Setting a trap

The afternoon was spent preparing. Runt was convinced he had more than half a plan this time and a better one at that. Still, a lot of things could go wrong.

“He might not turn up, for starters,” Runt explained to Stripes. He felt better saying his fears out loud. Stripes didn’t seem to mind either way.

“And plenty of things could go wrong. This might not even be the right place.” He knew in his bones, though, that it was. And not just his bones told him. The sky brooded with thick clouds, the air felt still and stuffy, the forest held its breath. The hunt would be here, and so would the Captain. The rest was up to him.

Runt did one thing before he began his preparations for the arrival of the wolf hunters. He walked over to the fey-tree. Standing in front of the gorgon statues felt different now. They were still ugly and terrifying, but also mysterious. “Were these statues, with their scary faces, meant to be like a scarecrow?” Runt wondered, as he traced his fingers over the blunt and broken teeth of the nearest gorgon, “Because they didn’t work. Statues alone clearly couldn’t keep the drop-bears away.”

It was strange that he never recognised it before. Around many of the gouge marks in the trunk he saw the unmistakeable signs of drop-bears. Claw marks peppered the sides of the trunk. The edges of the scars, here and there, showed signs of those long fangs that Runt saw wedged into the worm hole back at the great fey-tree. The sound of the drop-bear eating came back to him, and he felt queasy for a moment. Not all the scars were like that, though. Many, but not all. Runt shuddered, thinking about how many baby harpies must have been eaten, and wondered if things could ever be made right.

He prepared to do his part.

Men began arriving just before dusk. Runt heard the horses first, and the rattle of a cart, and the yapping of dogs, before he saw the flashes of late afternoon sun glinting from spear tips and swords. They brought a long wooden stake and, just like the old guard said, the bait was laid out halfway between the cottage and the scrub. Three oblivious chickens pecked and clucked contentedly each with one leg tied to the stake by a piece of string. The trap was set.

Runt watched this unfold from the shadows of the scrub. They retreated to the far side of the cottage. Several more men arrived, all on horses, but there was still no sign of the Captain. It occurred to Runt that he had no idea what the Captain even looked like. He rarely left the inner city except for special occasions, like this.

Dusk’s shadows began to settle on the cottage. It was time.

Leaving Stripes in the safety of the scrub, Runt sneaked forwards to the cottage. The chickens didn’t notice him passing apart from the swish of grass and a puff of breeze. On the other side of the cottage the troopers had settled in. A fire burned there, and men sat or sprawled around it while passing around a familiar looking bottle. It was the same type of bottle that Tyron kept stashed in a locked box in the kennels. Several more sat in a crate on the cart.

Runt’s hair prickled at the sight of that cart and he looked over the men carefully before breathing a small sigh of relief. For a moment he expected to see the weaselly stablemaster amongst these men. The man who wanted him dead. Who presumed him to be dead. Fortunately, Gunther was absent, but Runt recognised others slouched around the fire. At least one or two of these troopers helped Gunther ship booze on those secret Friday evenings.

Runt shook his head and wondered at the scene. Here was Gunther’s cart, and Gunther’s grog, being drunk by a group of troopers. The stablemaster helped make booze, which was outlawed, and led men into the Wilds, which was forbidden. It didn’t make sense. A young boy could be arrested and thrown into prison for a bad haircut while these men openly flaunted the rules.

Runt wondered whether these illegal drinks would be hidden before the Captain arrived. He hoped not. Drunk troopers would make his job that much easier.

The fire posed a problem. He needed the shadows now more than ever. The horses were all tied up to the cart a little way off. The dogs were tied to a stake further off again. Runt watched the dogs for a while and then nodded in satisfaction. He knew all of them by name. That was important. The ruddy glow of the fire occasionally painted the cart when a log flared up, other times it lay in the gloom. Runt crouched on the other side of the cottage and watched it slowly burn lower.

“Boss’ll be here soon, lads.” One of the men grunted. This was met with groans from some of the others. They began complaining. Runt dared not creep closer but heard well enough.

“Why’d he have to come? He such a drag. He can barely ride a horse but gets narky when we ride on ahead.”

“And he’ll keep all the best skins.”

“Without spearing a single wolf. You watch.”

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

“Yeah, but he just about shot me with that ruddy little crossbow of his last time. I hope he don’t bring it.”

“Last time he come out, we got five, and the cap’n took three skins. What good’s two skins between eight blokes?”

This question was met with general muttering and the occasional curse.

“What’s he even do with ‘em? He must have dozens by now. You can’t wear ‘em all.”

“Look sharp, lads. I seen his horse crest the hill just now.”

A few of the slouchers sat up but the bottle was not hidden. It continued making laps around the circle. Soon enough the empty bottle was replaced with a full one.

In the gloom of dusk Runt heard the horse before he saw it. As well as the clopping of hooves there was a distinct jingle that Runt couldn’t identify. The Captain arrived and reined in his mount a few yards from the group.

“Good evening, gentleman, and what a fine night for a hunt!” the Captain said, jovially.

His greeting was met with a muted chorus of “Yes, Cap’n,” and “good ev’ning Cap’n”.

He swung his leg around awkwardly, overbalanced, and stumbled a few steps as he dismounted. Every step elicited a new jingle. The Captain, and his horse, were both decked out in ornamental battle armour. The gold plate gleamed in the fire’s sinking glow. Runt noticed, with a little shock, that the captain’s hair reached down past his shoulders in long black ringlets. Clearly the rule about hair length did not apply to him. Long pluming peacock feathers rose from the man’s helmet and wafted in the breeze. The horse’s battle helm also sported two bunches of these feathers. They sprouted out the helm either side of its ear guards, giving it the appearance of a giant, flightless moth, with impressively long feelers.

The horse tossed its head a few times as the Captain dragged it over to the cart and tied it up with the others. He then stood on the tips of his toes to peer into the back, rustled around for a minute, before pulling out a small wooden stool. His stomach bulged beneath the golden chest plate as he sat down by the fire. Runt noticed that his bushy eyebrows were peppered with grey in contrast to his jet-black hair.

“So,” the Captain began, rubbing his hands together, “have we placed the bait, gentleman? Is the trap set? I hope the wolves are hungry!”

“Yessir. Just waiting for full dark, sir, to post a watch.”

The bottle continued doing laps. When it reached the Captain he picked it up gingerly, pinched between two fingers, and hurriedly passed it to the next man. He then reached into a satchel and pulled out a silver flask, and a golden cup.

“I shall drink to your health, and to a good night of game, fellow hunters.” He said, before sipping his drink.

The bottle continued doing laps and the troopers began chatting quietly. Runt, meanwhile, plucked up his courage and began to sneak towards the cart. His luck held and, within moments, he sat beneath it and got to work. He had more than half a plan but this part of it was the most risky. The drop-bear claw was as sharp as a knife. Slowly, and methodically, he slipped it under each saddle strap and worked through the leather. One at a time, the straps were cut, leaving the saddles balanced atop their horse. There were only a couple left to cut when the sound of hooves announced the arrival of a late comer.

“Hello chaps, sorry I’m late. I got a bit lost.”

Runt crouched lower and held his breath. He saw the young trooper from the night before, Thomas, approach with his horse. If the captain’s armour gleamed, then this trooper’s literally shone in the firelight. He must have spent hours polishing each surface. He continued to talk over his shoulder rapidly while he led the horse to the cart.

“Terribly sorry, and all that. I hope I haven’t missed too much of the sport. The stablemaster must have pointed me in the wrong direction. Blast that weaselly chap. He’s a shifty one, isn’t he? I’m just lucky I saw your fire on the way back to – oh! Captain!”

There was a thunk as he spun around and saluted.

“At ease, trooper,” one of the men said, “technically we’re off duty out here. You’d better grab those reins before your horse bolts.”

Thomas spun around again and flailed for the reins. He finally caught them and hastily tied the horse up. Room was scarce around the fire by now as the men edged closer to the shrinking coals. Thomas walked around the outside of the circle before freezing suddenly, with eyes goggled.

“Sir? Troopers! W- what are you all drinking?”

The muted conversations between troopers fell silent. Only the crackle of the fire now made any noise. The Captain coughed.

“Now then, young fellow, we’re all friends here.” The Captain said, smiling sheepishly, and spreading his arms. The golden cup glinted in the dying embers, as did several large rings on his thick fingers. “And so, on an extraordinary night like this, among men, among such esteemed company, well, we bend the rules a little, don’t we gentleman?”

A few of the troopers grunted in reply. None of them made eye contact with either the Captain, or with the newcomer. The fire crackled. The bottle sat by one man, temporarily neglected. Without turning his head, this trooper strained his eyes to the next man, who nodded imperceptibly. The bottle was hastily raised, a quick swig was gulped, and it was passed on. This seemed to break the tension and conversations resumed. The bottle continued doing laps.

Thomas stood awkwardly on the edge of the circle and fidgeted.

“First hunt, ain’t it?” the trooper nearest by grunted at him.

“Oh, yes, I’m very excited about it,” Thomas gushed, “I’ve spent all afternoon getting ready. I even – “

“First timers stand watch.” The trooper interrupted. He nodded his head towards the cottage and the chickens beyond. “Don’t yell too loud when you spot a wolf or you’ll spook ‘em.”

Runt was sure he wouldn’t be seen now that it was fully dark, but he cut a wide circle around the watchman, just to be sure. The trap was set.