by S. R. Witt
Osmark didn’t hear anything after Horan mentioned the Empire. If the Wolves were stealing from the Empire’s wagons, they were stealing from him. He couldn’t allow that. He might be a nobody right now, but that would change in a matter of days. “They’re hardly ghosts. I can still see them out there, skulking away like a pack of jackals.”
Horan grunted noncommittally. “Aye, but they’re as good as gone. You’d need a fast mount to catch up to them, now.”
“Don’t worry about that,” Osmark said, heading over to another bit of wreckage. He found what he needed among the splintered timbers jumbled up near the edge of the road. He kicked the pile apart to reveal coils of hemp rope. “Grab these. Three of them,” he said, jabbing a finger at the rope. Before the NPC had even finished hoisting the rope over his shoulder, Osmark had moved on in search of the next items on his list. The sun was almost gone, slowly replaced by a waning silver moon, and he had an exhausting amount of work and travel left to see to before the day ended.
He found some empty canvas rucksacks scattered around another pile of broken crates and grabbed a pair of them. He tossed one to Horan, who slipped it over his shoulders without comment. Osmark held the other one like a sack so he could fill it quickly.
“What is it you’re looking for?” Horan asked, genuine curiosity lacing his words.
Preoccupied with dark thoughts, Osmark shook his head. Once he had a plan in mind, it consumed his thoughts. Checklists and blueprints flashed across his mind’s eye. He’d always been this way, ever since he was a child. He knew it wasn’t an endearing trait, but he didn’t care.
Osmark’s laser-hot focus had made everything around him possible. He wasn’t about to start doubting it now.
One of the overturned wagons was loaded down with an assortment of farm tools, and Osmark stopped there as a dark joy filled him with warmth. “This should do,” he said, more to himself than Horan.
He snatched up a pair of short shovels—the wood cracked, the metal pitted—and handed one to Horan. From the same pile of crude tools, he fished out a pair of hatchets, dropping one into his inventory and tossing another one to Horan.
The NPC raised an eyebrow at him. “What’s all this, then? You planning on building yourself a cozy little cabin out here, maybe?”
Osmark grinned, his eyes burning like embers in the last dying light of the sun. “I’m building something, all right. But it’s not a cabin. Now come on.” He jerked his head toward the next wreck in line, and continued his hurried scavenger hunt. By the time he finished, the pair were loaded down with even more supplies.
“Maybe it’s not my place to mention it, but I notice we didn’t grab any food,” Horan said with a rueful grin. “No wineskins, either. Might be I’m wrong”—he offered a lopsided shrug—“but I’m afraid we may not get far carrying these heavy tools instead of gear that might help us survive.”
“We don’t need food where we’re going,” Osmark said, distracted by the next step of his plan. Before V.G.O., he’d never bothered to explain what he was doing or why he was doing it to the help. But, here, he still had to prove himself as a competent leader. He might as well start with his sole follower. “I don’t think it’s far, and I’m sure there’ll be plenty for us to eat once we’re finished with our work.”
Osmark left the wagons and headed north; Horan hurried to keep up with him. They walked in silence until the flames and carnage were far behind them. Osmark didn’t look back but kept his eyes locked on the far horizon ahead of them. The bandits had long since vanished from sight, but Osmark had no trouble following the path of crushed grass and churned earth they left in their wake.
Horan cleared his throat. “What exactly are we doing? If you don’t mind my asking.”
“Looking for a place to build,” Osmark said, a cryptic grin quirking the corners of his mouth.
The pair said nothing for another half hour. In that time, they’d closed the distance to the bandits, moving from rolling green plains with a spattering of trees to a lightly forested area. The shadowed bulk of the horde was on the horizon, now, so close it hurt. Loaded down with loot and burdened by hobbled prisoners, the Wodes and Risi were slower than Horan and Osmark by a fair margin.
“Not sure if you noticed,” Horan whispered, “but there are a hell of a lot more of them than there are of us. And while you’re a passable marksman, I don’t think you’ll be able to shoot ’em all before they slice us up to feed to their wolves.”
Osmark chuckled at the NPC’s nervous words. “I thought you were a soldier, Horan.”
“That I am,” the older man said with a disgruntled sniff, “but I’m not an army.”
They walked in silence until thick tree cover rose up on the horizon, quickly swallowing the marching bandits from view. Horan put a hand on Osmark’s shoulder. “Them’s the Blackwillow Woods, my friend. If that’s where the thugs are headed, then there’ll be more of ’em in that forest than we’ve seen so far.”
Osmark grinned. “You’re saying they’re all hiding in the woods?”
Horan shrugged, nodded. “Likely so.”
“Looks like a good place for me to build, then,” Osmark replied.
His words were cold and determined, like the ring of a warrior’s sword drawn from its sheath. Their savage attack had set his plans back and had delayed his arrival in Tomestide. More importantly, these thieves had dared to attack him, an Imperial citizen, which couldn’t be allowed. The real world was on the brink of annihilation, and V.G.O. was one of the few refuges left for people to survive, to start over. And with millions of grief-stricken people permanently flooding into the server from all over the world, there would need to be a steady hand at the helm of this ship.
His hand. And that meant the Empire needed to be stronger than ever. This new world needed unity—so an example would need to be made here. Open rebellion couldn’t stand. Couldn’t.
“And what is it you’ll be building?” Horan asked, an apprehensive edge creeping into his words.
“A tomb,” Osmark replied flatly.
SEVEN:
Death Trap
The forest was a dense mixture of old-growth giant oaks and supple young pine trees spreading their needle-clad limbs past the edges of the path Osmark and Horan followed. The undergrowth was so thick and tangled around the tree trunks it formed an almost impassable barrier of grasping vines and ankle-breaking roots to anyone trying to leave the path winding through the forest.
“Nice place,” Osmark said. “It’ll be great for our project.”
Horan watched Osmark with narrowed eyes, brow furrowed in skepticism. “I hope your plan’s less crazy than you’re acting. You know this forest is swarming with bandits?”
Osmark waved away Horan’s concerns, restlessly scanning the trees. “There are bandits here, but they’re hardly swarming. Right now, they’re drinking themselves stupid and squabbling over the spoils they stole from my caravan.”
The mercenary raised an eyebrow at Osmark’s choice of pronoun but didn’t comment on it. “You’re so sure of that? What’s an Imperial like you know about bandits living rough?”
They walked in silence for a few moments while Osmark considered his words. “I don’t know anything about bandits. But I know people. And men like that? They’re the kind of scum who have never created anything in their lives but feel entitled to everything. They can’t look further ahead than their next meal. Trust me—they’re celebrating without a care in the world right now.”
Enjoy it while you can, Osmark thought.
The bandits had been loitering in the forest long enough to ruin its natural beauty with the presence of their sprawling, ugly, unsophisticated camp. Their boots had worn a crude path through the undergrowth and between the trees, leaving a rutted dirt trail, which threaded its way into the woods along the route of least resistance. It curved around the larger trees and jutting boulders that rose from the earth like the skulls of long-dead giants buried in shallow graves. The serpent
ine path was wide enough for two men to walk abreast, but only if they paid attention to where they put their feet.
“I find it hard to believe no one could track these mongrels down,” Osmark said, kicking absently at the dirt. “I’m not exactly a woodsman, and I could find it.” He paused, glancing left then right. “I mean, they’ve left a path any blind man could follow.”
“Mayhap the matter isn’t finding the prey, but finding enough determined hunters.” Horan rubbed the gray bristles running along his square jaw. “If what we saw was a raiding party, how many do you reckon are waiting in their camp?”
Osmark had already done the calculations as they walked.
Their small caravan had less than a dozen guards, and there’d been twice that many outlaws in the raid, maybe three times as many. Assuming most of the thugs didn’t head out every time they attacked a passing caravan, and assuming those who’d been on previous raids were recovering from wounds they’d picked up, Osmark’s mental arithmetic pegged the upper bound of the bandit’s forces at around one hundred. That didn’t account for the wolves, and he had no way to be sure how many of those might be waiting in the night, ready to chew off his face.
He decided it was best to keep his actual estimate to himself, however. Horan was acting a bit skittish; Osmark didn’t want to spook him into uselessness. “Two dozen or so. Maybe a few more,” he hedged. “But I doubt they’re all in fighting shape. That caravan was carrying liquor and ale, so most of them will be drunk senseless by the time we crash their party.”
“I hope you’re right,” Horan said, shifting the straps of his heavy backpack to take the strain off his shoulders. “Because I don’t think I’m in any shape to fight twenty men by myself, and I doubt you’re up to the task, either. No offense intended.”
“Oh ye of little faith,” Osmark said through a steely grin. If his plan went as expected, very few of those bandits would see the sun rise tomorrow. He pointed at a guttering orange light leaking through the trees at a bend in the path ahead of them. “Looks like we’ve found the place.”
Osmark held a finger to his lips and motioned for Horan to follow him. He picked his path carefully, placing his feet with slow and measured steps to make as little noise as possible. He was sure the bandits were too confident and intoxicated to bother setting guards, but he wasn’t taking chances. His plan relied on stealth, smarts, and dirty tricks. If the bandits discovered Horan or Osmark before the time was right, they were both dead.
When he reached a massive oak towering over the path near the bandits’ camp, he stopped and leaned against the tree. A new message flickered to life in the air before him:
<<<>>>
Skill: Stealth
Stealth allows you to creep through the shadows, making you harder to detect by hostile forces. Successful attacks from stealth mode activate a backstab multiplier for additional damage.
Skill Type/Level: Active / Level 1
Cost: 10 Stamina
Effect: Stealth. 7% chance to hide from enemies.
<<<>>>
The percentage seemed low, but Osmark wasn’t worried. The forest provided ample cover as long as he stayed off the road, which gave him a substantial bump to his odds of success when sneaking around. The buzz of insects and sounds of wildlife crashing through the underbrush would mask most sounds he made, as long as he was careful.
The outlaws had erected a crude stockade around their camp. The thick boles of oak trees, their tops carved into wicked points, formed the stockade’s walls. The bases of the cut trees were buried in the earth and bound together by lengths of sturdy rope and scavenged vines. It was no architectural marvel, but the stockade provided shelter and would keep all but the most determined intruders outside of the camp.
The only way into the stockade was a primitive gateway hacked through the trunks of three trees. A crude door, fashioned from scavenged planks of wood nailed together with crooked iron spikes, hung from a pair of rusted hinges that were probably stolen from some poor farmer’s barn.
“That’s quite a fortress they’ve built for themselves,” Horan said offhandedly, before licking parched lips. “You reckon we should just knock and politely ask them to surrender?”
Osmark snorted at the remark. “You think I want to go inside that cesspit? No, it’ll be much easier to get them to open the door and come out for a chat.”
“Think you could convince them to bring me a wineskin to wash the dust out of my throat, eh?” Horan asked. “Humping all these supplies is thirsty work. Could be, I deserve a bonus when this is all said and done with.”
Osmark chuckled again, but he wasn’t really listening to the warrior. The stockade was an unexpected wrinkle to his plan, but it had only taken him a few moments to iron it flat. In some ways, the enclosure would make his plan work even better.
Mental diagrams flashed through Robert’s head, and he made decisions based on what he knew and what he suspected. The walls were nothing more than an engineering problem. His enemies were inside the stockade, and he needed them to come out where he could kill them.
Horan distracted him with a question that Osmark missed at first. He glared at the NPC. “What?” he asked a touch more sharply than he intended.
“I asked you what that was under those torches by the gate,” Horan said, hooking a thumb toward the front of the stockade.
Osmark stared at the row of low stakes protruding from the earth in front of the gate. It only took a moment for him to recognize what he was seeing, and when he did, a cold wind stoked the fires of his anger. “Heads,” he growled. “Those are heads.” They’d killed the prisoners, all of them. Even the lovely Imperial merchant from his caravan.
Horan gulped, squatting down on his haunches as though he might be sick. “Aye. That’s what I was afraid you’d say.”
Osmark dropped to a knee and motioned for Horan to do the same. “Rest while you can. We’re about to be very busy.”
Without another word, Osmark turned to an ancient oak tree and scrambled into its branches like a squirrel. Before coming to V.G.O., he hadn’t been a natural athlete, but he’d done his best to stay in shape. Rock climbing had been one of his hobbies, and it served him well here. The tree’s branches were nowhere near as challenging as even an artificial wall in a gym, which made it easy for him to clamber to the top in short order.
Unfortunately, it was so easy to climb the tree that he gained no skill from the process. That was all right, though, because he was about to rack up some very impressive EXP. Whatever Horan thought, Osmark was confident he could put an end to the bandits. All of the bandits. The thought of that juicy experience was almost as enticing to Osmark as the idea of wiping out the Wodes and Risi.
Almost.
From the top of the tree, he surveyed the forest surrounding the camp. His estimate had been off—there were well over a hundred of the bastards inside the stockade’s walls.
But he had also overestimated their strength. Many of the bandits were wounded, and their blood-soaked bandages and wooden splints were evident even at this distance. The raucous cries rising into the night also told him those who hadn’t been out raiding had been drinking even before night fell. And while a few Wodes had wolves at their sides, most of the shaggy-maned beasts were locked up in iron-barred kennels next to the stockade’s back wall.
Other than the wolf cages, the bandits had no permanent structures inside their shoddy walls. Canvas tents and lean-tos carved from saplings served as their sleeping quarters, and a raised platform hewn from raw logs held their chieftain’s wooden throne and a rough-hewn dining table loaded down with charred wildlife and burlap sacks of stolen fruits and vegetables.
Everything looked rudimentary, dirty, and well-worn. Clearly, they’d been here a while, which worked in Osmark’s favor. They were in their home territory, and they weren’t afraid of anyone or anything. Not here. Here, no one challenged them. Which bred complacency. Complacency meant no guards and even less caution about how much the
y ate or drank. Low-hanging fruit, if Osmark had ever seen any.
The rough road Osmark had followed to the stockade widened into a bare earth loop around the camp’s perimeter. Smaller paths led away from the perimeter to features Osmark noted on his mental map.
A crooked row of shoddy privies occupied the end of a path leading to the northwest.
To the east, a well-worn trail led to a well, and beyond that to a burbling stream.
Another path pointed north, where it snaked right and disappeared into the forest, out of sight.
He’d seen enough. Though the glow of the setting sun had vanished completely below the horizon, the silver light of the moon provided plenty of light to do what he needed to do. He scrambled down from the top of the tree, mind racing as he wiped bits of bark and sticky sap onto his robes.
It was time to get to work.
He padded back through the trees in a low crouch, his modest Stealth ability active, to where Horan waited patiently, tucked away in the deep shadow of a leafy oak. “All right, here’s the plan,” he whispered as he squatted down near the grizzled warrior. “Take that barrel of oil we liberated from the caravan. Soak the base of the stockade, just above where the trunks are buried in the earth. When you’re done, come back here and wait for me.”
“What if there’s not enough oil to do the job?” Horan asked.
Osmark’s eyes locked on the man with a steely, calculating stare. “Make it enough.”
He didn’t have time to babysit.
Osmark snatched a shovel from the base of the tree, then slung the leather straps of his rucksack over his shoulders. His Stamina had replenished after their long walk, but he’d have to monitor it carefully as he went about the rest of this night. He couldn’t afford to exhaust himself at an inopportune moment. Any misstep would cost him dearly.
His first stop was the privies. They weren’t impressive structures, but they were exactly the kinds of landmarks the bandits would look for in the dark. Fortunately, they were constructed from pine branches that were chosen more for concealment than sturdiness. In a few minutes, he had dragged the privies off of their reeking holes and repositioned them a few yards back from their original position.