Chapter Eight
“What’s in the wagon?” asked the bandit.
Ward was still seated, the blankets beside him pulled as close as he could get them without revealing Saffi’s huddled form beneath. From the bandit’s low view, he couldn’t see Saffi at all. “Baked goods. Why? Didn’t you get your tax from the men up front?”
“We did,” said the dirty, foul smelling man. The bandits had appeared from the Steel Plains like predators, and the few on horseback rode down to inform the caravan that they were being robbed. However, they didn’t stop with just the robber’s tax, and were now investigating what each merchant was hauling. “Rumor has it there might be something valuable hiding here somewhere.”
The scrawny bandit stared up at Ward suspiciously. His eyes were two different colors, one blue and the other brown, and he had a feeble beard that didn’t grow well on his cheeks, like that of a teenager trying to look the part of a man. He had dark bags beneath his eyes, and a sickly demeanor worsened by the way his cheek twitched.
“All you’re going to find here’s a bunch of bread and grain. If you want a few loaves, I’d be happy to get them for you.”
“Never seen a baker traveling with loaves of bread,” said the bandit as he eyed the contents of the small wagon. “Grain I get, but bread? That don’t make sense. Not worth the trip to sell a few loaves.”
“We’re…” Ward corrected himself, “I’m thinking of moving. Sick and tired of New Carrington. The aristocracy’s got their talons in deep there. Know what I mean?”
The bandit grunted in agreement, but seemed otherwise unaffected by Ward’s attempt to find common ground. He pointed at the back of the wagon with his dagger and said, “I’m going to take a lookie-see back there. You got any problems with that?”
“Nope,” said Ward. Then, when he thought the bandit was out of earshot, he whispered, “Stay down,” to his daughter.
“You say something?” asked the bandit from the rear of the wagon.
“Not a thing,” said Ward as he stood up and turned to face the rear of the uncovered wagon, cautiously balancing himself on the teetering bench. He’d packed up baskets filled with bread, a few cases of pies, and several sacks of flour. Hidden beneath all of that, close to the front of the wagon, was Ward’s sword and armor. “As you can see, there’s just a bunch of bread in here.” He reached into one of the baskets and pulled out a roll that he threw to the bandit. The man was still on the ground, behind the wagon, and tried to use his dagger to stab the roll in mid-air. He missed, and the roll fell to the dusty road. The robber pierced the bread and lifted it. He pinched the roll and said, “This’ll be stale before you get anywhere.”
“Then you take it,” said Ward. “Enjoy.”
The bandit gripped the rear plank of the wagon and pulled himself up. Ward grimaced, unhappy that the man wasn’t yet convinced there was nothing of value here.
“What are you looking for?” asked Ward. “Like I said, there’s just a bunch of bread and grain in here.”
“Sit yourself down and don’t worry, fat man,” said the bandit as he began to search the bags and baskets in the back of the wagon.
The sacks of grain were too heavy for the little man to move despite how hard he tried. Ward said, “That’s just barley. And the one next to it is wheat flour.”
The bandit glared at Ward, angry that the baker hadn’t sat down like he’d asked. “We’ll see about that,” said the man before stabbing his blade deep into the burlap sack and then ripping it to the side, opening a deep wound that caused barley to cascade out onto the bottom of the wagon where it then slipped through the slats to the ground beneath. The bandit smirked as he said, “Guess you weren’t lying about that one.”
“You just cost me three pel, you little snake.”
“And I’ll cost you a hell of a lot more if you don’t sit down like I told you to.”
Ward grumbled and did as he was told. He set his arm over the back of his daughter as if she were merely a lump of blankets. The bandit was getting close to the armor, and Ward knew there would be more questions when he found it.
Ward heard the sound of the Northland Marauder’s foot kicking the hard metal breastplate hidden inside one of the sacks. “What’s this?” asked the man as he pulled aside a basket of bread to get to the hidden sack beneath. “You’ve got armor in here? Oh, look at this. What’s the deal, old man? You got something you need to tell me?” The man didn’t wait for Ward to reply, and instead yelled out, “Hey Pitt, check out what we’ve got here.”
One of the leaders of the Northland Marauders was riding a steed alongside the caravan, and slowed right beside the baker’s wagon. Ward turned so that he was facing the large, bearded man, and he used his girth to hide the lump of blankets that hid his daughter.
Pit didn’t look at the bandit in the back of the wagon, but instead kept his cold eyes locked on Ward. This was a fierce looking man, certainly a veteran of the plains, with scars on the parts of his face not hidden by hair or whiskers. He had a long, thick black beard streaked with white, and wore a soldier’s breastplate with a fauld of three lames over his abdomen that had been split in half and connected with leather to accommodate his girth.
“I used to be a Sword,” said Ward, maintaining eye contact with the leader of the bandits. “Like I told your boy here, I was thinking of moving away from New Carrington and figured I’d bring my armor along. I use it as decoration in my…”
The bandit in the wagon whistled in appreciation as he pulled the resplendent armor from its sack. “Would you look at this, Pitt? This isn’t no First-Sword, no sir. We’ve got ourselves a kingmaker here.” He pinged the armor with his knuckle before hoisting it up. The breastplate was heavy, and the weak bandit had to rest it on the edge of the wagon for his leader to see. “It’s got copper in it,” said the bandit. “Look at that!”
The breastplate was unique to Sixth-Swords, and commissioned at great cost to Ward’s family. All Swords wore armor with decoration befitting their station. Ward’s armor was inlayed with copper accents, and had been kept meticulously polished despite him not wearing it to battle for more than a decade. He’d also been taking it in for fittings to a local smith, which became increasingly necessary as Ward’s years in the bakery took a toll on his waistline.
“There’s more too,” said the bandit from the back of the wagon. “He’s got greaves, and gauntlets, and a sword. Look at this.”
“Leave it be,” said Ward, incensed by the little man’s theft.
Pitt was quick to react, dropping the reins of his steed and drawing his sword. He wielded the bastard sword one handed as if it were a mere dinner blade, and held it out across the gap between them. Ward eased, but the horseback brigand kept the sword where it was, the edge threateningly close.
The bandit in the back removed Ward’s sword from its fur-trimmed sheath. He sounded disappointed as he said, “Doesn’t look like anything special. Hell, it’s got a fair bit of wear and tear on it. I probably wouldn’t even scavenge it from a dead guy if I found it. Why’s it so special to you, fat man?”
Ward said, “It’s old. It’s been with me for a long time.”
Pitt was still holding his sword out, and glanced down at it before pivoting the blade so that Ward could appreciate the nicks and scratches along its side. Then the big man nodded before sheathing his bastard sword.
“What do you think about all this, Pitt?” asked the bandit. “You believe him? I don’t see anything else here but bread and grain, like he said. You figure he’s just a baker?”
Pitt wasn’t interested in what his subordinate was saying, and continued to look at Ward. When the hefty man spoke, his voice was surprisingly soft. “What’re you guarding, Sixth-Sword?”
“Sixth-Sword?” asked the younger, inexperienced bandit in the back of the wagon. “Is that what this guy is?”
Ward and Pitt locked eyes and the baker said, “I’m not guarding anything. Like you can see, there’s just a bunch of bread back ther
e. Except for my armor and sword, which I keep for sentimental reasons.”
“No,” said Pitt. “I meant what’re you hiding there, behind you.” He pointed past Ward, at the blankets on the seat. “No Sixth-Sword would sit in reach of a blade broadside without a shield or a weapon.”
Ward nodded and said, “It’s been a lot of years since I got in a fight. You forget things like that…”
Pitt didn’t believe him. “What’s under the blankets?”
The bandit in the back of the wagon took sudden interest, leaned forward, and then screamed out, “It’s moving!” The bandit was frightened by the discovery.
Ward turned and flung his arms out over his daughter before pressing his body against her. He shielded her from the bandit, fearing the little man might stab down into blankets. “It’s my daughter. It’s just my daughter.”
“Get away,” said the man with the dagger in the back of the wagon.
Ward stayed where he was and said, “Leave her be. You don’t need her.”
“We’ll be the judge of that.” The bandit set his dagger against the side of Ward’s neck. “Now back off.”
Ward stayed where he was, protecting his daughter as the bandit shouted commands. Saffi began to move, and she said, “Dad, it’s okay. Let me up.”
Ward finally relented, and sat up so that his daughter could reveal herself. His neck had suffered a slight cut from the bandit’s dagger, and he could feel the hot blood coursing down across his chest. The altercation got the attention of the other Marauder on horseback, and the man named Hammer came over to see what was happening. He stopped his horse on the other side of the wagon, beside Saffi as the young girl took off the blankets that she’d been hiding beneath.
“She’s a ripe one,” said the bandit with the dagger.
“Tye, move on,” said Hammer. “Go search the next merchant and leave this to us.”
The younger bandit mumbled in frustration, but did as he was told. Hammer brought his horse closer to the wagon so that he could inspect the girl.
“You’re no child,” said Hammer. “How old are you? Sixteen, seventeen?”
“Eighteen,” said Saffi.
Ward was disturbed by the bandit’s interest in his daughter. “If it’s women you want, I’ll pay for you to buy as many whores as you can bed in a night. I’ve got the pel.” He reached into his tunic for the bag of gold that the stranger had left him.
“Pitt, take the man’s pel,” said Hammer.
Pitt reached out with an upturned palm, and Ward dropped the pouch into it.
“We’ll take your money,” said Hammer, “but we’re taking you along with it.”
“What? Why?” asked Ward.
“The amount of pel we’ve been offered to let this caravan pass is more than we’ve seen in a year of collecting taxes.” Hammer’s steed brayed and stomped as the big man smiled over at Saffi and Ward. He continued after the animal calmed, “We thought there was something worth stealing in one of these carts, but now I’m getting the impression there’s something else going on.”
“He’s a Sixth-Sword,” said Pitt.
Hammer nodded and grinned as he looked quizzically at Saffi. “Then that settles it. Seems like it’s not merchandise they’re paying to protect, but this little lady.”
“That’s not the case,” said Ward. “She’s just my daughter.”
“Not likely,” said Hammer. My guess is she’s an aristocrat, or someone else of importance. Isn’t that right?”
Saffi responded honestly, “I’m an Apprentice-Baker. If you’re looking for someone to bake you a cake, then I’m your girl. Otherwise, I’m not going to be much use to you.”
“Oh, I’m sure we’ll find a use for you, little one. Don’t you worry about that.”