Post by QueenFoxy on Dec 15, 2019 11:47:59 GMT -6
Pack-Brothers: The Ambush
by Will Frankenhoff
Dusk settled into the remote mountain pass. A chill breeze arrived, whispering among the stunted birch trees and silver-barked alders clinging to life amid the hard brown soil. An arctic fox, her coat already white in preparation for winter, paused to sniff the air. High above, a pair of red-tailed wyverns spiraled across the sky in an elaborate mating dance. The sole sign of civilization was an old road, its cracked paving stones overgrown with chokeberry bushes and knee-high spikegrass. Climbing out of a small wooded hollow to the west, it ran along the northern edge of the pass before turning southeast to head deeper into the mountains.
Blade-Lieutenant Eldan Swayne crouched behind a lichen-covered boulder thirty feet back from the road, a small hand-held crossbow resting in one gloved hand. Clad in the grey-green buckskin leathers of the Republic of Almaren’s Border Watch, including a hood that left only a slit for the eyes, Eldan’s motionless form blended into the rock; one shadow among many in the deepening twilight.
He was not alone. Eight other members of his small company lay concealed nearby. Most were armed with powerful recurve short bows; some cradled heavy crossbows. All carried regulation-issue longswords in blackened scabbards across their backs and broad-bladed daggers sheathed at their waists.
A voice whispered in Eldan’s mind, “Chief?”
The lieutenant breathed a sigh of relief. The “voice” belonged to Canus, Eldan’s pack-brother and the final member of the company. Eldan had sent him out to confirm the location of the Ssylarian slavers they’d been tracking the past two days.
“Yes, Canus?”
“I’ve found them. Three wagons. About a mile to the west, just past Laughing Falls. They’ll reach you in twenty minutes or so.”
“Good. There should still be enough light. Numbers?”
“A dozen, not including their…cargo.” The last thought carried a strong flavor of distaste. The slavers had hit an isolated farming hamlet the day before the company picked up their trail. According to the survivors, eleven people were missing. Anticipating the next question, Canus continued, “First two are typical slave wagons. One drover, four guards each. Third looks more like some kind of fancy carriage. Has a coachman and—“A feeling of alarm flowed through the link.
“What is it, Canus?”
“There’s a Sand-Dancer with them.”
“A blood mage? Are you sure?”
“In the carriage. Would’ve caught his scent earlier but the wind was against me. If it’s any consolation, he doesn’t seem to be expecting trouble. I can’t sense any active wards or detection spells.” Canus paused for a moment. “I’m a little hazy on the niceties of Ssylarian culture, but isn’t it unusual for a Sand-Dancer to be travelling with slavers?”
It’s more than unusual, Eldan thought to himself. The lizardmen of the Ssylarian Khanate were products of a rigid, caste-based society. Blood mages were drawn from the upper ranks of Ssylarian aristocracy, answerable only to the head of their Order and the Khan himself. Slavers were lower-caste hatchlings viewed as little better than the slaves who harvested letumol, the sword-leafed plants whose tiny golden berries once pressed and magically distilled into potions, allowed the cold-blooded Ssylarians to survive outside their desert home. To see a blood mage travelling with slavers was as akin to a senior member of the Almareni Senate sharing an afternoon carriage ride with a pack of lepers.
“Chief?”
“Sorry. You’re right, Canus. It’s strange and I don’t like strange, especially when we’ve gone to all this trouble arranging such a pleasant little ambush.” Eldan didn’t need to mention that ambushing a party of Ssylarian slavers was one thing; attacking slavers accompanied by a blood mage was another thing entirely. Even if the ambush succeeded, the death of a high-caste Ssylarian was sure to have diplomatic consequences. The fact Eldan was acting well within Almareni law—slavery had been outlawed in the Republic for over a millennia, a crime punishable by death—wouldn’t matter to the politicians who wanted to avoid yet another war between the Republic and the Khanate. He understood their thinking, even respected it, but Eldan wasn’t a politician. He was a Swayne of Mosscreek and honor demanded he act.
Eldan turned and signaled to where Blade-Sergeant Falla lay hidden behind the weed-choked remains of a fallen birch tree. She rose gracefully, brushed off a handful of splinters clinging to her dark leathers, and made her way over to his position.
Speaking quickly and quietly, Eldan relayed the information provided by Canus, including the unexpected presence of the blood mage. Falla listened in silence, her long fingers caressing the silver-filigreed pommel of the honor dirk hanging from her belt.
“Well, Sergeant, what do you think?”
Falla replied promptly, her voice harsh, “Our main priority has to be the Sand-Dancer. The rest sound like regular slaver scum—they’re tough against unarmed civilians but no match for trained troops, let alone our boys and girls.”
The blade-sergeant cocked her head, considering. “Give me Raines and Crumb,” she named the two best shots in the company, “and I’ll personally guarantee the Snake doesn’t get off a spell.”
Eldan started to speak but quickly shut his mouth. He was uncomfortable with Falla referring to the Ssylarians as Snakes, but he realized the hard-bitten sergeant wouldn’t appreciate a lecture on the use of derogatory language, especially when it concerned the lizardmen of the Khanate.
Unlike Eldan, the blade-sergeant hadn’t grown up in Meridon, the cosmopolitan capital of the Almaren Republic where all manner of races lived together in relative peace. Nor was she a Swayne of Mosscreek, a member of the wealthy patrician family that traced its roots back to the founding of the Republic some fifteen centuries past. Falla was of yeoman stock, raised to a different set of standards. She also had more reason than most to dislike the Ssylarians. Her great-great-grandparents were refugees from Triesa, one of the first independent city-states to fall to the lizardmen when they came boiling out of the Smoldering Wastes nearly three hundred years earlier. Eldan hoped her desire for revenge wouldn’t lead her to do anything rash.
He quelled the troubling thought. “Raines and Crumb? Very well, they’re yours. Hold your fire until the carriage reaches that point.” Eldan indicated a lightening scarred tree stump some fifty feet up the trail. “We’ll wait on your signal. The rest of the company will attack as planned, concentrating on the slave wagons. One volley, then close with steel. We want to avoid casualties among the captives if possible.”
“Understood." Falla’s eyes glittered like chips of obsidian ice and Eldan sensed the grim smile beneath her hood. She saluted and turned to go.
“One more thing, Sergeant.”
She turned back. “Sir?”
“Try not to miss. Getting killed by some Ssylarian mageling would ruin my heroic self-image. It would also wreak havoc on my dinner plans with Lady Dorriane.” ~
by Will Frankenhoff
Dusk settled into the remote mountain pass. A chill breeze arrived, whispering among the stunted birch trees and silver-barked alders clinging to life amid the hard brown soil. An arctic fox, her coat already white in preparation for winter, paused to sniff the air. High above, a pair of red-tailed wyverns spiraled across the sky in an elaborate mating dance. The sole sign of civilization was an old road, its cracked paving stones overgrown with chokeberry bushes and knee-high spikegrass. Climbing out of a small wooded hollow to the west, it ran along the northern edge of the pass before turning southeast to head deeper into the mountains.
Blade-Lieutenant Eldan Swayne crouched behind a lichen-covered boulder thirty feet back from the road, a small hand-held crossbow resting in one gloved hand. Clad in the grey-green buckskin leathers of the Republic of Almaren’s Border Watch, including a hood that left only a slit for the eyes, Eldan’s motionless form blended into the rock; one shadow among many in the deepening twilight.
He was not alone. Eight other members of his small company lay concealed nearby. Most were armed with powerful recurve short bows; some cradled heavy crossbows. All carried regulation-issue longswords in blackened scabbards across their backs and broad-bladed daggers sheathed at their waists.
A voice whispered in Eldan’s mind, “Chief?”
The lieutenant breathed a sigh of relief. The “voice” belonged to Canus, Eldan’s pack-brother and the final member of the company. Eldan had sent him out to confirm the location of the Ssylarian slavers they’d been tracking the past two days.
“Yes, Canus?”
“I’ve found them. Three wagons. About a mile to the west, just past Laughing Falls. They’ll reach you in twenty minutes or so.”
“Good. There should still be enough light. Numbers?”
“A dozen, not including their…cargo.” The last thought carried a strong flavor of distaste. The slavers had hit an isolated farming hamlet the day before the company picked up their trail. According to the survivors, eleven people were missing. Anticipating the next question, Canus continued, “First two are typical slave wagons. One drover, four guards each. Third looks more like some kind of fancy carriage. Has a coachman and—“A feeling of alarm flowed through the link.
“What is it, Canus?”
“There’s a Sand-Dancer with them.”
“A blood mage? Are you sure?”
“In the carriage. Would’ve caught his scent earlier but the wind was against me. If it’s any consolation, he doesn’t seem to be expecting trouble. I can’t sense any active wards or detection spells.” Canus paused for a moment. “I’m a little hazy on the niceties of Ssylarian culture, but isn’t it unusual for a Sand-Dancer to be travelling with slavers?”
It’s more than unusual, Eldan thought to himself. The lizardmen of the Ssylarian Khanate were products of a rigid, caste-based society. Blood mages were drawn from the upper ranks of Ssylarian aristocracy, answerable only to the head of their Order and the Khan himself. Slavers were lower-caste hatchlings viewed as little better than the slaves who harvested letumol, the sword-leafed plants whose tiny golden berries once pressed and magically distilled into potions, allowed the cold-blooded Ssylarians to survive outside their desert home. To see a blood mage travelling with slavers was as akin to a senior member of the Almareni Senate sharing an afternoon carriage ride with a pack of lepers.
“Chief?”
“Sorry. You’re right, Canus. It’s strange and I don’t like strange, especially when we’ve gone to all this trouble arranging such a pleasant little ambush.” Eldan didn’t need to mention that ambushing a party of Ssylarian slavers was one thing; attacking slavers accompanied by a blood mage was another thing entirely. Even if the ambush succeeded, the death of a high-caste Ssylarian was sure to have diplomatic consequences. The fact Eldan was acting well within Almareni law—slavery had been outlawed in the Republic for over a millennia, a crime punishable by death—wouldn’t matter to the politicians who wanted to avoid yet another war between the Republic and the Khanate. He understood their thinking, even respected it, but Eldan wasn’t a politician. He was a Swayne of Mosscreek and honor demanded he act.
Eldan turned and signaled to where Blade-Sergeant Falla lay hidden behind the weed-choked remains of a fallen birch tree. She rose gracefully, brushed off a handful of splinters clinging to her dark leathers, and made her way over to his position.
Speaking quickly and quietly, Eldan relayed the information provided by Canus, including the unexpected presence of the blood mage. Falla listened in silence, her long fingers caressing the silver-filigreed pommel of the honor dirk hanging from her belt.
“Well, Sergeant, what do you think?”
Falla replied promptly, her voice harsh, “Our main priority has to be the Sand-Dancer. The rest sound like regular slaver scum—they’re tough against unarmed civilians but no match for trained troops, let alone our boys and girls.”
The blade-sergeant cocked her head, considering. “Give me Raines and Crumb,” she named the two best shots in the company, “and I’ll personally guarantee the Snake doesn’t get off a spell.”
Eldan started to speak but quickly shut his mouth. He was uncomfortable with Falla referring to the Ssylarians as Snakes, but he realized the hard-bitten sergeant wouldn’t appreciate a lecture on the use of derogatory language, especially when it concerned the lizardmen of the Khanate.
Unlike Eldan, the blade-sergeant hadn’t grown up in Meridon, the cosmopolitan capital of the Almaren Republic where all manner of races lived together in relative peace. Nor was she a Swayne of Mosscreek, a member of the wealthy patrician family that traced its roots back to the founding of the Republic some fifteen centuries past. Falla was of yeoman stock, raised to a different set of standards. She also had more reason than most to dislike the Ssylarians. Her great-great-grandparents were refugees from Triesa, one of the first independent city-states to fall to the lizardmen when they came boiling out of the Smoldering Wastes nearly three hundred years earlier. Eldan hoped her desire for revenge wouldn’t lead her to do anything rash.
He quelled the troubling thought. “Raines and Crumb? Very well, they’re yours. Hold your fire until the carriage reaches that point.” Eldan indicated a lightening scarred tree stump some fifty feet up the trail. “We’ll wait on your signal. The rest of the company will attack as planned, concentrating on the slave wagons. One volley, then close with steel. We want to avoid casualties among the captives if possible.”
“Understood." Falla’s eyes glittered like chips of obsidian ice and Eldan sensed the grim smile beneath her hood. She saluted and turned to go.
“One more thing, Sergeant.”
She turned back. “Sir?”
“Try not to miss. Getting killed by some Ssylarian mageling would ruin my heroic self-image. It would also wreak havoc on my dinner plans with Lady Dorriane.” ~
