Derik's Story

Prologue

   Cursed be the name of Brant, that greenhorn of a nobleman who set us up for an ambush. The Pict wild lands are no place for noblemen and diplomacy unless to brand yourself a fool or plan to settle in hostile negotiations. I was such a fool to take on this scouting mission. Now captured, naked, hungry, and bound to this stake I’ve had two days to recollect our mishap a hundred times over.

Five days before at the fort Gekada:

 Commander Velanus was asked by Brant, a nobleman from the east, for a mission that would give the two of them a greater reputation and increase their lands and title. It was called “The diplomatic solution to our westward expansion.” The concept was simple, or should I say simpleton: It is known that certain tribes of the Pict war against one another regularly. Brant was to use this as an advantage to turn one tribe against the other to lessen their numbers and “thin out” our resistance toward the western wilderness.  Commander Velanus assigned me and three others to Brant. The night before our departure we all met in the military chambers at the fort. Brant was a thin man in his thirties adorned in his fine plate armor that he wore loosely. As he and Commander Velanus briefed us on what was to happen on our mission I couldn’t help but to think that this mission had too many absolutes that depended on the Pict reaction. Our group was to reconnoiter the area north west of the fort and seek identify warring tribes and “diplomatically” persuade one group to attack the other. It was the silliest notion I had ever heard of. I knew it must have been dreamed up by our noble politicians back east. However in my stupor I didn’t react to the ill conceived notion.

   The next morning we departed with Brant mounted upon his warhorse adorned in his day old plate armor. Two pack mules which were in tow followed the noble knight. For two days Crazy Joe (a fine Bossonian borderer), and myself scouted a head. Each of us took turns falling back to the main body with reports every hour on the hour. This was fine with Joe and I for it kept us ahead of the loud chinking of the steel armor Brant and his mount wore and the constant whining of the mules. Gaspar Ignacio a swashbuckler of sorts knew the Pict language. I had seen use for that but I’m sure he missed his sea legs and rum. A sailor in the Pict wilderness was as ironic as perfume on sheit. One-eyed Willie our cook and pack handler handled the mules as Brant on his mare trudged behind either to cover the rear or make a hasty retreat. Joe and I assumed it was for the latter.

     After we crossed the Thunder River about a half mile inland Brant called for Crazy Joe and me to fall back for a meeting. He had the party halted and was in an eccentric panic that he had lost his mirror. It was last seen at the riverbank in his coat pocket which was tied to the saddle horn. I gasped at the utter stupidity of his need for a mirror on the outskirts of the Pict Wild lands. I along with the others argued that his mirror was probably broken or drifting down stream. He argued that it was a wedding gift from his wife and we needed to find it before we took another step forward. We set up camp there on the spot and he ordered one-eyed Willie back to the river to recover his damn mirror.

   Brant then had the rest of us pitch his “noble” tent (which was bigger then my small hut I grew up in) ate his meal and fell fast asleep.

   As he slept Joe, Gaspar, and myself sat at the camp fire drinking. We chatted about how this man was going to get us all killed. Even Gaspar, a sailor for crying out loud, knew well enough that staying with Brant meant certain doom. The three of us decided to split as soon as one-eyed Willie returned. He never did. However we were visited by an unwanted sort of lot. As Brant snored loudly in his tent an unseen force was surrounding our camp. The three of us, plowed with Crazy Joe’s home stilled whisky, began to see. Silhouettes of men rise from the bush. The soft light of the moon revealed them as Pict barbarians. Spears poised and bows knocked ready to pin cushion us at any sudden move the moved in encircling us. The three of us stood up with our hands holding empty mugs up in the air. The Pict had silently surrounded us. I called for Brant. As he stumbled out of his tent he was met by four spears in his face. Rubbing his eyes he focused on the painted barbarians. “What the???” was all he said before he feinted. I looked over at Gaspar as the savages began binding his hands and feet. “Say something Gaspar I whispered” then suddenly my world went black.