David Dalglish - The Old Ways

“No,” Jerico said, shaking his head. “Don’t think like that. It isn’t hopeless, not yet. We don’t know the situation there. Perhaps a minor lord threw his lot in with Arthur. Your brother’s band might already be on its way, ruining their supply lines and poisoning their water. We might not stop them, but at least we can try to stall.”

“How?”

Jerico gave her a mischievous grin.

“Wagons are such fragile things…”

They stayed far back out of sight until nightfall, when the caravan set up camp. As the stars came out, Jerico and Sandra made up the lost distance, until at last they crouched at the far edges of the campfire light. Whoever ran the wagons showed no fear of bandits or marauders. Instead of circling them into a protective barrier, they remained set in the middle of the road, still in line. The oxen pulling them had been tethered in the fields, downwind from the camp. Sandra pointed to them, but Jerico shook his head.

“Perhaps after,” he whispered. “They’re tired, and might not scatter, plus I fear the noise.”

“Noise?” asked Sandra. “For men of faith, they seem to share all the same noisy vices.”

Jerico shrugged. While there were no camp followers, it appeared every other vice was welcome in the camp. The men drank, sang, and made a bawdy ruckus. Many brawled amongst themselves using only their fists, and others gambled on the winners. Jerico saw no sign of priests or paladins, and assumed them to be in the larger tents erected near the front of the wagon train.

“Fine. After I’m done, we’ll go for the oxen, but I want to hit the wagons first. If I do this right, they won’t notice a thing until morning.”

Jerico removed his armor and the under-padding. He needed speed and stealth, not to rattle like a tin spatula in a kettlepot. Even his shield he left behind, bringing only his mace buckled at his waist-just to aid his sabotage, of course. He had no intention of fighting if he could help it.

“Stay beyond the fires,” Jerico said as he placed the last of his armor in a pile, along with much of their supplies. “Follow me from wagon to wagon as best you can. If I’m spotted, you need to know immediately, and then run like Karak himself is at your heels.”

“I’d rather you not get caught at all,” she said, kissing him on the cheek for good luck. “But I’ll keep an eye out on you just the same.”

Swallowing his fear, Jerico approached the camp, always watchful for a patrol. The tall grass helped immensely, but the wagons were on the bare dirt road. Getting to them would be no easy task. He chose the one on the tail end first, crawling between two campfires the soldiers had built in the grass. They joked amongst themselves as they drank, talking of the many heathens they’d kill upon reaching Arthur’s castle.

We’ll see about that, thought Jerico as he reached the edge of the grass. To the far left and right he saw campfires, but no one patrolled the area. Too much arrogance, Jerico decided with a smile. Of course, who would rob or attack a patrol of armed men sworn to Karak? No one sane, but Darius had always insisted Jerico had a bit of madness in him. Or was it stupidity?

Either way, the path was clear, and Jerico ran with his body crouched as low as possible while still maintaining speed. Upon reaching the wagon, he rolled underneath and then paused, holding his breath for a long ten seconds while his heart hammered in his ears. No calls, no nearby footsteps. He let out his breath, then went to work. The dirty base of the wagon was inches above him, but the tight space was no bother. At the rear of the wagon, he stopped and unclipped his mace.

The cramped environment would limit his strength, but he prayed to Ashhur that it would be enough. Both hands grabbing the handle, he swung for the rear axle. His mace sank in with a heavy thunk, and a long crack ran along the wood. Jerico pulled it free, then waited. The wagon would muffle much of the noise, and the merriment would obscure it further. Once confident no one had heard, he struck again. The crack spread further.

All night, thought Jerico. I’ve got all night, if that is what it takes.

He waited another minute, then struck again. This time the wood split, and the entire wagon groaned above him. Jerico waited a good five minutes before moving, then slid toward the front axle to do the same. They would have spares, he knew, but how many? If he hit every single wagon, replacing all the broken axles would take a long time, longer if they ran out of spares. Without their food and supplies, the army would go nowhere. For all Jerico knew, that several day delay could make the difference at the siege further north.

The second axle taken care of, he rolled onto his stomach and then judged the gap between him and the next wagon. It, too, appeared unguarded, though there was a campfire about ten yards to the west that might overhear his sabotage. Glancing the other way, he looked for Sandra to see if she watched. The grass was thick, so he could only hope. Praying to Ashhur for safety, he crawled out and then sprinted for the next wagon. He nearly slid underneath, then realized the scraping dirt and gravel might alert the nearby men. Calmly he dropped to his side and rolled.

The men at the nearby camp, it turned out, were gloriously drunk. Jerico sighed with relief. There were twelve of them, and they were taking turns arm-wrestling with their elbows atop a log. From his low vantage point, Jerico watched, timing his strikes against the wagon with the start and end of every new competition, when the cheering was at its loudest. The rear axle broke with ease, appearing to have been well on its way toward doing so without his help. The front one took longer, but ten minutes later, he’d made a long enough crack that he trusted would break after a day or two of rough travel.

Reaching the third wagon looked to be far more difficult. This one had soldiers patrolling the area, looking bored and unhappy to be saddled with such duty while the rest drank and gambled the night away. A soldier watched each side, and a third circled, peering inside the wagon every other time. Watching for thieves, of course, but Jerico had no interest in swiping supplies. The men at the sides were just beyond the road, standing amid the grass. They feared an outside threat, not one from within. Hopefully the distance would be enough.

After the circling guard vanished around the wagon, Jerico crawled out and ran. His back ached, and a spasm struck his side halfway there because of his low crouch. Clenching his teeth, he stumbled the last few steps. No time to be graceful, he fell to his stomach and crawled. He heard rocks scatter and dirt kick out from below him, but did the guards hear it too? Holding his breath, he listened and waited.

A pair of boots walked along, then stopped at the rear of the wagon. Jerico slowly pulled his knees to his chest, for his feet were in danger of poking out below. He needed to get further underneath, but dared not move any more than he must. The boots shifted, and he wondered what the soldier could be doing.

Move on already, Jerico silently begged.

And then the guard knelt on one knee and peered underneath the wagon. His eyes must not have been fully adjusted to the darkness, for it took a full two seconds before he realized Jerico was there. The look on the soldier’s face might have been amusing if not for Jerico knowing his chances of survival had just dropped to nil.

“What the…”

Jerico’s heel smashed the soldier in the face, crushing his nose. He fell backwards, screaming through his hands as he tried to stem the blood. Jerico rolled out the side, toward the field where Sandra hid, and lurched to his feet. The man standing guard on that side turned, and Jerico took him down with a mace blow to the head. What little surprise he had, though, was spent by then. Two groups of men stood from their campfires and reached for their weapons. Speed was all Jerico could rely on now. He knew he could run for hours if need be, and Ashhur could grant him the strength to continue. But that involved getting out.