blade. The Justicar roared and kicked the creature in what should have been its crotch, but it merely made the thing stagger one pace back and skin its blade past the Justicar’s armored hide.
The creature rebounded off the fish oil wagon, hissed through its needle fangs, and took a firm grip upon its sword. With his own blade lying three paces away, the Justicar tensed in order to dive away from the inevitable blow.
The hell hound seemed to scream with laughter as it blasted out its third and final flame for the day. The cambion ducked underneath the firebolt, which smacked into the wagon, instantly catching the oil-stained barrels afire.
“Cinders!”
Flames climbed the wagon, wreathing the oil barrels in light. Framed against the fire, the cambion raised its hand and let the air crackle with the power of a magic spell. With a scream of triumph, the creature prepared to blast the Justicar into nonexistence.
Oil barrels suddenly burst open in the heat, and blazing fish oil gushed out to drown the cambion with flame. Blinded, the creature instinctively whipped about, giving the Justicar the instant he needed to snatch his blade and attack. The cambion tried to heave itself out of the black sword’spath. It lifted a hand to shield itself as the Justicar whipped his blade downward in a terrifying blur of speed.
The sword rang as it hacked into demonic flesh. A severed hand flew into the fire, the cambion screeching in pain as it clutched at the stump of its wrist. The mutilated monster staggered wildly aside, then quite suddenly sprinted off into the dark.
“Damn it!”
Shielding his face, the Justicar tried to pursue through the flames, only to fall back as more and more oil barrels exploded in the heat. Oxen reared and screamed as blazing oil burst amidst the trees, the whole forest suddenly catching flame.
His teeth set in a wide, unmoving grin, Cinders gave a gleeful wag of his tail.
“That’s
The Justicar irritably sheathed his sword and cursed. The bandit chieftain had escaped, and burning fish oil had set the entire forest ablaze. Swearing bitterly, the Justicar shoved his shoulder against one wagon and helped the teamsters roll it slowly away from the flames.
Oxen stampeded off into the night, and the scout’s horsebroke its tether to bolt off to gods-knew-where. Scorched and sweating teams of men managed to roll wagons out onto the soggy plain, losing their bedding and their tents to the rushing fires.
In the end, three wagons were a total loss. The Razor Wood wreathed the entire sky with flames, trees crisping and huge sheets of fire soaring up into the sky. Sitting on the grass a few hundred yards from the blaze, the Justicar could only curse and grumble as he used a fistful of weeds to scrub clean his blade.
Having managed to collect a brace of oxen, Polk the teamster came over to sit at his side. The teamster watched the forest burn, unable to hear the tittering glee of Cinders in his own mind. Taking a bite of barbecued oxen, he passed a lump of meat over to the Justicar and then uncorked a brandy jug.
“Sentient hell hound pelt, hey? That’s a mighty strangepartner, son.” Apparently unconcerned by the sulphur hissing from Cinders’jaws, Polk took a drink. “It’s a nice touch. Unusual. A real fighter needs atouch of the unusual about him.”
Polk parked himself beside the Justicar, forgetting to offer a pull from his brandy jug.
“Your technique’s good, son! Don’t get me wrong!” The manworked a piece of meat out from between two teeth, then pitched the morsel at the fires. “See, I knew they had to have someone watchin’ over us! A specialagent, a guardian angel. You work for the County Guard?”
“Special commission.” The Justicar should his head. “Countessof Urnst. She asked. I listened.” The Justicar examined his blade. The enchantedsteel was unmarked by the evening’s work. “She knew I’d be…
Polk thoughtfully screwed the cork back into his jug, settling it in place with a decisive
“How did you know that scout feller was a spy?”
“He was heading off to lead the ambush.” The Justicarcarefully examined his tools. “When a rider goes to the stream after makingcamp, he takes a bucket or he leads his horse.”
“Good reasoning, son! Fine reasoning.” The teamster watchedas an oil barrel deep inside the burning forest somehow shot itself up into the sky. “Unless he watered his horse when he first went into the forest-before hecame back to the caravan.”
The Justicar glared at the man and stripped the grinning hell hound pelt away from his back. “The ogres made a convincing argument.”
“I suppose so, suppose so….” The teamster watched as hiscompanion began to brush the hell hound pelt into a lustrous shine. The creature leaked sulphurous smoke from its nostrils, squeezing its eyes shut in pleasure as it basked beneath the brush.
Most other men would be loath to intrude upon a man and his dog-particularly a fire-breathing sentient hell hound pelt-but Polk hadobviously decided he was made of sterner stuff.
“Well, at least you picked up a few pointers from me. Notmany folks are smart enough to know when they have a failin’.” The teamsterpatted the big man with a paternalistic hand. “See, I told you that you needed agood sword fight! I admire a beginner who’s not ashamed to learn, son. I admireit, I really do.”
More explosions sounded from deep inside the forest fire as more oil barrels fed the hungry blaze. With half the landscape aflame, Polk strode off to see if any ale had been rescued from the camp. Sitting cross-legged in damp grass with a skinned hell hound purring in his lap, the Justicar could only gnaw upon his half-cooked meat and pray that tomorrow would be a better day.
3
Someone was trying to make sure Urnst’s northern bordersettlements failed, and whoever they were, they were good. The Justicar could chalk at least three caravans up to his enemy’s credit, and the gods only knewhow many other raids had gone unreported. Whoever orchestrated these bandits had power enough to secure inhuman help and an intelligence network that let them slip their own men into each expedition. That meant the leaders had wealth, had power-and had a larger plan. Yet, they were subtle enough merely to try to makethe settlers lose hope and leave. This seemed to rule out the obvious culprit, the half-demon king Iuz. Iuz would have simply eradicated the settlements through violence, and he had far more power to call upon than a handful of ogres and a cut-rate cambion.
The Justicar’s current employer, the Countess of Urnst, was awise woman. She knew that her counselors were security risks and that her border patrols had been infiltrated. Obliterating this problem would require a certain silent, savage touch. Hence came the Justicar. He had a simple commission: Get the wagon trains safely moving. To accomplish this, he would have to eliminate the cause of the raids.
Because the caravans left from secret locations and took secret trails, someone was obviously seeding agents among the caravans to lead them into ambush. This meant that the enemy must have a spy that somehow discovered the caravan routes.
To find that spy, the ranger had accompanied the teamsters on their journey back to their usual home base. Somewhere here, there was a spy, the next step up a ladder that would lead the Justicar to the head of the conspiracy. He had followed the trail back to where the caravans began, and now once again he hunted for
