TWENTY-FIVE—MAILED FIRST

They kept a close watch on the guard rotations before making their move in the early morning. “This cloak reeks,” Serin said as they made for the camp. They took out the two sentries just before rotation.

“Welcome to a grunt’s life,” Falan replied. The war camp, though not large, was not small. The commander was obviously commissioned to watch the roads leading through the pass and to stop cross-country travel of enemy forces.

The two men held their crossbows where all could see, their swords kept hidden beneath their cloaks. Common soldiers did not use the swords of Serafes. Serin’s was a common soldiering sword, but Falan had refused to give up his, which had a red ruby incrusted in the pummel.

The camp was docile. Soldiers huddled together around fires cooking meat and roasting whatever vegetables were available. Most were cold weather roots and potatoes, though some of the higher born ate fresh vegetables brought in from the south. It was a wonder the high lord was still importing luxury foods when he needed all the gold he could muster to fight this war against the Soles.

They would have to break the captives out quietly. If they were discovered, it was unlikely they would escape with a score of cavalrymen after them. Serin peeked into a tent, muttering an apology. Most were shared by a dozen or more common soldiers, though officers had tents to themselves, or at least, shared with other officers.

“There,” Falan said, nodding at a moderately sized pavilion. The two men approached, Serin making to stand as if waiting on an officer. Falan peeked inside, saw the two women tied to the poles. A crossbowman guarded them. Falan turned, striding down the main thoroughfare, Serin abreast of him. “They are in there.”

“And the plan?”

“I’m not...” Falan trailed of, distracted by a distinct sound, the sound of a leaver and a quick snap. He spotted a crude palisade holding near ten men captive. His eyes widened when they came upon the swaying form. It was Eagan Hornwal. Falan cursed. Inside the palisade, he recognized Gorkis, Brassen, and some of the guardsmen from the camp, including the tall stable boy. He turned away before they could recognize him. Most of the group was not within those confines. They must have been killed, he thought, and those that were not, were being hanged one at a time.

Thalus was killed during the ambush that got them into this mess. He was the first man to go down. If it had not been an ambush, a hunting accident for instance, the lady mage might have been able to save the man. But it did not matter—not now at least.

This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

“There is nothing we can do, Falan,” Serin said, putting a hand on his shoulder. Falan wanted to brush it off, but he did not.

Falan cursed again. Serin was right.

He scratched his chin, gesturing toward the soldiers sitting around a fire turning a spit of meat. “We need to keep our strength up,” he said, approaching the fire to get a chunk of the meat. When the soldiers asked why they were not in another part of the camp where they belonged, Falan muttered something unsubstantial before moving off with a hot chunk of the roast meat. Some of the soldiers protested, told them to go find their own cook fires. He tore the meat into two large chunks, handing one half to Serin and biting deeply into his own.

Neither of the two men had eaten since the previous day, and because of this, Falan could feel his own lack of energy.

If they looked awkward moving about the camp, the best thing they could do was to act as though they belonged. Perhaps they belonged to a different part of the camp and were simply exploring other parts they hadn’t seen yet. The best whores and other camp followers were never grouped in one area of a camp. Searching was required to find the best services. Not that Falan associated with disreputable company. He had been a lord after all. He still was a lord.

What a neieve thought, he told himself. Plenty of lords were horrible men, and many of the ladies as well.

They moved on, searching for an opportunity to break the two women out as they ate. Serin nodded toward a wagon being unloaded, then wiped his hands over his cloak. They helped unload the foodstuffs. When they were done, Falan moved to take charge of the wagon.

“What d’you think you’re doin’?” the driver asked, looking up at Falan atop the driver seat. “I’ve got charge of this ‘ere wagon.” He was a short stout man missing his two front teeth. His breath smelled of wine.

“You are relieved, Master Driver,” Falan said. I hope this works, he thought. “I have orders from Captain Seswal to take this wagon to the nearest town for another supply run.” That was not right. Seswal was a cavalry officer.

The fat man cocked his head, scratched his chin. “You aren’ part of the wagon crew,” he said. “I’ve never seen you afore, an’ Captain Seswal isn’ in charge of camp stock.”

“Fine,” Falan said, glancing around quickly to make sure no one was watching. He slammed his mailed fist into the man’s round face. He spit out a few more teeth before falling back, eyes rolling to the back into his head. They loaded the fat drunk into the back none to gently. He would surely feel the bruises when he woke. They tossed the ragged canvas that had covered the food stuffs over the unconscious form as one of the soldiers who had helped unload the wagon came out of the supply tent. “Where’s Wass?” he asked, confused.

Serin shrugged. “Went that way? Said something’ about getting; a drink.”

The soldier threw up his arms in frustration then strode back into the storage tent.

Back at the pavilion, Falan wondered how they were supposed to get the two women into the wagon without anyone seeing.

Maybe if we hgave a bit of L=luck, he told himself. But the gods didn’t seem to see fit to give it to them recently.