They started at dawn the following morning with Roscoe, the Adventure Captain, taking the lead. Torgul rode close behind him. The archers came next, leading a pair of pack mules. Thurmond and Sarah rode side by side at the end of the cavalcade.
The young man chuckled.
“I heard Roscoe had quite a scene with Pozi. What happened?”
“Well, I already told her what he said to me, that she couldn’t come along, but she wouldn’t listen. Pretty soon, here she comes with her things tied up in a bundle, wanting to know which horse was hers.”
“That’s when Roscoe stepped in?”
“Aye, he was trying to be very nice about it, trying to make her understand without hurting her feelings.”
“What did she say?”
“She informed him that if he didn’t let her come, she’d steal a horse and follow along behind until we were too far along to send her back. Then he’d have to let her stay.”
“How’d he like hearing that?”
“He said he’d have her locked in the chicken coop, but she told him she’d just pick the lock and escape.”
This was no idle boast. Pozi was quite adept as a picklock.
Sarah continued.
“Then he said he’d have her whipped for her cheekiness, but she just laughed and told him that he’s much too softhearted to ever do such a thing.”
Thurmond raised his eyebrows at that. He had to admit, the girl was cheeky.
“What then?”
Sarah gave a little giggle.
“He growled like an old bear and told her not to pester him with any more of her accursed jabberin’.”
These last words were delivered in a comic imitation of Roscoe’s voice.
“So, how did you finally change her mind?”
Sarah now grew thoughtful.
“Look, Thurmond, Pozi’s no different than the rest of us. She wants something more than the life that was handed to her. She’s not about to marry some lunkheaded village boy and raise a pack of brats. She spent the last year learning how to ride a horse, shoot a bow, follow a track—skills that would make her a good Adventurer.”
“I get all that, but she’s still just a kid. What is she now, twelve?”
“Aye, twelve. But she doesn’t see things that way. She feels she’s already proven herself.”
Pozi’s assumptions were not without foundation. On their last adventure, she had repeatedly demonstrated her courage and resourcefulness.
“So how did you change her mind?”
“This may surprise you, Thurmond—I used reason. That’s usually the best approach when trying to convince an intelligent young woman. I reminded her of how brainsickly people were becoming and that Florio would need her help while the rest of us were away. That’s true enough, and it gave Pozi a feeling that she mattered.”
Thurmond shrugged.
“Who knows? Maybe Florio will need her help.”
The road north, known as Waddle Street, was a far cry from the great Royal Highway that led to the huge trading cities in the south. Built as an Etrusian military road, its once-level and graveled surface was now badly pitted and had, in places, fallen away. The bridges that had allowed imperial legions quick passage to the volatile northern border had mostly tumbled into the rivers and ravines they had once spanned.
Waddle Street followed the river for a while, then jogged eastward through a series of small towns and settlements. The city of Visby was almost a hundred leagues distant, so several days, perhaps a week, would be required to join the mercenaries at Three Fat Friars. Roscoe had been up that way before and knew the territory fairly well. Further north, the villages would be small and scarce. Most of the time, they would be sleeping rough.
The adventure party rode all day at a steady pace but was often slowed by the poor condition of the road. Here and there, they were forced to dismount and lead their steeds across especially awkward places. In all, they traveled perhaps eight leagues before the setting sun forced them to halt for the night.
The three Gascars again proved themselves as veteran soldiers. Minutes after the party stopped, they had the gear unpacked, a fire going, and a neat little camp established. They had clearly attended to such tasks many times before.
After a surprisingly good dinner—Florio had packed lavish rations—they sought out comfortable places to hunker down. The archers chose a spot on the far side of the fire, a bit apart from the others. Thurmond volunteered to take the first watch. Torgul would replace him when the bottom edge of the moon cleared the top of the tallest tree.
Thurmond was absorbed in his own thoughts, contemplating the long journey ahead, when the quiet was disturbed by a loud voice from the other side of the fire. It was Cob!
Thurmond rose to investigate and was surprised to find the archer asleep, but with a steady stream of words pouring from his mouth. Unintelligible words, but words for certain, as if drawn from an arcane language.
Then Cob sat up, his eyes wide and blank with terror. Tuck and Wat were now awake and clasped Cob in their arms, speaking softly in his ear. Roused from sleep, Torgul appeared, axe in hand. Roscoe and Sarah were close behind with drawn swords.
When Cob was at last calm and quiet, Thurmond gestured to Wat to join him on the far side of the encampment.
“What’s going on with Cob? From the way you and Tuck acted, I’d say you’ve seen him do this before.”
Wat looked thoughtful.
“It’s been goin’ on for a time. Gettin’ worse lately.”
“What’s wrong with him? Tell me.”
“He talks to spirits when he’s sleepin’. Least ways, that’s what he says he does.”
Thurmond was less than sympathetic. He really disliked Cob.
“If he’s hearin’ voices, he’s crazed.”
Wat shook his head vigorously.
“Nay, he ain’t crazed. When he was little, the friars what raised him knocked him on the head a lot. I think maybe they shook somethin’ loose, that’s all. It’s just his way of dreamin’. Don’t mean nothin’.”
Sarah stepped forward. She had been standing behind them, listening to their words.
“Maybe Wat’s right, but some evil force has been whispering in a lot of ears of late.”
Thurmond stiffened.
“If the Black Stone’s talking to Cob, then he got to go right now.
Wat raised his hands imploringly.
“Nay, nay—he ain’t done nothin’ wrong. Only talked in his sleep. Tuck and me told the Captain we’d look after him, and we will. You can’t send him away ‘til he does somethin’ bad—that’s what the Captain said.”
Thurmond did his best to dissuade Roscoe from allowing Cob to stay with the party. To him, it was an obvious decision. The man was under the influence of the Black Stone, so he had to go. Roscoe, however, remained adamant. He had pledged his word that Cob could stay until he caused a real problem.
Gustavus shielded his eyes from the glare of the newly risen sun. Below him, a narrow section of road known as the Serpent’s Back wound its sinuous way along the side of a rock-strewn ridge. His quarry must come this way—there was no other passage north.
He and his men had ridden hard to be in this exact spot before their quarry arrived. He knew the Serpent’s Back intimately, knew that this was a perfect place for an ambush.
As a young man, Gustavus had spent two years with a crew of road bandits that used the rugged area as their lair. From here, they could watch for isolated travelers on the road far below, catch and slay them on the narrow trail, and then retreat to their hideout in the upper reaches. When Lord Ubo had ordered him to annihilate the party of meddlesome interlopers, the confines of the Serpent’s Back had immediately come to mind.
The location was perfect. A huge, precariously balanced boulder hung directly over the trail. One good push would send it and a cascade of smaller but nonetheless lethal stones down upon the heads of the unsuspecting travelers below. He and his men would pick off any survivors with arrows.
It was well that his plan was infallible, for the men he commanded did not inspire much confidence. Ubo had sent the best six men he had, but none had the look of real killers. Three had been the armed retainers of a rich merchant, one was a city constable who had deserted his post, two were common criminals. The avalanche would have to do most of the work.
Gustavus did not love Lord Ubo—there was nothing lovable about the man. Yet he was used to him. At age nine or ten—no one had ever paid much attention to the boy’s exact age—Ubo had been given to him for instruction in the manly art of combat. Gustavus was, at that time, a sergeant-at-arms in the service of Lord Fugar, Ubo’s father.
He had been neither kind to the boy nor even a particularly effective teacher. Instruction was given in the most cursory fashion, and mistakes were rewarded with a backhanded blow to the face. Strangely, Ubo had prospered under Gustavus’s tutelage, and eventually became quite skilled with lance, sword, and axe.
Now Ubo was middle-aged and Gustavus was old. His eyes had grown dim and his hand was unsteady. But he was still the only man in whom Ubo placed any trust. It had been Gustavus who had warned Ubo about the plotting of his step-mother after the death of Fugar. And Gustavus who helped him arrange the painful demise of her and her children. So it had been Gustavus who had been sent to eliminate the meddlesome neighbor who threatened Lord Ubo’s plans.
The long, swift ride to the Serpent’s Back had been hard on his old bones, but he had persevered like he always had when carrying out his master’s commands. The sun’s glare bothered his eyes, but he kept them locked on the trail below.
Just then, a column of eight riders and two pack-mules came into view.
The spring morning was warm and bright, and Roscoe was enjoying himself. It felt good to be out and about. He was always the happiest when heading out on an adventure. His previous weariness had entirely fallen away. Torgul was reciting one of his interminable dwarven ballads.
The trail was twisty and narrow, wide enough for a small wagon but not particularly perilous. They were still within the borders of Poitiers and still relatively close to Grimsgard, so there was little threat of attack. They wore their armor, but helmets were hung from their saddles. Shields and spears were strapped to the pack-mules, as was Roscoe’s heavy crossbow.
Torgul and Thurmond rode behind Roscoe, with Sarah next in line. Today, the archers and mules brought up the rear.
Gustavus chose that moment to spring his trap. Far above, two of his men used the trunk of a small tree to lever the big boulder out of balance and send it bounding down the hillside. As anticipated, it unleashed a torrent of smaller stones that would sweep the riders from the trail.
Gustavus had intended the avalanche to strike the center of the column, but his timing was poor. The big boulder struck the trail five feet in front of the old Adventurer’s horse and gave a bounce that carried it into the ravine on the other side. Roscoe was able to draw rein and pull back just in time to avoid the subsequent landslide.
Exasperated by the failure of his trap, he signaled his men to finish the job with arrows before the party below could recover from the shock of the near miss. Dutifully, they rose and released a flight into the confused group.
A slight projection on the hillside screened the first three riders from the bowmen’s view, so it was upon the middle and rear of the column that their arrows fell. Sarah was hit in the left bicep, the shaft penetrating flesh and protruding from the other side. Another arrow struck the rump of her horse. The beast reared abruptly, throwing her to the ground.
The Gascars were also struck. A shaft rebounded from the iron lining of Cob’s coat-of-plates. Another cut the jugular of a pack-mule, which went down in a storm of flailing hooves. A third lodged in the pommel of Tuck’s saddle.
Once again, the three Gascars were entirely professional in their response, leaping from their mounts and seeking cover amongst the rocks on the uphill side of the road. In an instant, they had strung their bows, drawn arrows from their quivers, and were seeking targets in the rocks and trees above.
Torgul yanked his axe from his back and began to work his way up the ridge, keeping low, dashing from boulder to boulder. Thurmond drew his sword and followed. He would have preferred his bow at that moment, but it was strapped to his saddle, and his frightened horse had bolted back down the trail. Roscoe saw Sarah on the ground and started toward her, but he was forced back when an arrow cut the air a hand’s breadth from his face.
As the adventure party found cover, Gustavus’s men ran out of targets. Only Sarah remained exposed. Unmoving, she looked dead, but several shafts were loosed in her direction. One pierced the skull of her mount and sent it crashing down. Fortunately, its carcass helped to shield her from further arrow fire.
Gustavus yelled for his bowmen to rise, to leave their concealed positions on the crest of the ridge and move to more open ground where would again have a clear shot at the people huddled below. At first, they balked, but when he threatened them with the Black Stone’s curse—something he made up on the spot—they reluctantly stood and started forward.
The Gascars immediately went into action. Tuck’s first took down one of Old Shamble’s most notorious thieves, striking him in the throat and knocking him over backward. Cob’s needle-sharp bodkin point struck another between two fingers of his left hand, just as he was raising his bow. The shaft pushed up the forearm lengthwise, almost to the elbow. The man screamed, dropped his bow, and ran.
Gustavus watched in dismay as his terrified men fell back to the original positions. He could smell their fear and knew that only by some great act of courage could he propel them forward again. He rose and waved his bow over his head to get their attention.
“Come on, you sons of whores—follow me! Let’s go get ‘em!”
Two arrows suddenly sprang from Gustavus’s chest, one dead center, the other a bit to one side. A third, less well aimed, appeared in his left thigh. The old man died on his feet. With their leader down, the others fled to the far side of the ridge, found their horses, and beat it back to the city with all possible haste.
When the arrows ceased to fall, the adventure party emerged from cover. Tuck, Wat, and Cob stood by, arrow on string. Roscoe ran to Sarah and was relieved to find her alive and conscious.
Her wound was serious but not life-threatening. The arrow’s head had passed cleanly through the flesh and muscle of her bicep without touching the nerves or major blood vessels. A foot of bloody wooden shaft projected from the back of her arm.
Roscoe’s voice was soft as a mother speaking to her babe.
“Sarah, darlin’—I gotta pull this thing out of your arm. It’s gonna come out easy, but it’s like to hurt like blazes. Here, drink some of this.”
He held a silver flask to her lips.
“What is it? That dwarven stuff?”
On other occasions, Roscoe had dispensed a mysterious concoction of Torgul’s making. It was at first wonderfully exhilarating, even to someone bearing a serious injury. The aftereffects, however, could be awful.
“Nay, nay—ain’t nothin’ but uisge, just good, wholesome uisge. Take down as much as you can.”
While Sarah held as still as possible, Roscoe cut off the arrowhead so only an inch of wood still projected from her flesh. He doused this nub with uisge, and then, without warning, yanked the shaft out through the hole in her arm.
Sarah gasped, her eyes filling with tears. Roscoe remained extremely calm as he bound her arm with a long linen strip soaked with uisge. He then fashioned a sling and hung it around her neck. The old Adventurer was well-skilled in the basics of chirurgery.
“Now, your arm’s gonna be hurtin’ for a time, so you just keep sippin’ on uisge, and you’ll heal up fine—you’ll see. There ain’t nothin’ to be frettin’ about.”
By this time, Thurmond and Torgul had arrived at the crest of the ridge, where they found the bodies of Gustavus and the thief, along with an assortment of discarded equipment.
Thurmond rolled the thief onto his back to examine his face.
“I don’t recognize either of them. They must be bandits. You figure they’re bandits?”
The dwarf grunted in agreement.
“Most like. These hills used to hold a power of bandits. There ain’t been none in years, far as I know, but these is strange days we been havin’.”
Wat appeared, peeking around a boulder with his bow at half-draw. Tuck and Cob were close behind. Thurmond greeted him with a wave and a grin.
“You three did good work here. You’re real fightin’ men!”
Wat waved the compliment away.
“Awww, that weren’t nothin’ special. Them fumble-fingers there couldn’t shoot worth piss. It were easy.”
The archers searched bodies for anything of value while Thurmond and Torgul proceeded over the top of the ridge and discovered the dead men’s horses where they had been abandoned by their fleeing comrades. These were welcome as replacements for Sarah’s mount and the slain pack-mule.
Thurmond helped Sarah into the saddle. He knew riding would hurt her and would have preferred to make camp on the hillside to give her a chance to rest, but Roscoe was already mounted and looking back over his shoulder, clearly impatient, as the rest of the party prepared to move out. As Adventure Captain, it was his job to keep them focused on their mission.