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Chapter Fifty-One (TIBK)
🕑 Added 2025-08-10 11:18:30 +0000 UTCThe predawn cold cut through Eirik's borrowed jerkin. He huddled with the rest of Team Seven – Seventy-Two, Seventy-Three, Seventy-Four, and Seventy-Five – near the stables outside Frostholme's main gate.
Mistress Isobel Vance's salt caravan was busy. Wagons creaked as drivers checked harnesses. Nervous guards, paid a premium for this suicide run, fumbled with spear hafts. The air was thick with fear and horse sweat.
Olaf finished barking orders to the other teams, assigning them to Bjorn and Harkin for training. Then his gaze fell on Team Seven.
"You lot! Follow Helga. Move yer skinny arses!"
Helga jerked her head towards the tavern's back door. Team Seven stumbled after her, Seventy-Two muttering about "scarecrows" under his breath.
Outside, the mountain air was a welcome shock after the tavern's stale warmth and desperation. Frostholme huddled beneath them, grey.
Helga led them down narrow alleys, away from the main gates. She stopped beside a stable tucked behind a chandler's shop. Inside, five mountain ponies stood saddled and ready, breath pluming in the cold air. Packhorses laden with covered bundles waited nearby. Olaf appeared moments later, leading his warhorse.
"Mount up," Olaf swung into his saddle. "We ain't got all day."
Eirik moved to the most unassuming pony – a brown gelding. He checked the girth strap, ensuring it was tight. Standard tack. Good. Unremarkable. He hauled himself into the saddle with awkwardness.
"Listen sharp, maggots," Olaf gestured towards the covered bundles. "We ain't the main event. We're the scouts. Eyes and ears. Outriders for Mistress Vance's salt wagons."
Seventy-Four paled. "Skarl territory? Sir? Ain't that...?"
"Suicide?" Olaf finished with a grim chuckle. "Could be. That's why she pays so well. But our job ain't to fight a war band. Our job is to see trouble comin' before it hits the wagons."
He fixed each of them with a stare, lingering on 'Errol’.
"We ride ahead. We find the high ground. We watch the trails. If we see Skarl scouts – and we will – we don't engage. We turn tail and ride back to warn the convoy. Clear?"
Seventy-Two sneered. "Run? That's the grand plan? Sounds cowardly.”
"Cowardly? Tryin' to fight two hundred Skarl horse-archers with five scouts is stupid, boy. Dead stupid."
Olaf's hand shot out, grabbing Seventy-Two by the jerkin and hauling him halfway out of his saddle.
"Yer job is to see 'em, yell the warning, and run. Do that right, and you live to spend yer ten talons. Do it wrong..." He shoved Seventy-Two back into his saddle. "...and yer mother mourns. Got it?"
Seventy-Two found his bravado replaced by sullen silence. "Aye, sir."
"Good." Olaf turned his horse. "Helga, take point. You two," he jabbed a finger at Seventy-Four and Seventy-Five, "flank the packhorses. Scarecrow," his gaze landed on Errol, full of practiced contempt, "you stick with Helga. Try not to fall off. Seventy-Two, Seventy-Three, ride drag. Watch our backsides. Move out!"
Helga nudged her horse forward without a word.
Eirik fell in beside her as they left the stable yard, heading not for the main southern road, but a narrower track winding upwards into the pine-clad foothills behind Frostholme. The sun was a cold smear behind thick clouds.
The climb was steep.
The ponies huffed as snow crunched beneath their hooves. Eirik kept his senses dialed high. His eyes scanned the terrain – the dense stands of trees offering perfect cover.
This is where they'll watch.
Helga rode with the quiet intensity of a hunter. Seventy-Four and Seventy-Five looked tense and jumpy at every cracking branch. Olaf maintained position just ahead of the packhorses.
Hours crawled by.
They stopped at midday by a frozen spring to water the horses and gnaw on hardtack and dried venison. Eirik kept to himself, leaning against a frost-slicked boulder.
"See anythin', Scarecrow?" Seventy-Two mocked, tearing off a chunk of venison. "Or ye too busy shiverin'?"
Eirik kept his gaze on the distant ridge line. He didn't need to see far yet. He needed to think like a Skarl scout commander. Where would I place watchers if I was them?
Olaf snorted. "Leave the lad be, Seventy-Two. He's keepin' his mouth shut. Unlike some."
After the short rest, they pushed on. The pines grew thicker. The track began to descend towards a broader valley ahead. Visibility decreased.
The wagons should be nearing the main road junction below. Eirik felt the familiar calm before action settle over him.
Helga raised a clenched fist. The group halted. She pointed towards a rocky knoll overlooking the valley mouth where their track met the wider Pine Run Road.
"Olaf. That knoll. Commanding view of the road junction and the approaches."
Olaf squinted.
"Aye. Exposed, though. Long climb." He glanced at the nervous recruits. "Scarecrow, Seventy-Two, Seventy-Three. With me. Helga, take Four and Five, secure the horses in that gully near the base.”
He pointed to a deep, snow-filled depression hidden by scrub pines.
"Keep 'em quiet."
Helga nodded. "Understood. Move quickly. We're exposed here."
Smart. Olaf picks the potential fighters for the risky climb. Seventy-Two might be useful with a task. Helga guards the escape route.
Eirik dismounted, handing his pony's reins to Seventy-Five. He adjusted the bow strapped to his back, making sure it wouldn't snag.
The climb to the rocky knoll was steep. Olaf led, moving with surprising agility. Seventy-Three followed. Seventy-Two scrambled behind him. Eirik lagged behind.
They reached the summit. The view was breathtaking.
Below, the Pine Run Road snaked through the wide valley floor. To the east, it curved towards Frostholme. To the west, it vanished into rugged foothills leading towards the Skarl-infested passes.
Below their position, the smaller track they'd been on joined the main road. And rounding a bend from the Frostholme direction, Eirik could make out the shapes of wagons – Mistress Vance's salt convoy.
Right on schedule.
Olaf gestured for them to drop low behind the cover of wind-scoured rocks crowning the knoll. He pulled an ice-shaped telescope from his saddlebag. Seventy-Two and Seventy-Three peered over the rocks, eyes wide. Eirik crouched beside Seventy-Three, mimicking his tense posture.
"Wagons," Olaf muttered. "Four heavy-laden. Look like salt barrels under the tarps. Small guard… maybe twenty men? See the gaudy one? Must be Mistress Vance herself." He let out a low chuckle. "Looks like she pissed herself in fright just ridin' out the gate. Good."
Eirik scanned the surroundings without optics, relying on his sharpened senses. Where are the Skarl watchers? They'll be here. They have to be.
He looked north and west, across the valley. Opposite slopes. Higher ridges overlooking the road. Potential ambush draws where gullies spilled onto the valley floor.
Minutes ticked by. The wagons lumbered closer to the junction. The small guard fanned out, looking alert but exposed.
Then Eirik saw it.
A flicker. High on a distant ridge to the northwest, lost against the snow-dusted pines. Not a bird. A reflection? Sunlight glancing off polished horn? Or… a helmed head turning?
There.
He didn't point. He kept his breathing even. But his entire focus locked onto that point.
"Anything?" Seventy-Two hissed.
"Patience, maggot," Olaf growled, still scanning the convoy below.
Eirik shifted, angling his body to get a better view without appearing to look. He swept his gaze from the point where he'd seen the flicker.
Another flicker, lower down the slope this time. Near the mouth of a shadowed gully that fed onto the valley floor a quarter-mile ahead of the approaching wagons.
Movement. Multiple figures, low to the ground, merging with the terrain.
His pulse remained steady. This is the dance. He had to be sure.
He risked a glance at Olaf. The big man was scanning, but his scope was aimed too low, focused on the wagons and the immediate road.
Need him to see them too.
He nudged a loose pebble with his boot. It skittered down a few inches.
Olaf didn't look up. Seventy-Three glanced over, frowning.
Not enough. Eirik let out a soft, shaky breath, loud enough for Olaf to hear. He hunched his shoulders, radiating nervous tension.
Olaf lowered his telescope a fraction, casting a glance at the "scarecrow" trembling beside him.
"Hold yer water, Seventy-Six. Ain't seen nothin' yet." But his gaze followed Eirik's line of sight – towards the northwest ridge.
Eirik held his breath.
Olaf stiffened. His telescope snapped up to his eye again, trained where Eirik had been looking. He adjusted the focus. Seconds stretched.
Seventy-Three nudged Eirik. "What is it? See something?"
Before Eirik could mumble a denial, Olaf let out a low, sharp hiss. "Frost's balls..."
He lowered the glass. His weathered face was grim, devoid of any trace of his earlier bluster. He looked at Eirik, then at Seventy-Two and Seventy-Three. There was no mockery now. Only reality.
"Riders. Skarl scouts. Three… four of 'em. Mounted. High ridge, northwest. Watchin' the wagons."
Fear washed over Seventy-Three's face. Seventy-Two's hand flew to his sword hilt. "Where?!"
"Stay down, fool!" Olaf snapped, shoving Seventy-Two lower. He scanned again, faster now. "And… there! Lower down. Near that gully mouth ahead of the wagons. More of 'em. On foot. Maybe five. Assessin'."
His jaw clenched. "They're settin' the trap. The main band'll be close. Lurkin' in the gullies or behind the next ridge." He looked down at the lumbering wagons, oblivious to the eyes tracking them. "They'll hit 'em hard once they're in the kill zone. When they pass that bend."
He lowered the telescope. His eyes met Eirik's. For a moment, there was no Lieutenant, no recruit. Just two soldiers assessing odds. Olaf gave a tiny nod. He saw. He knows.
Time snapped into focus. The plan crystallized.
Olaf surged to his feet, knocking loose some scree. "UP! NOW! SKARLS!" His roar shattered the silence. "HORSE AND FOOT! THEY'RE READY TO SPRING! MOVE!"
Seventy-Three scrambled up. Seventy-Two yelped, fumbling with his spear.
Pure reflex overlaid with calculated panic. Eirik shoved Seventy-Three towards the descent path.
"GO! GO! RUN!" He stumbled, falling against Seventy-Two, sending them both sprawling.
He saw others fumbling their weapons against the rocks. "LEAVE IT! RUN!" He screamed the words, looking back towards the ridge where they'd "spotted" the scouts. He didn't need to fake the adrenaline flooding his system; the game was afoot.
"FROST TAKE IT, RUN!" Olaf bellowed, already plunging down the treacherous slope, kicking loose rocks, making a racket. "TO THE HORSES! WARN THE WAGONS!”
He vanished behind a boulder.
Eirik scrambled after him, slipping, sliding, clumsy. Seventy-Two and Seventy-Three followed.
They half-fell, half-slid down the last steep incline, crashing into the snow-filled gully where Helga was untying horses. The packhorses snorted and stamped in the confined space.
"SKARLS!" Olaf roared, skidding to a halt near his warhorse. "Scouts on the ridge! More in the gully ahead! They're setting up! Wagons are walking into it!" He hauled himself into the saddle in one fluid motion. "MOUNT UP! BACK TO THE WAGONS! WARN THEM! NOW!"
He wheeled his horse and spurring it towards the trail back down to the road junction, kicking up snow.
Helga vaulted onto her horse, face grim. "Move, you fools! MOUNT!" She was turning her horse after Olaf.
Seventy-Four and Seventy-Five looked terrified, fumbling with their reins. Seventy-Three managed to get astride his pony. Seventy-Two scrambled onto his, eyes wild.
Eirik made a show of struggling to mount the skittish brown gelding. He grabbed the saddle horn, put a foot in the stirrup, and slipped, falling into the snow. Make sure the Skarls see the chaos. He scrambled up, spitting snow, making a pathetic sound.
"SEVENTY-SIX! GET UP!" Helga screamed, already halfway down the gully after Olaf.
He hauled himself onto the pony, kicking it into a frantic, stumbling gallop. He glanced back over his shoulder as he urged the horse after the others. High on the distant ridge, he saw it – not a flicker, but a distinct, dark silhouette against the snow, watching their noisy flight.
Got you. Now see the scared scouts run. See the wagons ripe for the taking. Send the signal to your chief.
They thundered down the trail, Olaf and Helga in the lead, the recruits pounding behind. The junction with the Pine Run Road appeared below. The lead salt wagon was passing the junction point.
Olaf didn't slow. He rode straight for the dressed figure of 'Mistress Vance' sitting on the lead wagon's driver's seat beside Leif.
"AMBUSH!" Olaf bellowed, his voice raw and carrying. "SKARL SCOUTS! ON THE RIDGES! THEY'RE MOVING! THEY'RE COMING!" He pointed back the way they'd come. "TWO HUNDRED HORSE! ARMED FOR BEAR! THEY'LL BE ON US BEFORE WE CLEAR THE BEND!"
Panic erupted. The small guard – a mix of Talon veterans and local hired swords – froze for a split second, then snapped into terrified motion. Shouts erupted.
"Skarls!" "Ambush!" "Frost save us!"
"FORM UP! SHIELDS!" roared the Talon sergeant in charge of the guard detail. But the fear was palpable.
Isolde clutched her chest. "My salt! My investment! You must protect it!" Her voice was high-pitched.
"Protect it?" Olaf bellowed with fury. "Against two hundred? We'll be mincemeat! Bugger yer salt, lady! RUN! ABANDON THE WAGONS! SAVE YOURSELVES!" He wheeled his horse again. "TALONS! FALL BACK! TO FROSTHOLME! NOW!"
He didn't wait. He spurred his horse back towards Frostholme at a gallop. Helga followed. The Talon veterans, drilled in the plan, didn't hesitate. They broke formation, abandoning their positions near the wagons, turning their horses and fleeing after Olaf. The panic was infectious.
"Run! RUN!" screamed one of the hired guards, breaking ranks.
The dam burst. The 'small guard' dissolved into chaos. Men scrambled onto horses, some abandoning their spears. Wagons were left standing. Isolde shrieked as Leif grabbed her arm and hauled her down from the wagon seat. They stumbled into the snow, then scrambled onto two spare horses tethered nearby, joining the ragged, terrified flight back towards Frostholme.
Eirik, lagging behind on his pony, watched the orchestrated rout unfold.
