Hope you're still with me, readers! I would have worked on and updated this sooner, but I've been working overtime the entire week! In the previous chapter, Bretonnian Knight Tobie Jacquard was captured and robbed of his belongings by a northling warband of a Slaanesh worshippers before he was fortunately rescued by hooded assailants who raided the camp of the chaos invaders, and was once again knocked unconscious and dragged these warriors did not seem terribly hostile... Chapitere 3 – Hidden Fortress
The stag grazed under the dying leaves of the forest, a few good paces from his heard. His torso rested between the crosshairs of the man who held it. The latter's face was dashed with the ashes of burnt cork to conceal the shine of oil and sweat, a hood hanging over his brow, twigs of pine needles fitted into his field clothing.
The stag's horned head darted up a burst of crows escaped from the trees, his ears twitching several times afterward. To the hidden hunter, he knew he may not get a better shot than this. He squeezed the iron lever of the crossbow, and the bolt was slung at a great velocity, finding its mark in the deer's grey neck, sending it toppling on its side.
Swen Klammen rose slowly, resting his crossbow over his shoulder as he surveyed his work. The imperial mercenary stepped over the cluster of branches that perched on the knee high ledge that hid him from view. His feet crunched the twigs scattered about the patch of woodland, lifting the hood off of the burgundy colored hair atop his head, once a pefectly even bowl cut, now shaggy and uneven after months of negligence. The tall mercenary rubbed his full beard with the black leather hunting gloves as he approached the prey.
He was startled as the deer rose to its feet quickly, wheezing as it made a break for it. Luckily it was disoriented and did not head for the herd. "Ah shit." He cursed in his native reikspiel tongue. He hastily loped toward the deer in the uneven forest ground, juggling the onset of the tracking process and reloading the crossbow. It was not long before he lagged behind the herbivorous beast.
The blood was easily visible on the naked dirt between the patches of leaves and sticks, and he followed it quickly. The deer was torn between two paths, the shock of his wound confusing him as he darted in between two trees. Creeping toward the bewildered beast, he placed the stock of the crossbow into his shoulder, and fired a second bolt. This one hitting in the hip of one of his hind legs and inducing another plunge to the forest floor.
The stag twitched softly, and Swen crept close, reaching for his stiletto in anticipation of the very real possibility that he'd have to finish it off up close. Upon further examination, it was very clear that the deer had lost too much blood, and was in the latter half of its final throes.
He then reached for his fowling whistle, pressing it toward his lips and puffing to signal his comrades.
Swen rode along side another man, Simon von Gruppen, who's mule had much of his left side festooned with freshly slain hares. "That could very well be your cleanest kill, Sweeny." Von Gruppen chuckled, turning his mohawked head and smirking his mustached face at his comrade. "At this rate you'll make an apprentice rate tracker in yay, about... fifty years?"
"Longer if we're lucky." Swen replied, his tongue firmly planted in his cheek. "How long until these damn daggies let us bring the powder and shot on the hunt? Getting a mite weary of borrowing Weinbacher's crook-shot arbalist."
Von Gruppen sighed at the insolence of the statement. "The wood elves generously allow us to share camp and earn fair keep, and you wanna break out the handguns. Classic Sweeny."
"The broadlobes are doing right by me, Simon, don't get me wrong." He rubbed the back of his neck as he felt the air cool. They were approaching the bayou to the north, and across the makeshift bridge onto a small island, rest the wood elf holdout. "I just wish we were permitted to fight and hunt in our element."
"Fighting is what you're good at doing, yes." Von Gruppen leaned over the side of his mount and spat into wet grass. "We've talked about your skill at hunting."
"Javol. The career as the Emperor's deerslayer may have to wait." Swen agreed at the demurral of his own ego. He reined the horse, prompting the steed to slow as it approached the water. The wooden bridge was shallowly submerged into the slow moving bayou water was made from light, but sturdy wood. Well hidden, and marked with two unremarkable overturned stones, he crossed the length of it, his comrade following suit.
They reached the end, a small staggered column of broadhead arrows cropping out of the most unassuming places, their wielders well hidden in the brush. "Rekeldair!" One of them piped.
"Farcrudammars!" Swen Klammen replied, his voice damp with irritability and disinterest. Simon supressed the urge to slap his own face as his comrade butchered the countersign password. He was interrupted before he corrected him.
"Whatever, whatever. Just get in here." An annoyed voice of a waywatcher moaned, the others relaxing the strings of their finely crafted composite bows. "Squalid lumberfoots."
"That's us, alright." Simon jested as they rode in. The holdout seemed to be partially hidden from itself, as the fore of the encampment was festooned with wood elves and their heavily camoflauged tents and bedrolls. Some even slept along the bulkier arms of the trees.
"Morning, Keolanda." Klammen saluted with two fingers along the brow from atop his horse as he greeted the leader of the encampment, a Shadowdancer.
"We'll speak later, Reiklander." The long auburn haired she-elf replied as she turned from speaking to a squad of glade guards. They continued to canter slowly toward the rear end of the scantly defended hold, where the non-elven, or sick and wounded occupants quartered.
"How many times do I have to tell everybody that I'm from Stirland?" Swen chuckled, as it seemed very few not native or frequent to the Empire would not notice the Stirlander drawl.
"Sometimes even I forget that that province exists." Von Gruppen, who hailed from Marienburg, removed his gloves as he prepared to dismount.
"Me too, as a matter of fact." He chortled as he approached the spot where he usually hitched his horse. "Zounds. Now that's just sad."
"Not as sad as you forgetting to clean up your horses' shit, Sweeny, you turnip brained prick!" A hearty, feminine voice bellowed. That of "Cutmug" Claudia Weinbacher, the company halbardier, who emerged from behind a tent, an iron bowl of venison and sauerkraut held in her hands.
Swen shook his head and chuckled as he dismounted. "Well, did you clean it up, Cutty?"
"Nein. Left that to one of the local peasant girls who string around here." She chuckled, her heavily scarred, square jawed face occupied half with a smile, and mostly chewing the food in her camping bowl.
"Atta girl. Leave any for us?" Von Gruppen inquired as he dusted off his hands, even though they were previously gloved and in minimal squall.
"Javol. Help yourself. Save some for the refugees though." She swallowed a tuft of sauerkraut immediately afterward.
"By the by, is Mouse here?" Swen began to untie the jute rope that held the deer on the rear hump of his steed.
"Umm..." Claudia blinked. "Fairly certain you would have seen him, Sweeny."
"Yeah, he IS pretty hard to miss." The Stirlander made a hardy grunt as he lifted the vanquished deer over his shoulder. "Wow, what the fuck are these things eating? I don't recall the ones in the Empire being this corpulent."
"Probably because you're getting old, Sweeny." Von Gruppen patted him on his free shoulder, and juked past him to retrieve the slain rabbits off of his mule. "Or more likely, the deer ARE bigger. It's one of numerous reasons why Bretonnians have a hard time suffering from famine."
"Yeah, that might change." Sweeny shook his head.
"Hey, they dragged in another local today." Claudia tilted her head to the direction of the medical tent.
"Whoopty-shit, Cutty."
"Nein, Sweeny. I heard the lad talk to himself as they lugged him in, naked and feverish. The way he spoke, he had to have been a noble."
Swen turned around to Claudia mid-stride, looking at her for a second before turning his head to Von Gruppen, who had a look of equal surprise.
"You or anybody else hear or mention his name?" Von Gruppen inquired.
"Not that I know of. Like I said, he was without any belongings. It's not like he had any tattoos like we do. Lovely cock, though." She chuckled.
"You think all cocks are lovely, Cutty." Swen shook his head. "You wanna see to it, Simon?"
"I will." Von Gruppen replied, hands on his hips as he looked toward the blemished camp ground. "Cutty, finish eating and help get the game to the block and help Sweeny dress them for the butcher."
"Javol. We gotta find out what's going on with Mouse eventually, too." The halberdier replied, scratching her platinum blonde braided hair.
"Yeah, he's been gone since yesterday afternoon." Von Gruppen cleared his throat and spat on the ground. "We'll find him. Toughest son of a bitch in the company." The Marienburger then made a beeline for the tent, dodging a couple of peasant refugees who were hauling small bundles of firewood to the center.
The medical tent was surprisingly quiet, as it was usually filled with moans and screams of the wounded, as well as the violent functions of those stricken with dysentery. A wood elfen healer, kind enough to volunteer to assist humans in their state of malaise, stepped near Von Gruppen, stopping her before she became too preoccupied.
"Pardon, Die Frau. I was told you brought a Bretonnian here?" He asked. The she-elf cocked her head in confusion. Simon cleared his throat, and repeated the sentence in Bretonnian instead.
"Oh, him?" The healer nodded. "He was found in a camp, wounded, but in stable condition. The raiding party that found him in a northerner camp. Said he and a northling woman were in a state of undress and were sharing a tent together." She beckoned him to follow past a line of stretchers. "They thought about killing him as a suspected warrior of chaos, but they heard him muttering in Bretonnian. Some intimate things."
"What did he say? Did you get a name?"
"I don't know. They did not go into detail, and I did not have time to let his wounds fester." She replied, pointing at the direction of a man on his back. He had a small blanket over his lap and he lay there on the cot, sleeping possibly with a mildly unpleasant dream due to the look on his face. Atop his scalp was a Bretonnian undercut, an extremely common hairstyle for local knights.
"May I speak to him?" Von Gruppen replied.
"I suppose. But don't agitate him." The healer replied, turning to resume her duties.
Von Gruppen went to the side of the cot and squatted down. "Excuse me." He said in Bretonnian. "Ser. Ser?" He tapped him lightly, the knight wordlessly twitching in a heavy startle before looking toward him.
Von Gruppen cleared his throat. "Good knight, may I ask your name?"
"Jacquard..." He sighed, turning his head and closing his eyes. "Tobie Jacquard. Ah... Vassal of the Duke Basillone of Quenelles, and sworn sword of Viscount Aymeric of the Bochniniere Hinterland..." He coughed.
Von Gruppen looked to the side, his eye twitching. He looked back toward him. "Ser Tobie, my name is Lieutenant Simon von Gruppen, of the Bloom Eagle Company. About a month ago, our captain received a letter of credit from you, worth 2,000 Bretonnian Ecus to the Bank of Marienburg, if I met with you. The letter contained the seal of the house of your Viscount."
Jacquard turned his head to look at him. "Y-yes. I did." He nodded. "We have a fair bit to talk about, Lieutenant."