The Bandit Stronghold

The Jerbeen thief’s word was good and, by following his directions, we arrived outside the bandit stronghold in a third of the time it would have taken us alone.

We saw first the stone towers connected to a squat, sturdy fortress. There were archers patrolling the parapets and Bandit Coalition banners hanging from the walls.

If we had followed the road we would have reached the formidable main entrance. It was kept closed by a heavy wooden drawbridge behind a heavier iron portcullis which barred our entrance. Instead, we stood hidden in the undergrowth nearby and could see a smaller door beside the main entrance which looked a little more accessible. That was only guarded by two burly Mapach.

“Eh,” I muttered. “I’ve seen bigger.”

We huddled together. With the clothes we had looted from the bandits who attacked us the previous night, Crispin and Olive could easily pass themselves off as members of the Coalition. I on the other hand would not make such a convincing bandit.

“Perhaps you could pretend I’m your prisoner,” I said. “You can restrain me with rope and rough me up a bit, so it looks like you captured me.”

Crispin’s eyes glinted.

“Go on,” I said. “Punch me.”

Crispin’s blow was like a feather. I laughed. His second attempt was weaker than the first. Olive missed me entirely. Crispin tried again with his mace, but it just clanged off my armour.

“What’s that noise?” A gruff voice came from the fortress. It was showtime.

I ran out toward the gate, rope half tied around my wrists, pretending to have just broken free. Olive and Crispin ran after me in pursuit and Crispin tackled me to the ground.

“What’s going on here?” asked one of the burly Mapach. He and his fellow guardsman looked strong enough to lift the portcullis on their own. They both wore braces with easily-readable name tags clipped on: Brutus and Otis.

“We captured this Birdfolk warrior in the mountains,” said Olive as Crispin struggled to tighten the rope around my hands. “We think he’s got information that would be valuable to Benna Seridan.”

“How did he get away?” asked Brutus.

“There’s two of you and only one of him,” said Otis, showing some sort of rudimentary intelligence.

While Crispin and Olive fumbled over an answer, Brutus walked up to inspect me. I snarled. He kicked me in the head.

“Whatever. Let’s get the prisoner inside.” Otis grabbed me by my feet and dragged me through the small side entrance. Olive and Crispin followed and Brutus shut the door behind us.

---

The inner courtyard of the fortress was less formidable than the outside. There were no solid structures in sight, just a sea of tents and displaced Humblefolk who huddled together around campfires. There were a couple of larger tents which Brutus pointed out as the storeroom and barracks, and at the other end of the courtyard was a large wooden gate that barred the way deeper into the fortress.

“Take him to the prison tent,” said Otis, leaving me in the capable hands of Crispin and Olive. “It’s the grey one over there past the storeroom.”

The Mapach guards shouldered their beefy way back through the side door and resumed their watch.

“Olive,” whispered Crispin out the side of his mouth. “A distraction would be nice.”

We were being watched. Tens of heads turned our way as the bandits eyed their latest prisoner. I realised that I was the only Gallus around. The bandits were almost exclusively Humblefolk with only a few ragged Corvum and Raptor members to be seen.

Olive grinned. “I have just the song.”

As I was hunting in the woods
I heard a screeching sound
Among the trees and ferns I saw
A cock upon the ground

He didn’t seem that big at first
In fact he looked quite small
I challenged him without a thought
I had no fear at all

But battle fires up the blood
And right before my eyes
The raging rooster raised his head
And grew four times in size

Though he was strong I swore that bird
Would get his just deserts
Size matters not; small can beat big
Just kick them where it hurts!

It’s true: that’s how I won the fight
Although I hear you scoff
It was not quick, my friends, it took
All night to beat him off

Strangers clapped along and jeered at me as Crispin pushed me toward the prison tent. It appeared that Olive’s deadpan delivery was too highbrow for the simple minds of the bandits, and they took the song at face value.

Just before we reached the prison tent, Crispin took a look around and pushed me down an alleyway. Now we were out of sight he loosened the ropes that tied my hands and turned to leave.

“I’d better go,” said Crispin. “I need to stop Olive before she sings a song about me.”

---

Once I had got rid of the rope I had a look around. Crispin and Olive did not immediately return, and I felt I should do something. I started by walking around the back of the prison tent and listening. There was a wooden creaking sound from one corner, so I continued a bit further and lifted up the side of the tent to peek underneath it.

I saw iron bars and five pairs of Birdfolk talons. I grimaced. The prisoners were caged there.

“Hello,” said a familiar voice. It was definitely Crispin. I looked around wildly, but I couldn’t see him anywhere.

“Oh, hello,” someone replied. “I’m lonely.”

I risked another peek under the side of the tent. There was Crispin alright. He was chatting nervously with another Mapach who I presumed to be the jailer. What was he thinking?

“Do you want some dried biscuits?” asked Crispin.

“Sure,” said the jailer. “My name’s Cobham, but everyone calls me Fat Cob.”

Fat Cob’s nickname was an understatement: he was gargantuan. He sat alone inside the prison tent, squatting on a wooden stool which looked comically tiny compared to his girth. Fat Cob’s role in the prison was instantly clear: he held the keys, and sat, and watched the prisoners, while other bandits brought him food.

“I’ve not seen you around,” said Fat Cob.

“I’ve been largely—” Crispin choked on a bit of dry ration. “I’m new. Hoping to make some friends.”

“Oh, you can talk to Tucker in the storeroom,” said Fat Cob. He leaned forward and winked. “He’s in charge of all the rations.”

Something clicked in Crispin’s brain. “Rations? Did you miss lunch?”

“Do I look like I missed lunch?” asked Fat Cob. He narrowed his eyes.

“Definitely not,” stammered Crispin, “it’s just that—”

“Definitely not?! Is this how you try to make friends?”

“No, I—”

“Fine,” said Fat Cob and stamped his foot on the floor. I swear I felt the ground shake. “You can leave now.”

---

Finally, Crispin and Olive and I caught up with each other.

We were hiding in plain sight. They blended in nicely with their stolen bandit clothes, but I too needed a disguise. I grabbed a shawl from someone’s washing line, hunched over, and used a fallen tree branch as a walking stick. I was such a convincing grandmother that Olive was the only one who recognised me.

“What valuable information did you get from the jailer, Crispin?” I asked.

“He doesn’t want to be my friend,” Crispin said dejectedly.

“Never mind. Maybe you’ll have better luck with Benna Seridan,” I said. “Well, before we take her down.”

We had gathered at the far end of the courtyard among the bandits camping there. Nearby was the wooden gate that led deeper into the stronghold. Nobody had passed through whilst we had been waiting. We would have to open it ourselves.

“Can you manage another distraction, Olive?” asked Crispin.

Olive grinned again. “You know, I have just the song.”

Crispin and I positioned ourselves near the gate and watched Olive walk back toward the prison tent. She stopped outside the tent flap and put her hat on the ground. Fans of her previous performance started to gather as she strummed her lute and sang a cheery little ditty.

Faaaaaaat Bob, Fat Bob, Fat Bob
He’s such a lazy slob
He climbed a hill
But it made him ill
Fat Bob, Fat Bob, Fat Bob

Faaaaaaat Bob, Fat Bob, Fat Bob
Food is a full-time job
He reached for a pie
But it was too high
Fat Bob, Fat Bob, Fat Bob

Faaaaaaat Bob, Fat Bob, Fat Bob
Be careful near his gob
If you fall inside
He’ll eat you alive
Fat Bob, Fat Bob, Fat Bob

The crowd loved it. They quickly joined in the chant at the beginning and end of each verse, and someone gleefully substituted Cob’s name for the eponymous Bob. Soon they were all doing it. Olive was winding up to begin a fourth verse when a shout came from inside the prison tent.

“Wait a fuckin’ minute,” shouted Fat Cob. “What did you just sing about me?”

The crowd scattered as Fat Cob squeezed himself through the tent flap and locked eyes with Olive.

“I’ll snap you like the twig you are!”

Olive grabbed her hat, took a bow, and ran. She disappeared among the smaller tents while Fat Cob yelled abuse at her back.

This was the best opportunity we were going to get. I grabbed the handle and heaved on the gate. Crispin helped anchor me and together we opened it wide enough for us to slip through. The rest was up to Olive.

Fat Cob stomped around trying to get a glimpse of her, but he was just too slow and stupid. Hidden within the crowd, Olive whirled her sling and sent a vial of sticky slime flying into Fat Cob’s face. The glass broke and slime covered his eyes, gluing them shut.

A couple of seconds later Olive appeared beside us.

“Well Crispin,” I said, “at least you made a better impression on him than that.”

“Yeah,” sighed Crispin. “But he’ll remember Olive.”