[Wild Roses] Trickwood Unification
Title: box traps
'Verse/characters: Trickwood Unification; a tributary baroness, Ruadhan, Ettore, others
Prompt: 21D "war"
Word Count: 892
Notes: after the incident with the crocodile, before the incident with the tiger.
She rose at dawn, went, as always, to the window before she dressed, to see what the new day was, at its beginning. The window was narrow, too small for a man to fit through--she might, if she had to, but there was nowhere to go if she did--and faced upriver. Trouble came from upriver, fortune came from down, and she always looked for the bad news before the good.
There were boats on the river, well up from the keep, and she smiled to see them. They would have passed the harbour, to get up there, and there would be goods to trade or use, when she came downstairs.
The hills above the river were a haze of rainbows, implying it was raining, or at least misting, up on the mountains out of sight. She could hear guns roaring, somewhere in the distance, but the flashes were invisible.
Rain in the hills meant floods on the plain. Again. She heaved a sigh, made a mental note to send word to get everything to high ground, just in case, as she dressed and made her way down into the heavily fortified section of the keep.
"What's the take?" she asked when she arrived in the counting room, her skirts partially kilted up to show her heavy boots and the gun holstered at her hip.
"Take?" the man at the desk asked blankly, "There's been no-one through in days, lady."
"What?" She frowned. "But there are boats upriver!"
He spread his hands helplessly, was about to speak, when one of the harbour guns went off in a screaming wail.
"Flood and fire," she whispered, then shouted "Invasion! To your post!"
The man ran. She ran, too, in a different direction, heading for the armoury, ripping her skirt off as she did.
That Winter-born Sabaey must have managed something, found a canal or a secondary tributary for the traders to route themselves through, cut her off from her supply lines and her bargaining power. Bastard. She'd send word to her nearest rivals, once she fought this off, see if she could scrounge up a temporary alliance to crush the city boy.
She slung a belt with eight magazines along her hips, silently cursing the man who'd forgotten to load the last two spaces, and checked the rifle over quickly before she slammed a magazine home.
There was a growl behind her and she whipped around, rifle automatically rising to her shoulder, snugged into place and finger just barely off the trigger.
A big grayish wolf grinned at her, all teeth and tongue, anything but friendly.
"Hi," said a deep man's voice, and she jerked half-around, trying to keep the wolf in view while she looked around for the next surprise.
"I'm Ruadhan Sabaey," the voice continued, and a dark haired man with very blue eyes stepped into her view, a shotgun hanging from his back and a sword at his hip.
"Oh, no," she said, and he grinned, far friendlier than the wolf but just as dangerous.
"Oh, yes." He flicked a hand at her, and the rifle was torn out of her grip by invisible fingers, carried to his open hand and deposited there with an audible smack of wood and skin.
The wolf paced a handful of steps away, became with distressing ease a tall, lanky man with hostile eyes. She wondered how many of his kin she'd had killed, over the years, to make him look like that at her.
"Ettore," said the Sabaey, and the wolf-man looked at him, lips suddenly over his teeth. "Go away for a minute."
"If you kill her, I want to watch," the wolf-man said, and turned away, sliding back down onto four feet and trotting away, up the stairs.
She started to say something, but the Sabaey shook his head. "Lady, we gave you a full hand of chances to reconcile with us. The last one, you shot at two of my brothers."
Without moving, he made her back up a pace. "Last choices, lady," he said, and she wondered how she'd die, shot or drowned or given to the wolf, when he held out a hand.
"One. You join us. You'd answer to my brother, and this habit you have of taking half the cargo of the traders who come up this river would stop. Two. You go to another of the barons, you and any of yours who follows you, and likely we'll have this conversation again, in a few years, when we come to their doorstep or their dock. Three," he gave her a grim smile. "You die, here, and we take your keep and your guns and your people, and there's nothing you can do about it."
" . . How long do I have?" she had to ask, because he was still holding her rifle like a child's toy, casual and careless. He didn't need it to kill her, and they both knew it, he could snap her like a twig if she didn't get the drop on him, and she suspected now that she wouldn't. Not now.
"Until our boats arrive," he replied, gave her nothing more. She had less than a day, then, or maybe up to three if her boats gave theirs more trouble than they bargained for.
There was a way out of this. There had to be.
'Verse/characters: Trickwood Unification; a tributary baroness, Ruadhan, Ettore, others
Prompt: 21D "war"
Word Count: 892
Notes: after the incident with the crocodile, before the incident with the tiger.
She rose at dawn, went, as always, to the window before she dressed, to see what the new day was, at its beginning. The window was narrow, too small for a man to fit through--she might, if she had to, but there was nowhere to go if she did--and faced upriver. Trouble came from upriver, fortune came from down, and she always looked for the bad news before the good.
There were boats on the river, well up from the keep, and she smiled to see them. They would have passed the harbour, to get up there, and there would be goods to trade or use, when she came downstairs.
The hills above the river were a haze of rainbows, implying it was raining, or at least misting, up on the mountains out of sight. She could hear guns roaring, somewhere in the distance, but the flashes were invisible.
Rain in the hills meant floods on the plain. Again. She heaved a sigh, made a mental note to send word to get everything to high ground, just in case, as she dressed and made her way down into the heavily fortified section of the keep.
"What's the take?" she asked when she arrived in the counting room, her skirts partially kilted up to show her heavy boots and the gun holstered at her hip.
"Take?" the man at the desk asked blankly, "There's been no-one through in days, lady."
"What?" She frowned. "But there are boats upriver!"
He spread his hands helplessly, was about to speak, when one of the harbour guns went off in a screaming wail.
"Flood and fire," she whispered, then shouted "Invasion! To your post!"
The man ran. She ran, too, in a different direction, heading for the armoury, ripping her skirt off as she did.
That Winter-born Sabaey must have managed something, found a canal or a secondary tributary for the traders to route themselves through, cut her off from her supply lines and her bargaining power. Bastard. She'd send word to her nearest rivals, once she fought this off, see if she could scrounge up a temporary alliance to crush the city boy.
She slung a belt with eight magazines along her hips, silently cursing the man who'd forgotten to load the last two spaces, and checked the rifle over quickly before she slammed a magazine home.
There was a growl behind her and she whipped around, rifle automatically rising to her shoulder, snugged into place and finger just barely off the trigger.
A big grayish wolf grinned at her, all teeth and tongue, anything but friendly.
"Hi," said a deep man's voice, and she jerked half-around, trying to keep the wolf in view while she looked around for the next surprise.
"I'm Ruadhan Sabaey," the voice continued, and a dark haired man with very blue eyes stepped into her view, a shotgun hanging from his back and a sword at his hip.
"Oh, no," she said, and he grinned, far friendlier than the wolf but just as dangerous.
"Oh, yes." He flicked a hand at her, and the rifle was torn out of her grip by invisible fingers, carried to his open hand and deposited there with an audible smack of wood and skin.
The wolf paced a handful of steps away, became with distressing ease a tall, lanky man with hostile eyes. She wondered how many of his kin she'd had killed, over the years, to make him look like that at her.
"Ettore," said the Sabaey, and the wolf-man looked at him, lips suddenly over his teeth. "Go away for a minute."
"If you kill her, I want to watch," the wolf-man said, and turned away, sliding back down onto four feet and trotting away, up the stairs.
She started to say something, but the Sabaey shook his head. "Lady, we gave you a full hand of chances to reconcile with us. The last one, you shot at two of my brothers."
Without moving, he made her back up a pace. "Last choices, lady," he said, and she wondered how she'd die, shot or drowned or given to the wolf, when he held out a hand.
"One. You join us. You'd answer to my brother, and this habit you have of taking half the cargo of the traders who come up this river would stop. Two. You go to another of the barons, you and any of yours who follows you, and likely we'll have this conversation again, in a few years, when we come to their doorstep or their dock. Three," he gave her a grim smile. "You die, here, and we take your keep and your guns and your people, and there's nothing you can do about it."
" . . How long do I have?" she had to ask, because he was still holding her rifle like a child's toy, casual and careless. He didn't need it to kill her, and they both knew it, he could snap her like a twig if she didn't get the drop on him, and she suspected now that she wouldn't. Not now.
"Until our boats arrive," he replied, gave her nothing more. She had less than a day, then, or maybe up to three if her boats gave theirs more trouble than they bargained for.
There was a way out of this. There had to be.