by Tim Pratt
Bannerman shook his head. “We were troubled when her influence crossed the river into Lastwall, and wanted the blighted fey there eradicated, but having her here … It’s a problem for Nirmathas, not us. Some hero or another will doubtless saunter into the woods and face her down at some point. In the meantime, having a forest full of monsters and evil fey as a buffer zone between Molthune’s territorial ambitions and our southern border isn’t the kind of problem we’re in a hurry to solve.”
“Some paladins you are!” Rodrick said. “You’ve got a demon-haunted forest next door, and you think of it as a strategic buffer zone?”
“I think of it that way. Temple does, too. Some of the more traditional crusaders are extremely concerned about the demonic taint, though, and as soon as they’ve decisively defeated the orc hordes they’ll doubtless send a party to root out the demon queen. Of course, we’ve been fighting the orcs for centuries now, and neither side seems close to overwhelming the other, so in the meantime, I find it’s best to look for the good in a bad situation.” He glanced sidelong at Rodrick. “Though if you’re that bothered about the situation, I can ask Temple to consider sending you—”
“No, no, I’m just the muscle here, don’t mind me.”
After a few hours on a well-traveled forest trail, they reached a broad and slow-moving river, where the burned remains of a bridge stood. Bannerman looked at the charred timbers and sighed. “They think they’re helping.”
“Who’s helping?” Eldra said.
“The revolutionaries of Nirmathas. If you can call them revolutionaries when their revolution was won ages ago, more or less. Loyal sons and daughters of Nirmath, anyway. Molthune’s borders tend to shift as they gain and lose ground, but basically, Molthune is on the other side of this river.”
“It just looks like more forest over there,” Rodrick said.
“The last straggling bit of the Southern Fangwood, yes. Amazing they haven’t cut down every tree for timber yet. The Molthuni build bridges so they can march their armies across when they try to invade, and the Nirmathi destroy the bridges.”
“They should leave the bridges,” Merihim said. “Or even build their own, and then set watchers and ambushes on this side.”
“Oh, they do that sometimes, too. But it’s not as if the forces in Nirmathas are all that well organized. It’s more a bunch of loosely cooperating militias, led by assorted zealots. There’s always some group that sees a bridge and can’t think of anything better to do than tear it down. Ah well. I suppose that sort of thing keeps them occupied. Makes it a bit difficult to get across the border, though. There’s a place we can ford some distance to the west—”
“Rodrick?” Merihim said. “Would you mind?”
“You speak, and we obey.” Rodrick drew Hrym and pointed the glittering blade at the river, where a crust of ice began to form, slowly extending a bridge of white frost across the span.
Bannerman whistled. “I saw you do that to the pond up north, but I didn’t realize you could freeze a flowing river this wide.”
“Everyone underestimates me,” Hrym said. “Do you think white dragons who look like white dragons get treated that way?”
“If you were more dragonish it would inspire a different reaction, it’s true,” Rodrick said.
“Draconic,” the Specialist said absently, and tested the ice with his foot, first tentatively, then stomping, then jumping up and down with both feet. “Seems solid enough.” He mounted his horse and persuaded it across, muttering to himself about temperature differentials and energy expenditures as he went.
The others followed, and once they were all across, Rodrick gestured with Hrym, and the icy bridge started to break up, chunks of frozen river floating and bobbing gradually downstream. “So that’s it? We’re in Molthune? I can’t say it’s any worse than Nirmathas, but at the same time, it’s not any better.” That wasn’t entirely true: the dirt trail Bannerman led them to was wider here, and meandered through the trees rather less.
“Borders are just lines drawn on a map.” Eldra rode up alongside him. “The land doesn’t know anything about them.”
“Not just lines. Sometimes they’ve got walls, and armed guards, and gates and things.”
Bannerman nodded. “They’ve tried that sort of security along this border, but the forts all get burned down, torn down, or undermined. Any time the Molthuni move a sizable force into any sort of permanent emplacement too close to the border, they become a target of hit-and-run raids. Doesn’t stop them from trying. The dance goes on and on.”
Prinn suddenly pulled his horse up short, leapt from the saddle, and ran some distance down the trail. Merihim raised a hand to call a halt, and even Bannerman obeyed instantly.
The sorcerer returned and went to Merihim, who leaned down in her saddle to hear his report. Rodrick had still never heard the man’s voice, but he imagined it sounded like wet maggots writhing and dry paper crackling all at once. Merihim straightened up. “We’ve got a problem.”
14
A RED PLUME
Merihim spoke in a low voice, but Rodrick could hear her well enough. “Prinn says there are people hiding in the forest up ahead, at least a dozen of them, and well armed.” She gestured, and the sorcerer slipped off into the trees on foot.
Bannerman drew his sword, which was short and heavy and looked very sharp. The Specialist slid down from his horse, and after a moment’s thought, Eldra did the same. Merihim nodded at them, and Eldra handed the bridle of her horse to the Specialist and then went into the woods, on the opposite side of the trail from Prinn. They probably had special standing orders and things. Merihim hadn’t bothered to give Rodrick any instructions. He knew his role if things got violent: knock people down or freeze them in place or both.
“If they’re with the Molthuni military, killing them could be a bad idea,” Merihim said. The fact that they were outnumbered two to one, minimum, didn’t seem to concern her. Which Rodrick supposed was fair. He could handle four or five without much trouble, with Hrym in his hand, assuming they didn’t come prepared with spells to neutralize Hrym’s powers. Prinn looked like he could kill a legion without even having to think about it much. The Volunteers were a formidable lot. Rodrick thought, briefly, of the sort of things they could accomplish working as a team without the interference of Lastwall—the thefts they could pull off!—but then dismissed the idea as foolishness. He’d operated in crews before, but it was hard to imagine this particular group working together if they weren’t forced to do so.
“Agreed,” Bannerman said. “We may need the element of surprise to break into the prison, and if the local forces are on alert, that becomes much more difficult.”
“We—” Merihim began, but was interrupted by a short man with a wide-brimmed hat sporting a long red feather.
The man bowed, sweeping off his hat and flourishing it, replacing it at a rakish angle when he straightened. “Welcome to Molthune, weary travelers. My name is Karstan, and I’m delighted to meet you.”
“We’re not all that weary,” Bannerman growled.
“Nonsense. Your horses must be exhausted, too. Those saddlebags are bulging, and I’m sure the weight is terrible. I’ve come to help lighten your load.”
Merihim swept back her hood and smiled a terrible smile. “Are you a bandit, then?”
The man shook his head, seemingly unimpressed by her crimson skin. “You wound me. Have you heard of privateers? Captains of sailing ships given a commission by the government to commit blatant acts of piracy—as long as they commit them against the enemy? I have a similar arrangement with the leaders of Molthune. The regular military has a … less than successful track record when it comes to dealing with the rebels in the forest. I persuaded them that a small force composed of men loyal to Molthune but unsuited for traditional military service could be useful. My men and I are a sort of … pilot program. Call us privateers of the wood.”
Bannerman leaned forward on his horse and looked down at the
man. “So you get to prey on any Nirmathi who cross the border. Fascinating. Of course, we’re not Nirmathi.”
“You’re wearing cloaks that blend in with the forest. That’s a very rebel sort of thing to do.”
“Nevertheless. We are simple travelers, and uninvolved in your local squabbles. Will you let us pass?”
The man shook his head, almost sorrowfully. “Would that I could! But I just don’t believe you. You just have that Nirmathi look about you.”
Merihim snorted. “I look Nirmathi?”
Bannerman objected, too. “When have you known a Nirmathi rebel to pretend to be anything else? Screaming defiance in the face of death is more their style.”
The bandit shrugged. “Perhaps you’re a particularly crafty rebel. I will say, it’s difficult to tell a dead civilian from a dead rebel. Let’s put it this way: My worldview is simple. You’re either filthy rebels, or loyal Molthuni. If you’re the former, then I have every right to kill you and strip your corpses. If you’re the latter…” He spread his hands and smiled. “Then you’ll willingly donate all your worldly goods to the cause, and leave here alive and well. I’ll even let you keep a couple of horses. You can always ride double. I’ll lose out on the bounty Captain Lewton pays me for bringing in captive rebels, but it’s a long ride to the fort, and I’m not in the mood to deal with a lot of prisoners. It’s such a lovely day.”
“How formal do you think their relationship with the government is?” Merihim said.
“Do you mean will anyone miss them?” Bannerman shook his head. “I doubt it. The Molthuni are very regimented. Employing roving bands of privateers is hardly their usual approach. If Karstan’s story is true at all, I think he’s just made an arrangement with some lower-level officer with local authority.”
Karstan clucked his tongue. “I see you’re contemplating violence. I really wouldn’t recommend it. I have a force of twenty men, you see, including some perched in trees with bows trained on you at this very moment—”
An arrow struck him in the neck, and he gurgled—the expression on his face would have been almost comical, if it hadn’t been for the spurting blood—and fell to his knees. Bannerman spurred his horse forward, disappearing around a bend in the trail. Screams echoed on both sides of the forest.
“Did you want us to … do anything?” Rodrick said.
“Against a dozen bandits?” Merihim shrugged. “I suppose if any of them stagger past in their panic to escape Prinn and Eldra and our fearless liaison, you can cut them down.”
The Specialist took a book from his saddlebag and started reading.
After ten minutes, Prinn came back, wiping his hands on the shredded remains of someone else’s shirt. Eldra returned soon after, carrying a bow. She looked down at the dead bandit chief, then turned a dazzling smile on Rodrick. “Not a bad shot, was it? I would have put an arrow through his eye, but the angle was wrong.” She picked up the dead man’s hat and put it on her head, feather poking up jauntily. It looked quite fetching on her.
Bannerman rode back to the party, his boots and the flanks of his horse speckled with blood. He’d had heavy cavalry training, Rodrick suspected. Crusaders were murder on horseback. “Took a few of them down. The rest broke and ran.”
Merihim nodded. “I think Prinn finished off the ones that tried to hide. Did they have anything worth taking?”
“I’m not a corpse-picker,” Bannerman growled.
The Specialist didn’t look up from his book. “It’s an honorable profession.”
The crusader snorted. “Judging by their weapons, they weren’t very successful privateers. I think we were the richest pickings they’ve encountered in a while.”
“I suppose it’s good we got a bit of exercise,” Merihim said. “Though when I think what I could accomplish with this crew, if I had my own way…”
Rodrick scowled at the echo of his own thoughts.
“Perhaps you’ll forge bonds of fellowship and continue to work together after your year of service is done,” Bannerman said. “I only ask that you try to commit your crimes within the borders of Lastwall so we can arrest you and press you into another term of service.”
“It’s so nice to be appreciated,” Merihim said.
* * *
The Specialist handed his spyglass to Rodrick, who peered through the tube at the distant fort. The prison was walled with timber poles sharpened to points, with guard towers at each corner and foot patrols on the outside. There was only one gate, heavily guarded. The area around the prison was scoured, every tree uprooted, so the soldiers had clear sightlines in every direction. The Volunteers were lined up on their bellies behind the ridge of a low hill about five hundred yards to the east, the only thing approximating cover anywhere in the vicinity.
“It would be helpful if we could fly,” Merihim said.
“Difficult,” the Specialist said. “Not impossible, but … difficult.”
“We could tunnel in,” Eldra said. “By ‘we’ I mean … someone. I don’t shovel.”
“They send out patrols at regular intervals,” Bannerman said. “I suspect they’d notice an extensive mining operation in the vicinity, and also it would take too long.”
“I know I’m the brute force here,” Rodrick said, “but I don’t think charging in with magic blazing and bombs flying is the right approach, due to all the snipers and the fact that we’d have to do the charging over a rather large distance, giving them ample time to shoot.”
“Subterfuge it is, then.” Merihim rolled on her side and looked them over. “Bannerman, I’ll need you to—”
He shook his head. “I’m your escort, not part of your team. If you go in there and never return, I’m the one who goes back and tells Temple we need to assemble another batch of Volunteers. I’ll be back in the woods waiting for your triumphant return.”
Merihim sighed. “The Specialist looks too old, I’m too red, Eldra is too pretty, and Prinn is too … Prinn-ish. It’ll have to be you, Rodrick.”
“Naturally. I am, as always, the best choice. But what am I the best choice for?”
* * *
“That hat looks better on Eldra.” Merihim reached out and adjusted the feather while Rodrick stood stoically. “But you’ll do. Try to look dashing and disreputable.”
“So he should just be himself, then.” Eldra chuckled.
“No, I said dashing. All right. Prinn, Specialist, are you ready?”
The old man nodded dolefully. His hands were bound with rough rope, and another loop went around his neck. Prinn was similarly tied, and a rope around his waist connected him to the Specialist, and from there, to the back of Rodrick’s horse.
“Are we sure this is the right fort?” Rodrick said.
Merihim shrugged. “Bannerman said it probably was—it’s the closest to the area where the bandit was operating.” The crusader had taken his horse and gone, telling them to meet him near the site of the bandit massacre when they had Zumani in their hands. “If we’re wrong, and it doesn’t work … I’ll have to trust you to improvise. Temple will be cross if the man we’re supposed to rescue dies in the fighting, though, so try to follow the plan, all right?”
Rodrick drew himself up to his full height, back straight. “I am very good at pretending to be things I’m not.”
“Like a warrior, and a leader of men, and a hero, and—”
“Thank you, Hrym, I think you’ve made your point.” Rodrick unbuckled his sword belt, reluctant to part with Hrym, but knowing he wouldn’t be allowed to carry such a weapon into the fort, even if the plan went perfectly.
“I’ll take good care of him.” Eldra accepted the belt and buckled it around her own waist, resting her hand on Hrym’s hilt.
Rodrick mounted his horse and took the rope attached to Prinn and the Specialist. “Try to look like unhappy captives, gentlemen.”
Their expressions didn’t noticeably change: the Specialist looked a bit gloomy and preoccupied, and Prinn looked like a murderous rodent.
>
“Excellent work.”
Rodrick rode for the fort at a walking pace with his “prisoners” in tow, watching the tiny figures in the guard towers grow incrementally larger. He could practically feel the arrows pointed at him; they made his eyeballs itch. He kept smiling, though, and sat relaxed in his saddle, and rode up to the gates without being shot. One of the two foot patrols approached him, crossbows trained on him and his captives.
A small panel slid open on the heavy gate, and a pair of rather suspicious-looking eyes peered out. “What do you want?”
“I’ve come with gifts for Captain Lewton: a pair of captured rebels.”
The man frowned. “You’re wearing the right hat, but you’ve got the wrong face. Where’s what’s-his-name?”
“I’m afraid our valiant leader Karstan was … unavoidably detained. I’d be happy to tell the captain about it.”
The man sighed. “Irregular. Very irregular. I hate irregular. Hold on. Boys, don’t kill him yet.”
The Specialist sat down in the dirt and began drawing with his fingertip. Prinn stared at everyone like a bird of prey would stare at a field mouse, which wasn’t a bad look for a defiant captured revolutionary, actually.
“Nice weather, eh?” Rodrick said. The patrolmen stared at him, crossbows unwavering. “The farms could use some rain, I suppose, but I like it dry. I’m sure you’re the same, you work outside too. I like the fresh air, myself. Say, do you happen to have any dice? Since we’re waiting anyway, we could play a game…”
The panel slid open. “The captain says disarm them and send them in.”
“I’ve just got this sword here.” Rodrick patted the scabbard lashed to the saddle, which held some sort of saber he had no idea how to wield with any finesse. “I disarmed these gentlemen already and distributed their paltry arms among my men.”
“Dismount,” one of the patrolmen barked. The other had chivvied the Specialist to his feet and was patting him down. Prinn began to struggle wildly, attempting to bite through the ropes with his teeth, and the patrolman turned to him, wrestling him down, while the other tried to find a clear shot with his crossbow.