Paul Kidd: White Plume Mountain

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.”