If visitors to the capital were content to sleep the morning away, Rydah’s citizens were already getting a start on the day. As Mitto steered the horses to the Westgate, the road began to fill with other vehicles. Coaches bearing noblemen and other officials wheeled toward to the Celestial Palace, while merchants steered their carts toward the marketplace of their choice or, like Mitto, toward the city walls.
In the twenty minutes it took Mitto to clear the distance from Someplace Else to the Westgate, Rydah had become transformed, trading the stillness of night for the bustle of business, the cacophony of crowds of people all trying to communicate at the same time.
By the time the city’s wall came into view, a queue had already formed before the Westgate. The line wasn’t very long, but inspections had been taking longer than usual lately. Twice as many Knights guarded the gate than the Renegade War.
Mitto waited impatiently for his turn, keeping an eye out for Baxter Lawler all the while.
By the time he finally reached the open gate, he was convinced his friend wasn’t going to show. That didn’t surprise him. Baxter was likely sleeping off the effects of a night spent in revelry. Despite the Knight’s best intentions—and Baxter Lawler always had the best of intentions—he had probably stopped at one or more taverns after leaving Someplace Else.
Mitto didn’t fault the man for his unreliability. It was just Baxter’s nature. The Knight was too friendly for his own good. He couldn’t refuse an offer stop for a drink or a throw of the dice. And if Baxter had come across any of his female admirers, then there was no guessing what time he stumbled back to the barracks.
No, Mitto couldn’t fault the Knight for being popular and well-liked. Baxter was eager to please, but mostly he focused on keeping himself pleased.
For the hundredth time, Mitto wondered how Baxter had managed to become a Knight in the first place. Or perhaps the real question was how did the man keep up with the rigors of his profession while simultaneously nurturing his social life.
The officer on duty, a Knight whom Mitto didn’t recognize, asked the routine questions, to which Mitto gave his memorized responses. The Knight was understandably surprised to learn Mitto was carrying not provender, but passengers. The wagon was obviously not intended to transport people. When the officer finished interrogating the driver, he moved on to the passengers, and Mitto was probably even more eager to hear Toemis Blisnes’s explanation than the Knight was.
“Fort Faith, you say?” the officer asked. “What business have you there, Grandfather?”
Mitto held his breath. He half expected the old man to refuse to answer, but Toemis paused only a moment before replying. “Many, many years ago, I was a cook at Fort Faith. I have many memories from that time and want to take my granddaughter there before I die.”
There was nothing in Toemis’s tone that indicated he was fabricating, and at that moment, Mitto really wanted to believe the old man. Maybe it was just that simple. Toemis was certainly old enough to have been at Fort Faith before the Ogre War. And yet Mitto couldn’t help but suspect there was more to Toemis’s quest.
Goblin always spoke out of both sides of his mouth, mixing truth and lies in equal parts.
But the Knight was satisfied with the old man’s story and gave Mitto leave to clear the gate. The wagon had covered no more than a few yards before the first raindrop struck him in the nose. Cursing his luck, Mitto retrieved his three-cornered hat from the bag at his side and planted it firmly on his head.
The dreariness of the morning suited his mood perfectly.
Passage IV
“Stand and deliver!”
The order was followed by the sudden appearance of three men on the road up ahead. Instinctively, Mitto pulled back on the reins, though later he would regret not having tried to drive over the highwaymen.
There could be no mistaking that the men were, in fact, robbers. Even if the one hadn’t declared them all as thieves with three words, their attire indicated their purpose. All three were clad in dirty, ragged jerkins of brown and greenish hues that allowed them to blend in with the trees lining the highway. Two of them wore dark and dangerous expressions, but the third man’s black mask hid everything but his angry eyes.
The man in the mask carried twin swords, the likes of which Mitto had never seen before. The twin blades thickened from crosspiece to tip, and while the dull edge of the blade protruded at a ninety-degree angle from the hilt, the sharp edge was slightly curved. Each of the other two brigands wore a sheathed sword at his belt, which left their hands free to carry crossbows. Both of which were currently aimed at their mark’s chest.
Mitto registered all of this in the span of a second and a half. He immediately discarded the thought of reaching for the quarterstaff secreted in a niche behind his seat, and it was too late to try to pull the wagon away. A sinking feeling in his stomach, Mitto held up his palms to let the thieves know that he did not intend to make trouble. He almost smiled too, thinking how disappointed the rogues would be when they realized he carried no goods at all.
But then he remembered Toemis’s gold—his gold.
“Jump down from the wagon,” the man in the mask ordered, “or we’ll kill you.”
Mitto complied, never taking his eyes off of the crossbowmen. There was no telling how desperate they were, no way of knowing what they were capable of. He worried the archers would shoot his horses out of spite until he realized that they were far more likely to shoot him and take the animals for their own.
The notion that these filthy thieves could end his life at any second made Mitto’s insides burn with rage. All weariness vanished instantly, granting him an almost preternatural alertness to everything around him. Too bad there’s not a damn thing I can do about any of it! he groused.
“Zeetan, take a look in the wagon,” the masked man called to someone who must have been positioned near the wagon’s rear.
The bandit, presumably the leader, punctuated his command by twirling the two peculiar swords. The other men kept their crossbows trained on him. In the next few seconds, while everybody waited for Zeetan to come forward, Mitto considered the situation from a surprisingly detached perspective.
First, he pondered the nature of the rogues. Highwaymen were an extremely rare this near the capital. Even though the thick woods provided cover, the Knights of Superius regularly patrolled the area. And most traders traveled in groups or hired armed escorts, which made robbing them all the more difficult and less rewarding on the whole.
Another reason highwaymen were so scarce near Rydah was due to the Thief Guild. Robbery had become a very organized profession in the capital, and the members of the Guild preferred to make their profit within the walls of the city. Rumor had it that the Guild had a rather lavish hideout hidden somewhere in the city itself. Mitto couldn’t imagine why these thieves would forsake the comfort of the city for the wilderness.
Of course, there were other rumors too, talk of changes within the Guild. According to Baxter, who felt the need to keep Mitto abreast of the more interesting rumors in the capital—the Thief Guild had signed a pact with Rydah’s Renegades. But not every thief wanted to ally with the rebels, which caused a schism within the ranks of the Guild.
Some, apparently, had left Rydah altogether.
Two years ago, Mitto had been waylaid by highwaymen en route to Steppt. He had managed to fight them off with his quarterstaff. But there had been only two of the bastards then, and neither had carried bows. And he had taken a few bruises and cuts for his trouble.
His skill with a staff was modest at best. Even at the prime of his life, he would have been no match for three armed foes—four, counting Zeetan.
All thoughts of fighting his way out vanished when Zeetan walked up beside him. The young man wore a dark gray cloak decorated with myriad moons, stars, and other strange symbols. His voluminous coat was tied together by a rope belt, from which a dagger and several pouches dangled. He carried a tall staff, though he wasn’t old en
ough to need it for a crutch. The staff looked ordinary enough, possibly crafted from the branch of a nearby elm or balsam, but Mitto suspected that the stick was far more dangerous than it looked.
Surely, Zeetan was a wizard.
Without sparing the wagon a glance, Zeetan addressed the masked man in a calm, measured voice. “The wagon is empty, Falchion, except for two passengers.”
Mitto wondered if the wizard had peeked in the back of the wagon or if he had made the discovery via magic. There was little time to ponder it, however, for the swordsman, Falchion, suddenly launched into a litany of oaths and curses.
“Of all the gods-damned luck. We spend the morning squatting in the rain, and when a cart finally rolls by, it’s empty! Bastard son of a filthy whore! Damn, damn, damn.” Falchion was silent for a moment, before adding, “Who’s that in your wagon, peddler?”
“What if they’re Knights?” one of the crossbowmen asked in a whisper Mitto had no trouble hearing.
“Or Renegades?” the other added.
“Shut your mouths,” Falchion said.
The swordsman stomped over to Mitto and leveled one of the heavy-bladed swords at his throat. “Tell me who your companions are, and if you try to deceive me, I’ll kill you where you stand.”
“It’s just an old man and his granddaughter. They’re no threat to anybody,” Mitto answered.
“Is he a wealthy man…a nobleman?”
Mitto feigned a chuckle. “Not likely, judging by the looks of him.”
Even as he bent the truth in hopes the highwaymen wouldn’t find the gold, a part of his mind screamed, “Just give them the money and be done with it!”
Falchion uttered another string of curses. Then the thief, his dark eyes boring into Mitto’s from behind the mask, said, “Fetch the passengers. I want to see them for myself.”
Mitto felt his stomach drop down to his boots. They would find the purse of gold, and Falchion would surely slit his throat for lying. Then again, the highwayman had probably planned on killing him from the start.
In response to Falchion’s latest decree, the wizard slowly made his way up to the driver’s seat. Mitto had sealed the interior of the wagon in order to keep the rain out. He watched Zeetan fumble with the knots in the leather thongs that secured the covering’s flap.
After a full minute, one of the crossbowmen—a scar-faced man with a rodent-like face—yelled, “Just cut the damn thing!”
“Shut your mouth, Critter,” Falchion snarled.
Mitto couldn’t decide if the swordsman was upset because he had not given Critter permission to speak or because he feared the wrath of the wizard. Zeetan, for his part, followed Critter’s suggestion, drawing his dagger and sawing through the leather. When the wizard was finished with the strap, he returned the blade to its sheath and pulled the flaps aside.
Now he’ll find Toemis and the gold, Mitto thought glumly. At the same time, a part of him was glad to be rid of the gold. If I live through this, I’ll be getting out cheap. I can be back at Someplace Else before dinnertime.
Let Goblin choke on his coins. I’m through with him and his secrets!
The sky flashed, followed immediately by a loud clap of thunder, which startled the highwaymen, Mitto, and the horses alike. At that precise moment, as Zeetan widened the slit in the wagon’s covering, Toemis Blisnes sprang out of the dark recess of the wagon and plunged his dagger into the wizard’s gut.
* * *
Less than an hour after Mitto passed through the Westgate, two Knights astride purebred war horses followed the road that would lead them to the heart of the island province. The two riders kept their mounts at a moderate pace in spite of the pouring rain. And although one of the Knights bore the distinct reputation of being a verbose and convivial traveling companion, the two comrades-in-arms said not a word to each another.
The higher-ranking of the two Knights, who was wont to describe himself as Rydah’s finest lieutenant, lowered his visor to keep the rain out of his eyes. He trained his bloodshot eyes at the road ahead and tried to ignore the pounding inside his skull as well as the disconcerting churning of his entrails.
As the miles passed by—with nary a sign of Mitto’s wagon—Sir Baxter Lawler cursed himself for getting mixed up with the fool of a merchant.
If I weren’t such a good friend, he thought, I’d be squandering my free day in a soft bed, warm and dry. But look where my dedication to that lousy trader has landed me? I’m tired, drenched to the bone, and I’ll be lucky if I make it halfway to Fort Valor without vomiting in my helmet. Oh, you owe me plenty for this one, Mitto…if that Toemis fellow doesn’t stick a knife in your back first.
When they finally caught up to Mitto’s wagon, he motioned for his companion, Sir Alban Damek, to slow down. The two Knights kept on like that for the next few hours, watching the wagon from a distance, never getting too close. Baxter had no way of knowing for sure that Mitto was still alive, but he craned in his saddle, searching for the tell-tale tricorn hat.
Baxter was alerted to trouble the instant the wagon stopped. When he saw several men emerge from the woods on either side of the highway, he urged his mount off of the road, trusting Sir Damek to do the same. Silently, he dismounted and tied the steed’s reins to a low-hanging branch.
There had been talk of thieves skulking about the forest, but Baxter hadn’t expected to run into any on this particular stretch of road. Few enough people found a need to travel between the capital and Fort Valor—or Fort Faith for that matter. But Baxter knew highwaymen when he saw them.
“Follow my lead,” he instructed his sole companion. Then he began moving through the foliage, careful to make as little noise as possible. That wasn’t easy, since both he and Sir Damek were fully armed. When they were close enough to the wagon to see and hear most of what was going on, Baxter forced himself to sit tight and learn as much as he could before acting.
As long as the crossbowmen were aiming at Mitto, the Knights would have to wait.
The chance to strike came when an old man—Toemis, presumably—jumped out of the wagon and stabbed the wizard.
“Now!” Baxter shouted, as he leaped out of the trees and charged headlong at the closer of the two crossbowmen.
He had no time to ensure Sir Damek was following him. Nor could he spare a thought for the most dangerous of the thieves, the wizard. He didn’t even have a chance to acknowledge Mitto, though he very much wanted to scold the merchant for getting into such a mess.
Baxter Lawler focused on one thing only—dispatching the crossbowmen before they could fire their bolts through his coat-of-plates and the haubergeon beneath. The weapons could kill him and Sir Damek as easily as if he wore no armor at all, so ran with his sword raised heavenward and his shield held out before him, praying to Feol that he would live to drink another day.
Through the sights of his helm, Baxter locked eyes with the first crossbowman. The thief seemed to be moving in slow motion. When the shock of the Knights’ sudden appearance wore off, the crossbowman swiveled his torso toward the oncoming warriors and slowly—or so it seemed to Baxter—took aim at him. Baxter was no more than five paces from the brigand when he heard the unmistakable snap of the crossbow’s discharging.
He watched as the bolt flew toward him, pushed effortlessly through his wooden targe and planted itself into Baxter’s upper arm.
The pain, compounded by the sheer impact of the bolt, sent Baxter stumbling back a step. Clenching his teeth against the burning ache in his arm, Baxter pushed forward. The crossbowman, who had no chance of reloading before the Knight was on him, dropped his weapon and turned to flee.
“Not so fast,” Baxter taunted. “No one treats me like a pincushion and gets away with it.”
With a mighty stroke of his hand-and-a-half sword, Baxter felled the crossbowman with a deep wound that stretched from shoulder to hip.
A man in the mask stood between him and the other crossbowman, blocking his path. As Baxter closed in on the leader—Fal
chion, he had been called—he saw the crossbowman beyond join the first in heading toward the woods. The Knight’s heart skipped a beat when he noticed that thief’s crossbow had also been fired.
In spite of his proximity to Falchion, Baxter glanced behind him and found Sir Damek writhing on the ground, a shaft protruding from his belly.
Baxter met Falchion’s attack with an unintelligible battle cry on his lips. He parried the highwayman’s slashes with his blade and damaged shield. Each time his enemy’s heavy-bladed sword—which looked more like a barnyard tool than an accouterment of war—made contact with the targe, the impact sent waves of pain up his injured arm.
But Baxter had no choice. He must either defend with both sword and shield, or he was done for.
Falchion waged a brutal offensive, favoring fast and powerful strokes over measured and accurate ones. The brigand clearly wasn’t the most skillful of swordsmen, but what he lacked in form he made up for with intensity. It was all Baxter could do to keep the over-sized kitchen cleavers from biting into him. Finally, he was forced to take a blow in order to gain some offensive momentum of his own.
Rather than raise his hand-and-a-half sword to deflect the oncoming weapon, Baxter allowed the thrust to connect with the steel covering his chest. Predictably, the blunted tip of his opponent’s sword did little but dent his coat-of-plates. Before Falchion could pull back, Baxter wrenched his own sword upward. The movement was awkward, and he wasn’t able to put much force into it.
Nonetheless, the blade’s edge met Falchion’s poorly protected forearm. The masked man let out a cry as he dropped one of his weapons.
It will be over in a matter of seconds, Baxter thought, for he knew Falchion was no match for him now. In truth, the highwayman had never been a fair rival, even with a crossbow bolt jutting out just below his shoulder. As a Knight of Superius, Baxter had been trained by the best, and his equipment was superior too.
Williams, D M - Renegade Chronicles [Collection 1-3] Page 51