skiff around, we can scrape off the name and sell it later.”
The smuggler leader slowly walked up to the women, who were standing with their heads down, trying to cover what they could. He circled them once, elbowing his men back from the three, who were huddled together inside a ring of leering faces. Something just didn’t sit right with him; three women out alone in this area? What sort of man would let his woman do that, unless they had snuck off, women often disdained good advice. The three were well-fed but not fat, not an extra ounce on them in fact, and well-muscled which was unremarkable: plenty of farm girls could arm-wrestle with the best after a lifetime of doing a man’s work. Their legs bothered him, though: they were shapely and high-calved, the kind of legs you got from lots of walking, miles and miles carrying a good load, not the kind of legs someone on a river boat would have.
“What are you doing out here?” He demanded, waving for everyone else to shut up; gradually the cat calls and lewd comments tapered off.
“A picnic,” the tall, lithe one snuffled into her hand.
“That's Bridget,” Nagel advised him. “The little tasty bit of dark is Duna, and the solid ride’ll be Veda.”
“What brings you to this stretch of river, Bridget?” Turhan motioned for his lieutenant to keep quiet.
“My husband and I are going to Badgerhof to open a fur brokerage,” Bridget kept her eyes downcast. “Duna is my maid and Veda is my sister-in-law. We took the skiff for a picnic while they were fixing something on the boat, I...they didn’t know we left. My husband will pay very well for our return, unharmed.”
“Looks like we got ourselves a fur brokerage right here,” Peden laughed. “I’ll put the first bid in...”
“Shut up,” Turhan snapped, then hesitated. “Weren’t you on the north guard post, Peden?” Without waiting for a reply he made a quick head count. “Damn, everyone’s here!”
“Didn’t want to miss out...” Peden started, a sullen tone creeping into his voice, but his leader wasn’t listening anymore. The lithe one, Bridget had kicked a small twig aside as she had been talking to him, and the other two immediately ran their hands through their hair. Turhan knew that they couldn’t hide anything larger than a sling bullet in their hair, and even if they had a full-length fighting dagger stashed it wouldn’t do them any good standing surrounded by thirteen armed men, but he was painfully aware that every smuggler save Tuttle was standing in a circle staring at three nearly naked women who weren’t crying, screaming, or begging even though they were obviously only minutes from the first of many rapes. He started backing up and drawing his broadsword, sure now that something was terribly wrong. “Hanns...”
He didn’t get a chance to finish; all three women made a tossing gesture and said the same odd word and the circle of smugglers was enveloped in three roaring dust storms. The stinging dust blinded him and choked off his order to his brother, the shock and the buffeting wind nearly knocking him off his feet as he struggled to draw his weapon. He got it clear of the scabbard as the winds abruptly stopped as suddenly as they appeared, but the clearing was filled with the sound of running feet, clattering mail, men shouting, and blows falling. Something cold and sharp, a sword blade he realized, suddenly lay across his throat.
“Drop your blade and raise your hands,” a calm voice advised him. He sighed and tossed the broadsword to the side, blinking hard to clear his eyes. A bearded man whose face was pocked with small scars was holding a sword-rapier to his throat; he wore a bracer over his shirt of studded leather that borne an insignia of some sort, a silver leopard’s head, and a number of gold and silver studs. “Sir, I have the honor of telling you are a prisoner of the Phantom Badgers.”
Looking around without moving his head, confident that the mustached swordsman whose accent placed him as an Arturian would surely kill without hesitation, Turhan saw that none of his men had fared any better: two were dead, and the rest had surrendered to the twenty-odd armed and armored footmen who apparently had approached the camp while all his smugglers were leering at the three women.
The bait-women, their faces as wind-burned as those of his men, were pulling cloaks over their grimy slips, having thrown themselves to the ground while their comrades over-ran the camp, or at least the two northeners were; the dark-skinned girl marched over to Peden and kicked him square in the stones. “Fur-brokerage that, you bastard.” She looked up and saw Turhan watching, and flushed a bit.
“Kick him again,” the smuggler leader advised her. “He was supposed to be on guard.” As she rejoined the others, the smuggler looked back at his captor. “Just what was that they did to us?”
“They used a disposable enchanted device known as a Storm of Disruption, which are very small, the size of a pea pod. Each woman had one hidden on their person,” the swordsman explained. “We wanted to take most of you alive.”
As the mercenaries, which Turhan realized they must be, lined the smugglers up a man limped out of the trees using a cane to help him walk, pausing to say something to the women as they were escorted into the trees by two armed women; all three laughed. He limped over to Turhan as someone tied the smuggler leader’s hands behind his back with leather cord, slapping him on the upper arm to let him know that he had to relax. This one, Turhan saw as the knots were drawn up, wore no armor, and had two gold lion’s heads on his bracer instead of the leopard; he also wore no armor, or weapons other than a dagger. The badge on the bracer looked like a badger, he realized, which explained the name.
“Good morning, sir, although I won’t say I hope it finds you well,” the newcomer grinned; Turhan saw he was far younger than the silver in his hair would suggest. “I am Axel Uldo, Lieutenant of the Phantom Badgers and your captor.” The sword was removed from his throat as whoever had tied him reached around and undid his belt, carrying away his sheathed knife with it, then expertly patted his clothing, locating both the push-dagger in his boot and the stiletto in his sleeve. When the searcher was done and moved on to the next smuggler in line, which happened to be Nagel, Axel motioned for Turhan to accompany him and led him a distance away, out of easy earshot of the rest of the captives. Seating himself on a handy log, the Badger motioned for the smuggler to step back a couple paces. “In case you are thinking you can outrun a man who walks with a cane and has no bow, I would point out that I am a spellcaster of enough ability to kill you before you could take two steps, including towards me.”
“You know, banditry is a hanging offense in the Empire,” Turhan ventured.
“So’s trading with Goblins,” Axel replied cheerfully. “And since we have you, I think the issue before us is very clear. We can hang you all this very day and tuck ourselves into
our wee beds tonight with clear consciences that we’ve acting according to the laws of man and the Eight. Would you be so kind as to have one of your men step forward?”
Turhan looked over to the line of his men, a third of whom were now bound and fully disarmed. “Peden, take a step forward,” he shouted. “Out where I can see you.”
With visible reluctance, the smuggler stepped forward. A Dwarf of amazing width of shoulder and chest marched up to him and struck off his head without batting an eye, as businesslike a killing as Turhan had ever seen. He turned back to the mercenary officer, trying hard not to let the wizard see how shaken he was.
“That was to demonstrate that we are not in any way bluffing,” Axel advised him pleasantly. “By the way, we had to shoot your man Tuttle, so I wouldn’t concern yourself with his welfare if I were you. Now that we understand each other, we can continue. As I pointed out, you are certainly dead, insofar as Imperial law would view things, but we aren’t Imperial troops, so there may be a bit of leeway for you in this matter, by which I mean that there is a chance we could see our way clear to letting you go.”
This was unexpected. “What would we have to do?”
The wizard grinned. “You are going to meet with the Goblins to arrange the sale of your goods; when the final transaction is made we shall intervene.”
It took a moment for Turhan to work it out. “You’re going to double-cross the Spider.”
“With your help, yes.”
The smuggler thought it over; assuming that they replaced most of his men with their own troops, and had a few more hidden about, it could very well work. His own part would be dangerous, but if it kept him alive it would be worth it. “When it’s over, we go free?”
