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Blizz, the aging, bandy-legged half-goblin looked crestfallen when the four wagons pulled out and Stephi was nowhere to be seen. He wore baggy pants and sandals and a tattered wool shirt covered by what Glenn would call a canvas poncho with a hood.
Glenn scratched his sideburns, suddenly realizing the half-goblin animal handler was dressed pretty much exactly the same way when he joined them on their first adventure into the Dark Heart Swamp. And during the second, too. Each time, his clothing took a beating, like everyone else in the party. But the old half-goblin seemed to find identical garb—always worn and never new.
Come to think of it, pretty much every NPC seemed to have one outfit, or at least a single theme. Keri Lovelace, owner of the Glade House, sported some variation, depending on what she planned on doing for the day. But Pam, the potato and onion vendor, always wore a linen blouse and long skirt that showed evidence of repeated mending. Over her outfit she always wore a long, faded yellow apron whose color matched that of her crinkly bonnet. Sometimes she had a scarf instead of the bonnet.
Glenn frowned. Even he pretty much wore the same leather jerkin and boots, day after day. Sure, Derek had upgraded his chainmail armor to include breast plate and, before she got fairyed, Stephi switched out colors for her hooded cloaks and blouses, the latter tending to get destroyed during adventures. But still, there remained a consistent pattern. Even at the moment, her leaf-based fairy outfit looked exactly the same from day to day.
Just another of the RPG world’s quirks.
The gnome healer snapped his thoughts back to the present. Back to Blizz the henchman, or hireling.
Blizz sat slouched forward on the wagon bench. He looked like someone who’d just discovered he’d read the numbers on his lottery ticket wrong, and he hadn’t won a mound of cash. He held the reins to the pair of sturdy horses. The horse team was tasked to pull a wagon filled with clay pots of honey. Those rested atop a load of eight-foot long, one by twelve inch boards. Ron said the wood was red oak.
The old animal handler’s donkey, Bristle, trailed behind the wagon, tied to it with a length of rope. No way would Blizz leave the small beast of burden behind in the care of someone else.
The wagon Ron drove was half filled with wooden crates containing candles packed in straw. Those too sat atop red oak lumber. The remaining space held food and gear for the party and the drivers of the other two wagons, and the five men-at-arms, plus their captain. The captain was really a guard captain of a small squad of mercenaries. He was probably a second-rank warrior. No higher than third, and not a City Guard Captain. That job held notably more prestige.
In addition to the regular five party members and Blizz, Derek had recruited a man-at-arms as well. His name was Mardin. He had dark skin like Ron, wide-set eyes and a laugh that was more goofy than warrior-like. He wore chainmail for armor and had a helmet, like the other men-at-arms and the guard captain. While they all had longswords and bows, Mardin, who looked to be pushing forty, had a saber and crossbow. They all, along with Derek, rode horses. Mardin’s mount was a long-eared mule, gray with patches of black and named Spots. The lack of a creative name pretty much matched Mardin’s personality.
Although nobody in the Monsters, Maces and Magic world understood the name of Derek’s mount, Glenn and Kirby thought it was funny. Because Derek said this mount had about as much spunk as his grandma’s underpowered and worn-out Ford Taurus, he named the horse Four Banger.
The other two wagons were loaded down with red oak lumber. The lead wagon also carried a dozen sacks of wool, while the second wagon in the procession hauled sacks filled with onions, in addition to the lumber.
All Higslaff’s men, or hires, had been told that a fae would be joining them on the trip. Other than an initial questioning look and a sarcastic comment or two, they didn’t seem to care. Nobody in the party told Blizz anything, as far as Glenn knew. It was probably the same with Mardin.
The wagons pulled away from Three Hills City’s main gate. Ron’s wagon was the third in line and Blizz’s last. Within minutes the half-goblin driver spied Petie circling above the wagons. The animal handler looked around before scratching his head, and sighing. Glenn wasn’t sure what to say. Stephi was hidden, resting in the creel basket that Keri gifted to Kirby.
To Glenn it seemed like a pretty small caravan of covered wagons to be heading into the Border Lands. It was said to be a lawless region that acted as a buffer between the Morrin Confederacy and the Agrippa Empire, centuries-old enemies. Three Hills City, located within Vandike, one of the lesser kingdoms comprising the Morrin Confederacy, was about seventy miles north of the Riven Rock. Once they crossed the Snake Claw River they’d be in the Border Lands for about fifty miles. Then an additional twenty miles, or roughly a good day’s travel, past some unmarked border to reach Riven Rock. Twenty to thirty miles a day, depending on the weather and if the roads remained good. The roads were hard-packed dirt created by decades of compaction by wagon wheels. There were supposed to be bridges maintained over streams, with no major rivers beyond the Snake Claw.
Crossing the wide Snake Claw River a quarter mile beyond the minor port required a flatbed barge. It hauled one wagon and team of horses across at a time. A team of eight oxen pulled the barge across, guided by thick ropes strung across the river. It took the handlers and several men to keep the horses under control during the crossing.
Supposedly, over the centuries, a bridge hadn’t been constructed as a security measure. The river served as a barrier to slow any potential invasion from the Agrippa Empire. A bridge would prove an enticing target to capture and hold as part of any invasion.
The ferry service provided job security for the barge laborers and a profit for the owner. Glenn wondered how the contract for the crossing station was obtained, because there was only one, with no apparent competition. Heredity? Favor from the duke? Bribes? Bidding? Or just being the meanest and most ruthless? Probably a combination of five methods. In any case, coins were exchanged, this time supplied by the pawnshop owner and paid through Nickson, the guard captain.
While riding the creaky wooden barge across the river Glenn sat on the wagon’s bench. Ron, Kirby and Blizz focused on keeping the team of horses calm. Glenn spent the time stressing out over not having selected Swimming as a skill. The river’s current fought against the securing ropes, making the ride across anything but smooth. It was almost as bad as the time he’d spent in a canoe. At least then he had a paddle and some control.
Glenn watched as the far shore drew near. He didn’t envy Stephi having to keep out of sight. Still, she had Petie’s eyes to see through. And she’d be out of the city’s urban surroundings. That’d certainly make her feel better.
Somehow Glenn managed to forget how uncomfortable sitting on a wagon’s bench seat could be. Despite a folded blanket, the rocking and bumps inflicted by the road through a vehicle lacking any sort of springs, or any serious attempt at shock absorbers, made his backside sore and his arms weary from steadying himself. Having longer legs, where his booted feet could reach more than air without stretching? That would’ve helped a lot. The good thing was, if he retained his spell strength, he could use it on himself just before sunrise. It’d fix up any minor bruises and soreness.
The gnome healer sighed. The forthcoming opportunity to heal would prove little comfort as he struggled to sleep, bruised and sore, during the night. He’d wait until just before sunrise because, just after it, his spell strength replenished. The RPG world held so many unexpected dangers. No way he’d waste a spell for minor comfort when it could cost a party member their life.
Glenn continued to think it odd. Not only the game world’s appointed time for spells to become available for memorization. Even more, wouldn’t it make more sense for White to be at noon, or something? Gray at sunset, and Black at midnight? Instead the game’s rule books established Gray and White reset at sunrise. Black at sunset.
The gnome shrugged to himself. The game’s rules were unbreakable, like his world’s laws of physics, such as gravity. And that meant dealing with the effects of the ride while trying to get a good night’s sleep. More proof that the Monsters, Maces and Magic world wasn’t created with creature comforts in mind.
The day’s travel proved slow and plodding. Glenn guessed about three, maybe four miles per hour. Someone walking briskly—well, a human like Derek—would’ve kept up. Still, those wagons were heavy and the horses struggled up the occasional long incline that climbed maybe five feet every hundred yards travelled. And the drivers had to keep the wagons from picking up too much speed during similarly angled declines.
The land was dry with patchy grass and thorny stands of shrubs making up ninety percent of the foliage. Mardin managed to nail a large rabbit with his crossbow. Two of Nickson’s men-at-arms shot and killed a small boar with their bows while scouting ahead.
The flat terrain and sparse vegetation made the likelihood of a large band of brigands, or bandits, or whatever they were called, sneaking up on the small caravan or laying an effective ambush less likely. The men Higslaff hired appeared to be competent. Add to that the party, with Derek, Kirby, and Ron, plus Petie’s elevated eyes, and Glenn felt relatively safe. Who knew? Maybe there was some sort of giant worms like in the Dune books or the Tremors movies. Little good his cudgel would be, and a gnome would be a bite-sized snack. Healing up inside a big worm’s stomach would be a losing proposition. Besides the digestive juices, Glenn figured he’d suffocate. Or, as Ron would say: Perish due to asphyxiation.
Glenn couldn’t figure out why he was in such a morose mood. Maybe it was because all he could do was sit and get jostled about while pondering how bad things were for him, and how much worse they might get.
Just prior to stopping for the night, Blizz spotted Stephi. The old half-goblin became the happiest person in the whole caravan. Maybe the happiest being within a hundred miles. Her fairy stature and wings didn’t appear to surprise or concern the old animal handler. He just grinned and did his best to catch glimpses of her whenever he could. When she came near the other riders or drivers, they frowned and looked away. Like acknowledging her would bring bad luck down upon them. Glenn bet not one really looked closely, or her beauty would’ve overcome at least a few of the men’s disdain.
After the day’s travel, while Ron, Derek and Blizz tended to the horses, Kirby and Stephi left the circled caravan to fetch a little additional meat for dinner. The plan was for her to Dazzle Spell another few rabbits and for Kirby to finish them. That left Glenn to gather what he could for the fire while Mardin stood watch. Gathering dried sticks from the thorny bushes always proved a mini-adventure. Fortunately, Ron warned the gnome healer about the thumb-sized fire ants he needed to watch out for.
The plan was for Stephi to clue Blizz and Mardin in about her presence before cooking the meal. Blizz had pretty much figured that out. As the trip progressed, the captain, his men-at-arms and the other two drivers would determine Stephi was friendly to the group. Ron said the captain knew that fairies weren’t the same as pixies, and had been told to expect a fairy accompanying the caravan.
Glenn didn’t know why they just didn’t introduce Stephi directly, but Ron believed it’d be taken more in stride if the men sort of got used to Stephi, and experienced nothing bad happening. Kirby preferred the other men staying sort of scared and uneasy. They’d be less likely to conjure up any bad ideas against her. Whatever the case, the result made things easier on Stephi, who was more than a little self-conscious.
Blizz remained more than excited to see Stephi, even a pint-sized version. After pulling a cooked rabbit leg from the fire, he grinned. “My old eyes kept telling me it was you,” he said to her when she flitted down a few feet from him. “You’re the prettiest thing my old eyes ever laid eyes on. All smalled down, you’re even prettier.” He shook his head. “Starting out, I fell to thinking something bad happened to ya, and your adventuring friends was just too sad to say.”
Stephi’s smile gleamed at the bandy-legged half-goblin’s words. “I’m really glad you hired on with us again. Bristle is my favorite donkey in the world.”
Glenn was sure Blizz would’ve preferred the last complement directed at him, but he showed his pointy-tooth smile and continued eating. His eyes frequently rove over to where she’d flown back to settle between Glenn and Kirby.
Mardin was more at a loss for words. Stephi’s abnormal beauty pretty much stunned him. The fact that she was a fairy simply piled on. Sitting next to Derek, the man-at-arms ate his entire meal without saying a word, or even letting out one of his goofy chuckles.
The other men-at-arms, wagon drivers, and the guard captain caught sight of Stephi’s fluttering wings. Glenn heard them mumble some about trickster fairies and bad luck, but the captain wasn’t having any of it. He berated them for not knowing the difference between a pixie and a fairy. He ordered them to talk on something else while they ate their share of roasted hog.
In truth, Glenn didn’t know the difference either, except pixies were male. Of course, he was ignorant of a lot of things in the RPG world. But he was learning.
Ron stood watch for the camp, along with Petie, during the meal. Yonn was the only man-at-arms hired by Higslaff that looked over a couple times at Stephi after the captain’s orders. Yonn was a blunt-nosed man that looked like he’d run into a few too many walls as a child. Maybe continuing the habit well into adulthood.
Each time Yonn glanced Stephi’s direction, he frowned.
Only once did the party’s caravan encounter one moving toward Three Hills City. It was larger, having eight wagons, with twice as many men-at-arms types. Rules of the Road Etiquette dictated that the smaller caravan pull off and allow the larger one to press on. Blizz explained that to Glenn. He also said, “If there’s the same number of wagons that both got, those with their shadows pointing closest to the direction they’re going get road rights. If’n the sky gots too many clouds or it’s night, the leader of the two caravans with the biggest horse, or steed.” Blizz uttered the last word with sarcasm in his voice, then took the opportunity to spit onto the dry ground. “The bigger one’s group gets road rights.”
Glenn squinted ahead as Blizz followed Ron’s wagon pulling off the rutted trail.
Blizz continued, saying, “Except for sunlight, those other differences mightn’t be right off evident.”
Glenn nodded agreement.
“There’s always the chance for fightin’ if ya want,” Blizz said. “But out in the wilds, most civilized folk don’t go for that.”
Derek and Nickson sat on their mounts along the opposite side of the road while the larger caravan passed. The bigger caravan’s leader joined the two and engaged in a brief conversation.
Petie remained out and about while Stephi retreated to cover within the wagon. The passing wagons carried crudely formed ingots of iron and copper. Heavy loads that the teams of four oxen labored to pull.
After the party’s caravan pulled back onto the road, Derek rode alongside Ron’s wagon, speaking with Kirby and the warrior druid.
Then Derek slowed his horse until it plodded alongside Glenn’s wagon. “Jax,” he said, “and Hide-A Lot Barbie, about noon we’ll reach a small stream, close to dried up.”
“Her name’s Marigold,” Glenn said.
“Listen up, gnome. There’s a bridge at the stream. Camped out near it is a group of brigands. Ten or twelve of them. Probably won’t mess with us, but we should be ready.”
“Okay,” Glenn said, wondering how the other caravan knew they were brigands. And why Derek figured they wouldn’t bother their caravan.
Blizz stared at Glenn with one eye squinted, his gaze dropping to Glenn’s hand gripping the head of his cudgel. “Don’t be worried none, Jax.” He leaned back and spoke over his shoulder. “Marigold, if’n you’re concerned, you might want to sit up here, next to me a short spell.” He patted the bench seat. “While I shares with Jax why the group of thieves ahead ain’t worth frettin’ over.”
The animal handler seemed to look for reasons to have Marigold near him. Who wouldn’t? Unless you had some prejudice against fairies. Which a lot of folks apparently did.
Rather than sit, Marigold decided to flutter next to Glenn. She might not be comfortable around Blizz. More likely, Glenn figured, in addition to wooden dowels, a fair number of iron nails and brackets held the wagon together.
“Why shouldn’t we be worried about a fight?” Stephi asked. “Kalgore seems worked up about it.”
Blizz said, “Aww, Kalgore’s more itching to stick his sword in someone’s belly than showing concern.”
“When isn’t he?” Stephi said, her iridescent wings shimmering in the sunlight. The horse team quickly became accustomed to her flitting presence. Maybe because she represented something in nature that normally didn’t bother other creatures. The horses became accustomed far faster than Nickson and his men had. More accurately, they were still working on it.
Blizz chuckled to himself. “That’s true. But if the number of road thieves counted is accurate, they’d wanna have more than twice our number, unless’n they got themselves a fancy spell caster.”
Glenn knew the animal handler wanted to share more, so the gnome obliged by asking, “Why?”
“They might win and take our stuff, wagons and horses, but they’d get hurt pretty good, so it ain’t worth it.” His eyes angled up in thought. “See, most alley cats can kill a rat in a fight. But if the rat’s big enough, or mean enough, the cat’ll look somewhere else. A cat that gets bit up, it’ll be weaker, even after it eats the rat. It’ll have to hunt on even smaller rats then. That’s, until it heals up.” He flicked the reins, urging the horses to pick up a little speed so that they didn’t fall behind. “If the wound is somethin’ that don’t end up being crippling. Or a full-on healthy alley cat don’t find the weak one and kill off the competition.”
The small band of mounted brigands camped on the far side of the stream, a hundred yards beyond the stone bridge, didn’t prove to be a threat. As predicted, Petie and one of Nickson’s scouting men spotted the brigands’ scout, so there was no surprise.
All they did was watch while the party’s caravan watered their horses, refilled canteens, and bucket-filled the water barrels.
What did prove a threat an hour later, and came as a surprise, was the Wandering Creatures Encounter.
A manticore.