A Clean Escape
Micro Conto — NQ4
The boat slipped quietly down the river, lit by the glow of a single shuttered lantern. The only sound was the occasional moan of pain and cursing from the small cabin below, making the huddled oarsmen on deck shift uncomfortably. Despite their tension there was a barely suppressed air of triumph. The men shared satisfied grins, but superstitiously avoided speaking congratulations aloud.
The moaning finally ceased, prompting guilty relief among those listening, though they knew what it portended. The creaking of heavy steps followed as a man climbed up onto the swaying deck, burdened by a heavy limp body slung over his shoulder.
Nolan was brazen — or stupid — enough to speak aloud, his voice jarring in the quiet. “How’s Lort doing?”
“He’s dead, or Sarge would have left him below.” This comment came from the man at the tiller, Gazo Castra, the self-appointed skipper of their little boat.
Nolan took this news with a slow nod. “Need a hand, Sarge? Where’s he goin’?”
“Into the water, we’ll not have time to bury him.” Sergeant Kerne Boggs answered as he moved his burden to the starboard side. He saw a few of the men looking at him sullenly. “Yes, he died in service. There’s no time for funerals or digging in the muck.” They could see his hands were slick with blood from his crude attempts to stop Lort’s bleeding. “Anyone know Lort’s faith?”
Gazo answered after a pause, “Morrow I suppose. He wasn’t much for religion.”
The sergeant nodded and mumbled an awkward prayer before heaving the corpse over the side. Boggs watched it go morosely, noticing with a slight pang the green sash across Lort’s chest, remembering him joking about being a jaunty pirate just a few hours ago. The body fell into the water with a mild splash while the men at the oars strained to leave him behind in their wake.
There was a short silence before the joking began — the men quipped that Lort’s loss was their gain, as their shares increased accordingly. Death was common in the mercenary trade — a comrade one day was food for crows the next.
Gazo spotted their tributary and exclaimed in relief. The mood of all aboard brightened as they made their way up the sluggish stream away from the considerably larger and better traveled Black River. They rowed for another hour as dawn begun to break before spotting the campfire of their rendezvous. Two men had been left behind, watching over their gear during the evening foray. An old but serviceable wagon and a number of horses were ready to go on the other side of the campfire.
“What’s the word, Boggs?” The grizzled older man on shore queried.
He answered with a smile, letting the men and woman tumble out of the boat as he held up a finger for patience and ducked into the cabin below. There was a cacophony of excited exclamations as each man tried to tell the tale of their success while divesting themselves of their ragged and smelly clothing. Most of these were thrown on the fire, the wet clothes putting up a plume of smoke. They shared word of Lort’s demise, but the two men waiting at the camp judged that an acceptable loss; they’d wagered on at least two deaths.
Everyone settled down as Sergeant Boggs and Nolan emerged from the cabin, carrying a heavy chest. “Before I open this…” Boggs began, prompting a variety of groans and hisses, “we need to thank the woman without whom we’d not be here: Stefka Yurievna. For better or poorer, whatever is in this box is thanks to her persuasive efforts.”
Like many others, the well muscled but ruggedly attractive Umbrean woman was in the midst of strapping on her armor after having burned her pirate disguise. At the whistling and catcalls of the men she stood and offered a mock curtsey. “The bursar in Merywyn was an idiot with too much fondness for wine.”
“And Umbrean women!” Gazo shouted, prompting laughter all around.
Stefka’s smitten bursar had overheard intelligence about a Cygnaran courier bound with considerable coin for Rhydden. Khador had intended to scoop him when his boat drifted past the watch station east of Ravensgard. It hadn’t taken long for Boggs to assemble a group of his fellow Steelheads at the Merywyn chapter house and convince them to do some moonlighting as pirates.
Sergeant Boggs spoke again. “I’m a Steelhead through and through, but I could start to enjoy this river pirating. They don’t pay us enough to risk our lives day in and day out — and we deserve a little extra to send home, am I right?” They all cheered in agreement but yelled to stop the speechmaking and open the damned box.
He took a pry bar and splintered the wood cranking it open. Gleaming inside were three braces of new pistols, a fortune in gold coin, and several heavy bullion bricks. The men cheered again, and he saw several had opened bottles and flasks from their stowed supplies. Scooping through the coins, Boggs’ fingers brushed something below, and pulled forth a long and thin metal case two feet across, four inches deep, and two inches thick. There was an unfamiliar sigil on its top, similar to Llaelese noble coats of arms.
Opening the case, he gasped in surprise and almost dropped it. His face was lit by a peculiar glow. Stefka was nearest, and she held her hand to her mouth. “Is that what I think it is?”
“Boggs!” The old man who had tied up the boat shouted to him, pointing to the north. “There’s smoke thataway.”
Boggs cursed and pulled his spyglass from his oiled greatcoat, bringing it quickly to bear. He could see a short column of ragged soldiers and a couple of steamjacks bearing their way. “That’s the banner of the Highborn Covenant. By Thamar’s Teeth what are they doing here?”
“Someone else coming from downstream, Sarge!” This time it was Gazo, pointing the other direction.
The air was split by a high whistling screech like the screaming of a thousand men dying in terror and something exploded into their wagon with a muffled explosion. The horses went berserk and fled, several almost strangling themselves in their haste to escape. Boggs whirled and sighted through the spyglass again. Blood drained from his face as he saw what could only be a Cryxian helljack walking like a spider along the shallows. Behind strode a horrifying line of bloated undead. Among them was a familiar and fresher figure wearing a distinctive green sash, dressed like a pirate.
Boggs took down the spyglass and turned to scream at his men, “Get your armor on, now!” They redoubled their efforts, tossing drinks aside and scrambling for their halberds. The sergeant tucked the case under his arm as he pulled his helmet on, wondering how he was getting out of this one alive.
