The Good Guys Chronicles Box Set 2

by Eric Ugland

  The horses ignored me. I guess I looked enough like a human, or like their humans, that I bored them. Or, you know, they were asleep. My knowledge of horses was limited to, well, it was very limited. Either way, I went around the fence line until I got to the edge of the river without causing a stir.

  Given the time of year, the river was flowing slower than during the summer. I slid down the bank until one foot was in the water and then stopped, crouching low enough that I was in danger of getting a wet crotch. It wasn’t a steep bank — if I stood up, I’d be looking at the feet of the horses in their pen. But keeping down meant staying out of sight, so I essentially crawled along the bank of the river. I moved at a snail’s pace until I got to the spot where I thought the tent would be. Or at least as close to that as I could get and stay by the river. There weren’t any guards posted at the river, so I wanted to stay along it as long as possible.

  There were six tents between myself and the one I thought Northwoods was in. I approached the first one, keeping to the shadows as best I could. Then I put my ear up to the rough canvas, and heard someone snoring. Two someones. I slid the ring onto the canvas, and took a peek. Two figures on two cots. They had their armor on stands, weapons put away, everything nice and neat. A small fire burned in the center of the tent. Everything about the inside of the tent looked thought out and well put together. It was certainly a nicer interior than my own home, even if it was only temporary.

  Despite the temptation to slice through the tent’s wall and dice up the occupants, these were not the men I was looking for.

  I ducked under one of the ropes holding the tent up, and moved around until I got the edge of a shadow. I waited there in the quasi-darkness as two men walked along the muddy path tucked between the tents. They stopped, and I feared the worst, wondering if I needed to fight. But:

  Cool Beans, you’ve leveled up the skill Stealth.

  They didn’t see me. Something else I probably wouldn’t have had concrete knowledge of back in the world. Another bonus for having all the game stuff.

  One of them produced a small medical flask. There was a bit of quiet chatting.

  Smashing! You’ve learned a new language, Carchedonian.

  Well fuck, I thought. These weren’t imperials. Maybe I didn’t need to feel that bad, you know, murdering them. They were the enemy.

  I fingered the dagger hanging on my belt, and really gave some consideration to starting a massacre.

  “Smells like goblin shit around here,” one of the two men said.

  “All Imperials smell that way,” the other countered.

  Chuckles. They took a few pulls from the flask, then stamped their feet.

  “Too cold in this fucking place,” one said to the other.

  The other was too busy blowing on his hands to reply, but he nodded and then they resumed walking.

  Next tent, same general story. Two people inside, a small fire, everything perfectly arranged.

  I wished for some sort of view from the air, just so I could get a better picture of where the guards were patrolling. Or soldiers. Were they considered soldiers or guards? Did it matter? Why was I bothering to debate semantics while sneaking around an enemy camp trying to pull off a rather troublesome prison escape? I punched myself in the thigh and tried to get my head back in the game.

  There weren’t any signs of guards — I didn’t hear anything or see anything — so I darted from tent to tent until I was at the last stop, and put the ring up against the only other guarded tent.

  It was mostly empty. There were no lights inside, no fire pit, nothing to indicate even the slightest bit of comfort. However, there were a few chests around the perimeter, heavy wooden things banded with thick iron and kept shut with massive metal locks.

  I pulled the dagger from its sheath, slid it into the canvas, and cut a new door. Stepping through, the air inside was acrid, unpleasant. Like an unwashed man who’d been unable to use a restroom was in there. Bit like the walkways under bridges in Central Park.

  I noticed a figure sleeping on the straw in the middle. He had a distinctive wheeze, as if he were either woefully out of shape, or sick. I stepped over the large chest, and, moving as quietly as I could, I knelt next to the figure to get a look at his face.

  Northwoods.

  Chapter 157

  He looked like shit. I mean, Northwoods wasn’t the best looking man to begin with — he weighed more than he should, he didn’t have the best teeth, and his nose looked like it had been broken a number of times but not always reset. But looking at him sleeping now, things were markedly worse. He had significant bruising over his face. The poor bastard had been worked over. And as someone who used to be a professional worker-over-er, the working over was done by someone well versed in their craft. He wasn’t wearing much in the way of clothes, certainly nothing in the way of armor. His hair was matted with both straw and small creatures. Which, you know, likely meant the straw was filled with small creatures, and I began to itch all over. There was no way the little bugs had infested me that quickly, but it’s amazing how fast the mind will work.

  I pulled a healing potion from my bag as quietly as I could, but then I paused. I had little experience with healing potions, considering they weren’t exactly necessary for my own usage. I knew the basics: you know, drink it, watch miracles happen, that sort of thing. But I wondered if it was possible to use the potions in a more spot-fix manner. So instead of trying to force the liquid down the man’s throat, I gently poured a bit over his face.

  For a moment, it looked like it was a bust, that I’d just gotten him wet. But then the liquid absorbed a bit, and I watched a remarkably quick transformation. His bruises faded, some of his bones shifted slightly, and the grotesque swelling disappeared. He looked back to almost good. His breathing was still pretty ragged, but I figured that was something that could be handled by ingesting some potion rather than bathing in it.

  I clamped my hand over his mouth and gave the man a good shake.

  His eyes snapped open. Like, wide open, and he screamed a muffled yawp.

  “Shhh,” I said. “We’re being sneaky.”

  He shut up, but his eyes were definitely in the crazy spectrum.

  “I am going to take my hand away, but you need to not make any noise, okay?” I asked.

  A mild nod.

  I moved my hand.

  “Do you know me?” I asked.

  “I cannot see,” he replied.

  “Ah, yeah.”

  “But I recognize your voice. Are you, uh, Duke Coggeshall?”

  “That’s me.”

  He struggled to sit up, but then started coughing.

  I pushed the healing potion into his hands.

  “What is this?” he asked.

  “Healing.”

  He drank the potion down, and he sighed, laying back down on the hay.

  “Thank you,” he said. “Why are you here?”

  “Your daughter wanted me to ask you over for dinner.”

  He chuckled.

  “You’ve got better plans?” I asked.

  “I appreciate your invitation, but I seem to be a bit busy at the moment.”

  “You think I can’t get you out of here?”

  “I admit to knowing little about you, Duke Coggeshall, but I do know quite a bit about this camp we are in and the man who runs it. You will have a challenge leaving here.”

  “Maybe,” I said, patting his thigh. “But that’s where the fun is.”

  I pulled the blankets from his body, and saw where Northwood’s doubts might have been coming from. His ankles were chained together. I shook my head, and grabbed either bracelet. I pulled.

  “What are you doing?” He asked, trying to pull away.

  I shook my head, not really realizing he couldn’t see that motion, and I tightened my grip and redoubled my efforts. There was a very slight groan, and then a pop as a chain link shot off.

  “What are you?” he asked quietly.

  “Can you
move?”

  “Yes. I think.”

  I helped him to his feet, and he swayed a bit. He grabbed onto one of the supports for the tent. I, meanwhile, looked at the contents of the tent. Chests. With big locks.

  “Any idea what’s in these chests?” I whispered.

  “Payroll.”

  “No shit,” I said, suddenly much more interested in what was around.

  “It is a shame they are so heavy,” Northwoods said, “losing this would make things very difficult for Caticorix.”

  Some grumbling came from the guards outside. I worried they’d heard us chatting.

  I put a finger up to my lips, but Northwoods was quicker. He dropped back down to the hay and pulled his blanket up over him. I stepped over Northwoods, and put my back against the tent wall right next to the door the guards would come through.

  A hand reached in and pulled the hanging door out of the way. A small lantern was pushed inside, the flickering light sending shadows dancing every which way.

  “You hear things,” a voice said.

  An ugly mug pushed through — the kind of face even a mother would hate — and he peered around.

  “I tell you,” Ugly said in a raspy tone, “I heard voices.”

  “He is broken and sleeping,” the other guard replied. “Let me just finish this stupid shift and go for a tumble with the ladies.”

  “Then go,” Ugly snapped. “I will cover the rest of your stinking shift if it means I no longer have to listen to your exaggerated tales of your—”

  “They are no exaggerations. My penis is—”

  “Go.”

  There was some laughter, and then the sound of someone walking away.

  The head peeked inside one more time, and I had a terrible idea.

  I grabbed my bag of holding, opened it wide, and then pulled it over Ugly.

  The man disappeared, lantern and all. I let the door close.

  “Get up,” I hissed. “Time to motor.”

  “Motor?”

  “Move quickly.”

  He nodded, and began the laborious process of getting to his feet again.

  I chose to start loading all the chests into my bag. One. Two. Three. I stopped counting because there was no point to it. There were plenty of chests. And they were heavy. Heavy chests meant lots of coin for me, and lots of problems for Caticorix. As I dumped the last chest into my bag, I thought of something I should have realized at the beginning: these fuckwits had to have plenty of food, enough to feed an army larger than my town.

  Northwoods slipped out through the slit I’d made. I followed right behind.

  “You know where the food is stored?” I whispered.

  “I do, but why?”

  “I need to resupply.”

  “You are thinking with your stomach at a moment like this?”

  “I used to always think with my stomach, but I’m much improved in that regard. Right now I’m thinking of how painful it’s going to be if this asshole has no money and no food.”

  “How will you take his food?”

  “With my grubby little hands.”

  Chapter 158

  After explaining to Northwoods the barest bones of my plans, Northwoods was frantic in asking me to also make a visit to the main tent, to snag a book from Caticorix.

  “A book?” I asked.

  “It is of vital importance,” Northwoods professed. “I cannot leave without it.”

  “Why?”

  “Because of the book’s import.”

  “Yeah, got that part. Why is it important?”

  “Must you know the reason?”

  “I would like to know why I’m risking my life for it, yes.”

  “Are you aware of the magic which allows two individuals to communicate over long distances?”

  “Oh, it’s that sort of book.”

  “Yes. It is that sort of book. And the man on the other side of the page, he is one of the most powerful men in the Empire, someone who listens to my council. Should Caticorix, or the man behind Caticorix, find this out, the damage they might do to the Empire is… it would be bad. Very bad.”

  “Dude. Saving you isn’t enough?”

  He shook his head. “Were I to choose between myself and that book, I would ask you save the book.”

  You have been offered a quest Lord Northwoods:

  The Book Score

  Lord Northwoods has requested you retrieve his book from the tent of Caticorix.

  Reward for success: (unknown), XP

  Penalty for failure (or refusal): (unknown)

  Yes/No

  “Fuck me,” I said, looking down at the mud. I knew I’d say yes. I barely ever said no. “You know where the book is?”

  “It’s in his tent,” Northwoods replied with half a smile. “Blue book, about three inches thick. Scent of the Sea. A tawdry tale if you can bear to read it, but that is just for shock value. To keep prying eyes out.”

  I escorted Northwoods down to the riverbank, and then directed him along the edge, telling him to get past the horse field and wait for me there. He’d pointed out the larger tents on either side of the road. One was the mess for the nobles, as well as the officers of the mercenary army, while the other was the spot for the common folk. While Northwoods crawled along the muddy bank, I decided it was time I found out what happened when you put living creatures into bags of holding.

  Spoilers — it’s not pretty.

  Northwoods’ former guard came out dead. Which was about what I’d expected. It didn’t seem to be a particularly violent death, but an expiration nonetheless. I stripped the armor from him, and the clothes that weren’t soiled, and then I kicked the body into the river. I put his clothes and armor on, and tried my best to look like I wasn’t wearing something two to three sizes too small.

  I walked into the camp and strode along the path towards the kitchen and the mess hall for the nobles. I passed by other guards, but I didn’t deign to look at them, and they dutifully got out of my way.

  The only other tent with static guards was Caticorix’s, and it was a posh affair. The fabric wasn’t the shitty canvas of the other tents; it was shiny and dark blue. Maybe silk, maybe some Vuldranni equivalent. I thought about casting my identification spell on the thing, but then I started to get paranoid: what if the hotshot dude who casts all these illusion spells has anti-magic guards or alarms on his tent?

  I didn’t want to chance waking up the camp because I needed to know what his stupid tent was made from. I pulled out the ring and put it to the tent, peeking through. There was no alarm, but as I peered through the golden circle, I realized that would have been just as likely to cause an alarm as an id spell. More or less.

  Internally, the place was pretty much wide open. There were layers of carpets down, a massive platform bed, and a big table with a map on it. A large three-paneled wooden screen covered with intricate carvings provided a modicum of privacy on one side. There were multiple figures on the platform bed, and as someone who’s had some experience with paid pleasure, it seemed pretty clear there were some people in the bed whose job it was to be there. It was just the way they slept together. Or, you know, slept in the same bed with as much space between them as possible.

  I could see a stack of books on the table with the map, and I figured that was the best place to start. I wondered how in hell I was going to break in, but then I remembered it was just a tent. All I had to do was to crawl under the edge.

  It smelled inside, a heady mixture of unwashed bodies and the intense use of perfumes. Basically, like the medieval version of a middle school boy’s locker room. Very weird.

  Keeping crouched, I moved the short distance across the tent to the table. I had to open each book to check the title, partially because the titles weren’t on the spines, and partially because I was using dark vision, and I couldn’t tell any colors, let alone differentiating dark blue from light blue. It was the third book in the pile. I took all of them, just to be sure. Then I snatched the map o
ff the table, for good measure.

  A small piece of wood representing some military unit tumbled to the floor, and I shot my foot out. The carving hit my boot, flipped a few times, and bounced off the carpet.

  There was a sharp inhalation of breath from the bed, and one of the figures sat up quickly.

  I rolled under the table.

  Light flared as the woman lit a match.

  She stood, and I saw ample evidence proper foot care was not in evidence in Caticorix’s camp. Also, bare legs.

  The woman looked around for a moment before some grumbling came from the bed. The match went out. The woman struggled to get back to bed, hitting a few things on the way.

  And then she was none-too-subtly coerced back to work.

  I crawled from the table out of the tent, and knelt there for a moment. Waited for things to pass, trying to see if guards might come on by on their patrol. I waited for noise. Nothing. I mean, there were the sounds coming from the inside of the tent, but other than that, nothing. So I got up, brushed the bit of mud and dirt from me, and headed for the food tents.

  The kitchen tent was still empty, and even though I wasn’t exactly sure why, I didn’t question it. The place was divided into two sections, food prep and food storage. I started in food storage, grabbing everything I could and shoving it into my bag. Sacks of potatoes, hundreds of pounds of flour, all sorts of dried and fresh meats. It was a frenzy as I loaded up. Casks of wine, ale, and other liquids went in. Breads, oils, pickled vegetables of all kinds, everything went into the bag. Within minutes, the tent stood virtually empty. I even took the knives from the butcher’s table and the tripod and cauldron hanging over the fire.

  I stepped out of the kitchen, and headed towards the other side of the road. The bad side of town, as it were. I walked past several groups of patrolling guards, and I suppose because I made sure I answered their greetings in their own foreign tongue, they thought I was part of their army. Remarkably lax security, though I had the feeling that this sort of escapade likely wouldn’t work twice. It took a minute to get over to the common man’s food area, but once there, I realized how much more storage was involved. The second largest tent was the cooking area, and the larger of the tents was the storage area. It was a space nearly 80 yards long, maybe twenty wide. Definitely the biggest of all the tents in the encampment. And full.