The Butcher of Gadobhra

A day earlier Rufus and Miriam had delivered the first of the upgraded war-machines that would be installed in the towers of the new keep. For now, they would go on the walls of the old keep. Georges had needed the room in the forge at Sedgewick, and he could tell that Centurion Marcus had been itching to test out the new machines. A series of targets were being set up at various distances and Georges had included two dozen wooden ballistae bolts for practicing. The regular bolts with Dark Steel heads and Ironwood shafts were too expensive to use just for practice.

Now, Georges wished he had kept the machines in Sedgewick. As he walked into the main courtyard there were troops loading up the half dozen new pieces of artillery he had constructed for the Legion and Centurion Marcus was arguing with another man, and didn't look happy at all. Several of the workers were scowling and being decidedly unhelpful with loading up the war machines that had just been recently delivered. What took two workers to lift was taking six of the soldiers. Georges didn't recognize any of them. Their uniforms were also a little different, both in look as well as quality. Threadbare and cheap were the words he would have applied.

He strode up to where they were starting to load a catapult and put his foot on the machine, forcing it back down and mashing a lot of fingers. The cursing, angry soldiers stepped back and glared at him. He glared back. "What the hell do you think you're doing with my machines!"

The Centurion arguing with Marcus turned and looked at him, as did another man with a higher rank. "You are Georges? The builder of these fine machines? The Legion thanks you for your work. But they aren't yours any longer. As soon as you delivered them, they became property of the Emperor and his Legion, and we have urgent need of them to the south. Bandit troubles and roaming bands of angry farmers. Northguard needs to be reinforced."

Georges wasn't buying it, and didn't remove his foot. "Bullshit. Those were made for Rowan. They stay at Rowan."

The Legate looked at him and smiled. "Of course, they belong to Rowan. On the official books they are listed as being part of the arsenal at Rowan Keep. We are just borrowing them for now. With all the increased trade moving up and down the roads, we need them to fight bandits. I'm sure that we can have them back to Rowan soon, maybe in a few years. And if not, I guess you'll have to make more. But please, don't spoil the day by making my men have to kill you. I'm sure that would set back your project even more."

Georges took a look at Marcus. The man did not look happy, but he wasn't stopping these people from taking the weapons. He took his foot off the catapult and stepped back.

Legate Octavius smiled at him. "Excellent. I'm sure we can do much business in the future. These are fine weapons, and the office of acquisition needs all it can get. But for now, as I said, these weapons are urgently needed elsewhere."

Georges laughed and it wasn't a pretty sound. "The Office of Acquisition isn't going to ever get work from me. You pay shitty and you pay late. No wonder you have to steal from one keep to supply another. I've heard the stories of how long you take to pay for the work of other smiths. Now I know for sure."

The Centurion with the new group had the decency to look slightly ashamed as his men began to load the machines. The Legate's face became red, and he started to pull his sword. As he did, Georges stared at the ballistae on the wagons. Two of them pivoted and cocked without being touched, javelins dropping into their groove from the autoloaders on their sides. Georges calmly turned to the man. "Go ahead, little man. Come at me with a sword and find out just how good my work is. Engineering trumps a sword any day of the week."

The Legate turned white as he saw the two war machines aiming at him, he slowly sheathed his sword and put a pained smile on his face. "Third Tier, are you? Congratulations. I'll have the proper authorities notified. There is talk of reinstituting the draft soon, for the war with the orcs. Maybe you'll find yourself working for me sooner than you think."

Georges just ignored him and walked away. He had nothing to fear about a draft, not with his Baron and ACME standing between him and the empire. ACME was many things, but they weren't passive, and they never let anyone take what they considered to be theirs. And for the next four years, Georges was included in ACME's arsenal. He went looking for one of his runners. Finding him, he wrote a quick message out and sent him off. This wasn't over.

As the eight wagons loaded with war machines and barrels of food rolled away from Rowan Keep, Legate Octavius smiled and remarked, "Well, that went peacefully. I was hoping for more of a fight. There was a promise of a bonus if one broke out. Maybe next time."

The centurion made a large effort to control his voice and not roll his eyes. They had almost got a lot more fight than they could have handled. Not one of those 'workers' had behaved like fearful peasants, and the Legion garrison was very unfriendly. Old slights were remembered by soldiers and Northguard had sent Rowan Keep many reasons to remember.

The centurion, Silverus, finally seemed to nodded in agreement. "It did go easy. But I have to wonder what kind of hell we've stirred up. Marcus might play the good dog and roll over, but that won't stop him from reporting the incident. And I'm sure that the new Baron is going to be pissed."

Octavius seemed amused at the thought. "All part of the game. Get them mad, and then we hide behind our Baron, and his orders, and the office of acquisition. What did they need these catapults for anyway? They will look splendid mounted on our walls."

Silverus thought about that. "I'll have to get a crew working on repairs. Pinchpenny hasn't replaced the missing mortar in his walls in thirty years. They might not hold the weight."

"Then I'd get the men organized gathering sand and limestone. Pinchpenny is a likely to pay money to keep his walls from falling down as he is to put on a mid-winters feast for his peasants."

The caravan was only a few miles down the road past Hurlsford when they halted. The wagons were old and creaky, and the horses not in the best of shape. It would mean camping out for a night, but the area between Rowan and Northguard held no problems besides the occasional bandit. A group such as theirs wouldn't be bothered. And despite the excuse of 'roving bandits', that they had used to appropriate the new war machines, banditry was almost unheard of in this area. Pinchpennies baronry was impoverished, and bandits moved to where there was more to steal. The men had wanted to stop closer to the village, but the Legate was eager to make as many miles by darkness as they could, and the Centurion knew that he'd had men sneaking off to the village to get drunk and plunder chicken coops. Far easier to keep them under control in the middle of nowhere.

The reports that Silverus was sending to the Legion headquarters in Wolfsburg included many reports of increased merchant caravans, and increased banditry. Both were false, but they justified the need for supplies and money to support the outpost in Northguard. The bandit gangs that did form were always starving peasants forced into poverty by too many taxes, or starving from lack of food, or both. But it was going to get worse.

Too many peasants had been told to get off their lands by the end of the month. Most would head south to the big farms around Northguard where they would have to start over. They would never be anything other than share croppers. The big land owners had a tight grip on things, and worked with the other guilds to keep it that way.

A few hardy souls would try to homestead in the monster infested wilds. Some might even be successful and found new villages. It happened now and then. Fighting monsters could produce heroes, and heroes could carve out safe areas. The duke would send them help if that occurred, and some merchants might brave the wilds to trade with them. But it would be difficult without a Legion Keep nearby with a teleporter, which the empire didn't have the means to produce for each keep or town. Most homesteaders simply wouldn't be heard from ever again.

There would be new bandit groups formed, living in hidden areas of the wilds and trying to raid merchants. They'd be hounded by the Legion, and at nearly as much risk from monsters as the homesteaders. It was even possible that some families might head north to Gadobhra. Good luck with that!

That night, one of the barrels of meat was opened up. It tasted better than the old salt pork and wormy biscuits that the Legion at Northguard had for travel rations. Silverus didn't mind the men having helpings. He'd write off the barrel as 'lost in transit' and blame it on the workers at Rowan not securing it.

Morning came, and they prepared to move out after a breakfast of porridge and more of the smoked meat. Before they started moving, a small wagon pulled by two horses came over the hill driven by a farm girl. She had a lot of baskets in the wagon, covered by a table cloth. The smell of fresh bread came wafting over to Octarius.

"Hold up girl. What all are you transporting and where are you coming from?"

The farm girl kept her eyes downcast, as many peasants did. Her bonnet covered most of her dark hair. "My family makes muffins sir, and we sell them at the market down in Hurlsford. Usually, my brother takes them into town, but he's off hunting the wolf with my father. We lost seven chickens last night to it."

Several of the soldiers commented on that. The wolf was a constant nuisance in these parts, only kept in check if constantly hunted and forced to respawn.

The legate showed her an acquisition form. "Sounds like you should be home then and not out on the roads. I'll buy all of your baked goods from you for my brave soldiers. Have your father take this note to Centurion Marcus at Rowan Keep and he'll pay you. The Legion pays well, I made the amount equal to double what you'd get in town, plus a little extra for your time."

The girl clutched the paper like it was saving her life, which it might be. Farm families didn't have a lot of extra these days, and losing all your chickens to the wolf would hurt terribly. No eggs meant less baking. With the money that Marcus would grudgingly pay them, they could buy some new egg layers. And the roads were dangerous for a lone girl. This would get the poor little lass home and safe.

"Bless you sir, my family appreciates it, and we'll be offering prayers to your soldiers." Baskets were unloaded and the girl turned for home. Octavius took a muffin. It was much better than what they normally got at the barracks. He stole several more. "Eat your fill, and be sure to thank Centurion Marcus for paying for your second breakfast today. Now let's get moving. I want to be past Hurlsford by lunch."

Lunch came, and they had barely made five miles. It wasn't the horse’s fault, or the roads full of potholes. Instead, it was the constant need of the soldiers to stop and find a bush to relieve themselves behind. All of them were sick and anything they had eaten in the last couple of days was leaving them by the quickest route. Octavius was down and out, hit very hard by the sickness. Silverus was barely conscious. He ordered the caravan to camp by a stream so they would have fresh water. Dehydration when sick like this was a real threat. By noon, not a soldier was standing. The horses weren't even unhitched from the wagons, the uncaring soldiers just lying in the grass or by the stream, cursing the malady and wondering if it was from the salt pork they eaten the day before. It had looked rather green with an odd smell.

Others said it was the new meat. "Had to be the meat from that barrel. It looked well cured, but who knows what it was from? We might have been eating squirrel or turtle or snake." The mystery of smoked mystery meat would be much discussed for months to come. The cook at Northguard declared it to be fine though, and served it out with no repeat of the mysterious illness.

The soldiers barely registered the bandit attack. They came whooping down on them and met no resistance whatsoever. They laughed and moved around the camp, stealing helmets, boots, and swords. Then they loaded it all on the wagons and drove away. They were kind enough to leave the soldiers one wagon with a half empty-barrel of smoked meat and another of water. Octavius awoke later in the afternoon, crawled to the stream and threw up. That's when he realized he was only wearing his underwear and a pair of socks.

It was a long walk to Hurlsford. Most of the men had recovered by the afternoon and they started walking back to the village. Being barefoot made for slow travel on the rutted road in the village Legate Octavius tried to commandeer horses, but none were for sale. In fact, little was for sale, and few merchants even open. Word had spread fast that the Legion was in town, bare foot and paying with I.O.U.'s. Word might even have got there before they had arrived.

Two days later, Octavius was tracking the wagons, searching for the bandit camp. The wagons were found in a small wood, but nothing else. Trackers scoured the ground, but found nothing but some boot prints, and lost the trail eventually. No wagon tracks moving away from the area were found, or evidence of how the war machines were moved. Northguard was ordered to double their patrols in the area. There was worry about the well-organized gang, now armed with Legion gear, and could mount an attack with catapults and ballistae.

An effort was made to find out if the little farm girl had made it home safely, but without a name, none of the locals could say where she was from.

Poisoner has reached Level 10

Probably Poisoned Pie has reached level 8

A week later, a guild of players entered Hurlsford, footsore from the long walk, and heading to the fabled dungeons of Gadobhra. A quarter-elf horse trader named Albinath made them an excellent deal on a dozen elven ponies with shiny black coats and complicated brands. They paid well for the sturdy steeds. He warned them that some of the enchantment might fade if they were exposed to a mundane rainstorm. Sadly, it did rain later in the week, and the sleek black coats were washed away.

You have successfully led a bandit raid against well-armed opponents.

You have gained the title: Bandit Chief

Your skill: 'Horse-Trading' has been raised to rank 10.

You may advance to the third tier, and have new class options open to you

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