Shalma's Destruction (Part V)

Shalma’s eyes go wide.  “You want to enter a strongman competition?”

The entire troop, save Skasnell, erupts in laughter. 

“Watch out boys,” Shalma announces gleefully.  “It looks like we’ve got some competition this year.”

“I just thought it was a good idea,” you say.  “The odds would certainly be in our favor.”  Your meek defense does little to assuage the motley crew’s histrionics.  

“Especially with you on board.”  The busty barbarian gestures to the guffawing group.  “In fact, why should the rest of us bother entering at all?  We have our champion, right men?”    

You don’t like where this is going.  Neither do the others, apparently, as the laughter quickly fades.  

“Skasnell, please escort our advocate to Darrumburgh,” Shalma continues.  “Make sure he doesn’t get cold feet.”

The bearded warrior nods.  “I’d like to enter the contest as well.”

“Fine,” Shalma says with a shrug.  “I suppose we could use the 2nd place prize.” 

Pug pushes forward.  “I want to enter the contest!” he pleas.  His excited slur sounds like a single word—Iwannainnerd’conest—but you’ve been around him long enough now to comprehend his slack-jawed intonations.   “There’s pro’ly a prize for third place!”

“There is.”  Shalma frees her broadsword from the earth and spins violently toward the rabble-rouser.  If not for the quick blur of flesh and glint of steel, you’d swear the blade was transported to the base of Pug’s throat by magic.  “Would you still care to enter?”

“No,” Pug says, swallowing hard. “I’d prefer to stay ‘ere and help you plan for ‘dat ambush.”

“Good.”  Shalma drives her blade back into the earth before casting her blue eyes upon you.   “What are you still doing here?”

The dramatic twist of fate, coupled with the near uncoupling of Pug’s head from his body, lock your legs and tie your tongue.  However, there’s more that freezes your feet and fixes your gaze: The quiver of Shalma’s flesh as she relaxes from battle-ready; the heave of her chest from the exertion; and the subtle waver in her voice from a lack of breath.

“We’re going.”  Skasnell wraps his burly arm around you and guides you into the cave, likely saving you from certain death.

                                                                   ***

After gathering your belongings, including two days’ worth of stale bread and dried mystery meat, you and Skasnell leave the encampment.  Angry eyes follow your departure.  You had hoped your vocal support of the men would curry a modicum of favor, but it had done the opposite.  Their hatred was palpable.  If not for the threat of Shalma’s wrath, you probably would have been run through already.

“Make sure to leave room in your satchel for that trophy,” calls Shalma, stretched languorously across a flat rock, a tankard of mead in one hand and a piece of fruit in the other.  You give a mock salute, a minor act of defiance that you’re not sure she notices, but you’re proud of anyway.

The journey begins uneventfully.  Skasnell moves quickly and you occasionally need to sprint to keep pace with his purposeful strides.  “We need to be out of here before nightfall,” he says gruffly.  He’s right.  All sorts of unspeakable horrors crawl out of hiding on the mountain at night.  However, you can’t help but feel he’s moving faster than necessary.  That he’s not just trying to stay ahead of danger.  He’s also trying to stay ahead of you.

“Are you trying to lose me?” you ask when he finally stops to rest.  Unlike Shalma earlier--or you now--he isn’t winded at all.

“This isn’t how I wanted to spend my evening,” he says as he sips from his canteen.

“You told me to speak up.”

“I thought you wanted to test your blade, not wrestle a Goliath."

You swallow hard.  “Is that part of the competition?”

“I have no idea,” Skasnell snaps.  “Personally, I think the whole thing is a trap.”  The warrior eyes you strangely.  “Perhaps it’s one you hoped we’d fall into?”  

“No, I swear.  I just thought it was a good idea.”

Skasnell shoots you a suspicious glance, then holsters his canteen and continues his descent, serpentining between the trees as if following some invisible, circuitous path. 

Before long, the oppressive forest opens to a wider world of color and sound.  Blue sky, tinged orange with the nascent hints of dusk, replaces the dark canopy of trees overhead, and thick green grass replaces the mottled leaves and tangled underbrush beneath your feet.  Birds chirp.  Bees buzz.  It’s easy to see why the men were so antsy to leave.  The mountain oozes death while the valley is full of life.

“We’ll camp here,” Skasnell says, after discovering the wagon path leading to Darrumburgh.  There’s just enough daylight to prepare a campsite in a nearby cluster of trees; however, you forgo a fire.  Skasnell informs you that brigands frequently patrol the path, praying upon careless travelers.  Better not to call attention to yourselves. 

You eat your dinner with Skasnell in silence, ostensibly for the same reason, but you know it runs deeper than that.  Much of the goodwill you built with Skasnell over the past few days has been lost.  You can only think of one way to earn it back and simultaneously garner the respect of Shalma and her band—

Win the contest.

Doing so, however, seems like an impossibility.  Perhaps Orpheus could have crafted a potion or tincture to aid you, but that realization does little now that you’re halfway to town.  Maybe it’s for the best.  The penalty for cheating was usually steep...especially if other contestants caught you.

A snore interrupts your thoughts.  Skasnell had finished his dinner and was lying on his side fast asleep.  You imagine it would be easy to escape.  Then what?  You have no home.  No family.  Meting revenge on the one who took those things from you is now your life’s purpose.  Without it, you’re certain the fire in your belly will consume you. 

                                                                    ***

By the next morning, you’ve reconciled your fate.  You’ll lose in the first round and be a laughingstock.  Maybe then you can aid Skasnell somehow?  At least earn back a small measure of his approval.   

The path to Darrumburgh is well-worn and easy to follow.  Free from Mount Vindergast’s inherent threats, Skasnell keeps a more measured pace, though he still shows no inclination for conversation.  You try your best to enjoy the silent march; despite knowing it’s likely to end in shame, embarrassment, and bodily harm.  The air is cool and crisp, and vibrant wildflowers regale your passage, gently waving in the breeze from the adjacent hillside like spectators in an arena.  Colorful and carefree fans blowing fragrant kisses to doomed gladiators.

“There’s Shalma’s caravan,” Skasnell says, breaking the silence.  He points toward a wagon train traversing the path from the opposite direction.  “And it looks as slow and fat as she predicted.”  

You step aside as four carts, each pulled by a single horse, grind past.  The carts are heavily laden with crates, jugs, fruit bushels, and bread baskets.  All headed west for markets in Vessal or Ocrock, or perhaps to support soldiers on the frontlines, though the complete absence of military hardware makes that unlikely.  As does the lack of royal guards.  The train is bookended by a single rider on horseback and flanked by two footmen on either side.  It’s a ramshackle group that appears poorly armed and disinterested.  No, this was certainly a merchant caravan--one where the trade magnate had underbid for defense.

Your stomach growls at the fresh-baked goodies and you consider swiping a roll from a wagon as it passes.  The guards probably wouldn’t notice and you doubt they’d cause much fuss even if they did.  With time to prepare, you’re fairly certain you and Skasnell could successfully ambush the train by yourselves. 

And that bothers you.  As does the fact that the horses look even more haggard and decrepit than the guards.  They’ll be lucky to make it to Mount Vindergast, much less Vessal or Ocrock, each another two-day journey.  Either the caravan was commissioned by the foolhardiest merchant in Darrumburgh…

Or was intended to fail.

What do you do?