THE GOLDEN GOAT CAPER

THE GOLDEN GOAT CAPER, by Mark Finn, audio by the author, art by Simon Walpole

 

When we last saw Larsen and co. (back in HFQ #50, The Carnival Job) they were posing as a traveling carnival as a cover story for their nocturnal criminal endeavors. Four years later, they’ve picked up some new talent for their motley crew and also a nemesis, Delsarte, whom Larsen has vowed to take apart, figuratively and literally. They’re trying to build up a war chest for this purpose and have gone to ground after their most recent job (which is featured in the forthcoming Swords & Larceny anthology from Baen Books.

 

 

There was nothing to do in the port city of Byle that wasn’t related to ships and fishing. It was a miserable, squalid little bump-on-the-ass-of-the-known-world kind of place, suitable only for offloading cargo, getting shanghaied, or contracting a scorching dose of mermaid burn, one of the more colorful sailor’s afflictions, or licentious maladies, as the apothecaries refer to them. I won’t go into the particulars, but suffice to say, you can tell who’s paying for cut-rate rolls in the hay by the way they walk, very gingerly, as if their balls are separating from their legs and swinging like a ballast in high wind, which isn’t too far off from the truth.

My crew and I had been lying low in Byle ever since we demolished the money laundering operation at Direwood Farms brewery, some six weeks ago. It turned out that I was recognized in the crowd of beermongers by more than one former criminal associate of mine, and they wasted little time ratting me out to the Dire family, who have since been scouring the countryside, looking for us.

We’re not hard to spot. There’s only one conceivable explanation for a group of five humans, a half-giant, two goblins, and a pair of wagons pulled by four horses and a monstrous, warged-up goblin pig called a “porg,” all traveling together, which is why our wagons are painted with the legend “Captain Argento’s Cavalcade of Wonders.” Traveling carnival. What the hell. It beats hard labor. Given my crew’s varied skillsets and my own penchant for bullshittery, it’s made us a living wage as long as we keep to the road and don’t stay in one place for too long.

That was before our little caper in the highlands. We turned south from the Dire family farm and ran like hell all the way to Hag’s Maw Bay, where we had our choice of places to hole up, from the massive city-state, Farington, to the little fishing village of Pike. Byle seemed like a pretty good compromise—large enough to stow the wagons and stable the horses and the porg (named Dammit by Pliff Punchsack, one of our two goblin brothers) but with just enough civilizing influence to allow us the opportunity to spread out and ply our trade on the seemingly infinite number of poleaxed drunk sailors and fishermen that made berth in Byle on a regular basis.

Now, six weeks later, we were brandishing knives and idle threats for want of anything else to do. I’d put a freeze on all grifts until the most recent batch of ships made sail for other towns on the coast of the bay, and the central thrust of the arguments revolved around why we weren’t spending all of the gold we’d pilfered in our last operation. Me, my former-current partner in crime, Ferrah, and Savorsa, our storyteller, were insistent on waiting until the heat died down to start exchanging the treasury ingots for actual spendable coin, all the better to plot a job against the current thorn in my ass, Delsarte. Zalthis, our alcoholic alchemist and the goblins Pliff Punchsack and his brother Clork were all in favor of taking the spoils and spending them on drink and knives and magic and whatever else they fancied. Thurl, the half-giant and Constance, the archer, kept out of it, preferring to see who would win the battle of wits before making any decisions.

We were all sick of looking at each other and it was about to turn ugly, when fate delivered us a distraction in the form of Porrick and Kreegh, two of the most hapless miscreants I’d ever run across. They showed up at the Shark’s Nest, the cleanest dirty little tavern on the docks, about ten days ago, with a tale of woe for anyone who would listen as they bought round after round and filled the air around them with larger and more improbable lies about their ordeal.

These two chuckleheads were supposed to courier a wagonload of goods to an inn several day’s ride from Byle called the Groggy Frog. They were traveling from Gant, another pissant fisherman’s port in the maze of coral reefs known as Tig’s Folly, with instructions to deliver the goods, post haste. Their problem, according to them, was that whilst minding their own perfectly legitimate business, a group of brigands swept down from the steep, jagged cliffs that line the northern coastline of Hag’s Maw Bay and made it their avowed intention to kill them and take their stuff. They managed to elude their would-be assassins twice, and, fearing for their lives and quite sure they wouldn’t survive a third attempt, Porrick and Kreegh hid their cargo and slapped leather for Byle, where they have been “laying low” ever since.

It’s not a very interesting story, except for two things, which inadvertently slipped out in bits and pieces throughout the myriad retellings. The first thing was that the cargo in their wagon was more along the lines of spoils, the ill-gotten kind, and it was just one of many tributes being kicked up to Obel Dage, who works with, and for, Delsarte. The second thing is that their pile of treasure included an empty wooden cask and a set of beer steins. This set of drinkware was enchanted, so that whenever a libation was drunk from the steins, a small portion would find its way back into the cask. If someone were an unscrupulous innkeeper, like Obel Dage, it would be a very useful item to own, as it would make their stock of swill last longer, and force everyone drinking it to spend more coin to arrive at their preferred state of inebriation.

Wait, there’s a third thing. The steins and the cask were stolen from a cult that lives and operates out of the cliffs in Tig’s Folly called the Order of the Golden Goat. They were a mystery cult, an offshoot of Barcciss the Reveler, and they were dedicated to achieving enlightenment through intentional alcohol poisoning. They brewed their own mead, a dangerous concoction that turns the skin and the eyes of whoever drinks it a sickly shade of yellow. There’s a lot more going on there, but suffice to say, not everyone who joins their little prayer circle lives to tell the tale. In fact, no one tells much of anything, as they are found, saturated with poisonous libation and missing their liver.

By now, you might surmise, correctly, that the followers of the Golden Goat were the very same brigands that set upon those two dumbasses, in order to get their cask and beer mugs back and put an end to Porrick and Kreegh for good measure, as an example not to trifle with the Golden Goat of Barcciss.

The couriers’ story was just tantalizing enough to set off an impromptu treasure hunt from some of the profit-minded ne’er-do-wells in Byle, who wasted no time trying to retrace Porrick and Kreegh’s footsteps in the hope of figuring out where the loot was stashed. At the same time, the brothers of the cult of the Golden Goat showed up in Byle, five yellow-skinned and yellow-eyed fanatics in all, who have since knocked on every door, rattled every cage, and spread a generous amount of silver around, in the hopes of getting their hands on Porrick and Kreegh.

Unfortunately, they were nowhere to be found. It was as if they’d disappeared, and after three days of considerable effort to find them, the very sensible suggestion was put forth that they might have skipped town, perhaps on a fishing boat or some outgoing merchant vessel, to escape their tormentors.

None of which was true, of course. I know this because we nabbed Porrick and Kreegh and stashed them three days ago in an abandoned grain silo, just far enough away from the docks to allow us a free hand in trying to convince them to draw us an accurate map to the stashed loot without their screams interrupting anyone’s evening. Thurl stood guard outside the small mill, moving bales of straw and fixing the broken fence, while the goblins and Ferrah worked the hapless pair over. I must say, they were either loyal to a fault or too stupid to know just how close to losing an eye they were, but either way, they withstood two full days of beatings and goblin-uttered threats.

Savorsa and Constance took over on day three so that Ferrah could give her punching arm a rest. They came sweeping in, all sweetness and light, and they made a show of loosening their bonds and apologizing for the gob’s harsh treatment of them. Savorsa dressed their wounds and sang words of succor into their ears while Constance made a production out of restringing her longbow and meticulously assembling an arrow, affixing an iron arrowhead and attaching the fletches just so. She took her time, and Porrick and Kreegh were drawn into her methodical task, despite themselves, now that they were feeling much better. They ate the cheese and bread that Savorsa gave them, chewing absently, their eyes were glued to Constance’s hands as she worked.

They were almost finished with their meal when Constance stood up, kicked the stool away, and took a few paces back. She nocked the arrow and let it fly in one fluid movement. It struck Porrick’s left foot, passing through leather and flesh, pinning it to the ground.

They later told me Porrick’s scream sounded like a braying mule. Savorsa knelt down and examined the wound, shaking her head. “Wow, Connie, I’m impressed, you shot him right between the bones of his foot!” She flipped a coin over to Constance, who caught it effortlessly.

“Told you so,” Constance said.

“You did, you did,” Savorsa said. “I’m sorry I didn’t believe you.”

“Want to go double or nothing I can shoot the other one through the right ear?” Constance asked.

“Without killing him? You’re on,” Savorsa said.

Constance got out another wooden shaft and scooted her stool back over and began the process of making another arrow. Kreegh immediately started blubbering. “No! Don’t shoot me ears! It’s me best feature, everyone says so!”

“Oh, don’t worry, sweetie, I’m pretty sure I can fix it before you bleed out,” said Savorsa. She patted Kreegh on the arm. “Just between you and me, I don’t think she can do it.”

“Triple or nothing,” said Constance, winding thin wire around the arrowhead.

“Done!” said Savorsa. “See? The pressure’s building. She’s bound to miss eventually.” She turned to Porrick, who was still wailing, and leaned over to look him square in the eyes. “You keep yelling like that and Thurl’ll come in here and whack you with his shovel. You know, he wanted to break your nose two days ago. I stopped him from doing it. I told him you’d be good, but he really hates loud noises.”

As if summoned, the door crashed open. Thurl stuck his boulder-sized head inside and said, “You gotta keep him quiet. I can hear him out by the road.”

“Hey, give him a break, he’s been shot in the foot,” Savorsa said. “It looks really painful, too.”

“You’re all barkin’ mad! Eat my shit, you bastards!” screamed Porrick.

“I’m getting my shovel.” Thurl closed the door.

“You see what you did?” Savorsa scolded Porrick. “You made Thurl mad.”

“I’d better hurry this up, then,” said Constance. She stood up, kicked the stool away, and took aim.

“Want me to hold his ear?” Savorsa grabbed Kreegh’s earlobe and pulled it taut, away from his skull.

“Oh, that’s much better,” said Constance.

“NO! Don’t!” Kreegh screamed. “I’ll tell you where we hid it!”

Porrick’s face was red; he was nearly in tears. “You keep your big mouth shut, you eel-sucking son-of-a-sharkfucker!”

“They’re going to kill us!” Kreegh said.

“That’s not fair,” said Savorsa. “We’ve kept you safe from those zealots for three whole days. They’d have surely gutted you and hung you out on a yardarm to dry before now.”

“You’re really not very good at this ‘low profile” thing, you know,” said Constance.

“You’re not,” Savorsa agreed. “There’s no one drinking in the Shark’s Nest right now because they’re all out trying to figure out where you stashed your wagon. And to make matters worse, you told everyone you met about it! Throwing your ill-gotten gains around all over town like kids in candy stores. You probably spent it all, didn’t you?”

Porrick growled and said, “You don’t know shit! Got it stashed someplace you’ll never find it!”

“You can’t be trusted to act in your own best interests;” Savorsa said. “Everyone on the docks knows your names, your faces, where you’re sleeping, who you hang out with. It’s a wonder you aren’t dead from sheer stupidity.” Savorsa leaned in closer and smiled. “But you’re not that stupid, are you?”

Kreegh looked at Savorsa warily. “What do you mean by that?”

Savorsa retrieved Constance’s stool and positioned herself in front of Kreegh. “Only this. You told everyone who’d listen that you were moving through Tig’s Folly on your way West and South to the Groggy Frog. But you two came in through the West gate, instead of the East gate, which means you took the long way around Byle, through the hills.” The door opened and both couriers strained to see who was coming through it. “Hey, don’t look at him, look at me,” Savorsa commanded, snapping her fingers in his face. “I’m trying to tell you how we figured out your little sneaky sneak work-around. See, we think you hid the loot somewhere west of Byle, on the way out of town, rather than east of Byle, in the hills before you get into town.”

As she talked, Kreegh watched, horrified, as Thurl clomped into view, holding a shovel that looked like a garden spade in his gargantuan fist. Thurl walked over to the captive men, drew back his arm and smacked Porrick in the face with the shovel, like someone swatting a troublesome fly away. Porrick rocked back in his chair, and the only thing that kept him from going ass over teakettle was the arrow through his foot that anchered him in place. Blood fountained out of Porrick’s nose. He started howling anew but downgraded it to a sob when Thurl drew the shovel back for a return swing and Thurl, satisfied with the results, walked back outside to resume his chores.

Kreegh looked at Porrick, dazed, coughing blood out of a broken and flattened nose, an arrow sticking out of his foot, and said, “I’ll tell you everything, but you gotta pay us. For pain and suffrage.”

“An’ doo godda ficks by phuckin’ node!” Porrick bleated through a spray of gore and snot.

Savorsa smiled at Constance and stood up. “Go tell Larcen,” she said. “They’re ready to talk.”

 

* * *

 

From the road, the old farmhouse was invisible. The path leading off into the thicket was completely overgrown, and the only indicator that anyone had used it was the imperfect camouflaging job the couriers had done repairing the ruts caused by the wagon wheels. If you weren’t looking for that, you’d ride on by and not notice anything amiss.

The field was overgrown completely with knee high grass and moldweeds, and the tree line, some distance back from the road, was dense and seemingly uninhabitable. However, there was a diagonal break between the groves that wasn’t visible from the road, just wide enough for us to squeeze our borrowed wagon through.

On the other side was a respectable clearing with a cottage, a large barn, and even a boarded-up well. The house was overgrown with clinging vines and the field was a mass of weeds and everything looked like it had been at least a decade since anyone had worked the property. It was too small for a proper hideout, and smoke from the fireplace would surely be seen over the tops of the trees, but as a quick and dirty dead drop, it was quite serviceable.

We used Porrick and Kreegh’s wagon because we were still trying to keep a low profile. It wasn’t as big as either of our wagons, but this one had the advantage of not being painted in bright, garish colors. Thurl and Ferrah drove the wagon with the gobs in the back, under a tarp, and Zalthis and myself rode two of our four horses alongside. Constance and Savorsa stayed behind to babysit Porrick and Kreegh, in case we came back empty-handed.

“Thurl, let’s put the wagon in the barn,” I said. “We’ll tie the horses up behind the house.”

“Okay, Larsen,” Thurl said. Everyone else got off the wagon and Ferrah opened the barn doors. Thurl drove the wagon around to the far side and pulled in, facing the road, for a quick getaway, if needed.

As we secured the horses, giving them enough lead to let them graze, Zalthis sneered and muttered, “Nothing of value inside, I’ll bet.”

Zalthis was talking about ingredients for his alchemy; he was constantly searching for the various plants, powders, and minerals he employed in the working of his craft. I gave him a sideways look. “You know, not everything is an opportunity to advance your magical studies.”

“Says you.” Zalthis sighed. “Eh, maybe there’s something in the pantry that I can use.”

“Hope springs eternal.” I tried the back door and it opened, and then fell off its hinges. It had been damaged when the couriers bashed it in two weeks earlier.

Inside, it was clear that nature was well on its way to reclaiming the structure for itself. We walked into the ramshackle kitchen. Ferrah and the gobs joined us by way of the small dining room, having come in through the front door. “Where’s Thurl?” I asked.

“In the barn,” Ferrah said, “tending to the horses.”

“Well, we may need him in here.” I jerked a thumb over my shoulder at the pile of crates and boxes stacked haphazardly in the corner of the kitchen, right in front of the larder door. There were also four barrels, one of which was from the Direwood brewery.

The gobs made a beeline for the barrels and quickly examined them. “Rip off,” Pliff said. “No booze. Wait.” He shook one of the barrels and lifted the lid. “Found it,” he said. “It’s in here.” He thumped the barrel.

Ferrah and I examined the barrel from the Direwood brewery. It was one of their smuggling barrels with a walled off inner chamber down one side of the interior. The last time we’d cracked into one of these, that inner chamber had been full of ingots. This barrel was empty, except for just enough beer to slosh around in case anyone official wanted to examine the cargo. Ferrah noticed my frown and looked over. “What gives?”

“No money,” I said. “Is that weird? They wouldn’t be carting an empty barrel back. I wonder if they didn’t dip into the take and stash the coin somewhere for a rainy day.”

“Those two?” Ferrah scoffed. “Even odds the answer is yes. Good news is, if they did, we can beat it out of them,” Ferrah added. “We’ll just break the other one’s nose.”

“Take it all,” I said. “Any bite we take out of Delsarte’s pie is one less piece for him.”

“Right,” Ferrah said. “I’ll go get Thurl. Come on, lads.” She walked out the back door with the goblins on her heels.

They made short work of loading the wagon. Zalthis was rummaging through the larder once all of the cargo was cleared away and the door could be opened. He emerged carrying a small clay pot.

“What’d you find?” I asked.

“Salt,” he said. He opened the lid. “At least, I think it’s salt.” He sniffed the contents warily.

I stuck my finger in the pot and touched a few granules to my tongue. “It’s salt.”

Zalthis fumed “No,” he said, setting it down on the table. “Now it’s contaminated salt.” He spat on the floor. “I’ve seen you eat with that hand, among other things.”

I picked up the pot. “Well, now it’s nothing, isn’t it?” I let it drop, and it shattered on the cobblestone floor.

“You asshole!” Zalthis dropped to his knees and began scooping the salt back into a manageable pile.

“That’s ‘boss’ asshole to you, Zal,” I said, and was about to offer up a suggestion as to where he could put that salt when he rocked back on his haunches. In his hand was a small brass key.

“What the hell is this?” he asked.

I plucked the key from his grasp and said, “It’s a key, Zalthis. People use it to manipulate locks.”

“You don’t pay me enough for this,” said Zalthis, standing up. “Give it.”

“Fine, go back into the larder and look for a door in the floor. That’s most likely what it unlocks.” I pressed the key in his hand. “And you get twice as much coin as everyone else, so stop complaining and pitch in for once.”

He stomped off, muttering in what sounded like Gollic. If we didn’t really need him on occasion, I would never have bothered to pull his drunk ass out of the tavern we found him in. I hate that he’s actually saved all of us on more than once. Were he not completely lacking in ambition, I might have been worried he’d try to take over. As it was, he was afraid of Ferrah, and with good reason.

From the barn, I heard Thurl bellow, “Larcen, we’ve got a problem!”

I ran to the window and looked out. We appeared to be alone.

“Larsen!” screamed Ferrah.

The trees parted and I watched six men on horseback leisurely cantering toward the house.

“I see them!” I yelled.

“What?” they shouted in unison.

Pliff appeared in the back door. “Spiders! In the barn! Big ones!”

“Wait, what?” I said. “We’ve got riders out front!”

“What?” said Pliff.

“Oh shit! Help!” Zalthis had apparently gotten the trapdoor open and didn’t like what he saw.

I didn’t think it could get any worse. From out front, one of the riders yelled. “Hello, inside the house!”

I stayed well clear of the open window but I situated myself next to it. “Hello, yourself!” I said loudly. “What do you want?”

“Just a little hospitality,” he said. I found a slim crack in the windowsill and peered through it. He was rough-looking and wore a wide-brimmed hat, curled up on one side and held in place with a plume. “We were hoping for some water, but your well is boarded up.”

I turned around and Pliff was gone. Zalthis reappeared in the larder door, out of breath, disheveled, bleeding. “It’s okay, I fixed it.”

“What did you do?” The lead rider outside was saying something that made the others laugh.

“Spiders. Big ones. I took care of it, though.” Zalthis looked rather pleased with himself.

“What. Did. You. Do.”

“I used my hellfire on them,” he said, irritated. “What is your problem?”

I grabbed his sleeve and dragged him over to the window. He glanced outside, said “Oh, shit!” and ducked down out of sight.

“Cat-like reflexes,” I said. “So subtle.”

“There’s riders out front!”

“Okay, we’re all caught up now,” I said. “Tell me you have more hellfire on you?”

Zalthis winced.

“Do you have anything that might make short work of these clowns?”

Zalthis’ wince intensified into a legitimate squint.

“Capital.” When I said earlier that I didn’t think it could get any worse, I realized that was a mistake. Not only could it, in fact, get worse, it was about to get much worse, still. The goddess Fortuna is quite fond of showing me how wrong I could be about a wide variety of subjects. She was rather like all of the other women in my life.

“We didn’t scare you, I trust?” said the rider, loudly.

“Not at all,” I said. “We were just looking in the larder for something to offer you.”

“We can certainly barter for it,” he said. “In fact, I’ve got something to offer you that you can’t possibly turn down.”

“Do you, now?” I said. “I’ve got expensive tastes, my friend, and I don’t wish to put on any airs, but my palate is quite refined.”

“We’ve come a long way to retrieve our property,” he said. “I’d hate for you to not get something in exchange, for your trouble.”

I turned to Zalthis, who was frantically digging through his various pouches and satchels for some components he could scratch together that would be helpful. “Stay down, I’ll be right back.” To the window, I said, “Yeah, what is it?” I kept low and moved quietly to the front of the house to look out the other window by the front door.

“Show them, boys,” the rider said and there were muffled curses and a shifting of saddles. I reached the window in time to see the riders dismount and pull two people-sized bundles from their horses’ backs and drag them out front. My heart sank as the hoods came off to reveal Savorsa and Constance, bound tightly at the hands and feet. Constance’s arms were also tied to her sides, and Savorsa was gagged.

These guys weren’t idiots. They weren’t from Byle, and that could only mean they were working for Obel Dage, or worse, Delsarte. The riders were focused on the kitchen window, so I took a quick look around to see if there was anything I could use for a tactical advantage. All I spotted was a hint of movement in the trees at the edge of the clearing; more riders, likely.

I skulked back into the kitchen and took up my place at the windowsill. I looked at Zalthis and he just shook his head. Fuck. “What do you want?” I said, trying to keep my voice neutral.

“We’ll trade these two for the cargo those idiots hid in the house,” the rider said in that dismissive tone that always signals the beginning of a haggle. He swung down off his horse and dusted himself off.

“They appear to be dented and scraped,” I said. “You’ve been beating on them, and who knows what else.”

The rider bristled. “We’re  not backwater savages,” he said. He moved over Savorsa, who was being held upright by one of the men, and untied her gag. “Tell him.”

“You okay?” I said.

“We are, but Porrick and Kreegh are not,” Savorsa said. “Listen to me, Vax,” she said. “You’ve got a golden opportunity here to make everyone happy by giving everyone what they want. This deal is very close to being done. You just have to do the right thing. Do you understand me, Vax?”

“Put the gag back on,” the leader instructed. “Vax, is it?”

“Sandor Vax,” I said. “And who might you be?”

The man doffed his hat. “Dagovar Mundic, if you please.” He replaced his hat and gestured from right to left. “And these are my men: Bagger, Kemp, Lon and Von, and Red Ruby, on the end, there.”

Pirates turned road agents. What next, I thought. To Dagovar, I said, “All of it? Can’t we keep the little cask and the beer mugs? As a finder’s fee?”

Dagovar shook his head. “I’m afraid not, Vax. That there is a rare curiosity, and my boss was most insistent that we return with it.”

“But it doesn’t belong to you, or your boss,” I countered. “It should be fair game. I mean, I can see the other stuff, that makes sense, but this is just drinkware.”

Dagovar leaned forward in his saddle. “If you knew how many hoops my friends had to jump through to steal that drinkware from those yellow-skinned bastards, you wouldn’t even think of holding that out of our exchange.”

“Your associates from Farington, I presume?” I asked. At this point, I was stalling for time.

“That’s not important,” Dagovar said. He was tired of the dance. “What is important is that you hand over the cargo or we put the knife to your friends, here, and bleed them out while you watch.” The other pirates drew their swords.

“No need for that,” I replied. “We have reached an agreement.”

“Very good,” said Dagovar. “Are we coming in or will you be bringing it out?”

“Neither, I’m afraid,” I said. “If you had arrived five minutes later, you would have found no trace of us or the cargo. You see,” I continued, cutting him off, “we brought Porrick and Kreegh’s wagon with us, and we have already loaded everything onto it. You interrupted us making one final sweep of the house to make sure we’d not missed anything.”

“And where is the wagon now?” Dagovar asked.

“It’s in the barn,” I said. “All loaded up. We even fed the horses. You can simply take it with you and be on your way. We will, of course, stay in the house until you’ve left, and for a length of time thereafter, for safety reasons, you understand.”

Dagovar smiled and clapped his hands together. “Oh, Vax, this is either your lucky day, or the beginning of a long, uncomfortable evening.” He turned to his crew. “Lon, Von, check the barn. If there’s not a wagon inside, we’re going to set this hovel on fire.”

Lon and Von were the two goons holding onto Savorsa and Constance, as it turned out. They dropped their captives face down in the dirt and walked over to the barn. I noticed two things at once. With no one watching our people, Savorsa was able to reach her boot with her tied hands and free the small throwing knife she kept in the undersole. She pulled it out with two fingers and flipped it over to Constance, who grabbed it in her side-bound hand and went to work on the ropes.

The other thing I saw was that the men in the tree line were now at the edge of it, crouched low, and I resolved to kiss Savorsa the first chance I got.

Lon and Von grabbed the doors and swung them wide, peering into the darkness of the barn as they did so. Von said, “Wagon’s here. No horses, though. Wait, hold on…” He took a step into the barn and recoiled in horror, screaming. Lon dove onto Von, knocking him to the ground, away from the open doors.

The wagon came thundering out of the darkness, heading straight for the line of pirates, being pulled not by two horses, but by a giant, black and brown striped spider that was approximately the same size as the wagon. Pliff and Clork sat on the driver’s seat, barking instructions in Gob, and damned if the hell-spawn of a spider didn’t appear to be listening to their frenzied shouts.

 

 

In a masterful bit of strategy, Dagovar ordered his crew to scatter and they did. I don’t know who was screaming louder, the pirates or the horses. The spider lunged and the wagon lurched and Ruby and her horse went down under a tangle of spider legs and snapping fangs. The spider turned, slinging the wagon around, dragging it sideways through the tall grass, as the brothers Punchsack held on for dear life, hollering old goblin war cries.

Bagger and Kemp were running at full speed toward the grove of trees, where the spider and wagon could not follow, but no sooner had they reached the edge of the woods, the foliage erupted in a flurry of large, curved knives as the cultists of the Golden Goat swarmed the men and hacked them to bloody ribbons.

Savorsa and Constance were on their feet and Constance had an arm around Savorsa, helping her move into the house. She was hurt worse than she let on.

I drew my sword and went out the back door, running around the side of the house, and was pleased to find Thurl in the process of punching Lon, or maybe it was Von in the face. I couldn’t tell which one because Thurl had rendered his features into a dark, wet mess. Thurl glanced over his shoulder at me and said, as I ran by, “Ferrah’s hurt bad.”

“Hey!” I yelled, getting the other brother’s attention, as well as Dagovar, who had drawn both his rapier and a main gauche. “Let me properly introduce myself. I’m Larsen.”

The brother was flanking me and I adjusted my footwork to keep them both in front of me. Von, or maybe Lon, tried a lunge and I parried with my hilt and tried to disarm him, to no avail. He was better than he let on. Dagovar pressed his advantage and nearly found my ribs with his blade. I kept my back to the house and let them back me up against the wall.

“Nice try, but you’re out of room,” said Lon, or maybe it was Von.

Dagovar was toying with me. “I was going to kill you quickly, but now I think I’m going to take you back with us. Delsarte will be really happy to see you again.”

“That’ll be a neat trick,” I said.

“Won’t it, though?”

“I’ve got one question,” I said. “Are you going to let them tag along, too?”

Von, or maybe it was Lon, started to turn around, and I watched as his body continued to pivot, but his head stayed in place, as a red line appeared in the middle of his neck, a single stroke from a sword wielded by someone with incredible strength. The body slipped down and to the left and the head fell back and to the right, and then it no longer mattered if it was Lon or Von.

Dagovar leapt away from the carnage backed up next to me at the wall. “We’ll fight them together,” he assured me, “and suspend our hostilities for the moment.”

I stepped away from him, my sword resting on my shoulder. “What’s this ‘we’ you speak of, you scabrous dog?” I took three respectful steps away to allow the cult of the Golden Goat to get their pound of flesh. Literally.

 

***

 

Brother Sonorous, the saffron-colored bruiser in charge of the war party of cultists, was surprisingly reasonable. “We weren’t sure who we were going to murder,” he explained, as if he was recounting which pair of pants he wanted to wear that day. “Thanks for getting them to admit their malfeasance.”

“Oh, don’t give it a thought,” I said. “We’re more than happy to return your vestments to you. Some people have no respect for religious observances,” I added.

“Your generosity is noted,” he said, “and we are satisfied with this outcome.”

“As are we,” I said. “However, I am most curious to know how you came to find us in this remote location.”

Brother Sonorous smiled and said, “When we realized we weren’t the only people looking for the two thieves, we simply followed you, instead. When you didn’t kill them outright, we assumed you were after their spoils, such as what we were after. Yes?”

“You figured it out, just so, Brother Sonorous,” I said. “We were supposed to recover the beer barrel from Direwood Farms. It’s ah, an heirloom piece.”

Sonorous nodded in understanding. “We didn’t realize your people were in trouble until these reprobates showed up.” Sonorous waved his blood-soaked dagger at the bodies on the ground. “We were too late to come to the rescue of your companions, so instead we followed them out of town to this place, where we hoped we’d find our stolen sacraments.”

“Larcen?” Thurl held Ferrah in his arms. She was limp and pale and not moving. “The spiders,” he said. “They got the horses and Ferrah before we knew what was happening.”

“She’s hurt?” Brother Sonorous hurried over. “If I may…” He pulled a flask out of his robes.

“What is it?” I asked, trying not to sound worried.

“An antidote for poison,” he said. “Our faith can remove intoxication as well as bestow it.”

Thurl looked at me and I nodded. He set Ferrah down on the ground, but kept her head and shoulders elevated. Brother Sonorous uncorked the flask and held it to her lips, just a few drops. She opened her mouth wider and he poured most of the liquid down her throat. She coughed, sputtered, and then turned her head and spat out a glob of milky green goo. Her eyes opened.

“Hey, Ferrah,” said Thurl. “I was real worried about you.”

“I’m okay, I think,” she said. She put her arms around his neck and gave him a hug. “Thanks, big guy.” They all stood up, Ferrah more shakily than the other two. To me, she asked, “What’d I miss?”

“Ah, not much,” I said. “Thank you for teaching Savorsa our code. She saved our asses.”

You could probably figure it now that you know what happened. “Vax” was the indicator that what came next would have a double meaning. By emphasizing different words, she was able to tell me that the yellow cultists were nearby and if I could get them to attack the road agents and well, you know the rest.”

Pliff and Clork appeared, like they do sometimes, and clung to Ferrah like weird children. “I’m good, you two,” she said.

“It was your own fault, you know,” said Clork.

“Don’t ever kill spiders,” said Pliff. “They take it personal.”

“You’re both such a comfort to me,” she said.

“We know,” said Clork.

Brother Sonorous cleared his throat and said, “Larsen? The vestments?”

“Certainly,” I said. “Pliff, Clork, do you think you can get the barrel with the cask and the steins and bring it to Brother Sonorous?”

They stared at me like I had finally lost my mind. “What?”

“It belongs to Brother Sonorous, here, and we wouldn’t dream of keeping something that didn’t belong to us.” I gave him a look I normally reserved for Ferrah; one part flared nostrils, two parts mental telepathy. It’s a classic “Read between the lines” face, but it was lost on the goblin brothers. Chalk it up to cultural differences, I guess.

Pliff and Clork both started talking at once, but Ferrah said something to them in their own language and they instantly shut up. They ran out to wagon, now a pile of snapped wooden planks and broken wheels and teased out the keg, rolling it back over to us with a spring in their step. They stood the container upright and presented it to the cultist with a flourish. He opened up the barrel and clapped his hands together. “Most fortuitous!”

The giant spider was wandering around, out in the open, with one of Red Ruby’s arms stuck in its scimitar-sized mandibles. It made its way back to the barn, whereupon it closed first one door and then the other, and that was the end of that.

“That was…deeply unsettling,” I said.

Ferrah did that “Tchff” noise she makes when she’s about to call me stupid. “Yeah? Try looking up to find that thing coming down from the rafters right on top of you.”

“We must be returning to our cloister,” Brother Sonorous said. “Shall we share the road?”

“All the way back to Byle,” I said. “We’ve still got business in town.”

Sonorous directed the other cultists to gather up the horses that weren’t crippled or killed in the skirmish. We had just enough for everyone to ride, with Pliff and Clork riding behind Ferrah and Constance. Clork was in heaven, resting his head on Constance’s back, eyes closed, a smile on his lips, like he was sleeping through a particularly nice dream. They’re almost cute when they’re quiet.

We also divvied up the courier’s loot between us, for easier carrying. While rooting through the remnants of the wagon, we discovered why there were no coins in the empty Direwood smuggling barrel, and we also discovered the source of the couriers’ beer money; the wagon had a false floorboard, and Porrick and Kreegh had stashed all the money in there and were using it to fund their hard-riding lifestyle. It was a lot of silver, but not so much that we felt the need to add it to our war chest. I doled it out to everyone and cut Brother Sonorous in for a share. Call it an offering to Barcciss the Reveler.

 

________________________________________

Mark Finn is an author, editor, game designer and pop culture critic. He is a nationally recognized authority on Robert E. Howard and has written extensively about the Texas author. His writing can be found in various books, anthologies, comics, and elsewhere. When he’s not waxing passionate about popular culture or Robert E. Howard, Finn writes stories, publishes RPG zines, and sporadically appears on various podcasts.  He lives in North Texas over a historic movie theater with his wife and an embarrassing excess of books.

 

Simon Walpole has been drawing for as long as he can remember and is fortunate to spend his freetime working as an illustrator. He primarily use pencils, pens and markers and use a bit of digital for tweaking. As well as doing interior illustrations for various publishing formats he has also drawn a lot of maps for novels. his work can be found at his website HandDrawnHeroes.