“Razor Wood! Over there! It’s called Razor Wood!” Theteamster swept out his whip to indicate the approaching terrain, almost taking the ear off one of his own oxen. “You can still see the swords poking up throughthe brambles! Nigh on a thousand men died there not three years a-gone.”
Polk the teamster sat on his driving bench, lord of all that he surveyed. Scrawny, boisterous, and graced with a huge hatchet of a nose, he drove his cart with a singular lack of skill. Heavy wooden wheels screeched like tortured cats as the ox cart lurched its way along the open grass, forcing the teamster to shout to be heard above the noise.
His audience was a man walking alone with a slow and steady tread beside the cart. He was a big man with a shaven head and dark eyes that carefully scanned the heather-covered hills. A scar ran outward to the point of his stubbled jaw. Over plain clothes he wore armor made of rawhide scales laced into strips and backed with heavy felt. The armor was silent, well worn, and as tough as steel. A sturdy helmet hung from the man’s belt below a long, heavysword with a pommel shaped like a wolf’s skull.
The walker stayed silent, and Polk approved. A good listener. Now that was a rare thing to find! The teamster took a pull from an old clay jug and watched the evening sun setting above the bleak gray woods beside the trail.
“Razor Wood. Yes indeed. I saw me a battle once! Saw me awhole big battle. Even saw me some fellas dueling with swords!” The teamsterscratched beneath his hat as though stirring up memories. “You ever seen a swordfight? I mean a real fight, a fight where they mean business?”
Plodding along stolidly, the stranger kept his eyes on the horizon and replied, “Can’t say I have.”
“Well I saw me one. Big fellas they were, big men. Longblades, too-big as trees!” Leading a procession of wagons and feeling like ageneral on parade, Polk puffed his chest. “Bein’ a fighting man myself, I leftthem to it. Never interfere in another man’s work-that’s what I always say.Never interfere.”
His audience’s attention seemed to be wandering. As the wagoncontinued rolling by, the shaven-headed man stopped to kneel beside the trail and part the grass. His eyes narrowed as he examined a day-old horse dropping nestled in the weeds.
The County of Urnst stood at the northern edge of civilization. Beyond its northern march, there stretched only the lands of the demon king Iuz. Recovering slowly from the years of war, the County of Urnst had begun to plant colonies in lands laid waste by years of battle. With the fields new-dug and crops still not yet ready for harvest, the new settlements relied heavily upon supply caravans as their lifeblood, their only reliable source for food and clothing to survive the coming winter. Until their crops matured and real farming could begin, each little enclave lived a precarious existence, but the resettlement program was vital. The Countess of Urnst needed to take refugees from her overcrowded cities and sow them back onto the lands before plague and famine struck at the slums.
The latest caravan had traveled cautiously along hidden valleys and unmarked plains, carefully watching for bandits and other predators. There were twelve wagons in the procession, heavy slab-sided vehicles each drawn by half a dozen oxen and piled high with boxes, sacks, and bales. A dozen more traders marched beside the column towing packhorses and mules. Six crossbowmen sat atop the wagons or trudged waist deep in the heather blooms, keeping the procession safe from casual acts of war.
The teamsters trusted the soldiers. The soldiers trusted their gods. No one seemed inclined to watch the watchers. Letting the carts roll ponderously past, the shaven-headed man looked out along the column and carefully let the grass cover up his prize.
Up ahead, Polk leaned over the side of his wagon and called back past the wheels. “I said I never interfere! Wrong gettin’ in the way of aman’s work. We all have our calling. Ain’t for me to distract a man when he’sdoing good work.”
The woods were close, forming a tangled mass of brambles and stark, dead trees. The shaven-headed man hefted his heavy backpack and stalked beside the wagons without giving the eerie woodlands a second glance.
A long black wolf tail dangled from the man’s backpack.Eyeing the fur, Polk pulled at his nose and made a conspiratorial jerk of his head toward the man’s cargo.
“You a hunter?” The teamster never waited for an answer.“Reckoned you were when I saw you packing all those furs. Winter comes hard upnorth, and there’s folks going to need those furs. That the business you’re in?You a trapping man?”
The stranger nodded. “I trap things.”
“Right glad to hear it.” The teamster prodded his lead oxenaway from a juicy thistle. “Gotta admire a good fur.”
Before the teamster could think of anything else to say, a rider spurred his horse from around the edge of the woods ahead. With his long greasy hair streaming in his wake, the rider raised his bow in greeting and thundered his black horse through the clinging heather toward the caravan. As the man reigned in his mount next to Polk’s wagon, the teamster passed his stonejug of home-brewed ale.
“Hey, scout, how’s the trail?”
The scout casually holstered his bow and said, “Clear. Headinto the woods and camp for the night. Plenty of firewood, plenty of water.”Circling his horse, the scout stood in his stirrups and circled his arm like a banner about his head. “Make camp! Make camp in the woods! The woods are clear!”
The rider took a long drink from the jug, then threw it to the teamster and cantered back along the wagon line. The teamster watched him ride, corking his jug and giving an admiring smile.
“Now here’s another man knows his business! Some otherscouts, they might keep you out on the plains. But a campfire? Well now, you can see that from a powerful ways away! So into the forest we go. That’s the thingto hide a fire!”
The shaven-headed man took a long, quiet look at the woods. “I suppose so.”
Drawing closer to the dark, silent sprawl of Razor Wood, the caravan cast long shadows across the grass. With the sunset spreading a dark wine-red light across the lands, the first wagon crunched through the underbrush and made its way beneath the eaves of the forest. The cumbersome wagons moved between dead, silent trees. All about the caravan, dry branches raked stark fingers against the sky. Brambles made tangled thickets between the trunks, blocking off the slanting light of the sun. Dead blackberry bushes cracked and crunched beneath the wheels, dragging sharp tendrils across the oxen’s hides.Here and there, small black shapes sped off into the shadows, turning about to stare at the intruders with hostile little eyes.
As the last of the day’s light failed, the wagons werewearily parked in a circle. Men slid to the ground to stretch their legs. A harsh wind filtered through the brambles to promise a bitter night, and several of the wagoners began to gather dead branches for a fire.
Polk’s wagon was entirely laden with barrels of fish oil. Itstank like a fisherman’s nightmare, making most of the other wagondrivers parkupwind. Ignoring such little niceties, the talkative teamster drove up amidst the stench and chose to halt there for the night. He stood, suddenly discovered that His entire backside had gone numb, and lurched down to the ground on legs made wooden by a long day’s haul.
“Cold nights coming! Better feed the livestock a peck of alewith their bran.” The man cricked his back with a noise like a breaking branch.“What’s your name, son? Never did remember hearing you speak your name.” Theteamster hung his hat from a nearby branch. “M’ name’s Polk, by the way! Polkthe teamster, or Polk the adventurer. Transport to adventure!” The gangly Polkgave his wagon a slap. “Never drink with a man you can’t pin a handle on, son!So what’s your name? What do you do?”
The shaven-headed man shot a dark sidewise glance at the teamster and said, “Justicar.”
“Justicar? Is that religious?”
“The only religion that counts.” The shaven-headed mandropped his backpack on the ground. His huge sword stayed hanging at his side. He dug into his backpack and drew out a blue glass flask, uncorked it, took a sip, then passed it over to the teamster.
“Drink.”
The teamster drank, sucking back the raw alcohol as though it were lemonade. He sighed in appreciation, caring not a fig for the cold, the wolves, the empty forest, or even the fires beginning to sparkle to life around the camp.
“Now that’s a fine drop! You can cure a thirst, son! Muchobliged!”
“Keep it. Stay here, be quiet, and drink.” Moving his bighands with practiced speed, the Justicar fussed with his pack, watching the caravan guards from the corner of his eye.
The evening routine had begun, just as it had for the last dozen nights on the trail. Weary men moved slowly, still working out the kinks caused by a long day’s travel. Dry branches were thrown on smoking fires andblanket rolls were tossed onto the ground. Men began unhitching the oxen. Eventually someone would have to see about watering the creatures at the nearby stream.
Filled with an uncharacteristic energy, the caravans mounted scout whooped and leaped off his jet-black horse, picketing the beast to a tree and wandering off toward the stream. He neither unsaddled his horse nor led it to water. The horseman even walked straight past a bucket that hung from a wagon’s tail.
The Justicar raised his head and watched the scout with a careful gaze. “You have a clever scout. I’ve watched him work. Where did youfind him?”
The scout disappeared off into the dead gray trees.
“Assigned to us! We’re an official expedition. The Countessmust have paid for him, ’cause he never cost us a penny! Joined us back atBulette Creek.” The teamster had taken permanent possession of the plum brandyand already seemed rosy-cheeked and hale. “Never turn aside free help, son! Longas they bring their own ale, I’m glad to have him. There’s two caravans venturedout this way that no one’s ever seen again.”
“Three.” Rising carefully from the ground, the Justicarexamined a strand of horsehair hanging from a bramble leaf. The hairs shone golden bright in the failing sun. “You’re missing three caravans.”
“Three is it? Then it’s good to have some extra help along!”The teamster pummeled his numb backside with his fists. “Not that we’ll need it!Simple job. Spearheads, winter food, and blankets to the settlements, then back home. Done it a dozen times.”
The Justicar turned to brood upon the dark, still woods. “Then we’ll make sure you do it a dozen more.”
A cold wind blew through the desolate trees, making the wagoners huddle about their fire for warmth. With the woods becoming dark, men turned more and more to staring at the fire. The Justicar watched, picked a moment when the men were looking elsewhere, then lifted his backpack and faded behind the wagons. As sparks crackled madly from a brushwood fire, he opened his backpack and unrolled a lustrous black wolf pelt across the ground.
The skin was resplendent with claws, tail, a black nose, and teeth that would have done credit to a crocodile. Its grin shone bright as firelight caught across the huge, bared fangs.
Polk had followed the Justicar around the wagon and stared at the wolf skin in unstinting admiration.
“Now that’s a fine pelt, son!” The teamster planted his fistson his hips as he examined the fur. The thick black guard hairs were tipped with fiery red. “What kinda fur is that?”
The Justicar slapped his helmet on and fastened the straps. The man swept the wolf pelt across his shoulders and settled the diabolical canine head over his helm. As he donned the skin, a dark red glow seemed to spark inside the animal’s eyes.
“He’s called Cinders.”
The heavy black sword jutted horizontally through the big man’s belt. He settled it in place, scanned the campsite, and rose soundlesslyto face the trees.
“I have to work now.”
“Exactly! We all do, son-that’s life! Fact of the matteris, we all have to toil!” Polk followed in the Justicar’s footsteps, dogging himall the way into the woods. “That sword now, that’s real pretty, a nice wallhanger. No good for a sword fight, though. You need a real two-hander-sixfoot long and thick as your leg! That’s the thing for a sword fight!”
“Sword fights are for fools.” The Justicar looked briefly ata holy symbol slung about his neck then slipped it underneath his rawhide cuirass. “If the enemy gets a chance to hit back, then you’re doing somethingwrong.”
With one hand on the wolf-skull pommel of his sword, the Justicar turned to stare at Polk. “Stay here. Sit still. I have to work.”
Polk thought about it, but the Justicar’s words had offendedhis heroic soul. He let the man stalk in sinister silence off into the brambles and then jumped up and followed him.
“Not hit back? Not hit back?” The teamster gulped,trying to encompass the enormity of his outrage. “No fights? Steel to steel, managainst man? Well, that’s not hero talk!” The teamster walked pace bypace with the fuming Justicar and energetically waved his hands. “The thing youhave to understand is heroes. Knowing how to be a hero is… well,it’s the difference between being an average man and a great man. Onceyou understand how to be a hero, then the world’s at your feet! You can’t be ahero if you don’t square off and face ’em man to man!”
Polk lifted his chin, setting himself square against unseen enemies. He speared a lofty glance toward the Justicar.
The black pelt seemed to fade and shimmer against the brambles. Big canine fangs grinned with malevolence as the Justicar turned slowly around.
“Shut up. Go back to the wagons.”
“And leave you in the woods all alone?” The teamster gave afirm, competent shake of his head. “You’re addled, son. It’s clear to me thatyou need advice. I’m just going to have to look after you and stick to you likeglue.”
“Fine.”
The Justicar planted a brotherly hand upon the teamster’sshoulder, smiled, then felled him with a massive left cross. Polk crashed through the brambles and lay amidst a maze of stars. Astonished, the man stared about himself at woods that suddenly seemed devoid of life.
A steady rustling and crackling in the blackberries sounded like footfalls. The teamster lurched to his feet, cradled his jaw, then staggered toward the nearby stream. Though the clinging brambles and trees masked most of the light from the caravan’s fires, he could see a tall figurewalking steadily toward him. The teamster made to call out and then balked as he saw the glitter of chain mail and the gleam of a huge two-handed sword.
Towering above the brambles, much too tall for a man, the creature stepped into the uncertain firelight, spreading a vast, dark shadow against the woods. The monstrous figure turned, saw Polk, and pelted straight toward him with his sword raised high. The teamster froze in terror, half raised his hands, and then blinked as nearby leaf litter erupted from the ground.
A feral figure exploded from the underbrush.
A black sword whipped upward as the Justicar rose, cutting his target across the jaw. A second swipe followed, hacking through the enemy’smidriff and driving out the creature’s breath in a savage mist of blood. Thefigure folded in two, its head thudding from its shoulders as the black sword scythed down in a single fluid blur.
The monster’s huge body thumped to the earth. Fully nine feettall, the ogre’s corpse still twitched as it sprawled at Polk’s feet. It had allhappened in a split second of near silence. The Justicar crouched over his victim, his wolf skin snarling with bright, silent fangs. His black-bladed sword dripped blood-and then quite suddenly the man was gone.
“Holy Fharlanghn!”
The teamster sat down, staring at the severed head that lay an arm’s length from his side. The bestial head had jutting fangs and wassmothered in warts and horns. As he stared at the thing in fright, Polk suddenly heard the whole forest rustling with the stamp of armored feet. He shrank back against a tree and stared in panic at a night that suddenly boiled with enemies.
A second ogre parted the bushes with its spear, saw Polk, and gave a predatory snarl. It yelled in triumph and lunged toward the teamster.
An instant later, the creature was struck from behind. The Justicar’s black sword hammered down in a two-handed blow, making a sound likean axe thumbing into waterlogged wood as it split the creature’s shoulder andsheared through its spine. As his target fell, the Justicar planted a foot on the corpse’s neck and wrenched his blade free.
From the woods nearby came a shout. Someone had finally heard the sounds of combat. Wiping his blade, the Justicar turned and fixed the stunned Polk with a glare.
“Stay here.”
The man turned, the wolf pelt shimmered, and he was gone. Sandwiched between two corpses, Polk the teamster slowly scrubbed his hands through the leaf litter and nodded to himself in a daze.
“Yes, sir. Never interfere in another man’s work….”
* * *
Trigol City’s law officers moved with exaggerated distaste asthey tiptoed through the alleyway. A foul strew of blood had painted the walls like a bizarre piece of art. Scattered parts of bodies lay all over the street, and flies buzzed thick and fast across the offal. Most of the victims seemed to have been slaughtered from behind.
Three officers advanced slowly forward, keeping their faces covered from the stench with their cloaks. The nearest corpse stared back at them with an expression of sheer terror etched onto its face.
The victims lay as they had fallen. Some had been slashed. Others had been hurled forcibly into the alley walls. Each and every one of them had taken a deathblow from a heavy sword. The corpses lay twisted in a frenzy of terror, as though more than their lives had been ripped from them.
“Sweet Pelor!” One officer stood and carefully examined anoutstretched hand that held a dagger. The hand lay at least three feet away from its original body. “What in the name of the Abyss did this?”
Hovering at the alley entrance, a small boy stared in horrified fright. The boy’s father pushed the lad quickly back out of view andkept himself well away from the blood-spattered cobblestones.
“We heards them fighting, the lad and me, heards themfighting a while after sunset.” The man bobbed his head as he spoke, lookingleft and right like a terror-stricken bird. “Screaming like fear itself, theywere. Kept screaming for nigh ten minutes till it was done.”
At least a dozen men lay slaughtered in the alleyway. Dark clothing, hoods, cloaks and sheathed weapons had been scattered like chaff. One law officer rolled over the torso of a corpse, dislodging a storm of flies. The dead man had a pocket in his cloak lining that contained several thin strips of birchwood.
“Sir? Birch.”
Flat birchwood strips could be wormed through cracks in doors and window shutters to lift latches free. A cursory search of the bodies turned up climbing hooks and ropes, lockpicks, and chisels.
The senior officer pondered. This had been a very large party of burglars. Trigol was blessed with three different thieves’guilds-organizations that robbed rich and poor alike while running protectionrackets across the city. There was no way of telling one guild from another.
Waving the stink away with his cloak, the senior officer backed fastidiously away from the corpses. “Why were they here?”
The peasant at the end of the street edged nervously forward, watching the shadows and the skies. “They drink there sometimes, sir, in thecellar tavern down at the end of the street. We sees them, but we doesn’t go in.But you didn’t hear it from me, sir! Common knowledge, sir. Common as muck!”
It was all news to the three law officers. Law enforcement in Trigol consisted of armed patrols to keep the streets safe. The doings of the thieves’ guilds remained an absolute mystery. With refugees from fallen kingdomsflooding into the city and bringing their cults and feuds, there was already more trouble than the law could handle. The new temples with their private armies and their mutual hate were a far more present source of danger.
There was nothing to be gained from standing in an alleyway filled with carrion. The law officers retreated, waving the town guard forward to do their job. A heavy cart was backed into the alleyway, and long firepoles prodded a gelatinous cube into the lane. The giant jelly moved slowly over the corpses, absorbing them into its ever-hungry mass one by one. As the creature slurped and slobbered, one officer, more conscientious than most, stalked over to the nervous peasant and tried talking to the man.
“Did you see what happened, Citizen?”
“No, sir!” The peasant kept his eyes searching the roof linesoverhead. “We heards them, though, heards them start and heards them finish!Stayed indoors with the doors bolted until the other gentlemen arrived an hour later.”
“Other gentlemen?”
“Big fellows, sir-swords and cloaks.” The man kept up hisvigil, looking the rooftops up and down. “Not from your side of the law, if youcatch my drift, sir. But we didn’t want no trouble. We told them what we heardjust like we done with you.”
The man pushed his son out of sight behind him and backed hastily away, leaving the three lawmen standing in the street alone. The men faced each other, unwilling to confess that they had pieced together no real clues.
One officer tapped slowly and thoughtfully at his chin. “Twothieves’ guilds? Two groups attacking one another?”
“Then why aren’t any of the dead locked in combat?” Hiscomrade motioned to the corpses. “These men look like they were slaughtered asthey tried to flee.”
Two of the officers shrugged and went their separate ways. Their comrade stood gazing in anxiety down the alleyway, his brow furrowed as he tried to picture just what horror might have come to roost in Trigol.
A flicker of motion amongst the trash suddenly caught his eye. The man walked a little way into the alley and stooped to examine a huge white feather that had been trapped underneath a corpse. The feather was long and stiff. It looked like a feather from an eagle or perhaps a swan. The officer made to touch the thing but hesitated as a sudden sensation of revulsion set his flesh creeping. The man jerked his hand away and suddenly looked up to scan the rooftops.
With a nervous stir of motion, a thin face peeked about the alley corner. The peasant’s son saw the law officer and crept a little closerwith awe shining in his eyes. He spared another glance at the rooftops, then nervously came forward.
“Is the lady going to punish all the thieves, sir?”
The law officer stared from the boy to the feather and slowly rose. “What lady, son?”
“The white lady. The one who said she was going to eat up alltheir souls.” The boy watched the shadows, his big eyes gleaming with terror.“She came here with a man, and the man had the star-sword. Are they comingback?”
The officer backed out of the alleyway, shepherding the boy back out into the light.
“I don’t know, son.” The officer slowly wiped clean hishands. “Get inside. And tell your family not to go out when it gets dark.”