Odd, Bold Fellows

Hideaway

By a poorly-made fire, two men feasted gluttonously upon fresh pork, peeling strips of nourishment from the spitted beast as it was turned one way, then another, over the flames. When the pickings grew questionable, they sated themselves on swigs of mead. The cavern they guarded was between the entrance of the bandit's lair, and a tunnel that led to a second natural cave.

They watched the door as they enjoyed their meal, though they had drawn short straws to gain the duty. Beyond, their leader celebrated with the rest of the gang. They only had two bottles apiece, yet were allowed an entire piglet for their troubles. No one would stumble inside their hideout without their ready notice.

"Cor, it's that frog again!" One man looked about in vain, trying to guess where the sound came from.

"Nah, it's a toad." The other bandit drew a fatty strip from the roast's back, holding it over his open mouth to take the over-large bite.

"There's not any difference!" The first bandit spun as the chirps resumed, the source eluding him.

The second sipped from his bottle. "I'd never eat no toad. You see what they do to a dog's mouth?"

Just outside, at either side of the cavern's entrance, two men held their backs to the rock. It was dark in the woods about them, but the odd fellows were not stealthy men.

Dirk Davenport took shallow breaths, keeping his steel breastplate from clicking the stone providing his cover. Short and stocky, the bold Imperial gentry's son felt the anxiety of someone who made a plan to be executed by another. But Dirk did not have his friend's ears.

K'chak, lean and powerful in his black leathers, towered over his employer and pal, his ebon skin standing out upon the limestone shelf. He craned his neck toward the entrance, carefully listening. The tribal warrior lifted two fingers, then closed his hand. Then, with both hands, he lifted six fingers.

If all was well with Dirk's plan, that meant two men in the entrance, and six men beyond. K'chak, listening still, slowly grinned. He lifted two fingers, and puffed his cheeks comically. Their third companion could handle the guards, allowing the warrior and the shieldman to blitz the rear.

Dirk grinned as he charged inside. "Easy-peasy!"

At the sound of clanging steel and Imperial bravado, the guards spun to the entrance. As the brave adventurers charged inside, a dark form fell from the cavern's ceiling behind a ruffian, and with a heavy thump, his helmet tilted foward as his eyes crossed.

The second guard turned to his cohort as a sealed bottle of mead smashed into his nose. Glossy steel and black leather passed the entrance, and continued for the back. No alarm had yet been raised!

The black goblin was pleased, but Pog reminded himself he was still in combat. He had used the ad-hoc language he created with K'chak, at Dirk's request, precisely as planned. He still had two bandits to finish. Though dazed, neither had fallen.

Pog sprang up, clinging to a stalagtite lowering from the ceiling. The guards turned in confusion, having never seen the giant, vaguely anthropomorphic toad. The bandits were only three feet below him. One had just made things easy by removing his helmet.

Pog spun on his purchase to face downward, and licked the chin straps of the steel cap directly from the man's hand. Dumbfounded, the bandit looked up, and in the span of a second, the rounded top of the cap clanged three times against his upturned face.

As the first bandit fell back like a log, the second finally lifted his shield and saber. He spun, crying out danger, but Pog already heard combat deeper in the cave. As the sentry spun, the goblin drew a dull blade from the folds of the very hide at his back.

Pog timed his fall, landing to rest on his belly behind the man. The bandit continued his spin, his gaze passing over the quiet toad. As the man faced away, Pog jabbed the poisoned dagger up into the back of the guard's thigh. As the ruffian screamed, Pog bounced after his friends. With two staggered steps, white foam formed at the man's lips and he fell.

In the rear chamber, upon a ruined table, rested a chest and a pile of salt stones worth their weight in silver. The skullet seated at the head of the table was eating foul and sausage. All this was taken from a merchant thinking guarded roads to be safe within miles of Imperial borders. Around their leader sat four men, loudly proclaiming their intentions with their booty. For most, those ambitions included booty.

A tree flew into the room, killing two men. Never to rise again, a pair of bandits died as they assessed the white ash sapling skewering them both, lead by a tip composed of four blades. Only a tall man could have thrown the five-and-a-half foot spear.

A five-and-a-half foot man clanked into the room, steel cap as dented as his round shield, steel chest as gleamy as his eyetooth. "YIELD, OR FACE JUSTICE!" Dirk led with shield, using the lower rim to crack a man in the temple as he struggled to rise. He readied for the last of the leader's men.

K'chak ducked low to enter the cavern, a slender sword in each of his large hands. The barbarian stalked past his spear and its prizes, staring down the skullet, as Dirk faced the last henchman. The balding man stood, and disappeared with a pulse of violet light.

The last man swung at Dirk, but the short man did not block. He punched with his shield, sending the bandit's brittle sword to break against the stone wall. Then Dirk shield-bashed again, then a third time. The bandit fell.

As Pog bounced into the room to stand near the entrance on hind legs, K'chak spat. "I hate wizards! You know he kept his prize! This is not justice for that merchant man in the trees."

Dirk agreed wholeheartedly, feeling half accomplished. Yet, he was vexed. "Pog, we need to work on your numbers. I thought you said six."

Measuring his purple eyes, Pog stood half a foot shorter than even Dirk. Those eyes moved independently of one another as the goblin searched the room. His lavender vocal sacs bloated as the cavern filled with his skirl. Though he could croak out syllables, the rumbling call allowed him to speak conversationally. "Dirk, I know how to count. My mother is a witch!"

K'chak pointed across the table. "Dirk's mother is a tea party hostess, and he has never given me a crumpet."

Pog's skirl had not stopped. It could continue indefinitely if he was not moving. Standing still, the goblin's skin breathed well enough. "I'm telling you, there were six!"

"I was pissing. I'm here now." From a darkened passage, a large man stepped, and stood. Tall he was, inches scant of K'chak. Wide he was, as much mass as the adventurers together. Vile he was, as he arrogantly finished his lager.

Dirk raised his shield, ready to meet this injustice upon beer. Dirk would drink dopplebock, or he would not drink at all. "YIELD, PISS DRINKER!!!"