Fehrd yanked his father’s staff out of the too-small scabbard. The Black Sands Raiders had been roaming the area of the wastes for decades. Once, their raids were all committed by their leader, Zeburon, the so-called “Iron Rider,” but lately their ranks had swelled to the point that splinter groups had been created to do secondary raids and such.
They generally traveled in groups of a dozen or so, all riding crodlus with painted carapaces. Zeburon himself hid his face with an iron helm etched in ancient runes that nobody could read anymore. For his part, Fehrd chose to believe that they translated to, “The wearer of this helm is lost, please return to the Janos family in Gulg,” secure in the knowledge that no one-not even Zeburon himself, in all likelihood-could contradict him. Regardless, they had an appallingly high success rate.
Zeburon’s minions simply wore all black, though some painted copies of the helm runes in silver onto their wraps. The color choice had always struck Fehrd as horribly impractical. Darker colors just made you hotter, which was insanity in the wastes.
But then, Fehrd supposed that sane people didn’t try to make their living robbing caravans.
On more than one occasion, the three of them had been hired specifically to protect caravans just like that one from the iron rider’s band.
Rol continued to stare straight ahead. “Do we get involved?”
Nodding enthusiastically, Fehrd said, “Absolutely. They might be grateful and pay us-or at least feed us something that isn’t jerky.”
From the back, Gan asked, “What if we get hurt-or killed?”
Fehrd snorted without bothering to look behind him. “Please-how many Black Sands jobs have we messed up?”
“Yeah, when we were expecting them and ready for it. This is a little different, especially if we aren’t getting paid.”
“We’re right on the edge of their sightlines,” Fehrd said. “They’re gonna see us soon either way.”
“Fine, we do it,” Gan said. “Frontal assault?”
Fehrd spared Gan an incredulous look. “That’s about as crazy as-well, as playing frolik with Hamno Sennit.”
Gan’s response was a gesture that was a sign of peace in Balic, but was something a bit more rude everywhere else in Athas.
Ignoring Gan with the ease of long practice, Fehrd turned back to look at the caravan.
“Rol, can you get close enough to take care of the crodlus while we distract them?”
At that, Rol just turned and looked at Fehrd.
“Right, stupid question. Get going.”
Rol nodded, and ran back the way they had come.
Then Fehrd turned to Gan. “You’re about to have a broken ankle.”
“Why do I have to be the one who has a broken ankle?”
“Because you’re the one who lost-”
Gan waved him off. “Lost the crodlus, right. Fine.” With a sigh, he got down on all fours, then fell on his back.
Fehrd then turned, took several deep breaths so he’d seem out of sorts, and then ran right toward the caravan. Waving his arms back and forth over his head, he cried, “Hey! Hey! My friend is hurt.”
Several people turned to look at Fehrd as he ran. Some were shocked, most were confused-and the raiders looked angry.
“Who the frip is that?”
As soon as he got fairly close to the caravan and its marauders, Fehrd stumbled forward and fell face first into the sand, thus feeding the perception of him being beside himself with worry over his friend.
“I’m sorry,” he said breathlessly, “I’m really sorry, but my friend, he’s hurt, can you help me, please? I think his ankle’s broken.”
Being closer, he was able to take in the details of the situation. There were indeed four carriages, one of them very large and made of stone rather than canvas. It was sealed tight, except for thin slits in a few spots-which added up to a slave trader, the only people who’d be carrying cargo that might try to escape. Animal carriers would have larger holes for breathing. Unsurprisingly, it had six crodlus reined to it, where a canvas carriage of that size would normally only require two.
The other three were fairly standard, and he noticed several people sitting on the edges of them nervously.
As for the raiders, they had planned their attack well. There were only six painted crodlus surrounding the caravan, evenly spaced and preventing anyone from escaping. Some crodlus had two riders, some one, but there were as many raiders on the ground amidst the caravan members as there were crodlus with only one rider, so obviously each crodlu had two when all was said and done.
A dozen raiders, just like usual. Each carried a bone knife, some fairly long. Based on Fehrd’s experience, they likely all knew how to use them also.
One of the raiders stepped forward, and Fehrd knew instantly that he was the leader of the bunch, because the others on the ground stepped aside for him and all the riders turned to look at him.
“Broken ankle, you say? That’s terrible. We’re having a bit of trouble with one of our carriage wheels right now, but I think we can spare someone.” He turned to one of his men. “Harak, go with him. Check it out, while we finish fixing this wheel.”
“Whatever you say, Draz,” the other one said.
Stumbling to his feet, Fehrd bowed several times. “Thank you, sir, thank you so much, I’m so worried about my friend.”
Harak walked up to Fehrd and indicated the way he’d come with a hand. “After you.”
“Of course, sir, just come with me, sir, thank you so much.” He started jogging through the sand. Harak was able to keep up with long strides.
Gan was lying obligingly on the ground, his pack at his side, massaging his ankle. “Morning glory, but this hurts. If you could help me, sir, I’d really appreciate-”
“Shut up,” Harak said, taking out his bone knife.
Fehrd then clubbed him in the head with his father’s bone staff.
As he fell forward, Gan pulled his own bone knife out of the holster in his not-really-broken ankle and plunged it into Harak’s chest.
Getting to his feet, Gan said, “That’s one.”
The bleating sound of hungry crodlus pierced the air. Fehrd turned around to see that Rol had done his part: spreading the gourmet crodlu chow on the ground. The crodlus immediately picked up the scent and came running, despite the best efforts of the Black Sands riders.
“See? Rol had a good reason for keeping the chow,” Gan said with a grin as they started running back to the caravan.
Fehrd snorted. “He probably slept with the merchant’s daughter or something.”
Chaos was reigning in the caravan, as the raiders tried to get the hungry crodlus under control, and failed rather spectacularly. Fehrd had been concerned that they might have had well-trained crodlus, but that had been unlikely. The Black Sands Raiders lived hard and rode their beasts into the ground. The niceties of training the crodlus were superfluous when they could just steal another if one they had failed in some way.
But that also meant they had no chance of getting them under control when someone spread gourmet chow on the ground.
Rol was taking advantage of the chaos by pulling the riders off their mounts and slitting their throats.
There was a reason why the three of them were some of the best bodyguards in Athas. Rol’s inability to keep it in his trousers gave them entirely the wrong reputation for getting more employment, but they were underestimated at the peril of their opponents.
Two of the raiders saw Gan and Fehrd running back toward them, screamed something that Fehrd couldn’t make out, and then threw their bone knives.
Both of them ducked the throws fairly easily. Fehrd smiled and brandished his father’s staff.
Gripping the staff firmly so that his hands were evenly spaced, Fehrd hit one Raider at the temple with one end of the staff, then twirled it so that it hit another one in the collarbone. The first dropped to the ground, while the other stumbled backward, and Fehrd took shots at his groin and jaw, then he too fell.