The Rogues of Hollow Hill

Another in a series of stories in the style of A Story of Ice and Fire.

The Rogues of Hollow Hill

Baard Cyr looked down upon the camp from the branches of a tall oak. A party of thirty, with half in steel and the others in mail and leather. The cold night air carried their voices well; he could, with focus, pick out each conversation by turns. Nothing of real value being said, he tuned out the chatter, and looked for weaponry. Broadswords mostly, with a warhammer or two amongst the knights, the others with axes and daggers.

He smiled as he saw the kegs being drawn from often. A man could easily kill several others in their cups, especially in the dark of morning. But Eryk H'ghar had said to spy, not to harry. His hand ran down the smooth goldenwood of his bow. Soon enough.

In stealth he crept back down, and slithered through the undergrowth to a washed-out gully nearby. No more than two hundred paces away, he climbed out, and slunk beneath a heavy copse of trees into a small clearing. He sighed, finally able to straighten his back, which cracked as he stretched.

“Aye, and that would be Cyr, to be sure,” a deep voice rumbled quietly from the dark. Eryk H'ghar could be heard a league away when he so chose, but their prey was too close now. “I'm amazed the lord's men aren't up in arms from the creaking of your bones.”

Baard chuckled. “With the ale being passed around, ye'd think they'd bedded down at the inn instead o'patrol. They'll all be sleepin' like babes in th' cradle before long.”

H'ghar shook his head. “There is no honor in slitting the throat of a sleeping man, my friend. So we shall strike early, and give the drunken sots red smiles for their foolishness. Is Arrek ready for his mummery?”

“Aye, about a hundred paces away from their fires. He has the wares loaded on his mule, and decked out in his poor merchant's garb, he is.”

Eryk nodded. “So let us join him, and set him upon his way. I would sooner spend my nights with milady Alexandra and bacon pie than with you two buffoons.”

A corner of Baard's mouth lifted. “You would no more miss a good bloodletting than miss a meal. And I know true how few meals you've missed.”

“A man needs his strength in battle. Scrawny pip like you's only good for lurking around in the dark. How many of them did you see in your lurking?”

“Thirty. Fifteen o'Lord Bolton's finest in armor and broadswords, another fifteen with small arms. Ten for each of us to loot.”

“I'll have slain my ten afore your first volley's fired,” Eryk chortled. “Should you want ten bodies to loot, I suggest you kill quickly. Was Bolton's b*****d there?”

“I saw no banner. Unless Ramsay Snow hides in disguise, I'd say no.”

“Gods be damned! That extra bag of gold was to pay for my armor and destrier for the next tourney. The b*****d could've had the decency to show up to be murdered.”

Cyr shivered. “Let's get on with this. A night like this, I'd rather die with a dagger in hand in the warmth of a fire than freeze to death hearing your prattle.”

The two returned to the gully, and made their way to the hiding spot they had chosen earlier, where Arrek Kailer stood shivering in his thin robes. Their clouds of breath mingled as they went over the plan one last time.

“And make bloody sure you're ready to strike when you hear the scream,” Arrek whispered. “I'll have little and less time once the confusion dies down.”

Eryk grunted. “You have no worries on my account. And Baard will be up his tree, lurking as always. Never trust a man who doesn't like to bloody his hands, I always say.”

Baard shook his head sorrowfully. “Ye've not learned that when there's no armor to pierce, my arrow kills as sure as your sword. And I saw no archers in the thirty, so no matter what happens on the ground, I'll be picking them off like fat red cherries.”

“On that I shall be depending,” Arrek said. “I will have naught to fight with but my distraction until I reach my mule once the battle begins. Cover me till then, and Eryk will have to content himself with my leavings.”

Eryk bit down the curse that was about to erupt from his lips. “It will be a cold day in a dragon pit when you can take down more men than I, peddler. Go now, play your ruse before you truly anger me.”

“Aye, 'tis but play for me,” Arrek grinned. “But 'twill be death for them.” He crept off toward the patrol's encampment.

Arrek began limping as he approached his mule. He took the rein, and started the animal on the path. Two large saddlebags hung heavy on the mule's back; they held an odd assortment of trinkets and household items. They had made their way perhaps fifty paces when they were met by two armed guards. “Hold up, old man, and state your business.”

Arrek kept his head bent. “Beg pardon, milords. I'm but a peddler, traveling late to get to the next town. I smelled a fire, and had hopes of a warm spot to rest before I move on.”

The elder guard spoke. “There's no place for the likes of you at our fire.”

“Ah, but I am an entertainer as well as a peddler, milord. I might have some amusements for you and your friends to help pass a long, cold night. And I have my own bread and wine; I need not sup on yours. Please, just a spot to tie my mule and lay my head.”

“Entertainment, you say?” The younger guard laughed. “I don't suppose you have a wench or two in your sacks?”

“I fear not, milord. But some of what I do have you'll find quite...diverting.”

The guards looked at each other, and the elder said, “The boys could use a laugh or two. And we can always string the bugger up by his heels if he's not the entertainer he claims. That's sure to lift their spirits. Let's take him in.”

The three men trudged in single-file into the clearing where Bolton's men had made camp. “Lord Walton,” the guard said. “We found this peddler on the path. He claims to be an entertainer, either that or a fool. He wishes to perform for us, in exchange for a place near the fire to bed.”

Lord Walton Frey looked Arrek over with a skeptical eye. “We shall see exactly what he is. If he cannot get a laugh out of us, he'll be a great deal warmer than he would care to be.”

So the company gathered around the fire, with but two men posted at the pathway. Arrek began by telling a few jests at the expense of an unfortunate soldier with jug ears and buck teeth. The soldier rose up to strike at Arrek, but the others were laughing too hard, and two of the soldier's companions grabbed his shoulders and pulled him down again. Arrek then took a coin, made it disappear from his hand, and retrieved it from the right ear of the soldier, and handed it to him. “In return for your kindness and generosity, milord, for not striking me dead,” Arrek said, which set off a new round of jeers.

Arrek then went to his bag, and several soldiers reached for their weapons, until he came out with four sticks. He then went to the fire, lit the ends of the sticks, which caught with a strange, green glow, and he proceeded to juggle the fiery wands. He juggled for a good two minutes solid, then he enlisted the help of the jug-eared soldier “to help him drop the wands,” Arrek said.

Arrek would juggle, then toss the soldier one wand, which he caught clumsily, which only made the company laugh all the harder. Arrek then told the soldier to throw the wand back at him, which he did, and Arryk caught and juggled it without missing a beat. The green flames suddenly grew brighter, and Arryk ordered the soldier to stand exactly where he was. After a few more passes, Arrek threw the wands, one at a time, towards the feet of the soldier. As soon as they left his hands, they burst into green flame along their length, and soon all four lay burning, one next to the other, before the soldier's feet, as he stood stock-still, staring with bulging eyes. The company burst into applause.

“So, tell me, fool,” Lord Walton said. “How did you get those sticks to burn so?”

“It is a secret passed down from my father and his father,” Arrek said, “but as you ask so nicely, I will tell you, milord. A touch of wildfire at the tip of the wand, with a bit of wood to burn, then more wildfire soaked into the wood. It will burn green at the tip, and flare brighter just before the whole wand is consumed in flame. An alchemist taught my great-father the trick. Let me get another from my sack, and I'll show you.”

Arrek and Lord Walton walked to the mule's side, and Arrek pulled a wand out. “Here you go, milord. Just take it, and put the end into the fire. You'll see how it works.” As Lord Walton walked away, Arrek pulled two daggers from a small compartment behind the sack. He hid them beneath his robe, and slid quietly toward Lord Walton.

“The wand is sticky on my end,” Lord Walton said.

“Part of the effect, milord. It protects your hand from the substance, and delays the ignition.”

Lord Walton nodded, and put the wand to the fire. The wand was fully soaked in wildfire, and the entire length as well as Lord Walton's hand was engulfed in green fire, and he screamed, “By the Gods, it failed! My hand!!”

The air was singing with arrows as the two guards fell, a quarrel sticking out of each throat. From the other side of the clearing, Eryk took down three men with his broadsword before they could rise. Arrek drew his dagger, and slit Lord Walton's throat. “No, milord, it worked to perfection.” Arrek then stabbed and sliced his way around the fire, felling another half-dozen as Eryk took on the more alert.

More than half the camp lay dead or dying within heartbeats of Lord Walton's scream. Now the fight began in earnest, as a few of the soldiers took cover and found shields and weapons, and the first to recover from the ambush were engaged with Eryk and Arrek. Baard had fewer targets in the open, so saved his arrows for the best shots. Arrek dodged the swing of a b*****d sword at his belly, rolled over, and stabbed the man in the back. Another came running at him with a pike; he leaped into the air, above the point, and kicked the man so that his pike ran another soldier through. Arrek came down on his feet, and slit the pikeman's throat before he could dislodge his pike.

Eryk fought with broadsword alone, but his forearms were powerful and quick. He would fend off a blow, and swing back without a pause. Two of the soldiers fought him with vigor, but soon their blows came lower and less often. One was dispatched with a thrust to the chest after Eryk blocked his final swing, the other's sword was knocked from his hand, and he was decapitated with a single blow. His head rolled to Arrek's feet.

“Eryk! Mind you, keep your rubbish on your side of the camp! How many times must I ask you?”

“It's your turn to clean up. Mind your own bloody business!” Eryk roared, as his sword rang out against the iron edge of a shield.

Arrek had business to attend, as he was faced with a wiry soldier nearly as quick and nimble as he, bearing a dagger in each hand. By now, there was but one soldier each occupying Arrek and Eryk, and the blood spilled was making the footing treacherous. The swordsman engaging Eryk was skilled with his sword and shield, and tireless. They fought their way completely around the fire once, then twice. Arrek's duel was more compact, but no less intense, as thrust after thrust was parried or evaded, and neither man could get a clean swipe at the other.

Suddenly, Arrek's opponent paused a split-second, to regrasp his dagger with a sweaty hand. In that instant, Arrek slashed at the other hand, the cut at the wrist making the man drop one dagger. The enraged man stabbed at Arrek's face, but Arrek had already dropped to a knee, and brought his dagger with all his might under the man's breastbone. The man shook a few times, suspended upon Arrek's fist, mouth hanging open until the blood came pulsing from it. Arrek pulled his dagger out, and the man collapsed, face first into the mud.

Arrek stood, and just as he was about to run to the other side of the fire to aid Eryk, he saw the big man lose his footing, tripping over a corpse. Eryk crashed to the ground, and his opponent howled, “Die, worhtless scum!”, and readied his sword to plunge it, two-handed, into Eryk's throat.

Arrek had no more than hollered, “Baard!”, and the whistle of a single arrow came down from the trees, caught Eryk's foe in his eye, and came out through the back of his neck. He melted to the ground as if his bones were warm candle-wax. Blood came pouring from the wound, and flowed down the front of Eryk's pants.

Eryk took Arrek's hand up from the mud, as Baard came climbing down from the tree to the clearing. “Curses upon you, Baard Cyr. Can you not aim better? My new pants are ruined. Ruined, I say!! I have a mind to take their price from your share.”

Baard's face remained calm and patient; he had weathered these storms many times over and more. “Had it not been for me, 'twould have been your blood staining your shorts, my dear H'ghar.”

“Ha! Little you know. I had him right where I wanted him. The fall was naught but a ruse.”

Baard and Arryk looked at each other, and burst out laughing. Eryk's face grew blood-red, then deep bass guffaws billowed from him as well. “Well-done, my friends. No Ramsay Snow, but Lord Walton Frey should be worth our pay to our good Lord.”

Baard smiled. “Not to mention it will keep us in the Silent Lady's good graces, once she knows.”

“Aye,” said Eryk. “And these days, the Silent Lady and her band are better allies than enemies. I 'm off to Stormshield from here, after we meet the Lord's man and receive our shares. Will you two be at Riverkeep or Mancave?”

Arrek said, “Of course Baard is welcome, but I shall be at Riverkeep.”

Baard said, “Why, Eryk, I thought I'd impose upon your hospitality for a change. You haven't invited me to Stormshield in ages. And your stable wench is still there, the blonde one?”

Eryk said, “And that is why you've not been invited, you roguish devil. You were too drunk that last time. That was no stable wench, that was Lady Alexandra you were offering to roll in the hay.”

Baard cocked an eyebrow. “Not too drunk to remember that she was intrigued,” and shook with laughter.

Eryk H'ghar raised himself to his full height, a head and a half above Baard Cyr, and shook his huge head. “'Tis well I know you well, Baard Cyr, and love you well. Else I'd have to kill you.”

“We've jested with each other for too long, and fought side to side for longer, Eryk. I would no more sleep with your wife than...sleep with my sister. Upon my honor.”

Eryk embraced Baard. “You're a good man at heart, Cyr. Of course, come with me to Stormshield.”

As the two strode off together, Arrek held back for a moment, pondering a question. He looked after his two friends, and spoke to himself:

“I wonder if Eryk knows about Baard's half-sister?”

Arrek Kailer shook his head, and walked from the clearing.