Pyotr and Torshen's Hammer amble along at the front of the line. Pyotr reigns in the steed occasionally, preventing Hammer's immense strides from carrying them too far ahead of their fellows. The scouts and outriders Callan assigned make regular appearances from their picket and flanking positions.
Later in the day, Crooked Callan makes his rounds to check the defensive screen. As he canters up beside the half-orc, he gives a small laugh. "What did you think of the show back there?"
Pyotr frowns, misunderstanding his meaning. "Hardly a 'show'. Those men are to be honored for their duty and sacrifice."
Callan blanches, "Not the dead 'uns, boy! Karranah, and that rotten badger she's got strapped to her face!"
Pyotr mouths the word rotten badger?!? even as he cranes around in the saddle to look back into the heart of the caravan. A few moments searching locates the young woman, though it takes Pyotr a moment to recognize her in her strange guise. "She has a beard," he states almost too matter-of-factly. "Why does she have a beard?"
"Aye, and it's a pretty good 'un, too. 'Til you get up close," the scarred man guffaws. "We're thinkin' she put on her beard to see if she could see what the dwarf is hidin' under his!"
Pyotr's face flushes a darker green, as comprehension slowly dawns on the young half-orc. "You mean she wishes to marry Dunagan?"
"Gods no, son! She just wants him to rifle her bedroll a while! Lady have mercy! Didn't they teach you anything in that temple aside from how to swing that claymore o' yours?" Callan shakes his head in mock sadness. "Guess the temple priests ain't the ones to learn such things from."
Pyotr, scandalized, stares determinedly at the pommel of his saddle, as the crooked man gallops away to check on the next post, his croaking laugh ringing loudly.
Dunagan remains eerily quiet during the recovery of the bodies. He simply watches the horizon, waiting for an orcish ambush. He wheels Cornalium left and right trying to get the horse to face in the proper direction for him to get a clear look ahead. The horse is quite spooked by all the commotion and is becoming harder and harder for the dwarf to control. Luckily, he had Sard hitched to the rest of the caravan and wasn't guiding her along this time.
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During the quick rest provided for lunch, Dunagan takes a quick look at Ironcoffer's armor. He takes note of the damage and thinks on how to repair it with the limited resources he has on the road. I may be able to fix it here, but if we stop in Fallenford it should only take me a few hours. ...
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1d20+1
Upon seeing the girl with the fake beard, Pellius smugly smiles and saunters his horse next to Dunagan. "Looks like you got an admirer there. What did you do to encourage her?"
Dunagan heaves himself up on to Cornalium. He lightly tugs Sard forward with her burden. Each and every time the caravan begins to move it is quite a spectacle to see these headstrong three butt heads, each as stubborn as the next. The most unusual thing about the process is that the Dwarf never gets frustrated or exhausted from the ordeal. Any lesser man or dwarf would be quite fed up with the whole situation by now, but Dunagan seems to be blessed with a virtuous patience when it comes to getting what needs to be done, done.
As Karannah trots past with her full beard, Dunagan's mouth drops agape. Everything he was in the middle of doing suddenly comes to halt. No words come from his mouth as he watches in astonishment. As the Magus comes riding up to his side, his face slowly turns to anger.
"No time ta' be joking. Are ya all that jaded to the situation we are in? Do none of ya hear the funeral bells ahead? Or feel the weight of the dead being hauled behind us?" He shouts out at the guard, "An where in the sodding wet coals of Nar-Voth did you get that thing, girl!?"
Karranah pouts in mock dismay. “You mean you weren’t fooled?” she asks. She detaches the fake beard and offers it to Dunagan. “Horse hair. Don’t take offense, but orc warriors prize dwarven beards as battle tokens. Dierik figured these fakes might have some value as trade goods. You know, for those weedy orcs who’ve never managed to slay a dwarf of their own.”
"No time ta' be joking. Are ya all that jaded to the situation we are in? Do none of ya hear the funeral bells ahead?
Pellius perks his ears and signals Iomedae, "Aye, I hear them now; they are coming our way. Never liked the sounds of those bells. Let's see what's going on but perhaps it may a good opportunity for our own dead to be paid their respects."
"No time ta' be joking. Are ya all that jaded to the situation we are in? Do none of ya hear the funeral bells ahead? Or feel the weight of the dead being hauled behind us?"
Pyotr draws Hammer to a stop. The dwarf might have been speaking figuratively, of course. But, once he listens, Pyotr can hear the low tolling of the funeral bell. It makes a sharp contrast to the cheerful jingling of Hammer's bridle.
"Girl, I hope he does not expect more than a copper for such a child's toy. An orc would be a mighty fool to be so easily deceived. When we get a chance, I'd offer you to feel the difference between that horse hair and a true dwarven beard."
Dunagan nods to Pellius, "Torag seems fit to make our work effortless this day, if these bells do indeed ring true. For we wont have to go far to ensure these men proper burials"
Bonegrit hastens his step after seeing the approaching procession, his stride even ganglier than usual as he totes the fat, plumed carcasses of his recent kills. His hands work quickly as he returns to Amiro's side, fastening the bird's feet to a small tether before securing it firmly behind his horse's saddle. Amiro's ears perk up and he turns a lazy gaze towards Bonegrit to investigate the half-orc's intentions, though offers little more in the way of protest. Satisfied that his game is well fastened, he climbs atop Amiro once again and urges the horse back onto the path that lay between both soldiers and caravan. Noticing the unusual lack of discipline in the ranks of the approaching men, the ranger frowns a bit and shoots a look back over his shoulder. They're a bit back, yet. Not sure I like the looks of this. Bonegrit's narrow fingers retrieve one of the arrows tipped with a humming bulb and tucks it neatly into a more accessible strap of his saddle's bindings. He gently pats Amiro's neck and lets out a small grunt, and the horse obeys, moving forward at a crawl of a pace.
Bonegrit edges Amiro towards the caravan. The wind turns, bringing on the breeze the scent of the blood of fresh wounds and the mortification of more serious hurts. Many of the men ahead are wounded.
"When we get a chance, I'd offer you to feel the difference between that horse hair and a true dwarven beard."
Karannah laughs at Dunagan’s proposal. “And what does stroking a dwarf’s beard imply in your culture? Will I need to wear gloves?”
Crooked Callan, riding nearby, blurts out his characteristic cackle at Karannah’s words. “You think she’s dangerous now, just see her in battle . . .” he says to no-one in particular.
Dierik urges Isabellina’s Arrow towards the front of the caravan. He passes the wagon of Zriorinta the Apothecary. Although Zriorinta herself is cloistered inside, one of her cats lies upon the coach’s roof. As Dierik rides past, Delkaneth swears that cat and man exchange a glance, and that the cat actually winks!
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Perhaps foolishly, Bonegrit trots his horse forward to meet the approaching caravan of bloodied men, reining in Amiro has he draws within yelling distance of the assembly. His right hand raises into the air, soon accompanied by a brief but amicable wave to the host that heads towards him. More than anything, the half-orc hopes tempers and prejudices won't flare being confronted by a lone half-breed on the road. He keeps his hands where the soldiers can see them, then clears his throat and calls out a greeting down the road, "Ho there! What news from ahead?"
Erastil's antlered manhood! Let 'em be the friendly sort...
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The man riding crossbow in the foremost wagon has his weapon up, with a bolt loaded and aimed at Bonegrit, when the half-orc calls out his greeting. His only response to Bonegrit’s greeting is to squeeze the tickler that releases the quarrel!
Luckily for Bonegrit, at the same moment, a knight passing by the man’s seat extends his bare sword and firmly taps the crossbow’s lath upwards, sending the bolt meant for Bonegrit shooting harmlessly skywards.
“Belkzen orcs butcher their Common more than that,” he snaps at the man whilst kicking his mount towards Bonegrit. “And they don’t ride Dort Chargers. What’s the use in keeping your eyes open if there isn’t anything functioning behind them?”
The knight pulls his blue roan Vigilant Destrier to a halt a few yards away from Bonegrit, regarding him. Despite his words, many of the men following him openly place their hands their on their sword hilts or place quarrels in the grooves of their wound crossbows, regarding this stranger on the road with suspicion.
There is ample evidence their caution is well founded, for nearly every one of these Lastwall soldiers bears the red marks of battle, not least their leader, who now introduces himself as;
“Knight Captain Paelinus Deutruch, of the Fourth Vigilant Heavy Cavalry, detachment of Saint Irdo. Try anything and I’ll run you through faster than the time it takes for the drool to slide off your chin.”
Paelinus looks as tough as his talk. His craggy face is lined, the wrinkles clearly marked out by the accumulations of blood and dirt that have collected in the creases of his weathered skin. His eyes and hair are the colour of granite. At present, a violet bruise blossoms on his left cheekbone, a clotted, jagged cut zigzags along his hairline, and his nose appears to be broken. His chain is ripped and shredded, his Iomedean tabard barely recognisable as such, and every plate of his suit of armour bears a dent. For all this punishment, Paelinus seems alert, strong and ready for battle.
Bonegrit explains himself, including mention of the caravan that follows him and its master.
“Dierik, eh?” Paelinus’ eyes shine at hearing the man’s name “A devil of a warrior, that one. Lastwall’s missed having him in its ranks, though it’s been too proud to admit it. Most won’t forgive him for leaving, but I won’t hold it against a man if he’s had too much of this.” Paelinus jerks his head back to indicate the train of wounded behind him.
The tolling of the funeral bell grows louder, and on the road ahead appears a grim procession of wounded men and wagons bearing the dead. At its head rides Bonegrit and a hardy looking knight on an impressive warhorse.
Dierik indicates to Santrian and the adventurers to accompany him as he trots ahead to meet the pair.
“Make sure they see your Sword Marks when you salute,” he instructs Pyotr and Pellius.
As they near the wagons ahead, more sounds greet them. Accompanying the lonely tolling of the funeral bell are numerous smaller jingles, little chimes pitched in groups to form minor chords. The chimes are tied to the wooden sides of the front three wagons, which themselves are draped in white muslin marked with Iomedae’s symbol. As the wagons rattle along, the chimes ring out their sad melody, and the muslin conceals the dead men lain carefully beneath.
Besides the bells, the groans of soldiers yet to feel death’s touch can be heard. A further two long carts haul these casualties, those too sorely injured to carry themselves on their own two feet. Around the vehicles mill the walking wounded, and most of those on horseback also display various hurts. In total, there are perhaps sixty men in this caravan of beaten men, though barely half would be capable of defending themselves to any extent if called upon.
“Dierik Ironcoffer,” says Knight Captain Paelinus Deutruch “Now there’s a face I never expected to see again in these lands, but rather in the hallowed halls of some higher place. Picked one hell of a time to come back.”
“I doubt such lofty havens were ever meant for me anyway. Looks like Lastwall’s been struck a hard blow.”
“Not hard enough to knock us down, but perhaps one we should have seen coming.”
As Paelinus and Dierik speak, as a clanking noise heralds the approach of one of Paelinus’ men. Clad in blood-stained field plate from head to toe, he does not bother to introduce himself. Through the gore smeared over his breastplate, an etching of Gorum’s symbol, a sword transfixing a mountain, can just about be discerned.
“I need the services of any healers you have with you. I have prayed to My Lord in Iron so long this day that he has tired of my voice, and no longer hears my entreaties. Still, I’d rather not see another man depart to Gorum’s side when they might still be fixed up to send back against those orcish scum!”
“Santrian, fetch Kelya, and anyone else who might be willing to lend a hand,” orders Dierik.
Dierik indicates to Santrian and the adventurers to accompany him as he trots ahead to meet the pair.
“Make sure they see your Sword Marks when you salute,” he instructs Pyotr and Pellius.
Pellius nods and saunters with Signior flanking Dierik, his grave face marking the solemnity of what his eyes see.
“Santrian, fetch Kelya, and anyone else who might be willing to lend a hand,” orders Dierik.
Patiently waiting his opportunity to speak, Pellius salutes the Knight-Captain, "Sorry to hear about your losses, sir. Hopefully there is something we can do to give your men some aid and take some revenge when the Lady next wills it so."
The magus gets off his horse and nears a wounded man stumbling about and offers him his shoulder. "I have no formal skill in healing but plenty of willingness. All of us here are no strangers to blood so we won't flinch away from your needs."
He looks at Dierik, "As long as our people remain together, you can count on me for what you need."
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"Mending a body should be no harder than mending a blade, aye?" Dunagan hops off Cornalium and saunters towards the caravan before him. He is more focused on the arms and armor of the troupe rather than the wounds. Trying to pry his eyes from the chinks in the mail and pondering what had caused them, he murmurs a quick prayer to Torag.
"Flesh be steel in my eyes. Provide me focus and guidance for this task."
Walking between the carts that haul the wounded, the dwarf looks back and forth, searching for the most gravely wounded. Seeing a young dwarven woman dressed in mangled chain, and with a face as pale as a high moon, Dunagan stops. He quickly rushes to her and searches for the bleed. The forgemaster's gnarled hands, more suited to the bending of steel rather than the mending of flesh, peels away the chainmail from her wounds, bringing out pieces of wool from the shirt and flesh beneath with it. At first he seems to be causing more damage than good. A panic begins to grow across his face and his hands start to shake. His eyes grow large as they trace along the gaping, darkened hatchet wound in her side. The wound has become caked with dirt and dried blood, but every time the woman breathes it oozes more blood on to the red-stained cart.
Inhaling and exhaling loudly, Dunagan calms his nerves, Flesh be steel in my eyes... Flesh be steel... Suddenly the forgemaster begins to work in a feverish frenzy. He grabs a few nearby make-shift bandages and wraps them around the lady's torso. He pulls the bandages tight, stemming the bleeding, but the woman slips further and further from this world. Her auburn hair darkening as the last hints of pink drain from her cheeks.
"Torag heed me now! Mend this flesh as you have shown me to mend steel," The forgemaster shouts as he wipes the stringy blood covered bangs from her face. Suddenly, as if the Dwarf Father had been petitioned by Hrilga herself, Dunagan's hands glow blue.
The blue light sizzles and crackles as if it were wet wood had been thrown into a bed of red hot coals. The light does not burn the dwarven fighter before Dunagan, but instead brings the red flush back to her face. Her breathing becomes more steady, but she doesn't wake. Dunagan listens closely to hear her heart and it is strong. He looks towards Kelya who has made her way to the the wounded and smiles widely.
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Pellius snaps to rigid attention. Beside him, Pyotr's more casual salute appears sloppy by comparison. But, he's careful to flash the sword mark emblazoned on his open palm. After hearing the Gorumite's plea, Pyotr dismounts and moves to help.
Unfortunately, his inexperienced hands become more of a hindrance than a help, and before long, he's pushed to the periphery to help triage and move the less ambulatory wounded.
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Bonegrit speaks very little on the ride back towards his own caravan, offering words only at Knight-Captain Paelinus' request. The near disaster with the crossbow left him tense, though judging from the state of Paelinus and his men, they had likely been through much worse—and recently. Worry creeps into the half-orc's mind as the aged knight begins demanding an explanation and promising pain for any missteps. Bonegrit simply hopes that Dierik's name carries more esteem here than elsewhere in this land...
“A devil of a warrior, that one. Lastwall’s missed having him in its ranks, though it’s been too proud to admit it. Most won’t forgive him for leaving, but I won’t hold it against a man if he’s had too much of this.” Paelinus jerks his head back to indicate the train of wounded behind him.
An audible sigh of relief blusters out of Bonegrit's maw, and the tension in his rigid shoulders lessens into a thankful slouch. Not wishing to press his luck, however, he remains silent and obedient until Ironcoffer's convoy reappears up ahead. "That'd be them," he grunts simply, nudging Amiro forward at a more quickened pace.
Arriving at the head of a host of Lastwall's finest—beaten and battered though they might be—Bonegrit's face is a bit dour, bobbing up and down atop his charger before the scrutiny of nearly three score soldiers. Perhaps more satisfying is the sight of two plump cailies dangling from either side of the ranger's saddle as Amiro trots up to meet Dierik just ahead of Ser Deutruch. Seeing the reception is well met, Bonegrit dismounts nimbly and retrieves his spoils, stepping lively towards Mealwheels to deposit the promise of a fine dinner in Crinkle's care. Bonegrit hears the call for aid behind him, however, and resolves to return and lend his hand to the work at hand.
Bastards were willin' ta flay me alive not a moment ago, and now they need puttin' back together. Sounds about right. A familiar, guttural chuckle rumbles from Bonegrit's direction as he strides back towards Paelinus and his wounded contingent. Following Kelya's lead, he sets to binding and cleaning the wounds of those who do not need the intervention of divine powers in the priestess' wake, fixing each hesitant or bigoted glance from the wounded with an admonishing look that could stop an aurochs in its tracks. Despite several protests at the grey-skinned brute that is dressing their wounds, Bonegrit's practiced hands go to work quickly, if not gingerly—binding, stitching, and cleansing the lifeblood of men and women who would have just as soon skewered him not an hour before.
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Battlemaster Erem Braggs directs those from Dierik’s caravan who come to aid his wounded men. The Gorumite is a burly, bearlike man, with a thick ginger beard and a receding hairline. His armour is splattered with red, and by the way he winces as he moves, his own blood mingles with the blood of those he’s been tending. He looks on in satisfaction at the work of Kelya and Dunagan, but seems too exhausted to say much. He pointedly ignores Bonegrit and Pyotr, but doesn’t do anything to stop them helping with the wounded.
As the others work, Dierik and Paelinus discuss the details of the battle that resulted in so much bloodshed.
“We’ve been hearing talk of increased movement within the Hold for a while now,” tells Paelinus "Unusual, especially at this time of year, when the orcs customarily hold their Flood Truce. Still, the news we had put the majority of the activity due west. Guess it was wrong. Over the weekend a horde of more than a thousand orcs came down the Flood Road and broke through our lines. We were underprepared and undermanned; those poor lads on the frontier never stood a chance. Word was sent though. Most of the soldiers at Castle Firrine were mobilized, as well as patrolling forces from Lastwall, including my detachment. Yesterday morning we met the orcs a mile beyond Fallenford, and a great battle was fought on the edge of the Ghostlight Marsh.”
“The losses were heavy on each side, but the orcs were decidedly determined. The proximity of the marshlands limited the effectiveness of our horse charges. Rather than letting the costly stalemate continue, Commander Shallen of Firrine made a fighting retreat across Fallenford. Reinforcements were waiting beyond, and the ground was better suited to the cavalry. The orcs fell for the ruse, and followed Lastwall across in a great dark tide. Daeltern Greyfoal, the wizard of Castle Firrine, summoned a mighty wall of fire across Fallenford, cutting off the orcs’ retreat. I don’t know the outcome; Shallen ordered me to gather what wounded I could and break east to Vigil before the withdrawal was sounded.”
“We left many dead on the field.” For a moment, Paelinus craggy face seems close to collapsing into grief, but the weathered old warrior mans himself and continues.
“And you, Dierik,” he asks “Where are you heading with this caravan?”
“To the Realm of the Mammoth Lords, and a fortune in ivory,” Dierik replies.
“The Flood Road? Through the heart of enemy territory?”
“The orcs tribes are disparate entitities. Trickery, bribery and bladework if necessary. I reckon it can be done.”
“If any man can do it, I’d wager on you, but the thought of any man trading with such beasts sticks ill in my craw. When you were denounced for the disgraces in Vigil and your abandonment of the Crusade, I held my tongue and did not join in the condemnation. I felt you earned the right to choose your own destiny. But even to me, this feels like . . . like a betrayal of your countrymen.”
The cordiality initially displayed by the two men seems to be fading as their faces tighten in umbrage. Dierik leans his head in close to Paelinus, their conversation continuing in fierce whispers.
“I was betrayed in kind,” answers Dierik “But if it settles your ire Paelinus, this journey has the sanction of the Precentors Martial.”
“A spy eh? Well you can probably get us better information than the obtuse conclusions of those fool diviners.”
Paelinus continues, seemingly mollified. “Still Dierik, there’s one service you can still perform for the land of your birth. I know you won’t refuse me. Don’t leave your countrymen to the crows and scavenging animals. The orcs should be gone. Divert your caravan to the battlefield on the edge of Ghostlight Marsh, and give those fallen soldiers a grave. Do it for Lastwall, or do it for me, and the friendship we shared when we were courageous young men riding foolishly to glory.”
Dierik looks away to the horizon, his eyes troubled.
The four companies of heavy cavalry based in Vigil are subdivided into smaller detachments which normally work independently of each other unless a major engagement is expected. Each detachment takes one of the many Saints of Iomedae as its patron.
Saint Irdo lived one hundred years ago in Lastwall. He and his men were captured by the orcs of Belkzen, he was stripped of his field plate and tortured relentlessly. After many months of abuse, the overpowering pull (and potency) of a jar of rotgut was too much for his captors, and Irdo escaped. He could have made his way back to the Lastwall lines, and with Iomedae at his side might have survived to once again set foot on safe territory, but he refused to do so whilst his men remained in the hands of the orcs. Naked and unarmoured, he set out to free them. He was successful, slaying dozens of orcs with his bare hands, but finally succumbed to his injuries and the ravages of torture. Enough of his men made it back to Vigil to carry the story of his bravery, leading to his eventual canonization.
is famed in Lastwall for his undying dedication to the eradication of the orcs of Belkzen. Like Dierik and Haisnar, he was one of the one hundred and seventy-three that led the charge against Graukrad. He was mortally wounded that day, seeing the battle out but dying of his wounds in the aftermath. After his death, he was raised by the Church of Iomedae to continue the Crusade, only to be killed again nine years ago whilst battling a wyvern mounted orc shaman. Rumour has it that his voice haunted the Cathedral of Sancta Iomedea for two full weeks, demanding the priests return him to the fight, until finally his corpse was disinterred from the catacombs and resurrected.
Looking at Erem’s armour, you can see from the copper, crescent shaped epaulette on his right shoulder that he holds some position of rank in Lastwall’s army beyond his role as a chaplain of Gorum. Del’s unsure of the exact rank, although it’s clearly subordinate to Knight Captain Paelinus Deutruch.
The cordiality initially displayed by the two men seems to be fading as their faces tighten in umbrage. Dierik leans his head in close to Paelinus, their conversation continuing in fierce whispers.
The information that Pellius hears next visibly bothers him but it isn't time to bring it up now. The magus puts that info in the back of his mind to later question Dierik about it.
"The proximity of the marshlands limited the effectiveness of our horse charges. Rather than letting the costly stalemate continue, Commander Shallen of Firrine made a fighting retreat across Fallenford. I don’t know the outcome; Shallen ordered me to gather what wounded I could and break east to Vigil before the withdrawal was sounded.”
"Still Dierik, there’s one service you can still perform for the land of your birth. I know you won’t refuse me. Don’t leave your countrymen to the crows and scavenging animals. The orcs should be gone. Divert your caravan to the battlefield on the edge of Ghostlight Marsh, and give those fallen soldiers a grave. Do it for Lastwall, or do it for me, and the friendship we shared when we were courageous young men riding foolishly to glory.”
Pyotr had remained carefully silent through the entire interview. The gradually increasing anger with which the Knight-Captain and the Caravan Master spoke was hardly his business or concern. But, the knight's plea was more than Pyotr was willing to ignore.
"I will go to the Ghostlight Marsh," Pyotr speaks in a low tone, "though I can do little more than put them in the ground."
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Pyotr’s words snap Dierik from his reverie. He nods ruefully. “Well I expected many a diversion on this trip. I’ll not rue one on such a noble cause as this. I’ll see your men buried Paelinus.”
“Thank you,” answers the Knight Captain.
The caravan tarries for about half an hour whilst all that can be is done to aid the injured warriors of Lastwall. Most of the wounds they bear look to be inflicted by crude edged weapons, likely axes, falchions and huge greatswords, although one poor youth, unconscious and barely clinging on to life looks to have been half crushed by some massive weight.
As the caravan begins the arduous task of getting under way, Pyotr lingers near the Knight-Captain and his entourage. "I would prefer to know if we are marching into a situation where bribes and gifts and pretty words will not avail us. Do you remember the pennants of the tribes who attacked you?"
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After Dunagan finishes working upon the dwarven woman, he notices some familiar workmanship hanging from her belt. A finely crafted axe, light in weight, forged for hurling, bears a familiar rune on the spread of its blade. It’s the forgemark of the Haarglick clan, most probably the work of Dunagan’s sister Reyna Haarglick, who specialises in making axes of all shapes and sizes.
As Pellius moves amongst the wounded, lending an amateur hand of support where he can, a familiar voice calls out to him.
“Fullona, Pellius Fullona.” A warrior on one of carts pulls himself upright. One leg is trussed in tight bandages turned crimson, and a wicked blow to the head has peeled back a leaf of scalp and left his face a mask of blood; so it takes Pellius a moment to recognise Varnic Mebb, a fellow Vigilant scout and a favoured man of Keyron Saiville.
“You with the relief column?” he asks, his injuries and the high sides of the wagon preventing him from seeing Pellius is in fact travelling with a merchant caravan.
“Been a while since I saw you,” continues Varnic “Five months at least, that night at the Tiercel in the Hand. Hey, I heard what happened to Tharxes. A rough way to go for such a good man. I’m sure he’s fighting bravely at the side of Gorum or Iomedae. He’ll be remembered.”
Delkaneth sits on his horse, listening to Dierik and Paelinus discuss the battle. Here and there people bustle about, trying their best to offer some succour to those brought low in the battle. These sights keep distracting Del from significant fragments of the conversation between the Knight Captain and the Trail Master.
The most significant distraction comes when a broken-armed footman stumbles over to him. “’cuse me, ser,” he says, in the broad accent of the ranchlands of southern Lastwall “But I ‘ears you’se going ta bury dem that fell, right?” Not waiting for an answer, he sets the butt of his guisarme on the ground and leans its shaft against his torso whilst fishing in his belt pouch with his uninjured hand. “Wud you’se mind a fa’ver for me?” he asks, producing a finely chased silver hipflask, its flank decorated with a stylised image of a lazy, snoozing cat whose tail curls around its body in a sweeping arc. “This was Cap’en Senatine’s. He passed it arounds for all o’ us before the fighin’ started. ‘Elp give a man a bit o’ courage he said.” The man presses the hipflask into Delkaneth’s hand. It’s still a third full. “But the charge came afore I cud givit back ta ‘im,” the soldier continues, a tear cleaning a path over one dirty cheek “An one ‘o dem basterd orcs ran ‘im clean thru with a boar spear.”
“Thing o’ it is, ya see, ol’ Senatine was always ‘aving a sip of ‘is homebrew moonshine. Wher’ever we went, whenever there was a nip in the air or a late watch. ‘Long as I gotta bit of the cellar’s best brandy to warm me cockles, I’ll fight every orc in Belkzen and Tar-Baphon ta boot,’ is what ‘e’d say. ‘An whenna get to Hell, I’ll toast the first devil I sees with it.’”
“That’s what he was sayin’ only yestersday morn, an’ now ‘e’s dead, ‘an I don’t think he’s gon ta Hell or nowhere dreadfuls, but I think ‘e’ll be missing this ‘ere flask like a weaned babe misses the tit.”
The footsoldier is momentarily overcome with snuffles, and then finishes. “If yer going up ta the field to bury ‘em, cud ya see ‘e gets it? ‘E’s easy ta spot on account of ‘is big ‘ole white moustache like someone done stuck an ermine on ‘is lip.”
Meanwhile, Pyotr asks Paelinus:
"Do you remember the pennants of the tribes who attacked you?"
“Not the banner of any tribe I recognise,” comes the answer “Not the Empty Hand, the Cloven Heads or even the Black Sun. There were several pennants, which suggests different tribes in alliance. I only got a good look at two. The first was three fanged jawbones one atop the other, upon a rusty field. The second was the image of two pikes thrust into the ground, the tip of each impaling the wing of a crudely rendered dragon or wyvern, or some other bat-winged flyer.”
The first banner belongs to the Boar Biters tribe and the second banner to the Staked Drakes, both small and uninfluential groups of orcs that make their homes in the highlands of the western Mindspin Mountains. They’re a long way from home.
[“Fullona, Pellius Fullona.” A warrior on one of carts pulls himself upright. One leg is trussed in tight bandages turned crimson, and a wicked blow to the head has peeled back a leaf of scalp and left his face a mask of blood; so it takes Pellius a moment to recognise Varnic Mebb, a fellow Vigilant scout and a favoured man of Keyron Saiville.
“You with the relief column?” he asks, his injuries and the high sides of the wagon preventing him from seeing Pellius is in fact travelling with a merchant caravan.
“Been a while since I saw you,” continues Varnic “Five months at least, that night at the Tiercel in the Hand. Hey, I heard what happened to Tharxes. A rough way to go for such a good man. I’m sure he’s fighting bravely at the side of Gorum or Iomedae. He’ll be remembered.”
Pellius does his best to ease the pain of his fellow soldier. "Thanks about Tharxes. It's partially why I'm here NOT with the relief column. I'm with the trading caravan, hoping to find something about my brother."
The magus looks at the man's wounds and shakes his head, "I'm glad you're still standing after what happened to you. Anything you can tell us so it won't happen to us?"
Delkaneth’s also heard a little on the other orc tribes that Paelinus mentioned. The territory of the Cleft or Cloven Heads (depending who’s translating the Orcish) is right on the border with Lastwall. A weak, cowardly, but nonetheless numerous, tribe, they’ve been pushed to Belkzen’s margins by more powerful forces in the Hold. The Black Sun is a nomadic tribe who fight (very effectively) for the highest bidder, and are said to be the descendants of Belkzen himself. The Empty Hand are the pre-eminent orc tribe in Belkzen. Their leader, Grask Uldeth, sits on his throne in Urgir, a city once rumoured to have been a mighty citadel of the dwarven people.
“A toast. Yeh, o’ cors,” the footsoldier takes a gulp of the brandy and passes the flask back up to Delkaneth. “Ta Cap’en Senatine.”
"Alliances among orcs isn't normal is it?
“Yer right o’ cors. I’ve never seen a thousand of ‘em ‘ording together like I did yestersday.”
"Anything you can tell us so it won't happen to us?"
“You don’t want it to happen to you. Then head south my friend, or at least back to the protection of Vigil. Don’t fool yourself that there’s anything left of your brother worth saving.”
Everything that has been done to help Paelinus’ troop of unfortunates has been done. At Dierik’s orders, the shrouded bodies of the two men Pyotr fished from the Esk are transferred onto one of the white shrouded hearses. Kelya pulls her long limbed frame wearily onto a sixbull, she seems exhausted at channelling so much of Desna’s divine healing into the injured soldiers.
Paelinus and Dierik shake hands, and the two caravans part company. Erem Braggs salutes and calls out his thanks to Dunagan and Kelya, but the rest offer only subdued farewells, either too weary, hurt or suspicious to muster more than a few desultory nods and waves.
First Master Santrian pushes the wagons hard as the afternoon peters out. By nightfall, they are a mile or two short of the confluence of the Esk and Kestrel rivers. The breeze has blown the clouds away, and the sun sets red over the Hungry Mountains. Darkness swallows the land, though the faintest distant glimmer still marks the beacons of Vigil. Another day’s travel west will extinguish even this hopeful light.
The caravan prepares for another night on the road. Crinkles’ dinner consists of some quail’s eggs the men were lucky enough to forage, a thick slice of cured ham and two loaves of fried bread. Dierik presents Dunagan with the damaged armour the dwarf offered to repair. Zriorinta once again asks Delkaneth to escort her whilst she bathes, although on this eve she seems sulky and disinclined to talk. Even her cats appear sullen.
The magus stretches his lower back as he finishes rubbing down his horse. The meal had been good but now preparations were being made to break for the day. As usual, the wagons gathered in a circle, in whatever defensible position they could make with them.
The magus nears his companions by the campfire, "I don't think there's anything special that warrants double guard duty tonight. Yes, there are orcs all around us but that could be said for the entire trip. I, for one, will want to get a good six hours of rest to later replenish my magical abilities. So, if no one minds, I'll take the first shift."
Dunagan's darkened, droopy eyes look up to Dierik who is now presenting him with yet another challenge. Exhausted from the long watch he stood in the morning and the blood of strangers coats his hands a reminder of his tireless efforts, the Dwarf shakes his head at the offer.
"Ye don't want me to work on that right now."
The forgemaster quickly finishes his meal and turns towards the river. He brings with him a pristine white washrag to its shore. He strips down to his loincloth and begins to bathe in its waters, removing the dirt and grime from the day prior. The blood that has caked in his nails proves the hardest to remove. He washes them vigorously, hoping to wash away the horrors he witnessed today. Torag only knows how this pales in comparison to what happened to Koldukar... I can only imagine.
After his bath, Dunagan retires to his tent. Although the day could have provided countless nightmares for any man or dwarf, Dunagan swiftly drifts off into a dreamless sleep.
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As dusk draws to a close, and night settles in full, Pyotr seems more dour and withdrawn than customary. Deep in the dark, he spins through another attack routine, his blade humming in the air and the Bellfounder's gift ringing from the hilt.
Did you honestly believe Lastwall's soldiers never suffered defeat? Pyotr chided himself. This is no storybook. When the horde attacks, men and orcs will suffer and die. Can you defend them all? He draws his sword in a great upwards swinging arc. You cannot alleviate their suffering. You were a barely tolerable nuisance, today...
Pyotr continues his exercises, raw power replacing elegance and technique. After a time, he returns to camp sweating and exhausted, and without resolving his troubles.
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It’s a fretful, sleepless night for many in the caravan. Occasionally, a distant sound reminiscent of thunder drifts across the encampment from the other side of the river, from the direction of Castle Firrine. However, despite the tension, the night passes peacefully, the orc attack many seemed to be waiting for never materialising.
It’s around midnight, and most of the camp are asleep after a long day. Pyotr keeps his eyes on the shadow shrouded wilderness beyond the road, his darkvision penetrating the night for any suspicious signs. There’s nothing but a moor fox drifting closer and closer to the wagons, trying to gauge whether Shambles is sleeping deeply enough for it to dare darting under the ‘Mealwheels’ to snatch a discarded piece of rind.
Pyotr’s attention briefly drifts back to the encampment when his ears hear the sound of a door opening. It’s Dierik, opening the rear hatch of his personal coach. He’s wearing a long-sleeved grey nightshirt and short breeches laced above the knee, revealing surprisingly white and pale legs when compared to the rugged bronze tan of his face. Dierik creeps somewhat inexpertly across the camp, and then Pyotr notices that the door of Zriorinta’s wagon is also open. One of the apocethary’s cats lies lazily on the tailgate, and watches Dierik clamber inside its master’s abode. He does not leave Zriorinta’s wagon whilst on Pyotr’s watch.
Nothing untoward troubles Delkaneth’s watch, but he occasionally notices Zriorinta’s three-wheeled wagon rocking from side to side. Despite the movement, one of her cats continues to sleep soundly on the tailgate, so Del figures that all must be well.
A mauve line on the horizon promises a new day soon to arrive. Dunagan keeps his eyes predominately north and west, to where Belkzen and its tally of orcs are no doubt waiting. The subterranean existence of his ancient forebears has left him with vision that can easily penetrate the inky blackness, and Dunagan’s gaze roves hither and thither, searching out any sign of danger. But there’s nothing to cause alarm, only the silent, drifting shape of an owl as white as the death shrouds upon the funerary hearses of Lastwall which Dunagan saw the day before.
Dunagan’s attention drifts briefly back to the encampment when he hears the sound of a door opening and a stifled cough. It’s Dierik, and he’s creeping out of Zriorinta’s three wheeled wagon. He’s wearing a long-sleeved grey nightshirt and short breeches laced above the knee, revealing surprisingly white and pale legs when compared to the rugged bronze tan of his face. His hair’s all mussed up. As he creeps rather clumsily back across camp to his own coach, one of Zriorinta’s cats solemnly watches him go, before leaping inside its master’s wagon when a delicate, bare arm reaches out to close the hatch firmly. Dierik reaches his own door, and climbs inside.
The child of morning, the rosy-span of dawn, appears in the East. The caravan wastes no time readying itself, and is under way before the sun has risen more than finger’s length above the horizon. A few light, scudding clouds hustle across the blue vault of the sky; the weather has turned and by ten o’clock it’s already hot enough for many of Dierik’s men to loosen their tunics and tie brightly patterned scarves about their brows to protect them from the sun.
Several miles away, to the south and on the other side of the Esk, a distant fort can be seen that must be Castle Firrine. It’s still too far away to make out whether it’s besieged, or what might have happened to the orcish force that followed Commander Shallen’s soldiers across Fallenford.
Sunning itself on the bare earth of the trail is a short, fat burlsnake. Two wagons and several men have already passed the sluggish serpent without noticing it, but it’s lying directly in the path of a plodding mule which will no doubt step on it unless something’s done! Burlsnakes are a slow, primitive species of snake who’s answer to the cooler climes of northern Avistan is to do as little as possible, but they’re aggressive and quite venomous.
Pellius' eyes widen as he spots the fat snake in the middle of the road.
Noting that the mule was still far away from the serpent, the magus spurs Signior on to a quick trot and slows him down next to the walking mule. He then grabs the mule's reins, ties them to his horse's saddle, and leads the mule away from the snake. He whistles over the closest 'guard' with a lance or spear and points to the snake, "There, the fat snake. See if you can prod it off the road. No need to kill it but be careful because them fat ones are aggressive and poisonous."
Nobody has a spear to hand (Callan's men use shortbows and longswords), and Dierik's lance remains locked in his wagon, but a nearby wagon driver offers Pellius the use of the long switch he uses to encourage his oxen.
The cold winters of the Hold are not conducive to reptilian life, but three species of snake are encountered reasonably often: the non-venomous Russet Tussock Snake, the Horned Orcface Adder (so named because its fangs protrude boarlike from the lower jaw), and the Common Burlsnake. Burlsnakes are slow and lazy, but the pebbled brown patterns of their scales provide excellent camoflage, making them successful ambush predators. Their venom attacks the nervous system. Although potent enough to overwhelm the nerve centres of a small rodent and incapacitate it, it rarely causes serious harm to larger creatures. It is however, extremely painful. In fact, the term 'burling' is a popular expression in Lastwall, literally meaning 'to dance around in agony'.
Burlsnakes, like many serpents of northerly climes, produce live young.
Pyotr turns an impassive eye to the caravan master, as he makes his clandestine journey across the camp. A strange time to visit the apothecary... Perhaps a draught for sleep?
The remainder of the night passes uneventfully, Dierik's passing soon forgotten.
The morning activity pushes Pyotr's troubled thoughts away, though the drudgery of the caravan under way gives them free reign again. By the time he recognizes the threat of the burlsnake, Pellius has already intercepted and redirected the mule.
Seeing that no one had a long enough spear and none of the guards neared him, the magus accepts the switch from the wagon driver. He dismounts and hands the reins of Signior and the mule.
Keeping a good distance from the snake, Pellius puts the end of the switch under the reptile and pushes him off the road. The snake attempts a weak retaliation out in the end decides to move away, leaving the road free of vermin.
The magus signals for the caravan to advance, "It's safe to pass; just leave Signior here with me and I'll keep watch on the snake."
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As the dawn splits the horizon, Bonegrit is already awake and making preparations for the day ahead. His hands work quickly at bridling and saddling Amiro, the yet to be consumed half of a biscuit jutting out of his mouth at a precarious angle as he attempts to feed himself with no free hands without losing the remainder of his meal. The horse itself seems a bit more recalcitrant this morning than usual, but as Bonegrit's soothing words turn firm in tone, the beast begins to obey. As the rest of the caravan rouses and begins greeting the morning, the half-orc tethers Amiro just off the road to graze a bit while he begins assisting Deramil with preparing the rest of the animals. As usual, an awkward silence and occasional nod are all the two share as they set to the task.
The caravan begins filing out along the path as the sun departs the horizon. Bonegrit notes that a touch of somberness seems to hang over the caravan, despite the sun's best efforts. An unidentifiable foreboding washes over the ranger, and sets him on edge. Something didn't feel right, and the potential presence of an orcish horde in the area did little to banish the feeling. A half-grunt, half-sigh announces Bonegrit's frustration, and he tugs lightly on Amiro's reins to bring the warhorse back alongside Second Master Santrian's perch atop his wagon.
"Don't particularly care for a barkin' large force of orcs bein' unaccounted for. Can't haggle your way out of an orcish ambush, ya got me? I'll go see if I can sniff 'em out, or at least figger out which way they went." Bonegrit's eyes scan the caravan around him, and his eyes ultimately seize Pyotr, ahead and atop Torshen's Hammer. He calls out to Santrian as he urges Amiro toward the Iomedaean up ahead, "I'll return 'fore long."
As the ranger overtakes Pyotr, he rummages through his quiver and retrieves one of his humming bulb tipped arrows. He clears his throat as he arrives, as if the bulk of his approaching steed is not announcement enough. Leaning towards Pyotr slightly, Bonegrit swats his fellow half-orc lightly on the arm with his proffered arrow. Having earned Pyotr's attention, he twirls the arrow once in his hand, the bulbed tip firmly in his palm as he offers it formally. "I'm gonna see if I can find where the rest of the barkin' orcs got off to. If they put that many of Lastwall's finest through the wringer, I can only imagine how our lot would make out. If somethin' happens while I'm gone, give the arrow to someone with a bow and tell 'em to aim north. I'll hear it."
"Good eye Pellius." The dwarf saunters on with Cornallium after the threat is shooed away. As the caravan moves on and leaves the snake behind, Dunagan is often looks curiously towards Delkaneth. During Dunagan's trip to the river last night he noticed that the young man had been escorting Zriorinta the night prior.
"Delkaneth, join me for a second, if you would." Dunagan pulls Cornallium to the side of the caravan and far from Dierik and Ziorinta's ears. He slows the pace of the Jennet to an almost halt and wais for Delkaneth to join him.
"Look lad, I'm not one for secrets. So I am just gunna tell ya. I saw Dierik skulking away from Ziorinta's wagon in the wee hours of this mornin. The man was half dressed and his hair a mess. I know ye have been watching the lass as she has bathed, protecting her and such, and I feel like ya should know about the two. Dun care what you do. Just arming ya with the finest of equipment - the truth."
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Perhaps mildly disgruntled on being displaced from its spot, the burlsnake coils up where Pellius dumped him, then thinks better of it and slides away into the undergrowth.
The caravan continues on its way. By midmorning, it's drawing level with Castle Firrine. On the plain before Lastwall’s fort, the shapes of infantry and cavalry units move across the land. At this distance, it’s too far to pick out individuals, but its safe to say that the orderly squares and lines that occasionally flash with reflected light from a polished piece of steel belong to Lastwall, whereas the darker clumps of troops, ragged and amorphous as they are, must pertain to the orcs. If such a conclusion can be trusted, it looks like Lastwall is taking the field, for the units of orcs are scattered and small, and in many places surrounded. Beyond the battle Castle Firrine stands proud and undamaged.
Away to the west, another curious sight can also be seen. A great column of white smoke rises from the direction of Fallenford.
You've traveled across Fallenford enough times to know there are no structures at this river crossing, nothing that would normally burn.
Another half an hour passes with the caravan trundling along, its travelers attention firmly on the distant manoeuvres and battles taking place across the river. Occasionally, a faint sound carries across the Esk, the blast of a warhorn or two lines of warriors crashing together.
But ever so slowly, one of those black smudges on the land begins to resolve itself as it moves closer, until finally it is no longer an anonymous stain of warriors but a full troop of orcs. Each separate orc can be distinguished as they flee northwards with their characteristic loping run. Decisively routed, there must be over two score of them.
However, their flight does not go uncontested. Behind them, a double dozen mounted knights wheel into view; the fabled heavy cavalry of Lastwall. They close the distance on the fleeing orcs at a gallop, which their mighty destriers carry without complaint, despite the steel barding that girds them, the ironclad men atop them, and the many hours of battle they have no doubt already suffered. A bowshot from their prey, the knights haul back on the reins and form up into a charging line. Stirrup to stirrup, barely a handspan separates one rider from the next, an impenetrable wall of metal which now launches forward at a swift trot.
The orcs have reached the riverbank, and there’s nowhere else for them to go. One of them bears a banner, three fanged jawbones on a rusty field. This standard bearer tries to form the remnants of his tribe into some semblance of a battle line, but most of the orcs are not listening to him. No doubt they’ve seen the charge of the Lastwall cavalry enough times already this morn to know the futility of their position.
Safe across the Esk, the caravan has drawn to a stop to watch the drama unfold. As unstoppable as an avalanche, the thundering knights accelerate into a rumbling canter, and their lances go down. CRASH! The cavalry smashes into the flimsy orcish line, demolishing it and those beyond. The standard bearer goes down, impaled upon a splintered lance. In less than a breath a third of the orcs are slain, and as the knights discard their spent lances and draw longswords, maces and battle axes, the carnage continues. In desperation, orcs hurl themselves into the Esk. Those in armour are swiftly dragged under, and do not rise again. A handful begin splashing towards the other bank with pathetic attempts at doggy-paddle, but to cross seventy feet of the Esk’s unforgiving flow seems a futile cause.
Nearby the twang of a crossbow sounds from atop a sixbull, and others in the caravan are hastening to wind back their own weapons, whilst Callan and his men set arrows to their shortbows and take a bead on the struggling swimmers.
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"If somethin' happens while I'm gone, give the arrow to someone with a bow and tell 'em to aim north. I'll hear it."
"It will be as you say. Be on your guard."
The fabled heavy cavalry of Lastwall. They close the distance on the fleeing orcs at a gallop, which their mighty destriers carry without complaint, despite the steel barding that girds them, the ironclad men atop them, and the many hours of battle they have no doubt already suffered. A bowshot from their prey, the knights haul back on the reins and form up into a charging line. Stirrup to stirrup, barely a handspan separates one rider from the next, an impenetrable wall of metal which now launches forward at a swift trot.
Pyotr sits entranced, craning his neck as high as possible and practically standing in the stirrups on Hammer's saddle. The double column of knights swings into a line in a nearly parade-perfect maneuver. Excitement wells within the half-orc, as the line begins its perfect charge across the killing fields.
The hastily cobbled defensive line of the orcs is cut through in a dozen places, a third of their number pierced by spears and lances, or crushed under the heavy charge. In moments the numbers are cut in half again, as Firrine's knights cut down dazed and isolated defenders. The total rout becomes inevitable.
A number of the caravan defenders draw their bows and crossbows. A routed enemy may still be a danger, I suppose. But, is this prudence, or bloodlust?
Pyotr summons the attention of one of the archers. "No doubt our good scout has seen more of the battle than we have. But, it would be best if he were to return soon." Pyotr hands him Bonegrit's arrow, and watches the horizon as the archer fires it out over the Esk.
Many of the orcs flounder and sink as they struggle their way across the Esk. Some few, however, seem to have strength enough to combat the flow. Pyotr, inspired by the sight of the battle, draws Hammer close to one of the sixbulls and draws forth a battered and rusted lance. The iron-shod tip, dented and warped where it survived a crash with some foe, drags sparks on the rocky ground as Pyotr works the lance into an upright position. With a self-conscious glance around him, he makes his way towards the banks of the river, to guard it against the fleeing remnants of the horde.
Seeing the heavy cavalry do its deadly job makes Pellius feel nothing other than pride. Although not his preferred mode of fighting, the magus nods to its effectiveness.
He walks over to the river's edge to make sure that no orc escapes from this side, toying with the idea of using his crossbow but discarding it in the end. The magus dismounts and is ready to join the fray should any opponent come near him.
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Bonegrit scouts north but finds no indication that any orcs have passed this way. He does find the tracks of two separate groups of horses ridden in single file. His bushcraft tells him these were patrols of a dozen or so mounted warriors, his nose telling him they were human and passed this way two or three days ago. His best conclusion is that they were riders from Vigil or the northern lines heading west to muster for the battle that took place.
From the direction of the caravan, Bonegrit hears the whistle of one of his singing arrows.
The swimming orcs quickly succumb to the Esk's clutching grasp and the hissing bolts and arrows that roil the waters about them. The ordinary men and women in the Dierik's crew don't really commend themselves with their crossbow work; the Esk's inexorable current makes swiftly moving targets of the orcs and more misses than hits. Callan's guards however, prove much more effective with carefully placed attacks from their shortbows. Only Karannah does not partake in this slaughter, although she stands ready with an arrow on the string and the bow half drawn.
In moments, only a pair of orcs remain alive, and one bears a bolt in his shoulder and is floundering badly. They have only just reached the centre of the river, and are still 45 feet from the opposite bank.
The captain of the cavalry flourishes his shattered lance in salute at the caravan and its archers, then wheels his charger about and leads his men back to the battlefield. Not a single knight was even wounded in their devastating charge.
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Pyotr dips his battered lance in salute to the captain. He moves back to the wagons to stow his lance away. As he passes the archers he mutters, "You may as well leave them. Even if they are strong enough to reach the shore, they can not hope to threaten us. I, for one, would like to know what they are doing so far from home."
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The wounded orc succumbs and goes under; only one remains. This orc has left his wooden spear and shield to the spin away upon the Esk’s turbulent surface, and throws all his efforts into swimming. Unlike his peers, he seems to have at least a passing proficiency in a wild, thrashing crawl, and on this day, the orc has spurned any kind of armour in favour of a coat of ghost-white tribal war paint. These daubings stain the waters as the Esk washes him clean.
For a moment, it seems he might have a chance of reaching the bank, for the arrows falling about him all seem to miss, but then Agiz climbs atop Dierik’s ‘Flagship’, pulls a sling from his gauzy robes and a platinum piece the size of a saucer from a black leather pouch at his belt and whirls the projectile across the river. Shining in the sun, the platinum piece strikes the orc in the centre of his forehead with an audible ‘thok’, and the last remaining orc vanishes below the surface.
"Prisoners are poor economy," the ratman tells Pyotr, and shrugs.