Blood and Iron - Chapter 8

Chapter 8

That went well – NOT!

I was back on my island hillock, sitting against a pine tree, with my cape intertwined in the boughs above me shedding the persistent drizzle, while the wood fire past my feet sputtered.

My Brunton Optimus backpacker’s cook stove was next to me under the canopy, heating my MRE and boiling the water for my tea, while the uncovered light crystal was on my opposite side. I’m an indifferent cook, but enough Tabasco seems to make almost anything better.  I mixed together the Beef Ravioli and Spaghetti with meat sauce rations in my one pot, and it was steaming hot.  My tin cup held boiling hot tea, with a generous slug of honey.  Eating by myself on top of this darkened hillside provided the opportunity to review recent events

My plan had been to disappear into the north woods and spend my time alone.  I needed that solitary time to get over the disaster that was our sham marriage and my betrayal by Bill and Natalie (The Bitch).   The disappear thing seemed to have been successful, but the hermit act was a dismal failure. 

I was in the company of more people than ever before, sexually involved with two slaves at Luther’s Inn, had killed two natives, and now the lovely Nadia and I were a ‘something’ and by way of her ruby ring I was up to my ass in a circumstance that looked, paddled, and quacked like some sort of a palace intrigue. 

A cold drop of water ran down the back of my neck, while I sat turning Nadia’s ruby ring over and over in my fingers.  How the fuck did she know that left to my own devices I’d have ‘blown off’ those gold coins and gone back to my reclusive existence in the cabin?

I still could!  I could toss this ring in the swamp, go back and turn the key, and just forget it ALL! 

Fucking Robert!

Right now he was sitting somewhere laughing his ass off.  He KNEW I’d never be able to turn that fucking key back once I got here.

I sat staring at the fire:  What key did Robert choose?  

Where did HE end up?  Once I was safely bundled off to the north woods cabin, I was betting that Robert had disappeared, through another convenient portal, to his chosen place of magic where he could lose that hated green oxygen bottle. 

Would I ever see my best friend again? 

Covering the light crystal, I settled in with my space blanket around my shoulders, staring at the fire until it or I went out.

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My eyes snapped open to a foggy landscape, the rain now reduced to a mist.   One disadvantage to my campsite in that swamp was that the fog always settled in the lowlands.  My makeshift shelter held up overnight, so I was dry, if not warm.   I boiled water for tea, quickly solving the warm part.  I crawled out to take care of my urgent morning business, then got the wood fire going. 

Standing next to the roaring fire, still wearing my space blanket cape, sipping my tea, I stared anew into Nadia’s ruby ring, trying to discern my next move. 

Nadia’s cavalry column was on their way to King Holm -- wherever the fuck that was.  Radcliff (The Blowhard) was likely stopping at every hamlet and crossing to show off those bodies.  He’d be eager to prove to the inhabitants that they were being well protected.    

Now I looked off into the fog.  Yeah, but then what…

Word would have to get back to the gang that the giant and bowman were dead.  They might or might not believe it.  How would they confirm it?  I stood in thought; one way for them might be to check the ambush site.  And that meant I needed to be somewhere, watching it.

Jesus, deeper and deeper into the quagmire.   I guess I’m not going back to my cabin anytime soon.

Camp was struck speedily after that.  The fire was quenched (not too tough in the rain) as I loaded the packsack.  Nadia’s ruby ring was tucked into the small medicine bag around my neck.   I slipped on my leather boots and threw on my rain cape.      

I must have looked quite hump backed with my pack under that cape, moving through the fog and mist.   Even with the lousy weather I was quickly back at the ambush site. Radcliff’s troops had taken the rope hawser along when they left with the two bodies.  

Standing on the road verge I was looking all around, finally searching up into the trees for a needed vantage to observe this spot.   I spotted a tall oak tree, well back from the clearing that seemed to have an open sightline.  I moved under it as I shrugged out of my pack.  The crossbow was tied to the pack, as the rain cape came off, while the ghilley suit went on.

The rain slicked tree trunk was not going to be a treat to climb, and falling would lead to very bad things.  I dug into the pack for my Ashiko and Shuko, my hand and foot claws.  Tying off a line to my pack on my belt took only a few seconds, and, finally out of excuses, I started up the greasy bark.  Fear lent me strength and speed; it took only moments for me to reach the lofty tree limb that I selected. 

While there were ample leaves and branches to break up my silhouette and camouflage me, they did not seem to interfere with my seeing the ambush clearing and the road in front of it. My soaring aerie allowed observation of an extended stretch of the forest road.  

I tied a makeshift flip line around the tree trunk, then dragged my pack up out of sight.   Sitting on my bough with my brass telescope, I carefully glassed the target area, then I sat quietly (not necessarily patiently) to observe the traffic on the road.   I was depending on the foliage, my ghilley suit and (mostly) the natural tendency not to look up to keep me unobserved and unpunctured.

As I sat sipping my water and chewing on an energy bar, I saw several groups of armed horsemen pound by.  They did not slow, pause, or so much as look at the site as they trotted past.   I continued to sit and wait unmoving.  I dislike still hunting but I can do it, if necessary.  With much bitching, complaining and whining, I can do it.  I did mention it was still raining?  Thought so.

It was soon dusk and I was beginning to think that I had misjudged my quarry when a wagon heaped with straw and pulled by a yoke of oxen slowly moved up the road.  An old man in a long tattered robe limped along next to it tapping the ox with his staff.    For lack of anything better to do, I focused my telescope on him at full magnification, as he moved in and out of my sightline among the trees.  Imagine my surprise when I discovered he was wearing a broadsword under his robe.  Then I noticed that he’d occasionally forget to limp as I followed his slow progress.  

Finally he was in front of me, right at the ambush site.  He stopped the wagon right by the clearing, making a great show of adjusting the yokes and harness of his oxen. 

A movement from the wagon drew my eye.  There was a hiding place under the straw as two men crawled out from underneath the wagon.  I focused my spyglass on them, looking at them, carefully finally studying their faces.   Both were well armed but unkempt, with skulking demeanors as if always up to something illicit.  They seemed even less comfortable in these woods than others I’d seen.   Their words back and forth removed any doubt that I was observing a part of the band of highwaymen.

I Listened to them swearing and talking.  They were exhibiting no skills of the woodsmen or trackers as they tried to figure out what happened to their comrades.  The rain had obliterated the obvious signs of my encounter, and they were having no luck at all with deciphering the rest. Walking back and forth, tossing cigarette butts on the ground, was not helping their efforts.

Finally the drover became impatient to know ‘when they could get moving.’  He clearly did not want to give an explanation of what he was doing out here in the big woods after dark.  Maybe he just did not want to be out here in the big woods after dark. 

I saw little likelihood of his having to explain.  Even smart as Nolan or Trevor, they’d ride right past this slow moving straw wagon without a second glance. 

The red headed one they called Tor told Jeremy the drover to turn the wagon around.  Then he asked Harold if he’d seen enough.    Harold pitched an absolute bitch, yelling and swearing.   Finally he calmed enough to ask Tor what the fuck could have happened to his brother Henry.  Now I began to see Harold’s strong resemblance to the greasy man I’d killed, right down to the bronze short sword and scraggly teeth. 

I could hear them plainly as Tor said, “That fucking Radcliff had Big Hammer on display at the crossroads.  They say there was one more fucking body, likely your brother.  Who knows how they got’em, maybe it was that fucking Logan, the king’s assassin.  Somebody got a fucking look, said they was shackled behind.  Fuck knows who belongs to those chains.  Maybe some fucking answers at The Raising. Until we know more, we just make god damn sure we have more of us at the traps from now on.  Now lets get the fuck out of here.”

Jeremy carefully swung the oxcart around without tipping it and halted in the middle of the road, just as Tor dragged Harold under the wagon and into their hiding place. Impatient Jeremy gave the oxen a good crack with his stick to get them moving.  They being oxen, that got him a bellow of annoyance, much head shaking, an attempted kick, and the same slow walk. 

I was in motion as soon as they were started down the road.  First I lowered the pack, then once I was past, the limbs and forks used the flip line to power down the tree trunk.  I think my foot claws touched bark twice as I dropped out of my perch. 

On the ground I paused, listening, but the soft ground, and Jeremy’s preoccupation with having to walk in the drizzle and the recalcitrant ox, meant I was undetected.

I quickly stuffed the ghilley and rain cape in the pack.  My Katana and crossbow would have to suffice for the immediate. My armor and mail was going to need a thorough cleaning by the time this was all over. 

I swung into the pack straps and moved out, keeping in the brush, paralleling the road just back from the slow moving wagon.  Even when I couldn’t see them, Jeremy’s constant complaining along with the wheels creaking led me

In fact, my fear was that I was being tolled along.  But no ambush was planned simply because they just did not expect to be followed. 

The woods darkened until the wagon was just a dark blob ahead of me.  I gave up trying to navigate through the brush, and just followed along on the edge of the road.   Jeremy stopped the wagon, and I faded into the ditch.  He dug around until he lit a candle inside a reflecting box.   Then he moved back up, grabbing the nose ring of his ox, leading them along the road.  I was on the opposite corner from the light, in the deep shadow cast by the straw pile while Jeremy had his night vision ruined by the lantern. 

As the woods thinned I began to worry about cover but the wagon just kept plodding along.  Suddenly at an almost indiscernible muddy track Jeremy turned the wagon off the forest road and to the muddy path.

Jeremy’s complaints ratcheted up, as he now had to hike in that sucking mud, stopping periodically to replace his sandals after he walked out of them.   I stayed up on the grass, ghosting along from weed clump to thicket as the wagon creaked along. 

We walked a couple of winding miles until the glow of lights announced our destination.  I stopped, crouched behind a low ruined stonewall, as Jeremy turned in the driveway.  He loudly ‘helloed the house,’ getting a mute wave from the cockeyed wood shutters facing the drive.

I dropped my pack, then slithered over the wall following the wagon to the crude barn.  Peering through a gap in the weathered boards, I watched Jeremy open a trap door in the barn floor as Tor and Harold passed him their weapons.  Jeremy carried them down a ladder and out of sight.  As Jeremy and Harold led the animals out of the barn, Tor closed, then artfully covered the trapdoor with straw.  He furtively peered over his shoulder, then stretched a piece of fine thread suspended over the flap.

Tor, Jeremy and Harold strode into the house, to be greeted loudly by an argumentative woman’s voice.  Tor yelled back addressing her as ‘woman’ with his own litany of complaints.

By this time, I was carefully standing an arm’s length back from the rotting shutters of the kitchen window, peering in on their domestic scene.  The three men were sitting at a rickety table while a buxom blonde dressed in mended and patched cotton dress stood with her hands on her hips letting Tor know, in no uncertain terms, that she was tired of life in this hovel.  Tor loudly told ‘woman’ that he wanted his food and drink immediately, while Jeremy and Harold looked like they wanted nothing more than quiet.  You could clearly hear the sound of the crockery she slammed down on the table even over their yelling, as I unobtrusively backed away.

Sliding over the wall, I scooped up my pack; moving across the road into a grove of trees, I paused to take stock.

I could find a king’s soldier, show him the Nadia Ruby, and swiftly earn one hundred silver coins when they raided this farmstead.  Hell, they’d probably even give me the gold coins for the bad guys they found.  The only problem was that robbers were unaccounted for.    I knew, from examining the ambush sites, that there were more people in this conspiracy.  Where were they hiding?

Digging in my pack I pulled out my rain cape.  I uncovered just a sliver of my light crystal as I marked my map with the location of the robber’s nest.   Leaving most of my gear, I hung up the pack in the crown of a tree, well back from the muddy path, then walked briskly back down the mucky lane and further along the highway, away from the forest. 

As I walked, the trees thinned giving way to broad open fields.  Looking in the distance, I saw a single building with a glow coming from every window.  Closer, the noise sounded like any tavern.

My crossbow was on my back, with my Katana in my left hand as I pushed open the door, stepping into the hot, smoky, and loud interior.  No bar, simply a couple tables pushed together, with more rude tables scattered about, and benches and stools shoved against them. 

A fat man in a white apron with a cudgel shoved in his back pocket presided over the room.  He shouted a greeting that I answered quietly.  When I asked about food he held up two fingers.  I dug in the pocket of my rain cape and brought out three coppers carefully setting two on the tabletop.   The fat man drew an ale.  I retreated to a far corner of the room sipping my mug of ale.   I set my crossbow on the bench next to me, with my Katana leaning against the table. 

Shortly, I had a tin pot filled with stew, a wooden spoon, and a round loaf of bread sitting in front of me.  Not served by a cute slave, but by a hard-bitten cook with a cigarette permanently growing from one corner of his mouth.  I dug into the stew gratefully.  I’m no big fan of turnips, but there were nice chunks of actual beef.   I was tearing the bread apart and using it to sop up the juices from my second big tin pot full when a ferret faced little man walked up to my table pulled out the stool across from me and asked confidently, “Mind if I join you?”

I waited until his ass was just about planted as I said, “Yes, I mind very much. Go away.”

As I raised my Katana for emphasis he tipped over backward.   He had no sooner hit the floor on his back, than I was loudly rudely shoveling food into my mouth ignoring him.   I must have looked like I hadn’t eaten in a while.  No breakfast and the day’s strenuous activity, and I was fucking starved, so it wasn’t exactly an act. 

When I finally came up for air, the cook smiling now cleared the tin pot away, bringing me another ale, and sharing the big urn of pipe tobacco.  I stoked my pipe and slouched back, puffing quietly.  I didn’t have long to wait. 

The ferret was back, along with a greasy and scraggly toothed bastard who could only be related to Harold and the late unlamented Henry.    I looked up in utter boredom as he asked again if they could join me.  At my silent gesture, they sat down with big insincere smiles and much talk of the inhospitable weather   Ferret had an extra mug of ale that he placed in front of me.  I exhaled a colossal blue cloud of tobacco smoke in the ferrets face, and sat staring at them in absolute stillness. 

Now the ferret began to blather to fill the hush as he blurted, “This is Howard and I am Alvis.”

I kept my gaze on Alvis as I replied flatly, “I don’t remember asking,” and went into a great show of playing with my pipe. 

Instead of discouraging Alvis my rudeness only seemed to spur him.  Howard sat attentively like an eager spaniel, as Alvis continued to chatter about the weather and road conditions, not very subtly pumping me about my recent travels. He was trying his devious best at finding out where I came from, and who or what the fuck I was.  I had no answers, not talking at all.  

Finally with a tired yawn, I started to get up.  Howard finally spoke up in a querulous tone, asking, “Where ya going?”

I shrugged, saying serenely, “To find a hay stack to sleep in.”

Alvis immediately protested, “But you can sleep in the tavern’s haymow for nothing.”

Giving Alvis an icy stare I said sternly, “Fuck you.  So I can get my throat cut for my last penny. No thank you.”

I was on my feet as Howard made a placating gesture, saying, “Finish your ale.  Hear us out, will you.  Would you like to make some money?”

At my nod, he continued, “I mean plenty of money.  Heaps of fucking money.  Easy money.”

Now he looked around as he leaned over the table towards me, saying in a conspiratorial whisper, “Just not necessarily legal money, mate.  Is that a problem?”

Continued in Chapter 9

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