"who the **** are you?"
The question was slurred with heavy drink, but the meaty hand that slapped the table was fast enough, and steady enough. The newcomer ignored the hand, and leaned on the table, his sopping wet cloak hanging down.
"Good question, numb-nuts. And if you want to find out, you'll deal me into this pissy little card game here, and we'll play for money. Not that piss-poor pile of bent lead. Real money. Gold."
The three card players were stock-still as the newcomer slapped a single Gold Denar onto the table. Gold was rare here on the edge of the Tribal Lands, and to see it slapped onto a rough inn table, with such foul insults flying above it, was not expected.
One card player put a cocked pistol on the table, "you're dripping on my cards, goldilocks, and I had a good hand." His voice was also worse for wear, strong drink and Khergit tabak making it slurred and hoarse.
The newcomer completed the code exchange by putting his finger on the barrel and crouching down.
"My hand on it, the next hand will be the better hand."
The serving wench saw only a wet traveller talking quietly with three drunks before joining their card game. It was pissing rain outside, so she stayed up at the far end of the bar where the big fireplace gave off a welcome heat.
Na'ia kicked the blanket away. It was way too hot, even naked. bloody barbarians! They think it is cold, if a cloud crosses the sun! Godd, if I spit on a stone and it doesn't boil away, they would say it was a cold day!
Meaty-hands grunted in protest, and rolled himself back in the blanket. She sat up, and looked around. Dawn was grey on the horizon. The Newcomer was already awake, rinsing himself off by the washbasin. Like her, he was too warm. He had never admitted it, but she was sure he was from the eastern part of the Republic, more at home in ice than sunshine....
"I've stayed in worse places, brother, but they could learn to leave the fire off on a hot night! I'm going down to look for food..."
She looked glumly at the dirty pile of clothes that she had gradually discarded through the night. Their group hid nothing from each other and had overcome even the nudity taboo in the interests of unity and brotherhood, and she had to admit it made for an almost familial sense of belonging and intimacy.
Khergit tavern keepers on the other hand did not understand such things, and would even have refused to put a woman in with three men, had she betrayed her sex. So she had remained silent and swathed in clothes last night, and would need to do so again this morning. She would also need to leave her face and hands dirty. She washed the rest of her body, glad of the coolness of the water, and then pulled on the dirty fawn breeches, a voluminous green shirt and coat, and a heavy, hooded grey cape. Her hair was a tangled mess, but long hair was common among men, so she didn't bother hiding the few strands that fell out the front of her hood.
She slipped into the public room, and sat by the fire, as if she was feeling cold. The barmaid was nowhere to be seen, and she wondered whether or not she should simply find the kitchen and help herself to food, then decided that that would draw too much attention. So she clenched her stomach muscles to try and stop the growling of hunger, and prayed to the Supreme Being in all three guises, that someone would come in and offer her food.
Being cynical where religion was concerned, she also added a prayer to the old gods, Armagan and Ipek.
He hit the dirt again, head ringing and blood dripping from his split lips. Struggling to rise, to think, he seemed to notice for the first time the yells and shouting. They were calling for blood; shouting for it to be finished.
As he lifted his head, he realized they were calling for him to be finished. He swore something inarticulate, and started to rise. Villifar was standing above him, boot held back for a kick. It landed, and Allair rolled into a ball against the pain blooming in his side. It was a fool thing to do, challenging the man like that. He vaguely wondered how he'd thought he could get away with it.
Villifar was a shrewd fighter, and not for nothing was he the leader of the brigand band. It was over now, however. It a moment he would draw his pistol, or perhaps his saber, and finish it.
There was another kick, more painful than the last, and then Allair sensed rather than saw Villifar turning away. He was taking the opportunity to give the assembled bandits a dressing down about turning traitor, and something about buzzards. Oh, great. So they were going to leave him to die rather than finishing it cleanly. Sometime after the thud of hooves died away, he surrendered to the blackness.
When he came too, it was some time before he opened his eyes. The sun was setting. At least, it was at an obliging angle to shine in his face. The warmth was nice. As was the familiar voice which said,
"That was a damn fool thing to do."
"Seemed like a good idea at the time." This more a croak than a sentence. "Were have you been, you old bastard?"
"Stealing your horse." The man eased Allair into a more upright position, head held in the crook of his arm as he offered him water from a skin. It tasted like heaven. "I also brought you a few things." He pushed Allair's belt into view with a toe. The old pistol looked as battered as ever, as was the rough, functional sword in a leather scabbard. But they were his, and they were there.
After a time, he was able to sit up unsupported. He looked up at his companion. Mathurin was of average high, but solidly built. Dark hair and a short beard adorned a face that spoke of a humorous nature. The sword, dirk and pistol hanging from his belt were plain and functional, like Allair's own. There was very little luxury in a band of outlaws.
"We had better get moving. It won't be long before one of those whoresons realizes I left with your horse." Mathurin offered him a hand, and Allair stumbled to his feet. Lacking even the strength to swear, he painfully dragged himself into the saddle. He was barely conscious for the ride that followed, only aware that the sun sank into the red horizon, and the darkness brought cold and pain.
--------------------
The highlands of the old Khergit Khanate were hot. The sun was not even up, and the humidity was oppressive. The two riders were soaked to the skin, but the experience was nothing new. Their legs and boots were slick with the splashed mud that coated the undersides of the horses from a shower ridden through during the night. When the two pulled up in front of the run-down tavern, they had scant hope of food this early. But even a corner to sleep in for a few hours would suffice after their grueling ride. The interior was dark, but not as stifling as Allair expected. A scrawny boy hunkered down next to the fire, and one or two lumps could be seen wrapped in cloaks here and there under tables. Besides that the place was quiet.
He let the door close behind him, and the semi-darkness returned to the room. He wended his way over to the fire, but saw no pot or other sign of a morning meal. Looking down at the boy he said, "Food?" but receiving only silence, he grunted and turned away. Mathurin came in as he sunk wearily to a bench. The man looked haggard and grey, as was he himself.
A faint scare running down Allair's chin on the right side was the only remnant of the beating two months before, but both men looked hard and worn from scant living. Mathurin sat opposite him after taking off his heavy, damp cloak and throwing it across the table, but he said nothing. There was nothing to say.
Dawn, the early sunrays stroke the grasses of the steppes, mountains could be seen to the north.
Tamur Sugan liked to travel at dawn, he liked to see the world awake and the darkness fade from the fields.
There weren’t many trails going north anymore, and those which remained, were too dangerous here in the tribal lands. So he travelled in the wild over the steppes were his very ancestors fought glorious battles.
Tamur had followed the smoke from campfires and fireplaces.
Arriving in the village of Dashbiga, people threw strange glances at him. It was the first time he saw the white men.
He was surprised to see their skins weren’t actually white, they were just light-colored.
Though their hair did have many different colors and their eyes looked… bigger, he thought.
Tamur Sugan had learned the Swadian language as a kid, but since he learned it from another Khergit, he was sure that his accent must’ve been terrible.
He would have avoided speaking with one anyways.
People stared at him as he trotted his horse forwards in the, for them, strange looking armor.
Tamur felt ashamed, not only because he noticed that the younger Khergits in the village never saw traditional armor like that and they lacked the respect for it, but also because the older Khergits, who remembered the last years of the great Khanate turned their faces away, cowardly, instead of showing him the respect he deserved as a Khan.
He guessed that the tavern keeper wouldn’t grant him any free drinks as well.
He opened the door of the tavern. It was still calm, not many went to a tavern at this time.
The old door creaked as he opened it, the original Khergit buildings prove the poverty of the area, while those Swadians had an entire village on barracks alone and a mine outside.
Tamur Sugan went to sit in a darker corner.
A few men were gambling in the back. It seemed they had been playing all night.
One of them was a Khergit.
He seemed familiar to Tamur. The Khergit now noticed Tamur’s presence. As he glanced up and made eye contact, he quickly looked back to his cards, though his nervous behavior betrayed a sense of recognition.
Almost silently Merle entered the decrypt tavern, his well-worn clothing still covered in mud, grime and no doubt a little blood. A heavy knee length coat covered the faded Vaegir marksman's uniform he still wore with a drooping hat obscuring his eyes. Across his back he carried his long-barreled musket, lovingly wrapped in thick canvas to guard against any moisture. Two day had passed since he had last visited the tavern, two days of hard tracking and hunting. His fortune had been good and the game plenty, at least until the sky opened to release a torrent of rain. Dasbigha was a truly a miserable place and Merle felt no great joy in returning. However, he had his obligations to fulfill and there were without a doubt worse places to be, though he was not sure there were many.
He cast a quick glance around the small room, not that he cared particularly for anyone in the town but he preferred to know if there was a heightened risk of being shot in the back. Though there were but a few regular patrons at such an early hour Merle could not help but note a disturbing increase in newcomers. Three sat by the fire and another a Kherigt glaring from a corner. The first seemed a pitiful bunch, though it did not mean they were any less dangerous, desperate men were an unpredictable lot. As to the Khergit, who knew? The man wore armor that was far from modern, traditionalists were best to avoid.
Merle approached the bar where he deposited a heavy burlap sack, knocking loudly on the counter before retrieving the three rabbits and small boar he had killed from within. A few denars at least he would be able to barter for the fresh meat. It was an adequate business arrangement, though Merle felt sure that the tavern keeper and his employees were giving him a less than fair price. Not that it mattered, few people held any great love for mercenaries; certainly not in the Khergit tribal lands held by Swadians and especially not for a Vaegir one.
Joric and three other men out of uniform entered the village. They were tired but determined. Joric looked at the other three, including his sergeant. "Sergeant, what are our orders again?" The NCO gave a sick grin and pointed towards the Swadian barracks. "We're getting info on the Swadian forces here, and then we are burning their barracks down."
They walked to the tavern and entered it, the sarge slamming the door behind him.
They sat down; the sergeant yelled to the bartender. "BARKEEP! 4 Bottles of mead over here!" Joric snickered imagining the look of surprise on the barkeeps face at the sudden appearance of new comers.
One of the men muttered something about the damnable heat. "Shut it you lout, we are supposed to be undercover!" The NCO whispered. "Sarge, you just ordered Nord Mead. In a Khergit tavern. Nord. Mead." The man responded.
The kitchen had woken up and Allair had a dish of some Khergit gruel in front of him when four soldiers trooped in. They were out of uniform, but the way three of them toadied up to the fourth spoke loudly of an officer and his underlings. Allair eyed them contemptuously. He had spitted fools like them, young as he was. His eyes met those of Mathurin across the table, and they shared a knowing look at the overheard conversation. Undercover, eh? If they were as amateur as they seemed, it would be worth a chuckle and perhaps a few denars to turn them over to the local constabulary - the Swadian army, in this case.
Of more interest, should trouble break out, were the other patrons of the tavern. The hunter could no doubt handle himself; Allair thought he had seen Vaegir army colors when the man opened his coat. It was the other figure, off in a corner, which presented an unknown variable. A clansmen, by the tilted eyes, but the antique get-up was baffling. It wouldn't stop the lead bullet from a good flintlock.
After the lot had finished drinking their mead the NCO pulled Joric aside towards the doorway. "Joric lad, since your apparently the only one here who can hold your mead, I want you to burn the Swadian Barracks. Now." He gave Joric a questioning look. "You still have the materials?"
Joric nodded.
"Good. Go on now, dont draw attention to yourself, if you get caught, try fighting your way out; we will follow as fast as we can."
With that the NCO headed back to the table. Joric winced as he heard his comrades take up a traditional Nordic song about an adventurer who had saved a lad in Sargoth 400 years ago....
Joric pulled the door open and took a step outside.
The Khergit that was gambling in the tavern was indeed familiar to Tamur.
He was older, probably against his forties. He was getting bold and a few grey hairs that grew in a bow from his one ear to the other were the only hair that remained. He had an old brownish coat and a bag around his shoulder. While sweating and puffing he held his play cards tight in his clammy hands.
It was getting busier. Tamur wasn’t from around here himself, but he understood that most of the men that had come inside were no local tenants or Swadian garrison.
Tamur picked himself up, by leaning on the table before him, carrying the weight of his lamellar armor, which was, despite its weight, very flexible in melee combat.
He walked over to the gambling men in the back and with a swift and smooth move he pulled his sword and stabbed it through the cards of the Khergit that was playing.
The Khergit tried to run away, but Tamur grabbed him by the neck and frisked him.
He found a few bronze denars and threw them on the table.
“He lost.” He muttered in his best Swadian.
The Khergit now raised his hands to clarify his surrender.
Tamur pulled the sword out of the table and shoved it back in its scabbard.
He walked the other Khergit outside through the back, leaving a bunch of gamblers transfixed.
He turned to fluent Khergit again.
“Morishiba? Even you were poisoned by the so called denars.”
The Khergit, named Morishiba it seemed, who had been tongue-tied all the time finally responded, with a broken voice and in moderate Swadian, well… at least better than Tamur’s.
“Ta… Tamur? What are you doing here? I never expected to see you this far north. What are you doi…”
He was violently interrupted by a slam to the head.
“Speak Khergit you rat, and what is this?”
Tamur reached for the bag that hung around Morishiba’s shoulder and a pistol appeared in Tamur’s hand, after which he threw it away.
“We need to speak, in private. I’m sure you must have some place around here.”
Na'ia watched the scuffle with interest. She allowed a sneer to twitch across her face, as if she were thinking 'barbarians!' or some such...
The Newcomer meanwhile had joined the foolishly loud Nord-sounding, military-looking group at the bar. When the barmaid appeared, the newcomer held out his gold coin, and was served first. He carried a tray of last night's bread, cold meat, and water to where Na'ia sat. Their vision of a better world would never be blurred by alcohol.
Na'ia smiled, and it was a genuine smile, part reflief, part thanks. It made her face light up, and the Nords, who had been scowling at The Newcomer's back, must have thought she was one hell of a pretty-boy.
She flicked back the voluminous hood, and spoke. Since they would leave before evening, there was no harm in anyone recognising her as a woman.
"Thanks. We should head off after we eat. The others will follow in time. I have everything on me, you need anything from the room?"
Before The Newcomer answered, the barmaid hailed them without looking, continuing to serve the local heather ale to the Nords.
"Hey, I don't care who ****s who or what, but in this tavern, women pay a Silver Denar per night regardless of how many others share the room. You can afford it, my friend, so stump up or I'll have the Swadian in here with his musketeers. Law is law and rules are rules, and rules are, you owe me a Silver Denar."
"I have nothing in the room, of course - but let me deal with this issue of payment, sister." The Newcomer turned and fixed the barmaid. It would have been a withering glare, except she was still serving the Nords instead of paying attention to him. He stalked up to the bar, slapped a silver Denar on the counter, and spat on it.
"Your money. Next time, just ask politely, whore!"
Na'ia had wolfed a few mouthfuls in the meantime, now she stuffed food into her various pockets and pouches with one hand, whilst retrieving a pistol with the other. She cocked the pistol and laid it on her knee, then loosened the wicked hunting knife that was sheathed in her boot. It had a foot-long blade and in a close fight, was equal to any sword, all the more so for being wielded by her.
Six Swadian redcoats crashed through the tavern door, and their leader, marked as a corporal, bellowed happily,
"Dawn Patrol! All well? Keep your ****ing noses clean, you thieving bastards, or we'll have the noose out! Barkeep, the usual, and put that lousy fire out if you want us to pay!"
Two redocats had their muskets at the ready, and the corporal had his sword drawn, although he didn't look ready to use it. The other three soldiers had their muskets slung, and were already heading straight for the bar.
It was quite clearly a regular event, because the serving-wench at the bar had already began pulling short jugs of ale for them, and even managed a weary smile for the not-very-funny joke about the fire, which had almost gone out from neglect
It took every ounce of will in Jorics body not to go into the tavern to see if the sarge wanted to take the Swadians out. Instead he began walking towards the barracks, the tools bulging in his coat pocket. He went over the tools in his head once more:
1 Grenade 1 Pistol with enough ammo for four shots. A vial of poison for himself
and A short, stabbing sword.
He eventually reached the barracks, he had cut the fuse on the grenade for three minutes. He marvelled at how lack of combat had made the Swadians here go complacent; they had left the gate open! He simply stuck to the shadows until he was inside the actual complex. He made a left and wandered right into their dormitory.
Here comes the tricky part.... He thought to himself as he crept among the sleeping men, he then reached his destination. The Armory.
Outside the door to it were the two only apparent sober men. They stood at ease however, talking about trivial things. One of them mentioned that the captain and some men had gone for a drink. so that's who the bastard was. The sarge will take care of 'em. Joric thought. He threw a rock quickly into the corridor and one of the men looked startled. He jogged down the corridor looking for whatever had made the noise.
Joric steeled himself for what would come next; slowly he crept upon the remaining Swadian sentry, who was looking the opposite way towards his comrade, and then with a quick motion, covered the mans mouth and dragged him down.
He looked at the scared mans face, a Nord by the looks of it, probably an Auxiliary from Sargoth and then stabbed him in the throat. He dragged the mans corpse into the armory and pulled his sword out.
He turned around and beheld the Swadian armory in all its glory, row upon row of swords, muskets and pikes. Finally, he spotted what would make this place burst.
Ten crates of gunpowder and even a small stack of grenades from the last war.
He pulled the grenade out of his pocket and went to work, he lit the fuse.
I have 2 minutes. He thought to himself as he left the armory. Suddenly, the other sentry came around the corner and let out a shout. "INTRUDER!" Joric pulled out his pistol and fired a shot; hitting the man in the shoulder. The man cried out in pain, hearing the other guardsmen wake up he sprinted into the dormitory trying to escape. One of the men grabbed his leg; he tripped, he drew his sword and stabbed the man in the eye, not enough to kill the man though, and continued running. He ran through the gates but two of the guards had climbed onto the walls with their muskets. They aimed. They fired. They hit the flesh. He fell into the mud. The last image he saw before blacking out was the Barracks exploding, fiery debris raining down.
Na'ia half-stood, the pistol already covering the Nords. The Newcomer put a hand on her arm and she lowered the hammer. The echoes of the explosion rumbled for several seconds.
"A thunderstorm?" The Newcomer asked, and Na'ia shot him a contemptous glance. The Swadian soldiers closed their gaping mouths and cocked their muskets, now considerably more military than when they had entered the tavern. One had dropped his ale-jug on himself, and Na'ia looked hard at the lock of his musket. The glitter of liquid told her that the ale had also soaked his priming. That man was not going to shoot anyone for a while...
"Do they use explosives at the mine works?" she asked, and there were some shrugs, and the Swadian patrol seemed to relax, all except their corporal. He shook his head vigorously, and knocked a soldier's hand away when he started to reach out for his ale again.
"Up to the mine, boys. If that was mining explosives, it was an accident! They never blast like that for works..."
Na'ia put the pistol back in a pocket and whispered in The Newcomer's ear.
He raised his voice to address the whole tavern, "I think that the people at the mine will need our help after such a disaster! We should all head up there to see what we can do!"
He motioned to the other two, Meaty-Hands and Hoarse-Voice, to stay put for a moment, and touched Na'ia on the shoulder. The two of them slipped out of the door and headed quickly to the tavern stables.
The Newcomer had already fed and saddled their horses, and Na'ia grimaced as her thighs clamped onto the hard leather again. She had ridden for about twenty hours in the last two days, and despite being optimally dressed for it, her muscles and flesh screamed in protest at being on a horse again.
A number of the townsfolk were standing around in the open space before the tavern. Na'ia noted with concern that they all carried weapons, even if their attitudes were not at all threatening. Maybe it's a Khergit thing she thought to herself. something unusual happens and everyone grabs a knife, or a sword, or grand-daddy's arquebus...
"Hey, I think we should let the patrol know about this... Looks like a lynch mob!"
She swung off her horse, tossed the reins to The Newcomer, and ducked back inside the tavern. The room was pretty much as she had left it, although the Swadian patrol were now in a solid block near the door, looking businesslike.
"There's a bit of a crowd outside," Na'ia announced in a loud, ringing voice. A few heads turned her way. It was sort of an attractive voice, but with a hard, don't-****-about-you-lot edge to it, that made it not really attractive. Not very girly, was how some would describe it. "They've all got guns," she added, and the rest of the heads turned too.
massive re-write, sorry if anyone read it and is now confused
The guards assembled slowly, but they all carried a musket, pistol and sword when they did arrive. Their commander had a cavalry style back-and-breast plate that looked like it had been polished about five years ago, but otherwise they were fairly uniformly clothed in dark grey coats and black broad-brimmed hats. The one exception, a tall spare man on horseback, wore a fiery orange tunic with an emerald green pelisse. Anyone who had been at the Battle of the Pink Fields, 150 years ago, would have recognised it as the Usar Guard uniform of the last great Khanate. The wearer was a half-blood Khergit, and armed to the teeth with lance, pistols and heavy cavalry sword.
He pointed the lance towards the village. Downhill of the mine, to the right of the track that led to Dashbigha proper, was a grey tower of smoke.
"The commander should inform our Swadian guests about that..." His stress on 'guests' was highly sarcastic.
The commander shot him a glance before replying. The half-blood was a man to be respected, and was of uncertain status. He came from Dhirrim, even though he was appointed as second-in-command of the watchmen, and coming from Dhirrim meant being one of The Bosses. He tipped his eyepatch and scratched the cheek under it before replying, "He told me. He and his men are guarding the strong room. We, now we are all here, will guard the slaves at the refinery."
The slaves were housed in pitiful huts and lean-tos in a disused mine pit, and the 'refinery' was a collection of workshops in a cleared area of another disused pit. The workshops were tomake and repair tools and the rail-carts that hauled ore from the pits, and there was also a smelter where the rock was melted down to leave blackened lumps of metal lead. The metal was then transported by wagon-train, with never less than a score of guards, to Narra or to Uxkahl. Two such trains were currently out on the road, leaving only thirty men to guard the mine works, plus the half-dozen Swadian soldiers who were visiting.
The guard commander was worried. Bandits had been quiet for a while, which meant they might have gathered themselves for something big. A year ago, there had been a dozen raids on the mine in the psace of three months. The bandits knew that money came here to pay the watchmen, and to maintain the Swadian presence with heavy bribes, and they had always attacked after a wagon train had returned, believing that it would have brought money back with it.
This time, though, the attack had come when his force was as weak as it would ever get, only half his full strength. If they had taken out the remaining Swadians, it was a shrewd move. He dared not arm the slave-drivers, as they were only privileged slaves anyway, and giving them a weapon other than a whip or stave would result in dead guards.
"Lets go."
It didn't take long for the slaves to be herded into the biggest building in the refinery area, the smelter. The fires never went out, so the slaves were locked in in sweltering heat. The fifty or so slave-drivers, with their whips and clubs, were locked in an empty store-room.
Although the guard commander could ill spare it, he left two of his men at the doors of each building with orders to keep themselves alive.
He looked at the mounted Half-Blood again, "fancy that, the Swadians have barricaded themselves in. Be so kind, Razikighan, as to take station to the left of our line."
He had his remaining twenty-six watchmen lined up in three ranks, just behind the lip of the pit, with a clear hundred-metre field of fire looking down the track towards Dashbiga.
Razikighan sketched an elaborate bow from the saddle and moved his horse without touching the reins, just to show off, "certainly, Colonel Lokissen von Sargoth, oh honoured Commander."
Since he quite often spoke in such flowery style, Lokissen couldn't really complain about his response, but it irked him that the man was so clearly outside of his control. Lokissen had killed about a thousand men, he reckoned, and a good few of them had been Khergits and half-breeds. He had been a pirate off the shores of Wercheg, justifying his brutality by claiming that the ships were all crewed by renegade traitors, who ought to be flying the old flag of the Nord Duchy of Wercheg instead of Vaegir colours. His crew had revelled in the plunder at first, but slowly the brutal murders of sailors had sickened them, and he had gone ashore, taking the money and a score of cut-throats with him to the south, picking up a year's work fighting for the Rhodoks against Swadia on the way before being cashiered for murdering prisoners. He had taken almost two companies of mercenary infantry with him when he came into the wild Khergit lands, and offered his force to the unscrupulous mining companies. He was based here in Dashbigha now, and his former lieutenant had forty of their men at an almost-exhausted opal mine down near Ada Kulun in the south.
It had been five years now since he had held command in a battlefield situation, but he had drilled his men well enough, and forgotten nothing. They were unshaven, their coats and weapons were functionaly clean rather than polished, and they slouched, chewed Tabak, and swapped dirty jokes, but their ranks were tight, and their muskets were loaded, ready and cocked.
The response to the thundering explosion was enlightening. Those in the tavern immediately bunched together, and Allair noted the distinct groups. The girl - whom he had mistaken for a boy - was in company with three hard bitten men, and the army patrol was suddenly all business. Exchanging looks, Allair and Mathurin both got to their feet and made for the back door. Once outside they hurried around towards the pillar of smoke rising to the sky, and wended behind huts and run-down houses until they can reached the edge of the village and saw the barracks complex. The back corner of the complex had been hit the worst; the outer wall and the corner watch tower were a smoldering ruin.
At the sight, Allair smiled a wicked smile. "Someone has a grudge against these Swadians, it seems." Turning to his companion, he quickly outlined a plan, even as he formulated it. Briskly he disarmed, stashing his sword, pistol, and cloak under a pile of damp hay. Grabbing up a handful of mud he smeared it generously across his forehead and face, and after a salute to Mathurin, he took of running.
Circling the last of the houses, he came upon the road that ran in front of the barracks before winding up to the mine entrance.
He stopped to take a gaping look at the barracks, and then dashed down the muddy road into the village. He came to a skidding stop before the tavern, where the crowd was still milling in confusion. Apparently gasping for breath, he shouted out his message, "Bandits! The barracks...under attack!...big explosion...fire...everywhere!"
It had the desired result. What had been simple confusion before now began to turn into full blown pandemonium. Some of the crowd, probably village folk, ran off in different directions to save their homes.
Allair was instantly forgotten, and ducked beside tavern. He would wait until the Swadian patrol took action, and then see how the wind blew. There were no bandits of course, and Allair's plan was simple: Create as much chaos as possible, and reap whatever reward could be gotten in the confusion.
------
Up at the mine, the disciplined line of mercenaries could see a figure toiling up the track. He was waving his arms and shouting something, and as he came closer they made out words like 'fire', 'bandits' and 'raiding party'. He came to a stop some twenty paces from the front line, leaning on his knees to ease his labored breathing. "The barracks has been attacked!...Bandits raided...there was a huge explosion. Swadians were killed...t-town is in confusion!"
With that he sat down in the mud, apparently exhausted.
The rest of the Sargoth rebels dashed out of the tavern, they heard someone yell something about it being a bandit raid. Fool, we need to let these people know it was us! The NCO thought to himself darkly. He then found the perfect way. He glanced back at the Swadian patrol that had assumed a more military stance. He gestured towards them at his men. The Nords pulled their pistols from their coats and walked up to the patrol.
"Hail Corporal! Whats going on?"
"Bandit raid apparently, we should get the townspeople to safety!" He took a step forward and suddenly the Nords raised their pistols, pressing them against the Swadians temples.
The NCO took a deep breath and then yelled at the top of his lungs: "SARGOTH! OR DEATH!" He blew the corporals brains out and his men followed suit. The Patrol was dead.
"Sarge, where the 'ell is Joric?" One of the men suddenly realized. The NCO froze and then gazed towards the crowd. He pointed. "There."
The well-known battle cry of the Nord duchies reverberated across the small street as Merle emerged from a side alley, having elected to exit the tavern by way of the backdoor. He turned in time to see the Swadian patrol die to the sounds of gunfire.
Scrambling for cover he ducked covertly behind two large wooden barrels that stood nearby. Without thought he slung the musket from his back and removed the thick canvas throwing it carefully to the side. The bullet and gunpowder were already prepared and he quietly pulled the lock back.
It was not that he cared for the Swadians Merle reflected, it was simply a matter of payment and at the moment it was Swadia or rather the mining company that he served.
Merle sat up into a crouching positing bracing the long-barreled musket on the top of largest barrel, cold grey eyes gazing down the iron sight of the weapon. The Nords had not seen him, so he held his fire searching for the leader of the band. By rank, kill by rank, they had always been told and Merle had not forgotten the lesson. He knew he had found his man, as one of the Nords gestured in the direction of the crowd, muttering commands.
Breathing slowly and rhythmically, Merle placed the sight over the head of the commanding officer, with the distance no more than 30 yards he would not miss. With a light pull of the trigger, he fired, the roar of the long musket singing death for the unfortunate man. Merle watched with a professional satisfaction as the bullet smashed into the skull of the soldier, cries of alarm coming from his two remaining comrades.
"Nords! Two of them still breathing!" Merle roared, already beginning to reload his musket.
Wulfin and Garven shouted in surprise as the NCO fell, streaming blood. "WULFIN! Get Joric! I'll get the NCO back to camp!" They clasped arms and went their separate ways. Garven grabbed the corpse of his commanding officer and began dragging him away from the scene.
Wulfin pushed through the crowd and found Joric was indeed the center of attention, he was unconscious, and blood was coming from his leg. Someone hit Wulfin over the head with a club and Wulfin fell down into the mud. Unconscious.
His long-barreled musket reloaded and with the lock ready, Merle rose for a second shot. To his slight frustration he saw the two remaining Nords retreating in opposite directions. One of them, a brave fool was headed directly for the crowd, Merle doubted he would last long. So he choose to follow the first soldier, who seemed to have taken the body of the officer with him. In a fluid motion he rose to his feet and broke into a run after his new target.
The trail of blood the dead man left required little skill to follow and burdened with the body of his late commander the pace of the still living Nord was markedly slower. With each step Merle found himself closing the distance. Without pause Merle shifted the firearm to his right hand and drew one of the light throwing axes he carried.
This site uses cookies to help personalise content, tailor your experience and to keep you logged in if you register.
By continuing to use this site, you are consenting to our use of cookies.
