Blood and Iron - Chapter 6

Chapter 6

I moved on my knees, in slow motion, until finally only a thin shrub screened me from the tiny glade.  Peering through the brush, I shrugged off the pack, still holding the crossbow at ready.  In this clearing was an especially small house.  Almost a doll house, but well built, made with slate roof, fieldstone and timbers. 

After seeing no movement, I dug out my brass telescope.  Suspiciously, I glassed the surrounding woods, open space, and house.  Finally, at full magnification, I peered in through the visible windows.  The house appeared deserted, and I could see and hear nothing of the surrounding woods to make me more than wary.  I was already wary – actually, I was scared that I might have found the robbers and an ambush.  Two for the price of one!

Tucking my telescope away, I picked up my crossbow, and, leaving the pack on the ground, I moved stealthily into the lee of the building.  Standing still, I swiveled my head, looking in all directions. Finally, I paused with my ear against the wall, but I could hear nothing.

Moving carefully, I went to the single doorway.  I studied the ground in front of the door.  The grass was long and unworn, showing no evidence of recent traffic.  Reaching into the compartment on the inside of my left wristlet, I removed my Swiss Army Locksmith knife and my lock picks.

Leaning the crossbow against the wall, I bent over the door lock.  It had a simple, unwarded tumbler, with ample room for my picks.  In seconds I was standing inside the little house, holding my crossbow as I closed the door.  I could see everything from my vantage. 

The closet next to me was half filled with leather and fur coats.  The main room had a. square dining table in front of the stone fireplace. A single cabinet with a hand pump completed the modest kitchen.  A hanging red blanket half covered the doorway into the sleeping room. Two strides, and I was in the abandoned sleeping room, looking down at the cot that filled it with its Buffalo robe covering.  

Abandoned was exactly the word.  The look, smell, the very feel was of place long deserted. 

I walked the one long step to the kitchen table, setting down my crossbow.  I looked out each window, studying the clearing and surrounding forest, but there was nothing to see.  I searched the cabin’s nooks and crannies, but found nothing about the former inhabitants. No books, papers, pictures or personal effects, save simple clothing along with the coats and boots in the entryway. I did find one door key that I left hanging.  By now, I was thirsty.

Checking the hand pump, I found that – as expected – the leathers were dry.   Searching just a bit, I found a jar of water.   I used it to wet the leathers and prime the pump. It was only a matter of two good strokes on the handle, and it pumped full stream into the brass basin.  I found another quart container that I filled, then dropped in a couple of iodine water purification pills. 

Yeah, it was probably late, but this abandoned cabin cried out for caution. I shook up the water, then let it settle as I pulled out my map and carefully marked the cabin’s location.  I spread the map out on the table.  I began to study the great woods surrounding the Inn and crossroads.

With this quiet time, I had a better appreciation of the lay of the land.  As I poured the water into my collapsible cup, drinking to hydrate myself, I contemplated the route I’d take the rest of this morning; paralleling the roadway, searching for the brigands and their likely ambushes.  Not to mention a certain large cat.

I refilled the jar of priming water, dumping the last of my drink, then I needed to toss the basin. I looked around before I opened the door.  I poured it out on the ground just beyond the threshold stone, making a satisfyingly large muddy spot.

Picking up my crossbow and scanning the room to make sure it was much as I found it, I stood on the threshold as I locked the door.  Still cautious I stepped around the puddle as I moved carefully to my pack, finding it undisturbed.  I stood on the verge of the clearing as I contemplated another mystery!  Who was the owner of this cabin who overcame the pervasive conditioning to live here in the great woods?

I moved around the clearing and pushed through the aspen brush until I found another game trail.   I moved cautiously along the trail until I came to the edge of a swamp.  The game trail turned north, staying on dry land. Mr. Deer did not want wet feet.

I moved to the road verge.  This part of the road traveled through swamp on both sides. They built a cordwood road, an expedient common in Minnesota road building. They threw logs (something they have in abundance) in the swamp, one after the other, until they had a solid wooden foundation for their gravel; a sturdier version of the old time corduroy road. 

Though, come to think of it, this was ‘old times”, I guess.  The down side was the back breaking, jolting ride as your car wheels – or, I guess now, coach wheels – hit every log.

The water level was over the road, with the sheen of water joining the two swamps.  I moved back along the trail, confident the animals would show me a crossing. 

I paused again when I saw the ground disturbed right on the edge of the swamp.  Moving slowly, I walked forward with my crossbow ready.  Blood and bits of fur in the mud showed where a Muskrat had died violently.   Luckily for me, the big predator was no longer around. 

I knelt in the mud, studying the massive paw prints.  They showed injuries, with one forepaw half gone and another with a claw or two ripped out. He had a limping gait as he left.  If this was the saber tooth, he had apparently been pushed out of his pride and must be quite injured to give up his preferred larger prey for a measly ‘swamp rat’. A human would be a tasty morsel indeed as hungry Smilodon lay in wait for his killing rush.  Just another thing to fucking worry about!

I walked north along the swamp, away from the road. Just after I glanced at my watch and noted the proximity to noon, the game trail swung into the swamp.  I cut a staff and followed along.  The mossy hummocks were yielding under my mocs, and I found a slow moving creek cutting through the swampland.  A windstorm had knocked down several trees, with their leafy crowns falling in the small creek.  As more silt and debris filled in around the leafy boughs, the water backed up, surrounding a hill, making it a dry island in the center of this increasingly wet zone.

I quickly found out why the animals chose this route.  Downstream from this impromptu dam, the water was shallow, with several dry patches making an easy crossing.   For me, the island was a better find. 

I waded the creek below the dam, then another downed tree made a bridge over the creek back to the island.  I used my staff as a balance pole while crossing that bridge.

Moving to the top of the hillock, I found a grassy vale with shade trees screened all around by aspen brush.  The massive roots from a downed oak gave shelter from the north.   I dumped my pack in the grass, then wandered the hill for a bit with my throwing axe, collecting downed wood and stacking it against the Oak roots, using them for a reflector.   With no one to observe I used a Trioxane tab to ignite the damp wood.  I soon had a cheery fire.

Now I took my spyglass and observed the woods and swamp around me.  Afterwards, I walked around the tiny glade to see if my fire or any smoke was visible.  Nothing showed in either case.

Returning to my fire, I dug in my pack to find the food and drink Cori had tucked away only this morning.  Opening the oilcloth bundle, I found a smaller bundle with sandwiches made from thick pieces of homemade bread and slabs of beef.  In another bundle, I found assorted fruit slices, while a third held vegetable wedges.

I pulled out the tin container and found the coffee steaming hot. This enchanting worked better than the best thermos I’d ever used!  I was warm, fed and sipping my coffee as I checked my location and carefully marked my map. 

While I drank my coffee I dug my two guns out of the pack’s secret compartment. I had a foreboding about this magical realm.  It was long past time to test them. 

First my Colt .45 Automatic -- after screwing the silencer on the barrel threads I stroked the slide and immediately fired into the dirt clump of the overturned oak roots.  

Nothing.

Ejecting the misfire, I tried again and then once more.   All duds!  Examining the shells found the primers fully indented.  I pulled one apart to verify that it had its powder charge.  They were mine, brought here, so I was confident that they worked in MY world at least.  I tossed them into the hot coals of my fire followed by a couple unfired rounds from the same clip.  Next, I brought out my Ruger .22 auto and a couple tries brought only squibs. Again, I tossed the misfired ammo in the blaze along with a couple untried rounds.

I was puzzled, sipping my coffee watching the ammunition melting into slag puddles.  Neither powder nor primer ignited despite the intense heat.  Magic had trumped simple chemistry in this case.  Magic so finely calibrated that it could differentiate fire starting from firearms!  I had much to think about as I tucked the useless guns back in the pack basket’s secret compartment.  

I looked up in the trees above me for a hiding place for my pack.  Digging in the basket I found a twenty meter coil of eight millimeter mountaineering rope.  I clipped it to a carabineer on my belt along with two Darby Handcuffs.  The smaller quiver for ‘war’ quarrels also went on my belt. 

After putting away the remains of my meal and snuffing the fire, I carefully climbed up in the beech tree overhead.  The pack was hung from a high overhanging branch by one of my chain and padlock combinations. Back on the ground I looked around carefully, but I still seemed alone and unobserved.

With my Katana back on my belt and crossbow in hand I crossed the creek.  I moved south along the swamps periphery until I was again paralleling the road.  It was slow going.  I took my time, feeling the nearness of the highwaymen with every step.

That’s why the encounter was such a shock!

One moment I’m in thick brush the next I’m in an open grassy area right by the road and  face to face with a greasy looking fellow in a leather jerkin.  I pointed my crossbow at him, which garnered a big smile with many missing teeth as he raised his hands slightly then backed up against a tree.  He spread his arms at shoulder height. 

Watching his eyes carefully I was wondering what his display was in aid of.  He was looking everywhere but at me when suddenly his eyes flicked up over my shoulder as I sensed movement.  I fired the crossbow!

The ringed broadhead, slamming into his chest, pinned him to the tree.  Tossing the crossbow onto a grassy spot, I pivoted to the left as I drew my Katana in a ‘water wheel’, bringing it around as I spun.  The blade slammed into the iron-bound head of a massive wooden maul, wielded by a giant.  Okay, not a giant, but plenty big enough that he wielded that massive sledge like you or I would a sixteen ounce carpenters hammer.

After parrying my stroke he swung at my head; I moved feeling the breeze as the war hammer missed.  I wasn’t armored enough to take even one hit from him.  I had to end this before he got lucky. 

I slashed at his ankles and he quickly dropped the hammerhead to block me.  My right hand dropped off my hilt as I drew a throwing knife from my thigh holster.  I snapped a quick sidearm throw that ended with the blade buried in his cheek, biting into his gum. 

He yelled, swearing loudly, as his hand reached for the embedded knife.  I stepped over his dropped hammer to make a horizontal cut along his upper chest, side to side, the blade sliding along one of his ribs.  My sword blade bit deeply.     The adrenaline I was feeling powered the keen blade through his sternum, cutting through muscle, veins and arteries and out the other side. 

As the blade exited I stepped back quickly with the blade up in guard stance.  He was attempting to raise the hammer.   My stroke had done massive damage as it cut his aorta, trachea and esophagus.  His chest cavity was filling with blood and bile as his brain lost oxygen.  He made eye contact with a hateful look, as he collapsed like a tree falling.  I quickly moved driving the point of my katana into his eye in a killing strike.

Now I came out of my tunnel vision to look around for other threats.  His partner was still pinned to the tree.  I stepped forward, slashing his throat then pulled him loose. He sagged lifelessly to the ground. 

I shoved the point of my Katana in the soft ground as I half collapsed against a tree.  The adrenaline, leaving my body, left me shaking.  The incident was over before there was any time for me to think, only to react.  I patted myself, looking for a cigarette.  The makings must still be in the pack…

I walked across the road but apparently my two were alone.  Rolling the two bodies over, I cuffed their wrists behind their backs.    First I dragged the ‘greasy’ one out onto the road; then, using my rope tied around his ankles, I laboriously hauled the hammer-wielding giant over next to him. 

It was time to look at this situation more carefully.  They were preparing to deploy their ambush -- a heavy rope hawser strung between a couple of big trees, spanning the road four to six feet off the ground.  Greasy had a bronze short sword, with a horn re-curve bow and several barbed headed arrows lying in the grass, while the giant had his hammer and a small dagger on his belt.

On a hunch I checked their feet.  Greasy had hobnailed leather boots while the Giant had sandals.  BIG sandals! 

I pulled off their footwear and walked further down the road, toward the woods boundary.  I found a vast mud puddle along the road’s edge.   The sandal tracks led into it, then the hammer grounded and the sandals backed out.  Giant was in the puddle before he realized.  Seemed to indicate that they walked in along the road before sunrise when the water was probably quite chilly on his ‘less than dainty’ toes.   A bit farther and I found another muddy spot that had a boot heel print that matched the one in my hand from my greasy antagonist.  I pondered the situation, slowly walking back to the ambush site. 

Kneeling down, I used my folding plier tool to unscrew the ringed broad head sticking out of greasy’s back, then jerking the quarrel shaft loose.  The ringed broad head went in my pouch while the bent shaft tucked in back of my belt as I reloaded my crossbow.

While I was engaged I heard the sounds of horses splashing through the swamp water that was over the road.  Many horses.   We spotted each other at the same time.

They were half dozen lancers cantering abreast.  With a loud shout, they lowered their spears to horizontal and kicked their horses into a gallop.  The thunder of their hoofs was deafening in the quiet of the woods, while the sun glinted off the shiny blue black spear points. 

Continued in Chapter 7

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