On the Edge
25. March 2020
Five tedious days on the road. We travelled in a group of well-trained adventurers: our party of three, ten members of the Perch Guard, and a couple of experienced mercenaries.
They were decent warriors, as far as I could tell, but I’ve always found the company of strangers difficult. Either you immediately mesh with your comrades and teamwork is easy or you clash and it is not. For this group it was not.
“Still no luck then?” I asked Crispin one night.
Crispin just sighed dejectedly. He’d been trying desperately for days to make some spiritual connection with Bromwell, the only fellow Mapach of the party. He had tried every angle available, but the topics of Religion and the Roots fell on deaf ears. It seemed like Bromwell had raised himself to a higher status in life and wanted to avoid Crispin, and his associations, at any cost.
“He just doesn’t seem interested in anything I have to say,” said Crispin.
“Never mind,” I said. “I’m sure you’ll wear him down eventually.”
Finally on the sixth day we reached an impressive sight. The Crest Mountains loomed before us and, looking up, we could see a single path inching toward the summit. It seemed like the only way up.
Thankfully, it was here that the group parted ways. The Perch Guard tied themselves together with rope for safety and rushed on up the track. The other adventurers made preparations to follow them, but I figured we could forge an alternative route.
We contoured around the foothills until we found a less strenuous path with a much gentler incline than the original route. The day’s travel was tough but I was in good spirits for being rid of the rest of the adventurers.
In the end we made camp on a plateau partway up the ascent. In the distance we could see the flickering orange glow of a campfire.
“Now that,” I said, “is a great way to get ambushed. We certainly won’t be making that mistake.”
“But what about a hot dinner?” Crispin looked horrified.
“Not tonight.” I scowled, but something in Crispin’s expression made me relent. “We’ll do a hot breakfast tomorrow instead.”
Olive took the first watch. She picked at her dry rations and walked the boundary of our camp. I settled down to sleep and tried to get comfy in the tent without Crispin invading my side of the bedroll.
The next thing I remember was Crispin shaking me and Olive shouting at the top of her voice.
“Crispin, Plume, wake up!” Olive cried. “We’re under attack!”
I heard the sound of Olive’s sling whirring and releasing. Sleep still clouded my reactions and I scrabbled around the tent looking for my weapons.
“I’m pretty sure they’re bandits,” Olive continued. “Come on, Crispin. We like to fight! We like—we like to fight!”
Crispin rose mechanically from beside me and stepped outside.
“My slumber has been roused,” he intoned and slammed his mace against the side of his pot.
He came face-to-face with a Mapach bandit. The air around them shimmered a little and the bandit’s ears pricked up. He managed to take a step forward before blood suddenly poured from his nose and mouth and the bandit collapsed dead to the ground.
“Oh no,” whimpered Crispin.
“Are you scared?” asked Olive of a second bandit as she hit it with a rock from her sling.
I finally left the tent to find a third bandit slashing at Crispin with a sword. Crispin looked like he needed my help. Or did he?
I looked at the dead Mapach. “Did you do that?”
A single tear rolled down Crispin’s cheek. I admired his handiwork for a second, and then my rage caught up with me. I screeched a guttural cry to the darkness and slew the other bandit that was threatening Crispin.
“Careful, Plume. We need one of them alive,” said Crispin. A Jerbeen thief materialised from the darkness and Crispin clonked him with his mace.
Beside him, Olive gutted a third Mapach and knocked the corpse to the ground. It was quite a stylish move and I made a note to congratulate her later.
I leaped towards the Jerbeen thief, desperately wanting to do the same, but I knew Crispin wouldn’t shut up if I killed the last of them. I swung my axe and knocked out the remaining bandit with the flat of the blade.
“If that’s all,” I said, “I’m going back to bed.”
I managed another three hours of sleep before I woke to hear Crispin chatting with our prisoner. From the squeaking it sounded like the others had tied up the thief but not gagged him.
“Are you awake?” Crispin enquired genially.
“What’s it to you?” replied the Jerbeen thief.
“I’d like to know your name.”
“My name is—HELP! HELP! ANYBODY!”
“Do you think it’s a good idea to make so much noise? You’ve seen what happens when you wake my friend Plume.”
“I don’t want to be killed by a cock,” the thief admitted.
“Nobody does,” said Crispin. “I won’t be the one to send you on your way. But if you answer our questions we can feed you breakfast. And then send you on your way.”
“What? Breakfast and then death?”
I rolled over and tried to get a bit more sleep. Crispin’s incompetent interview continued for several more minutes as he tried to persuade the thief to renounce his life of crime and join Alexander’s Soup Kitchen.
“But Humblefolk are starving, even in Alderheart,” said the thief. “When my town burned down I swore I’d do what I could to survive. It’s the same for all of us in the bandit camp. I’m not selling out my friends.”
We’ll see about that, I thought.
Crispin pottered about the camp preparing breakfast and I took my turn talking to the prisoner.
I decided to start by making his position clear to him. I lifted the thief up by his bound hands and dragged him over to the edge of the plateau. The cliff dropped away sharply before him. We looked out over the tops of the trees and the winding river stretched out before us. I gave him a moment to appreciate the view.
“Let’s try again. How did you sneak up on us last night?”
Proximity to the cliffside loosened his tongue. He blabbered all about their patrol, the path they had taken, the best route up the mountain and how long it would take to reach the fortress. He talked about Benna Seridan, the leader of the Bandit Coalition, and where she could usually be found in the fortress.
When he finally stopped talking I looked over to Crispin. “Anything else you want to know?”
“Any last words?” Crispin asked timidly.
The Jerbeen thief’s eyes bulged as I lifted him off his feet and dangled him over the edge. But I had made my decision. I dumped him unceremoniously on the plateau, his head poking out over the cliff but the weight of his body holding him safely in place.
“Don’t move until we’ve left,” I said.
Then we ate breakfast.