Something near a week had passed since the newlywed Count and the Countess had departed Castle Petrice upon their separate journeys: Uldred setting out alone and Niklas in the company of Thomas and the trusty mule Missy. During this time the Countess had enjoyed the familiar bleak scenery, as well as the distance between her and the biggest disturbance to her normal life, Niklas. The man himself, meanwhile, was having a most unpleasant time butting heads with the Petrician townsfolk.
The xenophobic nature of the local populace had buffeted all of Niklas’ attempts at even the most basic information-gathering. The leaders and yeomen of the surrounding towns and villages had reacted in an identical fashion to old Crawford, the village head of Wiffeld, resisting the young Count’s probing and allowing through only a few meager crumbs, rather than the answers he sought. Indeed, this trio of travelers found themselves all but chased out from the next several settlements along their journey, and later on a few barred them from entering entirely. Niklas suspected then that the Petrician villages they had visited heretofore might be sending messengers hither and thither to warn the others of their upcoming arrival.
While those three continued along their unexpectedly harrowing journey, the Countess herself was just then taking her first steps past the borders of Petrice along the infamous Road of Benedict. In this narrow corridor of no-man’s land that rested between two Counties and the Barony of Otkorn, her huge and intimidating figure was offered little resistance. Where the caravans of merchants or tradesmen might be set upon by brigands, the mighty Uldred appeared like unto a massive oncoming beast, and as such sent such otherwise dangerous men scattering into the bushes or trees until she had long since passed. Thus, after a long and undisturbed trek, she finally looked out to the East and saw small trails of smoke rising from the nearby forest, and she broke off from the trodden path.
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Abor stood amongst his ‘boys’ with his arms folded before him, but wearing a small grin. Indeed, to see him with such a posse at his back, one might have wondered who was really in charge here, as he stood beside the Sergeant and his few true soldiers. Of course, the soldiers were aware of the harsh discrepancy between their men and their loyalties, and they warily eyed their criminal cohorts. Their greatest relief lay in the chains that hung between each of those fifty men’s ankles, limiting their gait to a fast walk at best.
Soldiers and conscripts alike all stood waiting for the anticipated arrival of the Countess of Petrice. Abor imagined her a dainty Lady in some form-fitting and fashionable ‘armor’ unsuitable for true battle, one who would come with a handful of House Guards for her to command from the safety of the rear.
Though Petrice is a poor land, so whatever men-at-arms she brings can’t be any better furnished than we are! Abor postulated to himself. Even with guards and the soldiers, we’ll easily outnumber them both. We can grab the little Lady, have some fun with ‘er, and then ransom ‘er back for an easy reward! He licked his remaining teeth in anticipation of this heinous plan.
It was then that at last a silhouette appeared in the near distance from between the thinning trees. But the lascivious eyes of the conscripted prisoners soon grew wide instead, and they shot startled glances over to the soldiers, who returned them with their own nervous gazes. These two normally disparate groups were, at present, united by their shared anxiety and shock.
“What in all the Hells..?” Abor wondered aloud.
An unexpected lone figure approached the assembled men, one who only grew larger and greater as she closed the distance between them. When she finally stood before them she towered over even the largest man there, and in her black leather, battered plates and hooded mask, she looked so eerie and terrible that some of the men wondered then if some Petrician monster had made its way across the border in place of the expected woman of rank.
“W-welcome, my Lady.” Stuttered the Sergeant as he stepped forward and bowed his head respectfully. Uldred did not speak in reply, but simply waved a large hand indicating for the man to rise.
That… thing is the Countess..? Abor hardly dared to blink as he stared at her in disbelief and rising anger.
“... it’s the Reaper of the Road!” His weaselly companion muttered aloud in a hoarse whisper, fear etched across his face.
The brutish brigand himself ground his teeth in his rage. It was not an anger born from this unexpected change to his plans, nor from the embarrassment of being made to look like a fool in front of his boys, nor even one formed from disappointment that the Countess was not some petite and beauteous thing for him to have his way with.
No, it was more of a base and animal fire that had sparked within the man, for among this lot–and even in his incarceration prior–Abor had been the largest and most menacing of the bunch. And when he was not, and there was one more intimidating than him, he would swiftly dispatch them with either a sharp blade to their guts or strangled with a length of rope as they slept. This woman–if she could even be called as such–stood at least a full head taller than him and was even wider of shoulder, and she wore the countenance of Death Himself. As he looked about he saw his boys, who were fearful and loyal to him, were cowed simply by the sight of her!
“Y-you must be exhausted, my Lady! Please, come r-right this way!” Oblivious to Abor’s growing outrage, the nervous Sergeant stuttered as he addressed the Countess again and then led her away towards the more well-kept and better quality tents where the soldiers slept and did their business.
As she passed by Abor, time seemed to slow for a stretch. He watched as if through molasses as she turned slightly, and a pair of violet eyes glared out from her mask and swept over the gathered conscripts. It was a menacing gaze which Abor returned defiantly.
“B-boss? What’ll we do?” Whispered one man nervously over Abor’s shoulder, and many eyes turned upon their unspoken captain.
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“What?!” Abor scoffed as he turned his enraged gaze upon them. “Nothing’s changed! She might look a bit scary, but she’s still only one woman, and a Noble one at that! Under all that armor she’s still soft.”
At that the men murmured and shared glances amongst themselves, clearly less than satisfied. Abor shook with an even greater anger then, grabbing one of his fellows by the collar and pulling him close enough that their noses touched.
“Listen here, you stupid, useless lot! I’m still the baddest man here! If you all don’t listen to me, I’ll gut ya! Or worse.”
The man in his grasp could only stare into Abor’s eyes in terror as he vented his anger, and the rest of the men around him instinctively took a step back from the two. Abor pointed one meaty arm towards the tents where the soldiers had led the Countess.
“There’s damn near fifty of us here, and only ten of them--even with that big freak it’s only eleven!” he roared. “Ain’t no way they’re stoppin’ us. So get yer heads out of yer asses, and quick!” Spittle rained down upon the other man’s bearded face. “I ain’t rotting away in some cell for the rest of my days. You all do as I says, and we’ll live like Kings! Or as much as one can in this wretched Barony.”
Finally he released his captive from his grasp–and his wrath–and the man stumbled backwards, fell to his seat and shook, too shocked to even wipe the saliva from his face. Abor turned once more towards the camp with a gaze consumed by the inferno of determination and rage burning in his gut
This changes nothing!
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“My apologies, the accommodations surely cannot be to your standards…” Mumbled the nervous Sergeant, a notion to which Uldred gave another dismissive wave.
“I am unused to finery.” Came the muffled reply from beneath her mask.
“R-right…” Stammered the soldier.
Uldred was not paying the man much mind, her attention was turned instead towards the cluster of conscripts. Though she could not see them anymore, she still stared in their direction as if her eyes could penetrate the walls of the tent and the foliage beyond.
“Quite the discrepancy in numbers…” Uldred muttered to herself.
“Yes, we are experiencing a… shortage in manpower recently.” The Sergeant replied, his awkward smile betrayed by the tremble in his voice.
I do not doubt it. Mused the Countess internally. Not many brave men would jump at the chance to pledge their loyalty and fight for a repugnant soul such as Baron Otkorn.
She turned her gaze back upon the Sergeant, barely having to tilt her head to meet his eyes despite the fact that she was sitting and he was standing.
“Last time you all could manage to scrape together at least double the soldiers, and the time before that the soldiers were in equal number to the conscripts…”
The Sergeant gulped audibly. “Yes well, the Baron has needed the men… elsewhere.”
Uldred narrowed her eyes at that. Ah, I see.
She was not truly surprised at this turn of events. Indeed, she was more surprised that something like this had not happened sooner on one of her earlier two contracts with the Baron.
I am here alone, with but a skeleton crew to command, among a sea of desperate thugs who are destined to be jailed or executed upon their return to the Barony?
Contemplating her predicament, Uldred simply sighed. It was not a dejected or resigned sigh, nor one that denoted any kind of fear. It was the heavy, soul-weary sigh of a person who had arrived at their desk to find, waiting patiently upon it, double the work that they had expected. Hers was a sigh that said this is going to be a very long day.
“The shackles, who has the keys for them?” She asked after it had finished.
“Th-there is but one key for all, and it is held by me at all times, except whilst I sleep, and then it held by one of my men, chosen at random.”
She put out a large, black-gloved hand towards the Sergeant, who startled at the gesture.
“Give it to here.” she ordered him.
The man hesitated for a moment, but after catching sight of the great Lady’s violet gaze, he reached quickly into a pouch at his belt. From it he produced a large, rusty iron key which he then readily placed within her grasp. She slipped the key within the collar of her clothes.
“You all, the soldiers. Do you carry any coin with you?” She demanded, her voice as cold but calm as a frozen lake.
The Sergeant shot her a confused glance as he replied. “We do carry purses with us to purchase food and supplies..?”
“Have your men take them somewhere and bury them. Every last one. And do it separately as well, so the others do not know where they are.”
Now the expression he turned towards her was downright befuddled, but the look she returned to him was deadly serious.
“Soldier?”
“A-aye!” he hastily acquiesced. “I will have them do this!”
She tilted her head slightly to him, without breaking eye contact. “Complete it tonight. Posthaste.”
He saluted enthusiastically. “I shall do so right away!” He then departed without another word, leaving Uldred alone.
“Tomorrow, likely…” She mumbled to herself as she swung the large, sheathed blade that she carried upon her back over her shoulder and pulled it from its scabbard. Retrieving a whetstone from somewhere beneath her dark cloak, she rode it along the wavy flamberge blade, which produced many great sparks, along with a grinding noise that would be heard until well into the dark of night. It was preparation for the work that waited for her in the morning.