Chapter 6
Thanks to Chauncey’s efforts, Alveric von Strom now finds himself standing at the head of a small army. He has quickly discovered that he quite likes the feeling of standing at the head of a band of marauders. The possibility that he is very likely now the most dangerous man in the Duchy of Middlesbrooke has him idly toying with the idea of branching out full-time into the highwayman’s profession. But, he reminds himself, first things first. He assembled this sordid group for one specific purpose. He turns towards them to explain that purpose.
“Gentlemen,” Alveric says to his mercenary recruits — though it is far and away exactly the wrong word for grizzled veteran mercenaries and pirates with such lovely names as Leif the Axe, Axe the Blade, and Big, Huge Leroy.
He sighs inwardly. The things he does for alchemy.
He clears his throat and tries again. “Gentlemen,” he says, forcing himself to get the word out. “The task is simple. There will be a cart of alchemy supplies bound for Westfort along the Middlesbrooke road. We will do everything in our power to ensure that it will not be delivered to Constantine von Braidford, thereby outmanoeuvring him, and ensuring without doubt that I am once again rightfully crowned Westfort’s — and ultimately the entire Duchy’s — champion alchemist. Any questions?”
Axe the Blade raises his hand. “Wouldn’t it be simpler for you to just work really hard on your own submission to the alchemy competition? Or even buy your own special alchemy supplies?” he asks.
“It’s the principle of the thing!” Alveric insists. “By buying the supplies from Middlesbrooke he’s paying his way to victory! Do you have any idea how much better the selection is over in Middlesbrooke? He’s cheating. It’s only fair I cheat back!”
“By brutally attacking whoever is delivering these supplies — people completely uninvolved with the alchemy contest in the first place? Why attack them, why not just have us jump this Braidford guy and put him out of commission for the contest?”
“So help me, Axe the Blade,” Alveric mutters, running his hand over his hand. “I’m in charge here, and this is the plan I’ve decided on. No more questions. You do exactly as I say, when I say, or you won’t be allowed to rob anyone. Do I make myself clear?”
“Very clear, Sir,” Axe the Blade mutters. “Can I still rob somebody?”
Alveric sighs. “Yes, Axe the Blade. You can still rob somebody.”
“Thank you, Sir.”
“Oh,” Chauncey says. “I have a good feeling about this. I’ve always enjoyed highway robbery. The fresh air, the open sky. The plundering. The pleas for mercy. There’s nothing like it!”
“I have a good feeling about this,” Roland says as he helps Celeste’s hired workers load up the cart.
Celeste was already waiting for the group with the cart, the horses, and the crates and barrels of supplies destined for Westfort.
Alda claps happily as she sees the horses harnessed to the cart and hurries forward to pet their muzzles.
“That one’s Salo,” Celeste tells her, pointing to the white horse on the left. She points to the black horse on the right. “And that one’s Pipera.”
“They’re so cute!” Alda exclaims. The horses whinny back at her, happily enjoying the attention despite no one asking for their thoughts on being harnessed to a cart and expected to haul it all the way to Westfort.
As Roland begins loading up the cart, Celeste turns towards him. “Roland,” she says sternly. “I swear, if you let anything to happen to my horses, there’s going to be trouble.”
Roland nods and reaches for another crate.
“And be careful with those crates,” she continues as he puts one of the crates in the back of the cart a little too forcefully for her liking. “Those ingredients are expensive. If something happens to them, you’re paying for it.”
“I won’t let you down,” Roland says, grinning that broad, toothy grin of his.
Celeste’s face softens a little. “And look after Alda and yourself, too. I wouldn’t want anything to happen to you two.”
Still petting the horses, Alda glances over her shoulder. “Don’t worry,” she declares. “I’ll keep Roland safe!”
Petra and Roland’s abundant muscles make short work of loading up the cart.
“Look at us,” Roland says, rolling the last barrel into place in the back of the cart. “A bunch of proper adventurers getting ready for a real adventure.” He nods confidently. “I’ve got a good feeling about this. I mean, just look at us. We’re the perfect team! Petra’s strong, Lucia’s fast, Apolline’s magic. That’s, like, a perfect tactical balance!”
“So, what are you?” Lucia asks sceptically.
“Well,” Roland says, counting off his self-identified virtues on his meaty fingers, “devastatingly handsome, well-connected, classically-educated, an experienced alchemist, trained by some of the best combat teachers in Middlesbrooke, devastatingly handsome, big, strong. Plus, I know how to get to Westfort from here.”
“And what am I?” Alda asks.
“I guess you’re, like, my assistant,” Roland offers.
“No. That’s dumb,” Alda says.
“You could be our mascot,” Roland continues.
“That’s even worse!”
“Plus,” Lucia mutters, “I think that’s already Roland’s job.”
She yelps as Apolline jabs her in the ribs.
“Be nice, Lucia,” the Aurorean sorceress tells her.
“We can figure it out later,” Roland assures his sister. “For now, let’s head out, yeah? We won’t become the most famous adventurers in Middlesbrooke if we stand around talking. Let’s get this cart to Westfort, and we’ll be so rich and famous we’ll be eating lobsters stuffed with steak in no time!”
“Wait. How come you get to drive?” Roland asks Apolline as the sorceress climbs up into the driver’s seat.
“My family owns a ranch in Aurora,” she explains. “I’ve spent most of my summers looking after our horses. I do believe I’m the most qualified for the job, Sir Roland.”
Roland bashfully rubs the back of his neck. “That’s, uh, that’s a pretty good reason,” he says. “Sorry.”
As the cart rolls through the gates of Middlesbrooke along the road to Westfort, Lucia isn’t sad to be leaving the city, only sad that she isn’t leaving it forever. The thought that this might be the start of a long adventuring career in Middlesbrooke makes her shudder, but she tells herself that she’ll come around on life in Middlesbrooke before long. Though the company could be better.
“No offence,” Roland says to Petra, all but guaranteeing he’s about to say something stupid, “but, uh, why are you blue? I’ve never seen a blue Amazon before.”
Luckily, the perpetually, ineffably unflappable Petra takes the idiocy in stride. “Because my father is a Troll,” she explains.
“So, like, you’re a… Trollazon?” Roland asks.
Petra actually cracks a faint smile. “I guess you could say that.”
“So, she’s a Trollazon,” Roland continues, turning towards Lucia, “and you’re a Wilderling. A dog, right?”
“Dog?” Lucia exclaims. “You think I’m a dog? Are you blind? Look at my ears! What dog has ears like this? I’m a lynx! We’re cats!”
“I thought that was a kind of sheep,” Roland notes. “Like, a mountain sheep? With the big horns?”
“That’s a Lonk, Roland,” Alda notes.
Lucia throws her hands up in exasperation and launches into a long, colourful string of Natalian invectives against Roland, his ancestors, his descendants, his dwelling house, and the profitability of his milking cows.
“What, uh, what’s she saying?” Roland asks Apolline.
“She’s, shall we say, not really a dog person?” the sorceress offers diplomatically.
Lucia concludes with a final huff and a decisive declaration of “Idiota.” She glowers at Roland. “You probably think Apolline is from Hrimfax, too,” she mutters.
“Pfft,” Roland scoffs. “Are you kidding? I know a Central Aurorean accent when I hear one.”
“That’s, ah, quite the ear you have, Sir Roland,” Apolline murmurs.
Lucia stares in slack-jawed bewilderment. “You can’t tell that I’m a cat, but you can hear where Apolline’s from? What is your deal?”
“What?” Roland asks. “The Philosophy tutor Uncle Chuck hired for us was from there. He was boring, so I don’t remember much of what he taught us, but his accent sounded exactly like hers. Well, not exactly. He was an old dude, so his voice was a lot deeper and raspier.”
“He talked liked this,” Alda interjects. She clears her throat and affects a low, raspy tone of voice and an accent that’s not far off from Apolline’s “Thus, we see the Final Cause of Chair. It is that thing upon which is to be sat.”
She shrugs and clears her throat again.
“But like Roland said, I didn’t really get it, either.”
Roland eagerly points to his sister. “Yeah! Just like that! But, like, it’s just a chair, you know? Why’s it matter what finally caused it?”
“Unbelievable,” Lucia mutters, deciding to pay as little attention as possible to Roland.
Chapter 5
Chapter 7
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