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"Aye," Henry Southgard says as the thin man disappears. "Sometimes the fighter who was meant to take a dive bet on himself." "That's a pretty big 'if'," Henry says. "If there is anything magical about that damn bird, it's how it manages to live off the scraps you feed it."
"Had an uncle who was into falconry when I was a boy. None of them looked that scrawny. And he never paid that much for them." Henry Southgard smiles and sizes up the Half-Orc fighter. "He liked prize-fights too, which was a shame because it was so hard to find a good fight. All the legal fights were too tame, and half the underground fights were fixed."
Henry Southgard is right behind Vylyra, and he tries to look unassuming as he stands beside her. Even so, he sizes up the Dwarf, Half-Elf, and Human. Are they prize fighters? Bareknuckle boxers? Bodyguards in training?
"Money first, then magic if they want trouble," Henry Southgard says to Quick. "If they do..." The mercenary thinks about how many alleys join with the clearing, and the logistics of blocking them off. It wouldn't be easy. "If they do put up a fight, don't let any of them get away. I don't want them running off for help like the last bunch."
"Follow it until you reach the Southern Gate," Henry Southgard remembers. He isn't sure how much further it is, or how close it is to noon. Hard to judge the position of the sun in this alley, even if he did know which way was north. "Someone ahead, sounds like prizefighters training agaonst each other. Might not appreciate us dropping in. Does anyone know what direction to go?"
"We were walking down the street," Henry Southgard says. "We're just running errands in the city. She's mistaken us for someone else with a grand cosmic destiny and won't leave us alone." "We're on a tight schedule, and an old woman like her might need help finding her way back home. Do you mind?"
"No escape. Not the first time I've heard that one, and yet here I am," Henry Southgard says. He waves to the city guards. "Is she a seer, or just a crazy woman?"
"Alman's road around the curve, right onto Lefters, straight, right, through the gate, then right again." Henry Southgard thinks as he stuffs a coinpurse down his shirt.
He is so focussed on navigating and watching for Drow and pickpockets and the sort who will give Quick trouble that he does none of them all that well. He misses the second right, and doesn't notice the woman until she is right there. "Ma'am, you will comport yourself and start making sense or you will leave and quit embarrassing us."
Henry Southgard suppresses a grimace as his gut quakes. "It's how we signal to the Drow that we want to meet. We've got to rent a room at the inn and hang a blue coat out the window."
"Very well. We'll talk about this later." Henry says as notes the disturbing implication in Quick's words. Quick thought that the commander of the Orc army could pull information from the King's court. Either he had spies on the inside, or mages who could scry from afar. But the Drow was the more immediate concern. Maybe. "If we go after the Drow, we need to be at the Dead Man's Drink by noon. Does anyone have a blue coat?"
"Miracle cures don't just sit around for the taking," Henry Southgard says. "If there was a cure for the King's condition that I could steal, then the palace would have bought it, or taken it outright, or the palace wizard would know how it works and duplicate it. Last I heard, a paladin was sent to fetch a cure from distant parts. We need a faster path to the palace wizard." The mercenary swirls the last dregs of his beer in his tankard, drinks it dry, and thinks. "Say... You're the high priest of Apsu now... What if we, we go to the palace and convince them to let you heal the king? That'll get you close to Mortimer, and they might be desperate enough to let you try."
There was a line, and Henry Southgard had crossed it. And it wasn't the first time. And it was always a shock to the system, a horrible realization that sent him crawling back swearing that he'd never do it again. But he did. It was as inevitable as sunrise and sunset. In this case, the line was about three tankards of beer. The line had also been drawn through that redheaded woman's throat. As a highwayman, a criminal, she deserved to be brought to justice. Even in a war-torn nation, in the absence of law, justice could be present. At its most basic form, justice was about integrity. It could be an agreement between two men, so long as a dispute was settled and the deal was honest. Even on the battlefield, everyone painted themselves in their lord's colors and took up arms with the open intent of killing each other. That didn't remotely describe what he'd done to the woman. He promised to set her free, and then he'd cut her throat. That made it murder. As he starts on his fourth tankard, Henry mulls over Quick's question. "Should be. I think we'll need a referral. We want somebody official to want us to see the wizard, or we need the wizard to want to see us. Know any miracle cures for royal illnesses?"
'And just what do you consider a weapon?' Henry Southgard wonders. To be on the safe side, Quick had better not pick up any barstools. "I'm with you," Henry says to Ajaxx. "After all we've been through? I need a freakin' drink." There was also the problem that there was a finite supply of alcohol in the land, and hardship drove people to drink more than they normally would. Worse, the invasion had concentrated the population without concentrating the beer supply. From experience, Henry estimated that the city of Thaleniel had perhaps until the end of the week until it was completely dry.
Henry Southgard clears his throat. "It was my idea to disguise Quick as a prisoner. Earlier this morning, we came across a band of Dawnflower knights on the road, and we barely managed to convince them that Quick is not a spy for the Orcs. When we came up over the hill, I saw thousands of people driven from their homes by the invaders, and I knew we'd have to prove Quick's innocence a hundred times over before we reached the city gate. I thought that this way, we'd only have to prove him innocent the one time." The mercenary looks over his shoulder at the city gate, shrugs, and adds "Seems to have worked."
'Now... How many days did it take us to get here?' Henry Southgard wonders. Somehow, it seemed longer than just three days. But thanks to a mercenary instinct that had earned him a short stint as the company paymaster, he recalls the precise terms of the agreement. "We were promised fifty gold pieces for every day less than seven it took to reach the city. The details are in the missive."
"Orcs," Henry Southgard says as he produces the missive from a saddlebag. "Always hungry, especially when someone else will do the cooking." "Ordinarily, I'd insist on handing this over to the Chief of the Watch himself, but Captain Waldemar insisted that any captain of the Thaleniel Watch was handpicked by Hardkey himself, and so I can trust that this missive will be delivered directly to him." With a flourish, Henry offers it to the guard captain. But when the captain tries to take it, he finds that Henry has an iron grip on the envelope. "He also said that there would be a reward for delivery, especially if we got here as fast as we can."
Henry Southgard waits patiently by the wagon, and helpfully opens a few chests to show the guards that the party has nothing to hide. All the while, he strains to hear the conversation between Vylyra and the Dawnflower guard. `Now would be an excellent time to start telling the truth,' he thinks. Tell the truth, even just a bit of it, and ask to speak to whoever is in charge. The truth goes a long way with people like this, people with the conviction to strap on a sword every day and protect polite society from chaos. "I should know."
Henry Southgard breaks his stride when Quick protests his interest, but quickly regains his composure. He doesn't like the risk that the sorcerer is taking, but it's not likely that anyone would believe that he is not a prisoner, seeing as he's hogtied and thrown across the bony half of a horse. And how common was fluency in Orcish in this part of the kingdom? In all likelihood, nobody else understood Quick. There is nothing to be afraid of.
"Hoi. Back off!" he growls at a gaggle of urchins who look to be well-practiced in the arts of pickpocketing.
Henry sees the guards atop the tower, and hopes that it's a good sign.
Henry Southgard valiantly keeps a straight face when he sees the man spit into his own beard. The news he hears is less joyful, and he slowly lets Vylyra catch up to him. "Mwanamke wangu, walinzi wa lango watahitaji mji wetu wa asili. Je, unaweza ulimi wako nje ya hili, au mimi?"
As the crowds grow denser, Henry finds himself unable to push through. "Move it," he says. "Move aside or be trampled by a horse. You right there. Surely you've got better things to do than stand in the middle of a road. And you, you're coming down with something. Go stand where you can get a breath of fresh air and not pass it on to fifty other vagrants." Translation: "My lady, the guard at the gate will want our names and a place of origin. Can you talk our way through, or shall I try?"
Henry Southgard leads the group toward the city, walking beside his horse. He strikes up a conversation whenever he gets the chance, trying to gauge the mood of the crowd.
"You'll have to feign better than that when we go through the crowds," Henry Southgard whispers to Quick. He briefly considers tying the young Half-Orc's hands more securely, so that he won't break out at the first sign of trouble. Then he considers it some more. Remembering that he, more or less, gave his word that he'd use a slipknot, Henry uses the most elaborate slipknot he's ever been taught. With Vylyra's help, he boosts Quick onto her horse and hooks him to the bag loops on the saddle. That should prevent him from rolling off. "Enjoy the view," Henry says. "That is bad news..." the mercenary says to Ajaxx. He casually relieves Quick of his dagger and the sword, sticking both in his saddlebag. "But I must say that I like the good news. The plan is, we march through those crowds with weapons at the ready, and answer as few questions as possible. If anyone stops us, we demand to speak to whoever is in charge. I'll do the talking, and if I can't handle them, Vylyra goes next. Sound good?"
"You look like a very important young lady with business in town," Henry Southgard says with a smile. "The breastplate is a nice touch. Makes it clear that you can handle yourself in a fight."
"You won't look like anything. We tie you down to the horse so nobody can see your face, and we bind you with a slipknot so you can get out if we run into trouble. Trust me, this worked the last time I tried it.
"Breaded elderberry cheese," Henry Southgard says as he pulls out a coil of rope. "Don't ask me why, something to do with how the people down the river rolled their 'r's. So, if people expect an Orcish spy, the way we'll pass through to the gates without challenge is to give them what they expect to see. We tie Quick up, load him onto Vylara's horse, and don't answer questions until we talk to somebody in charge. If we dress Vylara in the courtier's clothing, people will be less inclined to throw things in Quick's general direction." "Granted, two of us could go down there and gauge the general feeling towards citizens of Orcish descent, but I've got confidence in my plan. This way, we don't have to convince everyone that you're not a spy. Just the person who can make a difference."
"Yes, your presence is going to hold us back," Henry Southgard says. He nudges his horse to turn around to face the group. "And you're right, it is racism that makes people suspicious of you, but it's a very pragmatic racism. Right now, ninety nine out of a hundred Orcs in this country are footsoldiers of an invading army. If the people of Vyren hang every Orc they find, they'll only make a mistake one percent of the time, which by all accounts is a reasonable rate of success." "It would be different if it was an army of men or Elves invading. People would be racist against ear shape or hair color or accents. Believe me, I've been held at swordpoint on a bridge and ordered to say "Breaded elderberry cheese" the right way. But it's an Orc army that threatens this kingdom, so your presence will hold us back, and we're going to deal with it." The mercenary dismounts from his horse and looks pensively back the way the party came. "If I'd been thinking right back in Redstone, I would have asked for a medal or a citation to prove that we fought on those walls. It would have saved us a lot of trouble." "I've got an idea though," Henry says as he pulls a coil of rope from a saddlebag. "And it's going to get us right through those crowds."
Skills: 4 Points
What you're saying is, we need to expose Quick to ever more noxious poisons? Whatever doesn't kill him...
Henry Southgard does his best to catch up with everybody, fumbling with his crossbow and the saddlebags as his horse gallops over the rough ground. They stop beside Quick and Vylyra long enough for Henry to deliver Vylyra's saddlebag. "Drink up, then we storm the mill and get that horse back. Anyone know what the punishment for horse thieves is in these parts?"
Henry Southgard deftly steps through the vines...
and fails to mount his horse in one smooth motion. On the second try, he hooks a foot into a stirrup and pulls himself over the top. Once in place, he gives Ironheart (He was quite sure that was the right name) a kick in the flanks.
With a neigh, the horse tears loose and races out of the brush in the general direction of the tower.
"Good, you're awake," Henry Southgard says, not being known for his bedside manner. "Are you fe-" Henry barely ducks out of the way as the young sorcerer draws a battle ax and charges off to Vylyra's aid. "Yeah, he'll be fine," he says to himself. That left the other bandits. In particular, it left the two bandits over in the tower, and the bandit entangled in the weeds. Ordinarily Henry would just leave him to rot, but he wasn't sure how much longer the plants would remain entangled, and his horse was stuck in there as well. And if there was one bandit willing to stoop to horse-thievery, it was likely that the others were too. Well. He was staying here then. Henry loads his crossbow, takes careful aim, and fires at the wolf snapping at Vylyra's heels.
"Quit yappin yer gob!" Henry Southgard snarls at the highwayman as he snatches the vial out of the air. He pulls a few of the vines away from Quick and slowly pours the antipoison into the Half-Orc's mouth, pausing a few times to let the kid breathe. "I've gotta move the big guy outta here, then I'll come back fer ya."
"Unbelievable," Henry Southgard says when he notices the streaks where the plants scraped the paint off. "Absolutely unbelievable. Orcs I could have understood..."
He goes to attack again, but the plants catch his blade. Perhaps he'd be better off fleeing the circle of enchanted vines, if only he could carry Quick, or if only the bandit would lie still until the vines withered... An idea occurs to him. "Quit strugglin' yeh stupid knob! There's a poisonous red curler wrapped 'round yer trousers, and yer flailin' about 's only gonna make it mad!"
"Just toss it here when you get a chance!"
"Next time we are in a city, we won't leave without antipoison." Henry Southgard mutters. Louder, he says "You are free to try, just let me get you a torch." He feels a the Orc stirring in the weeds beneath him. A few moments ago, her could have easily killed the Orc with the butt of his crossbow. Coup de Grace, they called it. Now the Orc bandit was awake and struggling. This is going to be messy.
Weirdly enough, Henry Southgard felt something. It didn't feel like a magic spell. It was that feeling of something watching him. A predator. An enforcer in a bar sizing him up, or a hungry creature woken from its slumber by a hunting party. Not necessarily evil, but wrathful and not used to taking orders. In other words, it was considerably less terrifying than charging into the lair of a Drow sorceress. "Get. To. Work." Henry says. "How can we expect you to stave off the apocalypse if you can't even save your only believer?"
Henry Southgard tears at the vines and looses a shot at the small Orc atop Quick's horse
The vines almost immediately grapple his shooting arm and nearly pull his crossbow away. Henry is surprisingly unconcerned. It was just a magic spell, and all spells could only last so long. The plants would wither in a few moments, and then he could load Quick onto his horse (Perhaps Steelheart would be a good name? What was that thing that Uncle Robert had said about his racing horses?) and get him to safety. The bandits were fleeing, and cowards rarely returned to a fight. Henry was even unworried... no, he was worried about whatever ailed Quick. But he knew it was out of his hands. He'd done all he could to restore the kid to health. But if anything could help him... "I don't know what you are, and I don't know what you can do," he says as he picks up the Silver Scale. "To be honest, you don't look any more special than the painted holy symbols I see in the market. But if you are real, you are hanging around the neck of the last believer in all of Vyren. If he dies, there is nobody else. You will be forgotten. What's more, Quick is my comrade. If he dies without so much as a hint of divine intervention on your part, I'm going to have you melted down and beaten into kitschy dinnerware. Get to work."
Quick's wounds heal and... nothing happens. Henry Southgard pulls the arrow out of its wound before it can close around the arrowhead and tosses it aside. The Half-Orc's breathing remains shallow.
"Quick!" Henry says as he pulls a jar of nettle poultice out of his bag and applies it to the sorcerer's wound. "Can you hear me?" When he has a free moment, Henry loads his crossbow and then returns to cutting the tendrils away from Quick.
"Damn it, hold on," Henry Southgard mutters to his horse. "Stay steady and calm...
Henry Southgard smoothly slides out of his saddle and lands beside the prone sorcerer. He is unsure of what ails Quick but strongly suspects poison. With nothing better to do, he pours a health potion down Quick's mouth and starts cutting the Half-Orc free of the entangling vines.
Henry Southgard brings his horse around and trots over to Quick. The horse takes a hasty swipe at one of the bandits.
And succeeds in spraying some trail dirt in their general direction. Henry's first instinct is to leap off the saddle and come to Quick's aid, but there's two angry bandits with drawn blades, and he doesn't like those odds. So he reloads, takes aim at the bandit leader, and fires.
After all this, Henry remembers that he's got a party with him. He's not fighting alone. Even though the other two aren't soldiers and haven't sworn to take orders, perhaps they'll listen to suggestions? "Ajaxx! Vylyra! Quick is down and he needs help!"
Henry Southgard sees the big Orc coming to and decides that, no, he does not feel like fighting off two Orcs at the same time. With a bootheel dug into his horse's flank, he orders it to retreat ever so slightly. Once safely out of the little Orc's reach, he reloads the crossbow and fires at the big one.
Not sparing a moment to judge how well he'd hurt the Orc, Henry yanks on his horse's reins (He really, really needed to come up with a name for the poor thing) and mutters a few words in broken Elven for reassurance.
Spoiler:
With a snarl, Henry Southgard reloads his crossbow, aims, and fires at the nearby Orc.
Henry Southgard sees Quick fall at the feet of the Orc. Before the bandit could press the assault, Henry takes aim and fires.
Not pausing to see the hit, he snatches the saddlebags from Vylyra's horse and spurs his horse into action.
Henry Southgard hears Vylyra cry out and looks around for the archer. He sees plenty of vantage points, but no sharpshooter. Instead, he takes aim at the 'Orc' scurrying around to flank Quick.
The bolt skips off the boiled leather armor of the first Orc, nicks the club of the second, and zips off into the bushes. Cringing, Henry reloads his crossbow and spurs his horse after Vylyra's and Quick's steeds.
"This is the problem with Orcish scouts," Henry Southgard mutters as he draws his crossbow and loads it. "They'll turn to banditry at the drop of a purse. Worse than nomadic barbarians, most of them.
Henry Southgard saves a hard look for the soldiers and travellers who have a hard look at Quick. A life of mercenary work meant fighting all manner of races alongside anyone who could earn a salary. Humans, Elves, Orcs, Dwarven Half-Ogres, anyone. Even if Henry nurtured a quiet contempt for certain races, he'd long since learned to judge individuals as individuals. Then again, his hometown had never been sacked by Orcs.
"A mill frees up boys to do other tasks that build strength, and keeps them well fed too." Henry Southgard says.
"Next thing you'll say is that there's dragon worshippers up in the mountains," Henry Southgard says with a rueful smile. He mounts his horse and gives the foggy field a long look. "It's a beautiful morning. Rest well. We cannot tarry further, but we'll send for help when we can."
"There hasn't been a dragon in these parts for thousands of years." Henry Southgard says. "Let's hope we can keep it that way." "Distant glance," Henry thinks. Giants were, by their nature, able to see far. It was a colloquialism. He'd heard scholars talk of standing on the shoulders of a giant, and the seven watchtowers to the northwest of Lucien were called the "Seven Giants" by the city watch. But to the giants themselves... farsightnedness wouldn't be remarkable. If it was a name granted by the giants themselves, it would mean the foresight or vision of a true leader, or a gift for divination. Come to think of it, weren't the Cyclops rumored to able to see the future? "You say that these giants were led by a cyclops?"
"Giants," Henry Southgard repeats.
"I can't quite recall who the Unburnt are, but perhaps Obsidian merely outran them? Giants can't hardly ride horses, but their stride is easily a match for the fastest horse breeds."
"Who is the enemy? What banner do they bear?"
Startled by Quicks' question, and remembering something he'd seen earlier, Henry Southgard speaks to the rest of the party in a hushed tone. "His armor is old, very old. It's the sort of thing you'd only ever see on display. Better armor isn't hard to get, so the only value that armor has is in its provenance."
"So you say..." Henry Southgard says, casting a doubtful eye across the pasture. As a soldier of many battlefields, he'd seen people broken in the head who would see things that weren't really there and hear phantoms talk just as clearly as mortal men. Maybe they were spiritually exhausted from fighting, or maybe they'd seen something they couldn't handle, or maybe some idiot quartermaster had bought grain tainted by ergot. But one couldn't shake the feeling that these men really were seeing something nobody else could. That was quite different, and yet eerily similar, to the case of four people encountering a man who wasn't really there, yet insisted he was.
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