Dark clouds skittered across the face of the moon as the nimble young man stealthed to the bottom of the hill. With grace that was eerily feline the figure in the hooded black cloak abandoned his hillside blind and studied the wagon ruts in the grass. He grimly noted the all too human footprints of the “draft animals” used to pull the carts as well. Pale gray eyes flashed as they examined the stand of woods the wagon track disappeared into. The dark figure drew short bow and quiver from within his cloak and set arrow to bowstring.
Without a sound the shadow ghosted closer to the woods, every sense taunt with expectation.
Its not your fight! The practical part of his mind insisted. Why bother? The next inn will be just as good and a lot less risk….
But they’re slavers! He thought as he suppressed the inner tremor of terror that had been a part of the heritage of surviving a childhood in the slums of Pand’las. You know those wagons. Like the one that took...
At that instant all thought was abandoned as a stalking sliith at the edge of the woods 20 yards to his right caught his scent and hissed to its pack mates.
In an instant the youth drew and fired, and, as he had been trained, knocked his next arrow before the first had reached its target. The broad head of that missile had enough force behind it to punch through the lizard’s scaled chest. With a bark like cough the reptile fell, its four foot frame suddenly inert.
Within seconds three more of the muscular beasts had appeared, the spiked collars around their necks also proclaiming them to be a slavers’ pack as only the Brotherhood of the Chain ever trained the terrifying lizards..
As its mate nuzzled the cooling corpse one saurian made directly for the bowman while the other disappeared back into the woods. The charging lizard was so fast that only 10 yards separated it from its human prey when the arrow pierced its eye to bury itself in the lizard's brain.
The hissing threat display of the advancing female, fanged maw open while razor claws swiped the air, would usually have succeeded in capturing it's prey's attention, but this was not the first time the bowman had dealt with the hunting lizard. Spinning to his left he drew and fired just in time to pin 70 lbs of leaping death to the same tree it had just used as a launch platform.
Continuing the turn, he let go of the bow as he dropped to the ground while blindly thrusting the arrow in his hand into the space he had just abandoned. He was rewarded by the sounds of jaws snapping shut, a clawed swipe swishing through the empty air and a meaty “thunk” as the arrow hit the side of the charging reptile.
Rolling away from the wounded pack hunter, the cloaked man smoothly drew his black short sword as he sprang to his feet. Realizing he only had the time to do this because the sliith was worrying the arrow lodged behind its foreleg; he scanned the woods edge for some piece of geography he could put between himself and the wounded beast.
There was no cover that he could reach before the speedy saurian made a meal of him, but in an inspired moment he coiled as though to leap away from the lizard. Wise to the way of its human prey, thesliith instantly sprang to catch its meal in mid air. The ripping sound of its belly opening was the last noise the reptile heard as the black blade struck from below. Instead of leaping up, the cloaked figure had dropped straight to his back and thrust upwards as the lizard passed overhead.
UGH! This needs to be washed! The youth thought as he glanced at the blood and gore now covering the front of his shirt and pants. With a grimace he rolled the worst of the mess off in the grass and retrieving his bow, went among the dead reptiles, using his dagger to pry out the four major fangs of each lizard.
Be worth something, I bet. He thought as he wiped blade and hands in the grass. He considered skinning the saurians or taking their claws, but rejected the idea. Naww, Too much work. And Mess. He thought as he wrinkled his nose at the smell.
*********
The slavers' watch post was well chosen. While he was high enough in the oak tree to command a wide view of the surrounding woods, he would also escape the notice of anyone traveling below. Unfortunately, instead of keeping his location secret by answering the call of nature against the side of the tree, the bored watchman had chosen to piss off the edge of his perch. The sound of his stream striking the detritus of the woodland floor told the cloaked figure where his quarry was.
The enchanted boots that the mage Livinia had supplied when she first hired him for "retrievals" allowed the young man to run up the tree as though it were horizontal rather than vertical. Even if the watcher hadn't been preoccupied amusing himself by making swirling patterns in the air he would not have had time to do much more than shout as the figure in black raced up behind him. As it was, the garrote around his neck deprived him of both the chance to cry out and quickly thereafter, his life.
Noting that the dead slaver's crossbow was loaded with a blunt tipped ceramic whistling bolt, the cloaked figure again pulled his short bow and quiver from his cloak. While the slaver's weapon served the dual purpose of crippling any runaway slave while warning all of the escape attempt, the rogue's own weapon was both quieter and more deadly. From his high vantage point he sighted in on the pair on horseback whowere patrolling the perimeter of the clearing where the slavers had set up their camp. When they were at the greatest distance away from the wagons he took a deep breath, aimed, fired, drew a second time and released.
On the forest floor below, the first arrow hit the rider at the junction of neck and shoulder and disappeared up to its feathers in the torso. As the now dead slaver's partner turned at the sound of the impact, the second arrow went through the back of his head, momentarily crossing his eyes as the shaft erupted from the middle of his face. The bowman watched as one after the other the dead bodies silently slid from their saddles.
The next to die was the guard on the roof of the farthest wheeled slave cage. The moon emerged from behind the clouds to give the archer an ideal shot at the hairy man swigging from a clay pot. After receiving the cloaked archer's gift, the drinking figure slumped onto his crossbow without making a sound. At that moment the high pitched whistle of the sliith handler called for his charges to return from their prowl. The camp held its collective breath as it waited for the dreaded hunting lizards to return.
He'll have a long wait the cloaked man thought. He aimed and fired at the guard atop the other slave wagon. Unfortunately this arrow took the woman through the stomach, hitting with enough force to pierce the flimsy roof of the cage below her. Before she could do more than moan, a fast reacting slave in the cage below grabbed the head of the arrow and pulled. The pain of the shaft being drawn through her guts caused the slaver to pass out before she could cry out.
This did not mean that the attack went unnoticed however, as the trainer in his sliith skin leathers dropped his whistle and grabbed a crossbow while scanning the upper reaches of the forest. As he opened his mouth to shout directions to the other slavers he swallowed a missile from his own watch post.
It took the cloaked archer 3 arrows to bring down the lumbering behemoth who was the last to rise from the campfire. While the other two figures had grabbed crossbows and immediately dove for cover, the largest of the group apparently thought he was invincible. Whether it was a lifetime of bullying helpless captives, an unwarranted faith in the defensive power of the bearskin draped across his massive shoulders or simply far too much wine, the largest of the group did not seem in a particular hurry to find cover. The cloaked bowman demonstrated the fatal flaw in the giant's choice of action.
Of course, while he was feathering the big man the two remaining slavers were attempting to return the favor with their crossbows from beneath the gypsy wagon that the archer surmised must belong to the "elder brother" of the troop. The screaming bolt shattering on the trunk of the tree beside him while the other whistled by his head convinced the cloaked figure to abandon his exposed position. Putting away bow and now empty quiver, he put the trunk of the tree between himself and his opponents, tipped the dead watchman out of the tree and silently returned to the forest floor.
"Did we get him? Something fell! Gods! He killed Rondar and..."
"Shut up!" hissed the more experienced slaver. While his partner clutched his now empty weapon like some form of protective talisman, Bhurut managed to get his foot in the stirrup and recock his crossbow, reloading it with the envenomed bolt that he had always kept against the sliith reverting to their wild state.
Ignoring his terrified partner, Bhurut opted not to be a stationary target and crawled out from under the wagon on the side away from the over watch post. After crawling several feet he rose to a crouch, scanning in every direction possible. He was planning on circling around behind the bowman in order to ambush the ambusher when he heard movement in the woods off to his left. He froze, searching to his left but seeing nothing, he suddenly spun around to his right. Unable to find his target, he was so startled by a rock crashing down next to him that he accidentally fired his crossbow into the ground.
Snarling as he dropped the now useless weapon Bhurut pulled the net and cudgel which were the tools of his trade. "C'mon, you bast..." THUNK
The sling bullet which struck between his eyes ended both conversation and life.
The cloaked figure smiled grimly as he put away the first weapon he had ever mastered, the simple sling which had been a key to his survival in the slums. As he thought Just like the Black Rats of Jubal’s zone…his revere was interrupted by a movement in the grass at his feet. Quick as a cat he leaped up and as he landed, trapped the head of the patch snake beneath his boot.
“Bhurut! Hey Bhurut, where are ya?”
Finding sudden inspiration in the cracking voice of the slaver beneath the wagon, the cloaked figure grabbed the snake’s tail and quickly unwound it from around his shin. He then grabbed the furious reptile behind its head and edged silently closer to the wagon.
“Bhurut! You rutter, if you left me I swear I’ll AAAAAAIIIEEEE!”
The screech of the remaining slaver demonstrated that the enraged snake had focused its fury at being trapped and thrown under the wagon on the nearest victim possible.
******
Before he had a chance to check any of the bodies the cloaked figure caught a glimpse through the trees of a figure running through the woods. Ignoring the cries for freedom of the occupants of the slaver’s cages the young man in black sprinted after the fleeing shape. Neither figure made much noise as they ran though woods only intermittently illuminated by moonlight, but as the pursuer gained ground, his quarry made more noise as he struggled to escape. Finally the woods thinned as the pair approached the back of a large 2 story Inn . When the pursued (a slaver come to investigate the alarm whistles of the crossbow bolts) stopped and drew breath to scream for help from his guild brothers within he was interrupted by the throwing blade which suddenly sprouted from his back. He collapsed with no more noise than a sigh.
Finding only three silvers on the body, the young man retrieved his throwing blade with a sigh of his own. After a second’s thought he climbed the wall and entered a darkened bedroom window on the Inn ’s upper floor.
Making his way silently through the darkened room might have been a greater challenge had it not been for the cloaked figure’s career experience as a thief. He cracked the door to find he was on a balcony for the three upstairs rooms, overlooking a large L shaped common room. That he shared the perch with three slavers armed with crossbows daunted the young man not at all. The crossbowmen were laughing at the bound innkeeper being slowly hanged above his horrified family as one of his screaming daughters was molested by a pair of rowdies, currently in the process of removing their britches.
Because the balcony guards found this tableau of rape and murder so uproariously funny they died laughing as the cloaked man silently stepped up and snapped the neck of one and then quickly back stabbed each of the remaining pair.
With no hesitation he took a crossbow in each hand, fired one into a muscular slaver hauling on the innkeeper’s rope, fired the second into one of the pantless rapists and then threw both empty weapons down the stairs at a shocked slaver only beginning to realize his guildmates were under attack.
Vaulting the balcony railing the cloaked man landed lightly on a long table before the open hearth. As the table’s single occupant rose, the cloak figure’s kick drove the slaver’s jawbone into his brain, silencing one voice in the growing din by killing him instantly. For his trouble the cloaked man caught a solid blow to the ribs from a thrown cudgel. As he doubled over in pain a second weighted club narrowly missed his head.
That's not good an internal voice whispered through the pain of multiple broken ribs. The two who had launched the clubs at him were now wielding iron shod quaterstaves and moving into position to use their long weapons to best advantage. Despite the fiery pain in his side, a detached part of his mind compared the way the pair split up to the way the sliith had attacked moments earlier
Knowing that the slavers made their livelihood through their expertise with incapacitating weapons the cloaked man knew to first eliminate the flanker who would doubtless attack low, attempting to knock him off his feet. Drawing a dagger from his right boot while still doubled over, the cloaked man released it with a quick flick of his wrist, wounding his target in the shoulder badly enough to make him drop his weapon. As the staff wielder directly in front of the man in black used the momentary distraction to take a step forward in preparation for a devastating overhead smash, his foot came down on a goblet perfectly rolled by the innkeeper's daughter and fell on his ass.
Fistulus, had seen enough. The mage jumped up and shouted a mystical incantation while executing a complicated series of gestures with his hands. Even with aid of a crystal ball the gray bearded magic user could not possibly have envisioned the next sequence of events. The young man in the black cloak stood and wincingly drew his shortsword (for all the good that would do him) just as the mage released a lightning spell that he intended would cook the agile interloper in his own fat. So end all who dare to challenge the might of the Brotherhood of the Chain, the spell slinger thought. Except instead of frying the young man was simply standing there as his sword seemed to draw in the arcane energy of the lightning bolt like a sponge.
Before Fistulus could come to grips with what he had just seen the young man, now unbothered by his broken ribs, seemed to blur and the mage felt the icy sting of the void as the black sword passed through his chest. For infinitely long seconds the mage’s accumulated store of magical potential drained into the midnight blade. His time in the underworld began with an indescribable pain that would never end.
Despite the shock of the sudden death of the powerful magic user the remaining rapist had used the last seconds to pull up his pants and grab the quarterstaff from the wounded flanker. He joined the remaining staff wielding slaver who was picking himself off the floor. He felt sure that they could obey Lord Marat’s furious shouted orders and keep the young swordsman at a distance while the elder brother completed his transformation. He winced at the sound of bones breaking and reforming behind him as the lycanthrope who directed this chain of slavers morphed from man to were beast.
At least, that was Sook’s thinking as he assumed an en garde position with the staff. Then he too briefly experienced the visual phenomenon of the cloaked figure moving so fast that he seemed to blur just prior to the black short sword reducing his height by the length of his head. An instant later the last standing slaver also fell, with an additional hole in his wardrobe courtesy of the black blade.
*****
The lycanthrope let out a blood curdling howl as it surveyed the remains of its troop. It looked like a black wolf grown to the height of a man but the malice behind its eyes spoke to an intelligence that true animals never achieved. The rogue circled slowly so that he was between the were beast and the Innkeeper’s huddled family.
The wolf issued a low growl raising the hackles on all who heard it. Suddenly lurching forward the beast snapped at its adversary who nimbly jumped back and out of the way. The wolf then batted a bench with one huge paw and sent it skittering across the floor. As the young swordsman attempted to avoid the flying furniture the wolf leaped to attack. The cloaked man cut wildly at the wolf’s muzzle, fully expecting to be bowled over by the mass of the charging beast. Instead when blade met flesh there was a flash of light and it was a naked man, screaming in pain that careened into the swordsman.
Both figures scrambled to their feet “What have you done?” screamed Lord Marat as he felt the gash across the bridge of his nose.
Before the stunned swordsman could answer the Slave Lord’s head began to morph back into that of a gigantic wolf. The lycanthrope, his body sprouting fur, backhanded his opponent and then stood over the prone figure. Failing to complete the transformation to a full wolf worked in the were’s favor as a taloned hand rather than a wolf’s paw which reached down to lift his disarmed opponent to the slavering lupine maw awaiting above.
The cloaked figure kicked up with both feet, striking the monster in the groin and throwing it backwards. The man-wolf’s high pitched whine of agony demonstrated that there were also some severe disadvantages to its hybrid form. The swordsman scrambled to retrieve his weapon and threw it like a spear as he charged back at the were beast.
The wolf thing caught the blade before it pierced his chest but as his taloned hands closed on the blade there was another flash of light and Spellcutter drained the lycanthrope’s magic, turning him back into a naked man.
“How?” The Slave master asked as the swordsman grabbed the hilt of the weapon and spun.
It was a question Lord Marat’s shade would have an eternity to contemplate as the gore covered youth swung his black blade through one side of the lycanthrope’s neck and out the other. The look of incredulity on the face remained as the youth kicked the head into the burning hearth.
*******
In the deafening silence that followed the young man blew out a huge breath and sat down. Surveying the carnage of the common room he ironically delivered the standard greeting of all wayfarers in the Greenway.
“Gods bless all here.”
Farnum, the innkeeper, got slowly to his feet and removing the noose from around his neck, whispered back “And all who travel through”
Pulling back the hood of his cloak the young man revealed short dark hair and a handsome face. Surprisingly, he looked to be younger than 20 years old and the only thing which marred his beardless square chin was an inch long scar at its center.
While the Farnums all embraced and assured each other that they had survived, the young man went to the water barrel in the corner and drank down several ladles of liquid. He then did his best to wash the blood from his face and hands. He seemed more concerned with his own cleanliness than with the carnage he had wrought.
The innkeeper, a bear of a man, obviously shaken by the events of the last hour, had meanwhile gone behind the bar, taken out a bung starter and was insuring the cloaked figure’s work was complete by the simple expedient of bashing in each and every one of the slaver’s heads.
When the young man began searching the bodies for coins and he heard the innkeeper’s wife start bringing order out of chaos.
“Kyle, John, you two begin striping those bodies. We’re probably going to need every stitch for those wretches in the cages. Susan, are you all right child? Well go get some clothes on….and take the little ones up to my room. Janey, get mop and bucket and some rags. Thomas, you’ll need to get the tools from the barn, your father is going to need help with the chains….What, Robby?.....No, I want you to watch over the little ones…. Yes, I know you are but….”
As the drone of the detailed instruction went on, the cloaked figure tuned them out and pulled a ring off the finger of the dead mage. This was made considerably easier by the fact that the corpse seem to be desiccating away by the second. Just like Livinia, the young rogue thought as he checked the inner pockets of the magic user's belt. He quickly palmed the four gold coins he found. That's more like it. When he found no purse or weapons among Lord Marat's clothes he thought Terrifying slave lord or not, he must have something. Let's check his wagon.
*********
The gypsy wagon the slave lord called his own looked fairly unprepossessing, but the rogue spent several minutes studying the door. He ignored the victims in the cage wagons begging for their freedom. When he suspected a magical trap, he decided on a cautious approach. Noting the patch snake’s venom had left the corpse beneath the wagon as stiff as a board, he hoisted up the body of the noisy slaver and propped it against the door whose lock he had just picked. Taking one of the slavers ubiquitous quaterstaves he then stood back and used it to push the corpse through the door.
As soon as the door opened and the body fell over the threshold there were a series of 3 loud bangs and a crossbow bolt shot out of the cabin. Really didn't want visitors the young man thought as he stepped over a smoking corpse that seemed to be turning to stone. Lighting the hanging lantern he searched the cabin, finding a chest and several large urns of some form of oil. They must have raided a caravan. He was about to start examining the chest when he was overcome by a huge yawn. Great. Tired and sloppy, you're going to try to crack the chest of a heartless bastard who you know uses magical traps. Smart!
With a sigh he pulled a small chime from a pocket of his cloak. Livinia told you it would beat both traps and locks, but it only had three charges, he thought. One on the bishop’s private quaters,, one on the chest in his sanctum...I hope this is worth it. He struck the chime and as the tone diminished the metal disintegrated. At the very end of the musical note he heard three distinct clicks.
The click in the wall opposite the door revealed a panel to a box which must have been built beneath the driver's seat. The rogue found and ignored several vellum sheets which he assumed where coded instructions and receipts for the Brotherhood of the Chain. He also found an unornamented and sheathed dagger as well as two scroll cases. Recalling how Feldie had blinded himself trying to see if the contents of a sealed scroll tube he tucked them unexamined into his cloak. Maybe I'll find a mage who will pay for them. He pulled the blade from its scabbard and thought, 6 silvers, maybe 7 if I’m lucky. This wasn't worth losing the chime. In frustration he stuck the point of the blade into the cabin wall and gasped as it slid in up to the quillions. Whoa. A lot more than 6 silvers. Maybe this was worth the chime. He thought as he effortlessly pushed the blade to the hilt in the thick roof beam. He was so impressed with piercing power of the blade he took off his own dag and hung the new weapon on his belt.
The second click had come from the floor of the wagon. the young man knew it was open but yawned and shook his head when he could not find how to make the floorboard move. Perfect. Even when itsunlocked you can't get it open. Well crap. Subtle don't work.... He pushed his new dagger into the floor until he was able to pry the cut piece of floor board out. Within the compartment he found a heavy sack of gold coins and more slaver's guild papers. He ignored the papers but the gold quickly disappeared into the enchanted cloak .Now that's more like it! he thought.
The chest was the biggest disappointment. It contained items that had obviously been taken from the slaver's victims. There were some bolts of cloth and a few minor pieces of jewelry but most of it was valuable only to the owners. Opening the Slave Master's wardrobe he found Lord Marat's purse and it, with a very fine pair of black leather gloves disappeared into his cloak.
Leaving the huge longbow he found, the rogue did appropriate both the accompanying quivers of arrows and they too disappeared into the enchanted pockets of his cloak.
He left the wagon and methodically checked each slaver's body for coins or other valuables. The wretches in the wagons continued to plead for freedom until he finally turned and said "Yes, Yes. Help's coming, now just be quiet, will you?" The slavers' corpses had only a handful of silvers between them. Tired and now itchy from the dried gore which encrusted his tunic and pants he returned to the inn
When he got there he found that the innkeeper and his sons had dragged the now naked bodies of the slavers out of the Inn and piled them on a cart. He even noted the slaver lord's charred skull in the pile. As he turned he found the Innkeeper hurrying to meet him. The young man inquired about a room.
"My lord, the best I have for as long as you may care to stay" Farnum gushed. "Anything you want, you....."
The young man interrupted with an upraised palm. "All I want now is a hot bath and a bed." he said as he started to enter the Inn . Then he stopped and said, "oh, and the people in the slaver's wagon need to be freed. And I'm no lord, just call me... Bast”
***********.
The knock at the door shook him from his pleasant doze. "What?" he asked.
"If you please Sir, me mum sent me up with more hot water and I'm to take your clothes for washing"
With a sigh he pulled himself out of the water and said "Just a minute". He then went to the door and removed the wedges that he had placed to prevent the door from being opened while he was relaxed and vulnerable. He was just sliding back into the water when a surprisingly pretty girl pushed the door open and lugged in a kettle of hot water. Both young people had the grace to pretend to ignore that she had come in quickly enough to see most of her guest before he was fully submerged.
For her part, Susan was already more than a little smitten with the dashing hero who had saved her from the slavers. The hard muscular body she'd just glimpsed made did nothing to diminish her infatuation.
Setting the kettle on the floor she grabbed his crusty clothes and vanished.
Well that’s a fine how-do-you-do. I’ve got to get up to get my own hot water! Stupid little nit.
He grumbled as he summoned up the energy to get back out of the tub. At that moment the girl re-entered and locked the door behind her.
“I thought you’d need help washing your back” she said softly as she began shedding her clothes. To his unvoiced raised eyebrow inquiry she replied “Don’t want to get my clothes wet.”
********
He awoke before dawn and found boots without disturbing his sleeping bedmate. He padded naked to the door and was relieved to find his clean clothes folded on a chair just outside his room. He quickly dressed and with a word the bronze torc around his neck resumed its true form as his enchanted cloak. Rather than deal with the freed slaves, the parents of the girl in his bed, the girl herself or any of the 1000 details that had resulted from last night’s adventures he opened the window and slipped out into the predawn darkness.
*********
