Chapter 7: Captive Audience

  Krumpus stood face to face with a half dozen mounted Saot soldiers. They stared at the dirty unkempt wanderer as he held his staff with Meu wrapped around it, still in her stone form. Her appearance was dark. She looked like nothing more than an ornament—and a very fine and heavy ornament at that!

With Meu attached, the staff was much heavier and had a strange balance. Indeed, Krumpus had to grab Meu if he wanted to balance the staff at all. He prepared to swing the ornamental weapon and wondered if Meu could take a strike from a sword.

“We heard song,” one of the soldiers spoke. “Was it you?”

The soldier did not speak the strange language of the Saot, which was good, because Krumpus did not speak it either. Instead, the soldier spoke Ministrian, as more and more soldiers continued to pour around the corner.

With a sigh, Krumpus glanced at the gathering mob and danced a simple step around the staff. He half-heartedly hummed and hawed as before. He lifted the staff and swung it around to get a feel for its weight. Sweet Jeiju! he thought as he nearly stumbled and almost threw Meu to the ground. She must weigh a good seven stone!

After a half dozen steps with Meu in the air, Krumpus stopped the demonstration, planted the staff in the dirt, and shrugged.

“Do you not speak?” the soldier asked.

Krumpus stuck out his tongue, mangled and thick with heavy purple scarring. Several of the greener soldiers gawked and cringed.

Can you sign? The soldier asked in Tallian Hand.

Yes, Krumpus replied, surprised by the man’s use of the silent language. Most Trohls didn’t know it, much less foreigners—or so he thought.

“Well, come along,” the soldier turned his gaze from the shaman and waved him closer. “We can’t have you out here all alone, wandering around the wilds. There’s a war on after all.”

There’s a war on… Krumpus thought and remembered Meu’s words. Minist continued her conquest.

The shaman considered fighting as more and more troops continued to pour around the bend in a constant stream of bodies. There were two dozen soldiers, then three, then four dozen. After a time, the soldiers didn’t bother to stop and stare at the lone Trohl. Indeed, now that Krumpus held still, he noticed the grumble and shake of an approaching army!

“Give us the staff,” the officer commanded as Krumpus watched the crowd roll by.

For several seconds, Krumpus frowned at the man. He held the staff back as a knot of men condensed around him. Several had weapons out.

“Come now,” the officer encouraged him. “Do not make us take it from you.”

It’s okay, Meu soothed him. I have seen these eyes before. They are greedy men, and think me valuable. They will not harm me. I am in no danger in their hands.

With a sigh, Krumpus held out the staff. They’d take it anyway, and they might give him a beating to remember if he wasn’t quick about it.

The officer hopped off his horse and examined the staff as two other men held the heavy weapon between them. Another soldier took the shaman’s pack from his horse and searched it. “Fine knives, needles, bandages, bottles...” he reported the contents. The soldier pulled his purse from the bag and glanced at the contents. “He could certainly have more coin,” he said, then threw the purse to the officer. The officer checked its contents, shrugged, and tucked the small purse into his shirt. Krumpus frowned as he figured it was the last he’d see of that coin.

“Some heathen witch doctor?” The officer speculated as he too rifled through the bag. He turned to Krumpus. “Have you any experience against the waokie and their rot?”

Krumpus frowned and shook his head. He’d never even heard of the waokie.

“Then what good are ya?” The officer snorted as he returned the bag to Krumpus. “Our hands are full. If you want it, you carry it.”

Krumpus glared at the officer as he snatched his bag away. Of course he wanted it! He didn’t drag it through the mountains for the last week so he could abandon it now! He held his hand out for the staff.

The officer ignored him. “Bring him along,” he said and mounted his own horse.

Several guards held their spears on Krumpus as a soldier bound his hands and tied him to a long line. Meanwhile, Meu was tied to Krumpus’ saddle and his horse was led away by one of the captain’s lieutenants.

After the soldiers tied the shaman’s hands, they did not bring him along. Instead, they waited as the caravan passed. For a few moments, Krumpus thought to ask why, but decided to watch the people, and leave his captors to their own reasons. He was sure of one thing: whatever the purpose, he probably wouldn’t like it.

The stream of people continued to spill along the road toward Ebertin. After the soldiers—a couple hundred or so—wagons appeared on the road, very practical and in good shape. These wagons were loaded with supplies and driven by soldiers. After these wagons came a herd of cattle, escorted by a dozen wranglers, followed by goats, sheep, pigs, and several carriages loaded with various birds that squawked and honked and carried on just so. Then came the common folk, swinging babies and hammers. They drove wagons of every capacity and character, loaded with a life’s worth of tools, supplies, furniture, and personal affects. There was also a good number of handcarts—though most of the commoners proceeded by the power of their own two feet and carried their possessions and children on their backs.

As the commoners passed, the guard grew bored, and decided to needle Krumpus. “You know why we wait?” he asked.

Krumpus shook his head.

“It’s so the people can see you. That way if you try to escape, there’ll be a thousand men looking for you!”

Krumpus turned his attention back to the caravan. He watched the commoners pass. Most took one quick glance and proceeded, if they bothered to look at him at all. Krumpus frowned and looked at his guard sideways.

“...and once we get you to the end, we’re gonna run you to the front!” the guard grinned. “It’s a long march, and you’re gonna be tired for all of it!” he said with a mischievous grin.

The van approached. Several dozen cavalry stepped along the road as the last of the caravan limped before them.

The lieutenant of the van looked perturbed as he approached. “As if we don’t have enough work, Leverkusen finds more prisoners to keep,” he complained as his men drove several hospital carts full of the sick, the dying, and the dead—which included livestock that was developing quite a smell. Krumpus wondered why they didn’t just leave the corpses—but then he remembered the bugbear.

“Orders be orders,” the guard gave a shrug—though Krumpus could tell he was bothered by the lieutenant’s tone.

“I know your orders,” the van lieutenant said as he stopped in the road. “And I know mine! Now move along so we can be the last ones on the road—per orders!”

In a huff, the guard turned his horse and whipped the beast. “Hiya!” he roared as he drove the horse to run.

Krumpus realized immediately what was about to happen. He stood and ran down the road after his guard, wide eyed, and quickly losing ground. After a good half dozen steps, the line around his wrists went taut and Krumpus was pulled off his feet. He sailed into the dirt and dust of the road as several of the caravan hooted and hollered to see the shaman dragged a good hundred feet or so.

Blessedly, the guard stopped his steed and let Krumpus get to his feet and catch his breath. The shaman spit dirt and checked his elbows and knees for any lasting damage. There was a hole in his shirt and a raspberry the size of a lune where his forearm rubbed the road.

As he brushed himself off, the guard pushed his horse forward at a walk, and the shaman was forced to follow. Meu spoke in the shaman’s head. Do not worry. We will dance again, she said, her words tinged with sympathy.

Can you really stay like that for days? He thought at her.

I have a cousin that can maintain his stone skin for over a week, she replied. But I cannot. After a few days, I become hungry… Do you know where they take us?

No, Krumpus admitted.

I doubt we will be their guests for long, Meu told him with confidence. We will escape in the night, when they make camp. I will find you. Will you wait for me?

Krumpus agreed. He had no plans of his own.

Hour after hour, the caravan continued its slow crawl eastward as the rope chafed against the shaman’s wrists. Only his conversation with Meu made the journey tolerable. The sun dropped behind the mountains and the world grew dark around them. The venom is wearing thin, Meu warned Krumpus. We will not be able to speak much longer. But know this: I will find you, she reassured him.

I will wait, he told her. Shortly after, he was alone in his thoughts once more.

Although the caravan slowed, it did not stop. As the darkness encroached, the soldiers kept the commoners moving, and Krumpus wondered how long they could march without the sun. Indeed, it was no easy task. The pace slowed to a sullen slog as the miserable lot pushed forward into the dark night.

They marched perhaps an hour or two in the dark before a line of watch fires cut across the road and the wall of a massive fort materialized in front of the caravan. The giant wall stretched across the main road, a crude work of earth and lumber with towers all about. This wasn’t here the last time... Krumpus wondered as he approached the gate.

A knot of Trohls huddled outside the fort in nothing but rags. They curled up against the timbers of the wall with their faces hidden, filthy cloaks pulled tight against the chill mountain air. The guards of the fort ignored these vagrants, as did most of the caravan. A few took pity and offered bits of bread, cheese, and other small things. “The blessings of Naharahna upon the least of us,” one said as he gave an apple away.

Krumpus stared at the beggars as he passed. Most were barely men, and the rest were merely boys. Their hands were stunted, little more than base clubs with thin hollow fingers curled in uncomfortable looking knots. They fumbled most offerings into the grime of the road as Krumpus wondered what happened to their hands. It did not escape his notice that nearly all of the beggars were Trohl.

Inside the fort were several wooden structures and no end of tents. There was a large fenced area where the soldiers kept Trohl prisoners. Hundreds, maybe a thousand Bouge shuffled about behind the high slat fence that formed their open air prison. The only buildings inside these walls were barely hovels. The fence looked weak in many parts—though it was being improved on the near side. A series of small towers circled the pen, as did several heavily armed patrols. Malnourished, the prisoners were mostly women, children, and the elderly. Krumpus realized this prison had everything to do with the empty lands to the west. There was indeed a war! Yet, these soldiers—obviously Ministrians—were dressed as Saots... Why? What sort of subterfuge was this?

He turned and looked about the rest of the fort. The other half of the camp was occupied by barracks, sheds, stables, cabins, tents; everything an invading force might need, and several things it might simply want. There were clerks, cooks, urchins, and priestesses galore. There were hundreds and hundreds of soldiers, all in Saot uniforms. Krumpus did not recognize any of the crests they wore—but then he only knew a few Saot houses: the Lion of Land’s End, the Rose of Hyber Pass, the Phoenix of Danyan. Aside from the largest and most noteworthy houses, he only knew a few smaller ones that traded in Hearthstone. There were said to be as many Saot houses as there were Trohl militias, which was an impressive thing indeed! There were several hundred different militias among the Jindleyak alone! Not that it mattered. These soldiers were obviously Ministrians no matter what uniforms they wore.

The caravan dispersed among the camp. Guards pushed Krumpus toward the large pen of prisoners.

“Non,” the officer shook his head. “This one goes to the Corpus.”

The guards led Krumpus through the fort all the way to the east wall. Two men carried Meu and the staff as the captain accompanied them. They entered a building with a single large room. To one side of the room was an assortment of tabards, all graced with various Saot houses, while the other side of the building had the pitch black tabards of Ministrian shock troops. Krumpus frowned as he stared at the uniforms of Minist. He’d not seen a single man wearing the black of the Empress—except that now every member of his guard changed from Saot to Ministrian uniforms as if it was the most natural thing to trade between the two. Once the soldiers were changed, they led Krumpus down a wooden stairway. Down, down into the earth they went. The stairs stopped, and although they turned in circles as they came down the stairs, Krumpus was sure they faced east as they marched through the close confines of the tunnel. Krumpus was sure they traveled under the outer wall of the fort. He wondered why they changed just to take him outside. Would they kill him and steal the staff? He mentally prepared to fight and run. He did not like his odds as he glanced about his numerous guards. Still, he had a few tricks up his sleeves—and they’d be more effective in the dark of night!

After several hundred feet of smooth tunnel, the group came to another stairway, quite like the first. They stepped up, up, out of the earth, and found themselves in what seemed to be an empty closet. The door opened and revealed a barracks beyond. More Ministrians dressed as Ministrians! Krumpus thought as they marched through a building full of resting soldiers. These shock troopers glanced up occasionally, mostly to stare at the staff with Meu wrapped around it. Several glanced at Krumpus, a few with hostility, a couple with curiosity, most with boredom.

Outside, Krumpus found himself in another fort altogether. The high towers of this camp faced west, and were manned by Ministrians in their proper black garb—but it wasn’t Ministrians alone on the towers. There were also Trohl militia along the wall.

This fort was smaller than the other fort—not that it mattered since the men secretly fought for the same side. Krumpus wondered if the Trohls about the camp were privy to the truth and thought most of them must not be. If they were, why put on the show at all?

A large stone tower dominated the northwest corner of the camp. There were several stone structures about it—the only stone structures in either camp—which made up a fine little neighborhood. The soldiers led Krumpus into the tower, down a flight of stairs, through a long hallway, and into a small room with nothing but a table and two chairs at the center. The table had leather straps to secure the hands of a prisoner, but the guards did not bother. They set Meu on the table and left the room, except for the officer, who waited with Krumpus.

This was the first rest Krumpus had since his capture. It wasn’t long before he was leaning heavily in his seat, on the verge of nodding off. As Krumpus blinked against a much needed rest, the door popped open and a rather corpulent and suspicious man entered.

“Majoris,” the officer stood straight and saluted the fat man.

Fedring, Corpus Majoris of Camp Calderhal, frowned at the officer. “Leverkusen, I don’t have time to advise on every Trohl you find in the wilds!” he waved an impatient hand at Krumpus. He caught sight of Meu on the table and lost interest in berating the officer. “Glory! What is that!?”

“I do apologize, your grace,” Leverkusen began. “He was dancing with it.”

Fedring glanced at the Trohl, then returned his attention to Meu once more. “Such incredible detail... and it is very solid,” he said as he tried to lift it. He poked about her jeweled eyes and tugged at her fangs as he marveled. “You have done the right thing!” Fedring smiled as he shifted his attention from the staff to the shaman that carried it. The smile disappeared. “Why do you have this?!” he asked in Trohl.

“He doesn’t speak,” Leverkusen answered. “He is a mute.”

“Can you write?” the Majoris continued his questions.

“He knows Tallian Hand,” Leverkusen noted.

Fedring glared at the officer. “And this is not the first thing you mention?!”

“The staff was the first thing...” Leverkusen pointed.

“And where did you get it?” Fedring said once more in Krumpus’ native tongue as he signed the words.

“He knows Ministrian,” Leverkusen shrugged.

Fedring glared at the caravan captain.

“I never said he was stupid. Just mute,” Leverkusen explained.

Slowly, Fedring turned from the captain and glared at Krumpus instead. Is this true? Fedring asked in Tallian Hand. Do you speak the Hand? Do you speak Ministrian?

Yes. Krumpus gestured, and wondered that so many Ministrians made a study of the silent language.

“Why do you have this staff?!” Fedring repeated.

It is mine, Krumpus replied.

With a frown, Fedring looked to Leverkusen, “What’s in his bag?”

“Bandages, knives, potions,” Leverkusen shrugged.

“A doctor of some sort?” Fedring turned from Leverkusen and faced the Trohl. “Is this a staff of office? Is it an award for services rendered?”

Krumpus shook his head. It’s a wyrm, he signed.

Fedring stared at Krumpus as his expression grew darker—then he slapped the shaman across the top of his head. “Obstinate! I can see it’s a wyrm! What does it represent?! What office?! What charge?! Don’t give me some riddle?!” he snapped.

Krumpus glared at the man but kept his peace.

“But I know what this is, even though it may not register with you,” Fedring touted the weapon. “This is a caduce, the legendary staff of Trismegist!” he snorted. “You may see some mundane beast, but I see the relic of an old god!” Fedring sneered. “Put him in a cell! There’s no reason to quarter him with the common chattel!”

“Here, in the tower?” Leverkusen asked.

“Yes—and do keep him out of sight!” Fedring barked. “We don’t need the militias bothering us about another Trohl prisoner!”

Leverkusen gave a nod and grabbed Krumpus by the arm. “Come along.”

“Captain, since you have me here...” Fedring began once more. “Will you tell me how you found the road?”

“It what respect?”

“Was there any trouble with the waokie?” he asked.

“I’m happy to say only one set of traps on this occasion, though it was a bit of a maze,” Leverkusen stated. “It took a bull, two cows, and half a dozen sheep to clear the tangle.”

“You brought the corpses?” Fedring asked.

Leverkusen nodded. “To deprive the waokie of meat.”

“Dreadful beasts,” Fedring snorted. “I’m happy to hear they didn’t get any of the pigs.”

“We hold the pigs back, sir—too expensive.”

Fedring gave an approving nod.

Leverkusen continued. “Six people died of the rot, three more died from other poisons and traps, and four died of other causes altogether. One man recovered from the rot, but he lost his arm.”

“And what of Valcovour’s Pass?” Fedring cut in. “I hear they always take someone over Valcovour’s Pass.”

“We believe it is their way of telling us the pass belongs to them,” Leverkusen nodded. “This time it was one of the civilians, a girl, seven years old.”

“Poison?”

Leverkusen nodded.

“Was it one of the quick ones?” Fedring continued.

“Not even a minute,” Leverkusen answered. “And every second of it was ugly.”

“How awful,” Fedring frowned. “And what are your orders concerning Valcovour’s Pass?”

Leverkusen shrugged, “We were sending in archers for a time, but then the waokie just killed an archer, or worse, several. They’re sneaky bastards and hard to catch, and they have a number of bolt holes all about the pass. Now the men are told to wear their heavy leathers and face plates. We keep our shields up. Lately, the waokie are lazy about it. They just go for one of the civilians. Easy targets.”

“Cheaper for the company,” Fedring nodded. “Thank you, for the update, captain. You are dismissed.”

With a nod Leverkusen pushed Krumpus from the room. At the bottom of a narrow flight of stairs, Leverkusen turned the shaman over to a couple of massive guards. They took his bag and cloak and led him to a small dark cell with no windows. With a huff and a snort, the guards left him alone in the cell with nothing but a nub of candle and a shabby blanket.

In the dim light of the candle, Krumpus considered the events of the day as he rubbed his sore wrists, knees, and elbows. Today, he’d searched for foxbane, met a wyrm, was captured by Ministrians, and discovered the fate of so many Bouge peasants. Now, he was stripped of his possessions and locked in a cell.

Still, he had his health! Krumpus stretched and listened to the pulse of the blood in his ears. He had his health and that meant everything! The rest of it could and would change as long as he stayed healthy. Besides, there was a wyrm in the camp, and it meant to set him free! They’d escape. Somehow, he knew they’d escape. The one true god wouldn’t give them away so easily—or so he hoped.

Before he slept and while he still had a nub of light, Krumpus decided to inspect his cell. The floor was dirt and the walls were stones set in mortar. On one side was a cot. On the other was a small drain. He lifted the metal grate off the drain and realized it didn’t go anywhere. There was just a hole in the ground no wider than his arm, maybe a foot deep, with a bit of dried filth about the bottom. As he glanced about, Krumpus was bothered by the sturdy construction of the room. There was a heavy permanency about it.

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 7.2 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

Carringten and Creigal sat across from Baet as the guard began his report in earnest. “I was unable to find the thief, but I managed an intimate and illuminating conversation with Banifourd,” Baet began with a bit of a smirk. “Unfortunately, we are duped. From Gaetilly, Humbert went to Land’s End,” he said with a frown.

“At least he didn’t continue in to Minist,” Creigal spit the word. “Very well! If Humbert went to Land’s End, we go to Land’s End!”

“The road will be heavily monitored,” Carringten replied. “We will be hounded all the way to Solveny, if not beyond.”

“No road is safe for us,” Creigal surmised. “Drefford will send men in every direction. I only hope they send few men north, along the Trohl road. We will go that way, and once we reach Hearthstone, we will turn south,” Creigal stated.

Carringten stood with a nod as he moved toward the horses.

“Let’s not be hasty,” Creigal shook his head. “Drefford will have his men out in force tonight, and one of us needs a rest.”

Carringten considered this and nodded his agreement. He returned to his seat and turned back to Baet. “What of the others?”

“Bence is a traitor. All the rest are dead,” Baet said.

There was a rage in Carringten’s eyes as he stared at Baet. “And Banifourd? Did you add him to the growing list of dead?”

“It’s possible,” Baet shrugged. “I left him unconscious, in a growing pool of his own blood.”

“It would have been easier if you killed him proper,” Carringten said.

“I had no orders,” Baet replied. “I certainly gave him a beating to remember, but he was very forthcoming. I do not think he lied—except to blame it all on Bence and Garf.”

“Is it a moment of weakness to leave a defeated enemy alive, or a moment of strength?” Creigal considered. “If Banifourd dies, Drefford will assume it is us that did it, and that we know the truth of things. If he lives, then Banifourd will confirm what we know. Either way, it is the same.” Creigal set his hand on Baet’s shoulder and gave the guard a warm squeeze. Baet tried not to wince as Creigal put his hand on the bite Pearl gave him. “You’ve done well,” the duke smiled. “Get some sleep.”

“There is one more thing to speak of,” Baet stated. “Count Drefford has an inordinate number of men. I should think he does not need so many just to patrol the streets of Wibbeley.”

“Men?” Carringten asked. “How many men does he have?”

Baet shook his head. “I took no count, but there seemed an excess.”

“And what do you make of this?” Creigal asked.

Unsure, Baet shrugged and said the first thing that came to mind. “I feel that he prepares for strife. Perhaps it is because of all the Ministrians. There are a lot of shock troops in the city.”

“It is not a city,” Creigal noted. “It is but a town.”

“It is an awful large town,” Baet replied. “There are smaller cities in the south.”

“Population has nothing to do with cities and towns. The designation is strictly political,” Creigal answered.

“Would a town have more men?” Baet asked.

“Less,” Creigal answered. “But as you noted, Wibbeley is quite big.”

Baet shook his head. “Drefford has too many men. My instincts tell me that he mobilizes for some action.”

Creigal and Carringten eyed each other and considered the implications. “We’ll keep it in mind,” Creigal stated.

Baet smiled, pleased that he had mentioned it. Now finished with his report, he collected Haddelton’s blanket and made a bed in the hay loft. For a second, he lay on his stomach, until the pressure of his weight inflamed the wounds from Pearl’s nails. Baet rolled onto his back and closed his eyes. For the time, he thought of Humbert and Haddelton, then pushed his guilt aside, and wondered if he might meet a kind, sane version of Pearl in his dreams. Maybe, just maybe… he thought as he remembered the smooth touch of her skin, her countless freckles, and the light in her eyes. With such a pleasant thought in his weary head, sleep came quick.