Chapter 7
“No signs of danger so far,” Petra says, scanning the tree line. “No bandits. No bears, or wolves. Not even a tree that looks like it might fall over into the road.”
Lucia shudders. “We were having such a good day, but then you had to go and say it,” she mutters.
Alda gazes quickly between the two adventurers. “Say what? What’s wrong?”
“It’s just an old adventurers’ superstition, Alda,” Apolline explains. “The short version is that saying something won’t happen guarantees that it will happen.
Alda’s face lights up. “So, if I said, I sure won’t get a unicorn today, I would get a unicorn?” the girl asks eagerly.
“It only works for bad things,” Lucia replies.
“So,” Roland interjects thoughtfully, “if I said, We definitely won’t be—”
Lucia wheels towards him, hisses, and flashes her claws. “Don’t you dare finish that sentence,” she growls.
The life of a highwayman is not nearly as dashing or swashbuckling as Alveric von Strom anticipated. He watches, and he waits, and he impatiently drums his fingers on the hilt of his sword. Lurking in the bushes is exasperatingly, well, exasperating. And his hired help is proving not especially helpful.
“Are they here yet?” Chauncey, asks, not for the first time today. “Are they here yet? Oh, is that them?
“No, Chauncey,” Alveric mutters, wearily rubbing his temples. “They are not here yet. And asking will not make them arrive any —”
“Boss! I see a cart coming down the road,” one of his hired ne’er-do-wells calls — though he can’t recall if it’s Axe the Blade, or Blade the Axe, Guisarme the Bardiche — or whatever other combination of implements of violence this lot seems to make into their names.
“It worked!” Chauncey exclaims, eagerly reaching for his mask and tying it in place. “It’s them!”
“Well, even if it’s not, I am in the mood to rob somebody by now. Gentlemen,” Alveric tells his fellow highwaymen. “To your marks, gentlemen. It’s time. Remember now, just like we practiced: dramatic and impressive, but efficient. No wasted movement.”
“Right, Boss!” Chauncey says. “Let’s do this!”
Alveric straightens his mask, smooths out his jacket, loosens his sword in its scabbard, and feels himself smiling with excitement as he steps out from the trees.
Lucia watches Apolline rein in the horses as a man steps out into the middle of the road. Several more take up positions beside him and a few others step behind the cart to cut off its retreat. They all have masks concealing their faces and the leader is well-dressed in a long jacket and three-cornered hat.
The leader steps forward. “Now, ladies, cat-person, small child, and gentleman, I don’t suppose that would be a cart of alchemy supplies hailing from Middlesbrooke, now would it?” he asks.
“And if it is?” Apolline asks cautiously from the driver’s seat of the cart.
“Well, I’m afraid that I can’t allow your cart to arrive in Westfort,” the bandit says, revealing the sword hanging from his belt. “And even if it’s not the cart in question, if you could stand and deliver all the same, well, my associates and I are getting restless.”
Roland gasps. “They’re land pirates!”
Alda’s eyes go wide, she clings to her brother and he puts a protective arm around her.
“Ugh,” Lucia groans. “Bandits. You just had to say it, Petra.”
Petra shrugs apologetically.
“Ahem. Highwaymen,” the bandit leader insists. “Bandits just sounds so sordid. And let it never be said that Alveric von Strom is a base sort of man, even when driven to such extremes.”
One of the other bandits leans in close to him. “You’re not supposed to tell them your name, Boss,” he whispers. “Or else there’s no point in wearing a mask.”
“Isn’t ‘highwaymen’ just another word for bandits?” Roland asks. He thoughtfully touches his finger to his chin. “And, really, isn’t that just another word for land pirates?”
“It most certainly is not!” Alveric von Strom insists. “Bandits are no more than base thugs. Whereas us highwaymen are a sophisticated, roguishly dashing sort. And, furthermore, ‘land pirates’ is just the inanest thing I have ever — Where are you going?”
As Lucia continues to stare sceptically at the bandits, Apolline urges the horses forward. The cart rolls on and the self-professed highwaymen stare helplessly at the cart as it continues on down the road.
“They’re getting away. Are they allowed to do that?” Chauncey asks. He runs after the cart. “Come back! We’re supposed to be robbing you!”
“Well,” Alveric von Strom says to himself. “That was not how I expected this to go.”
Perhaps there’s more to this highwayman racket than he thought.
Chapter 6
Chapter 8
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