Shalma's Destruction (Part VII)

“Let’s ambush the caravan ourselves,” you say, hardly believing you’re saying it.

Skasnell looks at you sharply.  He can tell by your face that your statement isn’t born of reckless bloodlust, but from thoughtfully weighing the pros and cons.  He nods solemnly.  “We’ll wait until nightfall.  They’ll need to camp before they reach Mount Vindergast.” 

Catching up with the caravan is easy enough.  It moves with all the speed and urgency of a funeral procession.  Remaining unseen is the challenge.  The landscape between Darrumburgh and Mount Vindergast is mostly rolling hills and meadows.  You and Skasnell are forced to find your bellies on several occasions when a horseman glances wearily over his shoulder.   Fortunately, the tall grasses and waist-high reeds ditching the trail are enough to obscure you.

The caravan reaches the edge of the oppressive forest at the base of Mount Vindergast just before nightfall and, as Skasnell predicted, they set camp.  As the two of you watch from the same grove of trees you slept beneath the night before, the merchants, if they are merchants at all, sluggishly build a fire, feed their horses, and then themselves.  They clearly aren’t worried about brigands or passersby as they make no attempt to hide the wagons, leaving them on the trail as the roaring fire illuminates their juicy contents for all to see.  

Your unease returns as the men swap stories and a bottle after their meal.  Their cavalier attitude suggests that they indeed operate under royal decree.

There’s only one way to be certain…

Turning to Skasnell, you cup your hand around your ear and point toward the caravan.  The warrior scowls and shakes his head, but you creep from your hiding spot anyway and pad silently toward the camp.  A moment later, you squat ensconced in a wagon’s dark shadows.  You can’t see the men from this vantage, but you can hear them—

“Jus’ be sure not to linger,” one says.  “Drop the goods and get out.”

“Awww,” another man bemoans drunkenly.  “I want to see that busty bitch up close.”

“She’d be the last thing you’d ever see.”

“Then I’d die a happy man.”

“Speak for yourself.  I have a family at home.”

“So does he,” a third man said.  “Why do you think he’s so eager to die?”

All the men laugh.

“Don’t worry, lads,” the first says.  “With what the prince is paying us we can all afford a fair strumpet to trumpet.”

Suddenly, a noise behind you turns your head.  It’s Skasnell.  He’s creeping toward you from the trees.  Branches crack.  Leaves rustle.  Apparently, his hulking form isn’t built for stealth like your lithe one. 

“What’s that?”

“Who’s there?”

Skasnell freezes halfway between the trees and the camp.  Crouched down, he looks like a black boulder tossed by a giant or expunged by a volcano into an otherwise empty field.  It’s only a matter of time before he’s spotted.  You can already sense the men shifting position, inching toward the weapons hanging from the wagon.

Without thought or hesitation, you leap from the shadows with your xiphos drawn and position yourself between the group and their armaments.  “It is I!  Your robber for the evening.” 

The six men stand frozen beside the fire, their bewildered faces flickering orange in the firelight.  They look at you.  Then at one another.  Then they laugh.

“You had us nervous for a second there, boyo,” one says, stepping toward the wagon. 

“Stay where you are!” you scream.   The manic desperation in your voice, in conjunction with your glistening blade, freezes him in place.

“Put that thing away before someone gets hurt,” he says. 

“We’re not merchants to be cuttin’ your thievin’ teeth on,” says another.

“Yeah, we’re here on the prince’s order,” smarms a man in the middle.

The one to his left silences him with an elbow to his side.  “Why’d you go and tell him that?”

“Now we have to kill him,” the closest says, producing a dagger from his belt.  There’s a glint in his eye that tells you he means it and plans to enjoy it.

All six shuffle closer.  None are particularly intimidating on their own, but as a group, they present a mass of humanity that, with the light from the fire behind them, looks like a giant multiheaded blob. 

As splinters from the wagon dig into your back, you raise your blade in feeble defense—

Just then, Skasnell leaps into the mob from the wagon's bed.  He impales one man with the sword in his right hand as he shoves another with his left, sending him sprawling backward into the fire.  The man’s robes--sullied with grease and alcohol slopped from the bottle he holds--engulf like a torch.  With a bloodcurdling scream, he clambers from the pyre and sprints toward the forest like a fireball cast by a vengeful mage.

Taking advantage of the distraction, you fall to the ground and roll beneath the wagon.  The man with the dagger thrusts it at you through the spokes of the wagon’s wheel, narrowly missing your face.  Before he can pull his arm back, you chop down on it, causing it to bend in a direction God never intended.  There’s a sickening cracking sound.  You aren’t sure if it’s his bone or the splintering of a wooden spoke, but he drops his weapon regardless and his screams join the cacophony.

One down, you think, rolling out the other side.

You sprint back fireside to rejoin the fray, but there isn’t much fray left to join.  Besides the man dangling in anguish from the wagon’s wheel and the fading screams of the man on fire, it’s mostly silent.  Three motionless lumps lie at Skasnell’s feet.  Meanwhile, the sixth and final man grunts in pain and frustration as he struggles to mount one of the horses, leaving bloody stains across its white coat as he continually tries and fails.  Skasnell sheathes his sword and watches for a moment, bemused, then strolls behind the man and breaks his neck with an effortless twist of his head.

You gasp.  So does the man stuck in the spokes. 

“Kill him,” Skasnell says, pointing at the man.  “I’ll take care of the other one.”  Skasnell stares off into the woods where a faint glow dances between the trees.  “At least he’ll be easy to find,” the warrior says with a wry smile.

“P-please.  Don’t kill me,” the trapped man cries.

“What are you waiting for?” Skasnell urges as he begins to follow the trail of embers leading into the forest.  “He was going to kill you.  They were planning to poison the whole lot of us.” 

You hesitate.  Killing goblins is one thing.  Killing men in cold blood is something else entirely.  Especially ones operating under orders from the prince.

The injured man lifts his usable hand and holds it shakily in front of his face.   “Please.”

What do you do?