Chapter 9 – Part 12

Henry rubbed his arms to keep the circulation going. The civilian clothes were not as warm as his uniform, but he was sacrificing come comfort for deniability. He’d kept the cap, however. One military-issue cap wasn't unusual. Even civilians scrounged for good winter clothing.

He had four men including himself, not ten, and one wasn’t exactly a volunteer. But he’d put them together well before he’d finally made the colonel guilty enough to give him permission. They were coming now, to yet another graveyard produced by the war. Some two years ago a number of men had been hastily buried here, several of them enemy dead. The Reachers avoided the place, which made it perfect for this clandestine meeting.

The shifter arrived first. He was tall and burly, and he wore leather armor studded with metal plates and rivets. It made not a squeak as he walked, no, loped into view. Standing upright, he might have been two or three inches over six feet, but the beast-man preferred hunching when he stood and moved. It kept his broad, wolf-like nose closer to the ground.

He called himself Dawn, notwithstanding that in Breland that was a woman’s name, and when he shifted he could track like the wolf that he resembled. He could also produce wickedly long and sharp teeth like a wolf. And like a wolf, he was loyal to those who were loyal to him.

Carl had saved Dawn’s life twice, and the beast man with his bulging muscles and reddish-brown body hair had sworn that he would find the Brelish human, wherever Aundairian or Karrnathi troops were holding him.

“Captain,” the shifter said, raising his head a bit, if not saluting.

“I’m just a soldier,” Henry said. “I’m not an officer, Dawn.”

“You a captain now,” Dawn grunted, absent-minded checking the hilts of the three swords that he wore, and the crossbows strapped to his legs. Dawn was not long on smooth words, but he wasn’t short on weapons.

Or brains, no matter how he talked. Dawn was cunning. Like a wolf.

The Halfling came with the gnome next. Dawn heard them before Henry did, but the old soldier had battlefield reflexes, so he heard the soft footfalls only a few seconds after the shifter. Of course light as Phillen’s feet were, if the Halfling had cared about being heard, they’d not have known he was there until his body parted the mist.

Phillen wore armor like Dawn’s, only a miniaturized version of it. The cocky Halfling had a shaved head and bright blue eyes, and the only visible weapon on his person was a sling. A sling he was very, very good at using, especially in conjunction with the several dozen magical stones he kept on his person.

Phillen’s sister, a baker, not a soldier, had been killed by a nervous Aundairan infantryman some twelve years ago. The Halfling had been mad for killing them ever since.

Right now he was grinning that wide, cocksure grin that he had, bouncing a key from one gloved palm to the other. The key was to the collar that was fastened around the neck of the fourth member of their expedition.

Manfred Oboken was the name that he’d been convicted under, although doubtless he’d used others. He’d been a small-time crook and a moderately talented illusionist who’d finally been caught by the Dark Lanterns. Manfred had thought that he’d been involved in a lead-as-gold scam, and had been horrified to find out that he’d been unwittingly assisting Cyran spies. He’d been even more horrified to find out that he’d been accused of treason and they were going to behead him.

They didn’t of course. They’d offered him a pardon if he spent ten years in the army instead of twenty at hard labor.

Manfred didn’t like army life any more than he liked the simple and itchy wool robe that he wore with his collar. But he’d used his illusion magic successfully on a number of occasions, and he would be very, very useful in hiding them in the Aundairan countryside.

Manfred’s black, glittering eyes locked on Henry, then on Dawn, then on Henry again. “You’re going to rescue that junior officer, Carl, aren’t you?” he asked.

“He’s not stupid, this wizard,” grinned Phillen. “No he’s not. So tell us, boss, what’s next?”

“Anita’s Ford,” Henry said.

“That’s seasonal,” Dawn grunted. “Summer only. Rest of the time the water’s too high and too cold.”

“Phantom’s Crossing,” Henry told him.

“That’s a myth,” frowned Phillen. “You sure you don’t want to steal a boat instead, boss?”

“Not a myth,” Manfred said suddenly. “But the key has been lost for over two score years.”

“I don’t have the key,” Henry told them. “But I know how to find the keymaster. Or at least I think I do. If we get there and it doesn’t work, we’ll try another way. But we can’t go the regular ways, they’re being watched. And the idea is to not fight the entire Aundairan army.”

“Let’s go then,” growled Dawn. “It’s quite a walk.”

“I procured some mounts,” Henry said. “I don’t know if Manfred can ride, but –”

“I’ll tie him to the saddle,” grinned the Halfling.