“People who are wary of beastfolk in the woods cite werewolves and harpies as their greatest fears. What they don’t know is how much worse the squirrelfolk are.”
Pieron Gerong, Gurngamosi Historian
“In Harthell, goblins mostly use their powers to pretend to be children and pick pockets.” Esen said, examining my disguise from all angles.
“I would never do that!” I protested, perhaps a little too loudly.
“And that is why I dislike this idea. Pargrym is a child. We can’t send him out alone.” Maarken was glowering from the edge of the road, leaning against a tree.
“I’m not a child! I’m 10!” Both of them gave me a look that was part annoyance, part amusement. “...goblins are adults at 10.”
“You’re both getting ahead of yourselves. Pargrym, you aren’t going anywhere. We can follow them without asking them a thing. Look at the road.” Esen pointed down to the dirt path we stood upon. Light ruts stood out where various wagons, weighed down with silver, had passed through.
She pointed from one to the other, doing some internal calculation before looking at the tree line. “There.” She pointed to the forest, and I quickly understood what she was getting at. The trees there were spaced wider, enough for a wagon to pass through, and the undergrowth was unusually light for the amount of sun it should be getting. Deliberately trimmed for human wheels.
“Hm. Well-observed.” Maarken grudgingly admitted.
“I was a… you don’t have a word for it. Town guard? I know a thing or two about tracking people.” Esen shrugged.
I didn’t quite get what she was trying to say. There wasn’t just a linguistic gap, but a cultural one. Why would somebody who guarded a town need to track anybody? Maybe bandits had attacked her town and she followed them? I suppose it explained the surprising quality of her equipment.
Most of the mercenaries in our group had been quite poorly armed and armored. Their swords were the same mass-produced tools I wore at my hip, and their armor was mostly just basic mail, with no padding over it to foul the points of offending blades.
Others, Maarken included, had coats of plates, a cut above the rest. Under their vests were a layer of metal plates sewn together, with another layer of cloth underneath, a steel sandwich. It was a double sandwich really, covering up a layer of mail to defend the body even more thoroughly.
As far as I could tell, Esen’s thick vest was the same type, but of higher quality. The colors were what really stood out. The others mostly hadn’t bothered to dye their coats, leaving them a dull brown. Even Maarken’s, once likely a brilliant apple red, was now dull and dirty, worn down by years of use. Esen’s was split down the middle, misty gray to the right and a deep blue to the left, the color I imagined the middle of the ocean must be.
The puffy sleeves that reached from her sleeves to her elbows were the same hue and seemed to be good-quality cloth, although they had not taken well to traveling in the woods. And surpassing Maarken, her forearms were covered with solid vambraces. They were as decorative as they were defensive, each etched with a stylized image of a bird in flight, with a pointed beak as long as its body, and a chain connecting the brace to a ring on her middle finger. I wondered how that affected handling a sword.
I compared both sides of the road and the difference was obvious. On one side, brambles, ferns and climbing ivy occupied every inch of space that got any light at all, while on the other, the undergrowth was first burned, then seemingly trimmed with scythes. It became obviously artificial when compared directly. By looking at which trees were spaced far enough apart for their wagons to pass, an invisible path became clear.
“Everybody ready? Hugred, lead.” Esen pointed and her zombie shambled out in front.
“One moment. I have a last thing I need to gather.” Maarken was already loaded up with a staggeringly large pack that probably weighed more than Esen and I combined, but it didn’t seem to slow him down as he paced back to the bodies and came back with the ogre’s gun. Firedust weapons on a personal scale were rare, but the sheer size of an ogre meant their guns had the sturdy construction of a small cannon.
The barrel was solid bronze, marked with ribs down the body and a flared opening. The wooden stock was lacquered red and counterbalanced at the end with a bronze cap. It was well-maintained, the bronze that burnished off-gold color new coins had and the stock without chips. It was also clearly heavy, dangling in painful fashion in Maarken’s sole hand.
“You won’t be able to use that.” I said.
“It’ll just take some getting used to.” Maarken raised us to show he could and his arm quivered more than a plucked string on a lute.
“You can’t even load it with one hand. Come on, get me some rope. I have a better idea.” I eagerly climbed up to Hugred’s shoulders. A few minutes later, the gun was strapped to one shoulder, pointing forwards, and I eagerly clung to the other. My bird-like feet were perfectly fit for clinging to his coat. I heard that in war, goblins sometimes rode on the shoulders of ogres and sniped targets with crossbows. I had outdone them. Maarken was gloomily hanging out behind us and Esen was stifling a laugh, but I ignored them both. Hugred and I could take on anything!
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