by David Cook
Ergo, Pinch reasoned, this lone woman was not weak, but possibly foolish.
"She's saying her words over dinner," Maeve puzzled out.
"Invoking what church? And what's her business?"
The sorceress stared owl-like before giving up with a sigh. "No good, that is, Master Pinch. She's got a most fixed mind. What only I got was an image of her roast chick and the thanks to some faceless power. Kept seeing it as a glowing orb, she did."
"Sound like any you know, Sprite?"
The little halfling's grasp of odd facts was a surprising source of answers. If he knew, it wouldn't be the first time he'd remembered some chestnut of useless lore to their mutual benefit.
This time Sprite-Heels shrugged. "Could be any number of trifling sun gods, let alone the big ones like Mask or the Faceless Ones."
Pinch leaned forward and looked at the woman with false disinterest. "What about that temple we did?" he asked softly.
"Not from what Maeve said. Scared, Pinch? She's probably just some wandering nun, set herself to doing good deeds on the road."
The human rapped his mug against the table in irritation. "She's more than that."
"He's right, you nasty little Sprite," Brown Maeve crowed. "She's tougher than some gentry mort. Got that from her, for certain."
"What more can you do, Maeve?"
Pinch was answered with a resigned slump. "No more, love. Spell's all spent."
Sprite, trying to restore himself to the pair's good graces, offered, "I could pinch her, see what we'd learn."
Her clothes were commonplace, sturdy, dusty, and dull, the mark of one with much sense but little coin. Pinch shook his head. "I'll not be your snap for the strike, halfling. Not worth getting caught. Have you forgot the rules? Never lay your coin on a lean horse or-"
"— your knife to an empty bung," Sprite finished. "I know the old rules. I just thought it would help."
"Ain't you two just the pair. Worried you're being hunted and worried you'll get caught when here we are, out where there ain't nobody and nothing! Not that we ain't got enough worries, what with your Lord Cleedis and all his soldiers, or do you two need to go searching for more?" Maeve snapped her words at them and then punctuated her tirade with a stiff drink. "One night in a decent place to sleep and all you pair do is peer at every stranger and guess which one's going to gut you. I'm telling you-you, Sprite-Heels, and you Master Pinch- to just quit peering under the bed sheets and drink!"
Both men, human and halfling, stared at her in surprise, thrown from their horses by her outburst. They looked at her; they looked at each other. There was nothing they could do but take up their mugs and drink until there was no more.
They drank until Therin reappeared with a purse full of extra coin and tales of how he cogged the dice to assure his wins. They drank some more to Therin's good luck, as if the Lady had any chance of swaying the Gur's dice. They drank until Sprite slid beneath the table and the innkeeper closed them down. Just in case, they took an extra skin upstairs, carrying it with more care than they carried Sprite-Heels, who had all the unconscious dignity of a sack of potatoes.
When the guards roused them before the too-early dawn, the four lurched down the stairs, their heads thick as mustard. They paled at the offering of bread smeared with bacon grease, and hurried themselves outside to gulp the farm-fresh air. It did little good except remind them of how miserable they felt. Trembly weak, they fitted the bits and saddled their mounts and unwillingly seated themselves for the day's ride. Even through all this, even though his eyes never quite focused and his head wouldn't stop throbbing, Pinch noticed last night's guests-Ox, Lance, and woman-were gone already. He wondered if each had gone a different route. The woman didn't matter, since she was not likely to see them again.
When all was ready, the troop, twenty-strong, plodded down the yellow-mud lane, lurching on their fresh mounts, until they overwhelmed the little track. Flanked by old tress that played father to stands of lush brambles, the group set out on the day's ride. Whether it was by word from the commander or just wicked luck, the trail was jolting and steep, rising and falling over gullies and streambeds. Every bounce reminded Pinch of just how miserable he felt.
"Don't you wonder where that priestess went?" Sprite asked with a cheerfulness that matched his name. Of the four, somehow the halfling was the only one unfazed by hangover; it was probably something to do with the runt's liver, most likely that it was a pure sponge. "Which way do you think, Pinch?" he pressed, though he knew full well the others could scarcely focus.
Pinch tried his fiercest glower which, right now, looked more like a pained squint. "What am I-a woodsman? Who knows in this muddy waste? Now shut up before I box you!" The rising tone of his own voice made the rogue flinch.
Snickering, Sprite-Heels whipped the pony he and Maeve shared safely out of the man's reach.
The ride continued, cold, wet, dull, and aching, through the morning and well into the afternoon. At one point, where the trail ran along a cut arched over with leafless elms and dead-gray vines, something coughed beast-like and the winter-dead branches rustled. The troop had to stop while a group of unfortunate soldiers slowly flanked the cut and beat the brush. Nothing came of it, but it delayed them an hour during which no one dared relax.
Perhaps it was that false alarm that caused them to almost blunder into a fight. The captain had given over command to a sergeant while he rode with Lord Cleedis to curry favor. The sergeant, in turn, was too busy with his flunkies to notice that the outriders were no longer so far out and the whole troop had closed into one small bunch. It was a bad way to travel, where one fireball could wipe them all out.
Thus it was that there was no one on point to shout " 'Ware!" when the soldiers slogged around the bend and straight into the midst of a battle. Right where the trail shored the bank of a half-frozen river, a ring of eight mud-splashed men-and then in a flash only seven-awkwardly stalked a single adversary. Armed with bills, hooks, and flails, the seven lunged with the stoop-shouldered awkwardness of peasants. Only one fought with any grace, so much that it took Pinch no time to recognize the Lance. Finding the swordsman, Pinch easily found the Ox.
The troopers were on top of the men before either side even knew it, the lead horseman splitting the ragged battle line from behind. The distance was to the footmen's advantage. A wild shriek tore from the lips of the nearest, and before the rider could throw down his useless lance, the billman swung his great poleaxe at the man. The blade scored the horse's neck, the beast reared and kicked, and ungoverned confusion erupted in the ranks. The closeness of the lane prevented any maneuver. The first man was thrown from his horse, and the panicked beast wheeled to gallop back down the lane. Almost immediately it crashed into the front rank of the troop, too close to part. Two more men and a horse foundered while a bloodthirsty war cry rattled the forest's dead leaves. The peasant bandits, for their dress of motley proclaimed them as such, sprang upon the fallen outrider, broad blades glinting wintry in the sun.
With their great polearms held over their shoulders like battering logs, two footmen rushed the broken line, casting more confusion ahead of them. The sergeant screamed orders, the captain screamed, Cleedis screamed, the dying men and horses screamed all at once and all at cross purposes. The twenty horsemen were already down by almost a quarter and showed no signs of turning the tide. Panic was in their ranks as the front crashed into the back, desperate to escape the hordes of murdering berserkers just behind them.
Equally desperate, Pinch tried to ride his own horse free of the mass, beating it toward the woods when a howling, mud-smeared bandit crashed out of the thicket dead ahead of him. With a shrill whinny, the mount reared. As the rogue flew off backward, he heard the popping crack when hoof smote his attacker's skull.
The churned mud cushioned Pinch's landing so that he kept his breath, but the man barely had time to slither out of the path of a galloping trooper. Struggling up, Pinch was immediately knocked flat by the charging fl
ank of another horse.
"HUAAAA!" shrieked a man as he leapt forward to straddle the fallen rogue while whirling a poleaxe over his head.
I'm saved! I'm dead! Pinch couldn't tell which until the axe tore out the belly of a passing rider. While the bandit yanked to wrench his weapon free, the rogue drew the handle of his mucky dagger and without hesitation drove it upward into the soft gap at the belly of the man's ill-fitting brigandine armor. The man, all wide eyes and bearded slack jaw spitting blood, squealed in horror until the weight of the still-hooked rider pulled him over.
That was enough for Pinch. Dagger clenched in a clawlike hand, he scrambled blindly through the blood and slime for safety, dodging the flailing hooves of dying horses, stepping on soft things that he really didn't want to know about. He wasn't a soldier accustomed to battle and wasn't ready to become one, but each time one of the dirty highpads lunged in front of him the thief lashed out. He struck with all the wicked expertise of his knife-fighting, his anger and fury growing with each blow. "Cyric take you, you poxy bastard! Let 'em play hob with your skull in Hades!" He lashed invective as wickedly as he did his knife.
At the height of his rage, Pinch crashed onto the river and through the thin ice. The swift-moving water shocked up to his thighs, burning out of him the madness but not the killing passion. The blindness that had animated him was gone, and he could see the whole battle once again. The soldiers, finally rallied from their initial panic, were attacking in a dressed line, prancing their horses over the fallen bodies. Now it was the bandits' turn to panic, their previous discipline a fraud unmasked by the conflict of desire to loot and fear of death. Within moments the lot would break and run.
A squeal up the bank pulled Pinch's attention to the cause of this fracas. The lone traveler, who he knew was the priestess without having to see it, lay sprawled on the shingles of shore ice, her shoulder pricked by the blade the Lance held to her. Behind her the Ox lumbered up with a great, jagged 'berg in full press over his head, ready to deliver the coup de grace.
If he had been less passioned or there had been more time for thought, Pinch surely would have acted differently, considering his own self-interest before all. Instead, against all his sense, he reacted. With a snap, his long dirk flew from his hand and buried itself in the throat of the Ox. Croaking from his shattered windpipe, the fat-swaddled giant jerked up and back until the weight of the ice block he still carried over his head bore the man backward. With two staggered steps he cracked through the frozen riverbank and toppled into the fast-flowing water. The flow churned as it sucked the floundering man away.
The Lance goggled in surprise, which was the more his mistake. Though pricked, the traveler was not pinned. As the Lance hung in indecision between the woman and the menacingly slow advance of Pinch, the choice was taken from him. The mace in her hand lashed out, breaking across his knee. The leg popped out at an unnatural angle and, deprived of his underpinning, the Lance keeled to the side. She struck again, driving the iron into his padded gut hard enough to change his trajectory. The Lance hit the icy stones with an awful crack, jerked, and then didn't move again.
Cold, sweaty, and panting, Pinch stumbled across the ice to the woman's side. With a dripping boot, he gave the Lance a shove; the body rolled almost completely over before it twisted, the head along with it.
"May Kelimvore grant him swift justice," the woman intoned as she slowly got to her feet. A trickle of blood ran down her arm, another swath coated her face.
"More concern than he deserved," Pinch snarled. Remembering where they were, he looked about for more attackers but the battle was all but won. The bandits had broken and foolishly fled, and now they were the helpless prey of the faster riders. Here, in the land between lands laid claim to by bandits such as these, Cleedis's men showed no mercy. They were the law and they had friends to avenge.
"I'm Lissa of the Morninglord's Temple in Elturel. I think it would be right to say you saved my life."
At the mention of her temple, Pinch felt the rise of paranoia in his craw. There could be only one reason why a priestess of Lathander would be this far south, on this particular trail. She must surely be looking for the thieves who desecrated her temple. "A pleasure, surely, to meet you under better circumstance." Pinch paused to take a steadying breath and consider just what to say next. Certainly "Pinch" was not a good name to use at a moment like this. There was every chance she was familiar with the criminal element of Elturel. Finally, he put on his most valiant smile and, while leading her back to the trail, said what he never thought he would freely tell anyone. "I'm-Janol, ward of the late King Manferic of Ankhapur."
"Indeed!" The priestess was impressed.
"Why do you travel such dangerous land alone?" Pinch pressed the question while her thoughts were still unsettled.
"I'm searching for a thief, a scoundrel who robbed our temple," she confided.
Pinch smiled inwardly to himself. She'd revealed more than she should have and enough to give him her game. "What base villainy! On this road, bound for Ankhapur?" They stopped at a fallen log and Pinch began to examine her wounds.
The priestess winced as her rescuer prodded her shoulder, feeling the pain of his touch even through the armor she wore. Seeing the effect, Pinch poked her a little harder as she spoke, just to keep her unsteady.
"There was word the thief might flee south and sell his treasures there. Our proctor sent us, one to each road. I drew Ankhapur."
Pinch turned his attention to her scalp. A graze ran across the hairline, hardly serious but bleeding heavily like wounds to the head would. "You suspect us?" Pinch gave the words just a tinge of offended nobility.
"Certainly not, lord," Lissa hurriedly assured while the rogue wrapped a muddy cloth around her forehead.
As he dressed her wounds, Pinch considered just killing her and having done with it. Her dead body here would be no more than another, but with her suspicions lulled, it seemed a waste. Better to keep her around and uninformed, in case she proved useful someday.
Choosing an appropriately bold shyness, Pinch said, "This thief, if he is in Ankhapur, may be hard to find. If you should need some help, you must let me know. A king's ward does have some influence, after all."
Lissa flushed a little at the imagined generosity of the offer. "Again, thank you, my lord."
"This is nothing, priestess. But one last word of advice. Tell no one what you have told me." Pinch whispered the words in soft conspiracy as the riders slowly returned. "Indeed, you should not have told me. This is best as our secret, lest your quarry grow scared."
The priestess scooped a little handful of water from a muddy footprint and tried to wash the blood from her face. "Of course you're right. I've been foolish. Thank you, Lord Janol."
"Just Janol. I'm only the king's ward, not one of his blood. Now, I've a friend named Maeve. Let's see if she can properly tend to you."
4
A Shortcut
Cleedis did not welcome the news of an additional traveling companion.
"The woman is no concern of mine," he huffed, after pointing out that eight of his men were dead because of meeting her. The miserable performance of his troopers had stung the old warrior's pride, and he had already given the captain a blistering rating over the shabby performance of the company. All failure lay upon the officer, in Cleedis's mind-failure to drill them properly, failure to stem the rout, failure to issue clear orders, failure to grasp the basics of tactics, even a failure of will. Cleedis ignored his own contribution to the debacle and ignored the indignant captain's fuming efforts to point it out.
Given the losses, Cleedis was at least wise enough to lay no blame on the men. The captain was beside himself with rage and at one point came to the brink of offering up his commission that he had paid so dearly for, an offer Cleedis would no doubt have taken on the spot.
Pinch was for the woman, and his firmness was aided by the cool moral strength that comes after the rush of battle. While the two argued, L
issa knelt beside a trooper who'd taken an axe blow just above the knee. His tentmates were certain the leg could not be saved and were fretting over whether to finish the amputation with a clean blow or bind him and hope that shock and gangrene didn't set in before they reached civilization.
The priestess ended the debate with sharp orders to hold the man down, orders given in the tone a soldier was conditioned to obey.
They pressed him flat in the bloody mud, two men holding his shoulders while a third sat on his kicking legs and ignored his screams. While the patient writhed in their grasp, Lissa laid her hands on his gaping wound, closed her eyes, and prayed. Within moments the gash was gone and the trembling pain passed from the man. His screams gave way to murmurs as he lapsed into blissful sleep.
After that, there was no question that Lissa would ride with the company.
The priestess healed all she could while the soldiers buried their dead, for whom there was no help. Pinch warned off Sprite from rifling their pockets by pointing out that the troopers would surely spit the little halfling if they caught him at it. "And I'll let them," the upright man added. "Get your booty from those two high lawyers."
"Waste of time-after all they was robbing her," the halfling groused while looting Ox and Lance. The slim pickings he got-a ring, two wallets, and a necklace- were commandeered by the troop sergeant.
"Pensions for the dead men's wives, you thieving terrier," said the windburned sergeant, as shallow a lie as any the halfling could have put up.
After fumbling and grousing about certain over-zealous hypocrites, Sprite gave up his booty. Still, when the halfling rejoined Pinch, Therin, and Maeve, his face was a bubble of unsuppressed glee. "What gulls! I could dine off them for weeks," he chortled. With a quick nod to his hand, the little rogue flashed a fistful of cut stones and worn coins. "Didn't think I'd let him have it all, did you?"