Robert Salvatore - The Spine of the World

Even that sat badly with the barbarian, but he nodded his head in agreement.

*****

He picked a section of trail littered with rocks where the wagons would have to slow considerably or risk losing a wheel or a horse. A single tree on the left side of the trail provided Wulfgar with the prop he would need to carry out his part of the attack, if it came to that.

Morik waited in clear view along the trail as the pair of wagons came bouncing along.

"Greetings!" he called, moving to the center of the trail, his arms held high. Morik shrank back just a bit, seeing the man on the bench seat beside the driver lifting a rather large crossbow his way. Still, he couldn't back up too much, for he had to get the wagon to stop on the appropriate mark.

"Out o' the road, or I'll shoot ye dead!" the crossbowman yelled.

In response, Morik reached down and lifted a huge head, the head of a slain giant, into the air. "That would be ill-advised," he replied, "both morally and physically."

The wagon bounced to a stop, forcing the one behind it to stop as well.

Morik used his foot, nearly straining his knee in the process, to move a second severed giant head out from behind a rock "I am happy to inform you that the trail ahead is now clear."

"Then get outta me way," the driver of the first wagon replied, "or he'll shoot ye down, and I'll run ye into ruts."

Morik chuckled and moved aside the pack he had lain on the trail, revealing the third giant head. Despite their bravado, he saw that those witnessing the spectacle of the heads were more than a little impressed-and afraid. Any man who could defeat three giants was not one to take lightly.

"My friends and I have worked hard all the week to clear the trail," Morik explained.

"Friends?"

"You think I did this alone?" Morik said with a laugh. "You flatter me. No, I had the help of many friends." Morik cast his gaze about the rocky outcroppings of the pass as if acknowledging his countless "friends." "You must forgive them, for they are shy."

"Ride on!" came a cry from inside the wagon, and the two men on the bench seat looked at each other.

"Yer friends hide like thieves," the driver yelled at Morik. "Clear the way!"

"Thieves?" Morik echoed incredulously. "You would be dead already, squashed flat under a giant's boulder, were it not for us."

The wagon door creaked open and an older man leaned out standing with one foot inside and the other on the running board. "You're demanding payment for your actions," he remarked, obviously knowing this routine all too well (as did most merchants of the northern stretches of Faerun).

"Demand is such a nasty word," Morik replied.

"Nasty as your game, little thief," the merchant replied.

Morik narrowed his eyes threateningly and glanced pointedly down at the three giant heads.

"Very well, then," the merchant conceded. "What is the price of your heroism?"

"We need supplies that we might maintain our vigil and keep the pass safe," Morik explained reasonably. "And a bit of gold, perhaps, as a reward for our efforts." It was the merchant's turn to scowl. "To pay the widows of those who did not survive our raid on the giant clan," Morik improvised.

"I'd hardly call three a clan," the merchant replied dryly, "but I'll not diminish your efforts. I offer you and your hiding friends a fine meal, and if you agree to accompany us to Luskan as guards, I will pay each of you a gold piece a day," the merchant added, proud of his largesse and obviously pleased with himself for having turned the situation to his advantage.

Morik's eyes narrowed at the weak offer. "We have no desire to return to Luskan at this time."

"Then take your meal and be happy with that," came the curt response.

"Idiot," Morik remarked under his breath. Aloud he countered the merchant's offer. "We will accept no less than fifty gold pieces and enough food for three fine meals for seven men."

The merchant laughed. "You will accept our willingness to let you walk away with your life," he said. He snapped his fingers, and a pair of men leaped from the second wagon, swords drawn. The driver of that wagon drew his as well.

"Now be gone!" he finished, and he disappeared back into the coach. "Run him down," he cried to his driver.

"Idiots!" Morik screamed, the cue for Wulfgar.

The driver hesitated, and that cost him. Holding the end of a strong rope, Wulfgar leaped from his concealment along the lefthand rock wall and swooped in a pendulum arc with a bloodcurdling howl. The crossbowman spun and fired but missed badly. Wulfgar barreled in at full speed, letting go of the rope and swinging his mighty arms out wide to sweep both crossbowman and driver from the bench, landing atop them in a pile on the far side. An elbow to the face laid the driver low. Reversing his swing, Wulfgar slammed the crossbowman on the jaw, surely breaking it as blood gushed forth.

The three swordsmen from the trailing wagon came on, two to the left of the first wagon, the third going to the right. Morik went right, a long and slender sword in one hand, a dagger in the other, intercepting the man before he could get to Wulfgar.

The man came at the rogue in a straightforward manner. Morik put his sword out beside the thrusting blade but rolled it about, disengaging. He stepped ahead, looping his dagger over the man's sword and pulling it harmlessly aside while he countered with a thrust of his own sword, heading for the man's throat. He had him dead, or would have, except that Morik's arm was stopped as surely as if he were trying to poke his sword through solid stone.

"What are you doing?" he demanded of Wulfgar as the barbarian stepped up and slugged the guard, nearly losing his ear to the thrashing sword and dagger. The man got his free hand up to block, but Wulfgar's heavy punch went right through the defense, planting his fist and the man's own forearm into his face and launching him away. But it was a short-lived victory.

Though staggered by Wulfgar's elbow, the driver was up again with blade in hand. Worse still, the other two swordsmen had found strong positions, one atop the bench, the other in front of the wagon. If that weren't bad enough, the merchant burst from the door, a wand in hand.

"Now we are the idiots!" Morik yelled to Wulfgar, cursing and spinning out from the attack of the swordsman on the bench. From the man's one thrust-and-cut routine, Morik could tell that this one was no novice to battle.

Wulfgar went for the merchant. Suddenly he was flying backward, his hair dancing on end, his heart palpitating wildly.

"So that's what the wand does," Morik remarked after the flash. "I hate wizards."

He went at the swordsman on the ground, who defeated his initial attempt at a quick kill with a circular parry that almost had the rogue overbalancing. "Do hurry back!" Morik called to Wulfgar, then he ducked and thrust his sword up frantically as the swordsman from the bench leaped atop the horse team and stabbed at his head.

The driver came at Wulfgar, as did the man he had just slugged, and the barbarian worked fast to get the hammer off his back. He started to meet the driver's charge but stopped fast and reversed his grip and direction, spinning the hammer the merchant's way instead, having no desire to absorb another lightning bolt.

The hammer hit the mark perfectly, not on the merchant, but against the coach door, slamming it on the man's extended arm just as he was about to loose yet another blast. Fire he did, though, a sizzling bolt that just missed the other man rushing Wulfgar.

"All charge!" Morik called, looking back to the rocky cliff on the left. The bluff turned his opponents' heads for just an instant. When they turned back, they found the rogue in full flight, and Morik was a fast runner indeed when his life was on the line.