Jester
Chapter 1 (continued)
Light the fuse and burn it up
Take the path that leads to nowhere
Matha fought back a sneeze.
The lack of rainfall had been bad for this forest-everything crackled. She hadn’t really noticed until now, crawling through the new-formed mud. The swift rain from this afternoon had pounded the ground wet, but summer-desiccated leaves still drifted down and swished through her hair like leathery old fingers.
This dress was hell.
It made sense, of course, to wear a dress. The Haderics were less likely to balk at the sight of a woman in a dress than a woman in fighting gear. The rest of her group looked just as ridiculous, dressed up as peasants of various occupations. She could only pray, darkly, that no one happened to ask them what those professions were-she was fairly certain Gethos had never tanned a hide, and she knew for a fact that Sava had never tilled a field. Flimsy disguise at best.
She must have made a disgusted sound in the back of her throat, because Sava glanced back at her from his position a few feet ahead.Irritably, she waved a hand silently, no danger.
He flicked her a rude gesture and then turned his attention forward again, watching the quiet camp, just missing the horrible face she sent his way.
Matha settled back to wait for the signal.
One guard.
He looked mostly asleep, too.
Incredulous, Savarid glanced over at Callub, who shrugged, nonplussed. Neither of them, for all their squinting, could locate any guard in the camp.
Of course, their view was compromised by their position. Couldn’t see anything, really, outside of dusty bracken and drowning bushes, up to their knees in mud that would be hard to explain away.
Couldn’t see-so get up, stupid.
Silently, Savarid berated himself for being an idiot, even as he signaled his intentions to Callub. The pale man hesitated, as if reading the finger-signs wrong, and then blanched in a decidedly don’t you dare manner.
That done, Savarid cast around for an acceptable tree.
A half-dead oak was bent over, as if struck by lightening. The long trunk rested firmly between two branches of it’s nearby neighbor. The tree was dead, but the other was fully alive and provided a good cover of trees.
A good thing, then, that Savarid had learned to climb trees at such a young age.
He sidled up to the tree, and slowly crawled up it, glancing repeatedly around it towards the campfire.
The sentry didn’t move.
There was one tense moment, halfway up the tree, where his hand lost it’s handhold and slipped, skidded roughly over the bark and breaking into a bloody weal. Savarid managed not to curse, but the loss of balance sent his foot slipping on its perch and nearly compromised the whole endeavor with an ominously loud creak.
The sentry jerked, and Savarid held perfectly still.
From his position halfway up the tree, he couldn’t see his men behind him. And the sentry shouldn’t be able to see him.
For a few breathless moments, he hung there, half up a tree, waiting for the sentry to relax again.
The guard stared around the darkness past his campfire, listening, even suspiciously sniffing the air like a basset hound.
Savarid wracked his memory for all the fairy tales told about the Haderics-was a phenomenal sense of smell one of those tales? Blood was dripping down his hand and oozing up his arm, but he didn’t dare let go again.
Eventually, the sentry relaxed and Savarid risked one last jump up the tree, landing in the broken crux of trunk and tree.
A good spot.
And the camp was certainly asleep.
They were pretty comfortable out here-comfortable enough to set up tents instead of just bedrolls. Were they planning on staying here long?
He squinted against the unpleasant glare of the fire, peering into the shadows as well as he could. Even the horse picket was quiet.
Too quiet.
Holding his breath, he inched further out along the dead tree trunk, twisting around to hide behind a swath of living foliage. Six tents for twenty men?
The group had split up.
Hellfire.
Which meant that, if the Haderics had two men to a tent like past experience had said, there were now eight men out wandering around in the dark and about to run into the other groups at any moment.
They had to get out of here and fast.
Savarid started sliding backwards until something bright caught his eye.
Frowning, he belly-crawled forward again, ducking down and wishing he could toss his hair out of the way-it hadn’t stayed in the braid long.
Yes, that was bright, a bright color there on the horse picket, by the dapple gray. Good horse. Running stock, with the deep chest of a trotter. No mane. Still saddled.
Teal coat.
Teal coat-talebearer.
A talebearer in the camp of a boarder patrol?
Talebearers worked for the king of a given country, and carried his Spoken Word to their recipients, acting with every bit of the king’s power until the word was given and received. They were an elite, dangerous group of very small numbers, and extremely well protected. They usually road with six Armband guards apiece, if the news was important.
Six guards.
There had been twenty men.
Anxious, Savarid scanned the horse picket again. Six horses, and another three for pack, but a long, empty piece of rope stretching across another set of trees and oh hell, enough for eight horses.
Enough for another talebearer and his Armbands.
And one extra, but Savarid wasn’t interested in that last person. Could be anyone, a trainee, a prentice, even a scribe. Talebearers had a high mortality rate.
For the briefest of moments, Savarid was confused. Why would a talebearer have his Armband set a village on fire?
Talebearers had the authority of the king they served. So the Haderic king ordered this massacre, and probably dozens of others all over the countryside, but where was the talebearer headed?
It didn’t matter.
All that mattered was the standing order from Savarid’s father: catch a talebearer and kill him, no question. If it was possible, get his message, but that wasn’t likely, considering most talebearers committed suicide before anyone but the intended heard the message.
The only way to ensure the message wasn’t delivered was to kill the messenger and this wasn’t just a diversion any more, they were going to have to fight.
With considerably less care than before, Savarid slipped down the tree and slunk back to the others, heart already beating fast.
“What’s the plan?”
“Kill the bluecoat. First priority. Disable the Armbands if you can, but kill ‘em if you must. We’ve got to get out of this and get the others to safety.”
“Let me do the talking.”
“Go on, Gethos. Let’s get moving.”
The living shadows slipped through the trees.
It was madness, but the thrill of a good fight had Matha’s blood up and pounding.
Talebearer.
You got golds for those, points for the kills of enemy talebearers you scored. You got mention. You got recommendation.
Uneasily, he brain gnawed at the idea.
What was a talebearer doing out here?
Didn’t matter, because Gethos was getting up and staggering into the clearing, bold as you please, and there wasn’t any time to do anything but grip her knives and wait, tensed to spring.
The guard had never been so frightened in his life, as silly as it sounded. He was a greenie, on a maiden tour, and a strange man staggering suddenly out of the darkness was enough to frighten anyone.
He jerked to attention, hand falling on the hilt of his sword, his mouth open to yell when-
“It’s all right! It’s all right, thank gods, I found you-shush, don’t wake the others-“
In utter astonishment, the guard shut his mouth and stared at the man.
Short, dark haircut in a scraggly braids that rat tailed down his back. He was wearing filthy farm clothes and had bags under his eyes.
“It’s all right. I’m on your side, your side I swear. Your talebearer’s bringing me a message.”
“You’re the duke of Rethember…?” The guard asked, blinking in astonishment that a nobleman would appear in such a…state. But then, they were barbarians here.
The man blinked, then nodded slowly. “Yes. I need to see your talebearer. Which tent is he?”
A transparent ruse and the guard was awake enough to say, “Wait a moment, the duke-“
Then the stranger leaped forward and the world winked out.
_________
Part one of the battle sequence. I suck at action, so it'll be a little while before I can sort out the images in my head and get them on paper. And figure out where this story is taking me. I think I"m on a roller coaster->.>
A quick word: Calvaran society is brutal. So yes, we're playing assassins becuase we've been at war for years and we've learned the hard way that playing nice and fair gets you bruised in the end.
Just remember that.
I'll post again when I have the battle sequence down.
Probably two more updates left in Chapter One, depending on how the battle goes. THen we're off to Chapter Two, and Savarid says he's interested in going and meeting this duke...o.o
-Irene V