Send a spelling or grammar correction to: Tracy Johnson
This is Part III&IV of a story set in the World of Greyhawk. It's
based on my own campaign, so some persons, places and things are not in
line with the published setting. Any helpful comments or suggestions are
welcome.
Thanks
Jason Zavoda
Kyle walked across the bloody field with spear in hand. The
Guard's auxiliaries were always given the dirty work, the Commandants Own
couldn't soil their fingers with such duty, but when the grappling hooks
and scaling ladders were passed out, it would be the auxiliaries who would
be first to charge the wall.
The knights had done a thorough job. Kyle'd seen Matholwch,
dressed in the black and white colors of the Duchy, ride off at the head
of two hundred armored knights. They'd swept the field clean and the tale
being told was of Matholwch's single handed fight against their leader, a
huge ogre whose head now decorated a pike, the body was being dragged off
behind a cart.
Kyle leaned on his spear and watched as Giffard the Ox, the
strongest man in the company, threw another goblin body upon the wagon's
bed. Nearby a trench was being dug. The squad used pick and shovel as
often as spear and sword, though not as well. The soldiers grumbled at the
task. As the oerth was moved, the dead were dumped in the hole, with
curses and kicks, then covered with the dirt thrown on top to form a
burial mound. A priest was overdue to bless the ground and cast off the
spirits of the dead from the field on which they died.
The orcs and goblins were stripped of armor, searched for coin,
and a pile of debris formed next to the stack of butchered corpses. Two
sergeants, Osbern and Nigel, cast a proprietary eye over all that had been
looted from the dead. The coniving pair were busy haggling with a trader
come ahead to buy the weapons, shields and bits of armor left abandoned on
the battlefield.
"That ogre's hide is worth gold, not copper, Master Trader."
Osbern grumbled.
"In Greyhawk no doubt." the trader, a gray haired and bearded
portly man, clicked his tongue. Beside him stood a fair-haired youth who
noted down the numbers the trader spoke. He scratched away at a sheet of
wax held in a metal frame. The youth had a stack of such held together
with a chain to form a type of book. "Dinet, write this down. One ogre
with damaged hide." the trader turned to the sergeants and held out a
hand. "Look at that great rent, and all those cuts! You've taken the head
for yourself. That's the most valuable part." the trader moaned.
"How much?" asked Osbern.
"I'll have to hire a tanner." the trader went on.
"How much?" Nigel chimed in.
"These wizards want them fresh. There goes the best prices."
"How much!" both sergeants said together, their voices rising,
losing patience with the game.
"Five silver." the trader said.
"Twenty." said Osbern.
"No more than ten. It's the best I can do" said the trader. He
turned away and nudged the piled weapons with his foot.
"How much all told?" Asked Nigel.
"Fifty Silver." the trader quickly said and feigned indifference.
"Fifty!" Osbern roared. "There are at least a hundred swords and
knives in there." he pointed to the pile.
"Yes. Crude orc and goblin work. The best of it has already been
picked clean. And what of the Gnollish bows? Those I would pay you for in
gold."
"The knights and squires have all those." said Nigel. "They
loot the dead same as us if the value's high enough."
"Fifty." said the trader. "Come, come, gentle sirs, I should not
buy these at all. This is just the first of many victories, I do not
doubt. Orc weapons, hah! Soon you will be looting giant's hoards."
"Seventy-five." demanded Osbern, but without conviction.
"Sixty then." the trader said and offered out his hand.
"Done." said Osbern, and Nigel agreed.
"Dinet. Sixty silver paid out! Mark it down and go call for the
wagon to come up." the trader eyed the ogre's corpse. "Can you have
some of your soldiers help us put that in the wagon?" the trader asked.
"Sure." said Osbern with a smile. "For five silvers."
"Dinet, have my daughters come along, and tell them to wear old
clothes, this ogres blood will stain." the trader smiled, the sergeants
would not get a copper more.
* * *
Evening came quickly across the eastern fields of Geoff. The sun,
dropping beneath the mountains, stretched long beams of light over the
tree tops and then was gone.
Two hundred sets of running feet jogged on toward the walls of
Hochoch. Some calamity had occurred and the Eighth company was called
forward, after a hard days work, and little rest.
"Kyle, kyle..." Giffard said as they jogged along.
"What is it." Kyle answered back, concentrating on keeping
up his steady pace.
"You saw those sergeants back there today." Giffard said.
"Sure, what about them?" Kyle asked, distracted.
"I found something that those sods missed." said Giffard in
a hushed voice.
"Don't let them find out or it will be your hide." said Kyle.
"Loot belongs to the one who finds it, thats the law." said
Giffard loud and defiant.
"Keep it down. Those two have their own laws. They'll come up with
some reason to give you the lash." Kyle tried to keep his friends voice
quiet.
"Let them try, I'll bust their skulls and break their backs."
blustered Giffard.
"Then you'll end up dead." Kyle answered sharply. "You know better
than to talk so foolish, or so loud."
Giffard shut up for awhile and the pair jogged along in silence
among the other members of their squad and section.
"Kyle," Giffard spoke up a little while later.
"Yes." Kyle said snapping the word out as a warning.
"Kyle I'm sorry if I was out of line." Giffard sounded worried.
"Just watch what you say, you'll make trouble for us both with
such talk." Kyle reprimanded his friend.
"Sure, you know me, but I tell you, those sergeants will never
lash me and live." Giffard said with truth behind his words.
"I know that. Don't get into trouble in the first place." Kyle
swore. "You are a damned fool sometimes, keep quiet and don't go
looking to bring on trouble that isn't meant for you."
"Sure." said Giffard without sincerity.
They jogged on some more till Kyle spoke up this time.
"So what is that you found?"
* * *
Dinet could not believe his luck. Master trader Barnett was drunk.
He'd sold off the ogre, hide, flesh, bones and blood, to a merchant just
come to the camp. His strongbox was safely tucked away, but the trader had
fifty fresh gold pieces in his pouch, five unclipped ounces, more than a
years bed and board out here among these rustic lands.
The older man sat reeling alongside Dinet as he drove the team
toward the traders tent, their home for the night. Dinet reached out an
arm to steady the drunken man and let his hand slip down till he reached
the coin pouch tied securely onto the trader's belt. Dinet held a razor in
his hand, and, with two deft cuts, slashed the leather cord clean through.
Lightning quick, he caught the pouch before it fell, with only the
slightest clinks of golden coins.
Barnett groaned and swung out his arm. He slapped Dinet across the
face, then brought around his other hand and wrestled with the youth.
"Shteel frumee ill ya." the trader tried to shout but his voice was
slurred and his movements clumsy.
"No, no!" Dinet cried. "Stop!" The trader grabbed him by the
throat and, though drunk, still he was strong. Dinet could feel the grip
cutting off his air. Without any thought but to breath once again, Dinet
slashed out, his razor cut the traders ear, then gashed across the man's
cheek close to his eye.
Barnett reeled back and slapped his hand against the cuts, but
held to Dinet's throat with his other hand and dug in with fingers and
thumb to keep his balance as the wagon bounced along. Frantic, Dinet
kicked out and Barnett fell back. With a scream he pulled Dinet with him
from the wagon's seat.
The ground was rushing by. The two horse team had begun to trot as
the men struggled, and in their struggle, let loose the reins. Barnett
landed on his back and woofed out his air as the young thief dropped
heavily on top of his chest. Dinet rolled free, and, looking up, saw a
dark iron rim in line with the trader's head. Dinet closed his eyes, he
did not want to see. A wet splash struck him in the face. The trader had
made no sound but for a dull fleshy crack. Dinet pulled himself into a
ball, curled in his head and pulled in his knees against his chest.
The wagon passed, and after only a few moments time, Dinet looked
up again. The dark night was clear, the stars looked down, he lived. A
surge of joy went through him, and then he shook with fear. The wagon
wheel had passed within a hairsbreadth. Death had nearly claimed him there
and then.
A cool breeze blew around Dinet as he wiped off the road's dust
and grime. The die was cast, he thought. The camp was no place for him
now.
He tried not to look at the trader's ruined head, but squeamish
thoughts aside, he went to work and searched the still warm corpse.
* * *
(To Be Continued)