Shalma's Destruction (Part X)

(Nota Bene: An X-tra large installment of Shalma's Destruction for Part X! Sorry for the delay!)

Orpheus, the band’s rat-faced apothecary, grumbles as he adds sprigs of wildflowers to a mortar containing rose petals, mandrake root, and something that looks like dried boogers. About a week’s worth, considering the nostril-clearing habits of Shalma’s men.

“Twenty years mentorship with Roland Cromwell,” he mutters.  “I should be healing noble crusaders on the battlefield.  Instead, I’m stuck in a cave, curing meats.”

Roland Cromwell had been a longtime apothecary to the king, and someone Orpheus namedropped at any opportunity.  It was an impressive association, as Cromwell was a renowned and respected potionist; however, he was decrepit and eccentric by the time he apprenticed Orpheus.  “As colorful as his famed elixirs,” Orpheus had once described him.  That was one way of putting it.  “Batty” was the word most people used.

You watch the stooped man putter around his makeshift workbench--a burgundy-stained stone slab the vanquished goblins likely used for ritual sacrifice--adding to the pestle from an assortment of small burlap sacks arranged carefully beside it.  Amused by his mumbled medical joke about “curing meats,” he begins to hum as he casually tosses in more sprigs, seeds, and a chalky white powder.  

Despite his claims to the contrary, you can’t imagine Orpheus ever tending to knights and royalty.  Unlike the regal and refined Cromwell, Orpheus looks tailor-made for the dank cavern’s shadowy bowels.  Fair or not, his unfortunate appearance, which some of the men speculate is a side effect of self-medicating quaffs of his homebrews, will likely doom him from ever achieving his lofty ambitions. 

As Shalma sidles up to the slab, her lower abdomen pooched delicately over her warrior’s belt, you can only hope that she eventually suffers the same fate.    

“How’s it going?”  The barbarian queen asks impatiently.  She’s evidently as eager to sample the decadent spoils of the captured caravan as you are to provide them. 

“Hand me that flagon of mead,” Orpheus says to you as he grinds the concoction with a stone pestle.

You pass the ceramic jug to the squatty apothecary, who uncorks it and sprinkles in a pinch of the freshly ground mixture.  Then he corks it again and shakes the container so violently it looks as if he’s having some sort of seizure.  After a moment, he wipes his moist brow with the sleeve of his robe and presents the container to Shalma.

“It’s ready,” he says.  Immediately, the cork flies from the flagon, nearly striking Shalma in the face.  “That’s a good sign,” Orpheus squeaks excitedly; however, he quickly withers beneath the barbarian’s scrutinizing gaze. 

As Shalma slowly brings the bottle to her lips, you imagine how easy it would be to sabotage Orpheus’ efforts.  Your revenge could be minutes away if you knew what you were doing.  No.  Shalma deserves worse, and Orpheus, who would doubtlessly incur a painful death at the hands of Shalma’s vengeful brood, deserves better. 

“You might let someone else try it first,” Orpheus suddenly urges, as if invading your thoughts.  It’s a rare display of doubt for the cocksure apothecary.  He’s as aware as you are of the fate that awaits him should Shalma suddenly keel over.

You expect Shalma to hand the flagon to you, but instead, she yells for Pug.  Perhaps your stock is rising in the barbarian’s beautiful blue eyes?

The stocky warrior shambles over from a boisterous card game near the cave's mouth.  “Yeah?” he grunts.

“Try this,” she says, thrusting the jug in his meaty mitts. 

Pug sniffs the spout, no doubt expecting some sort of prank.  He’s been the victim of several during your short time with the brigade.  Satisfied, he takes a slobbery sip.    “It’s not sweet enough,” he says, smacking his fleshy lips.  Then, to Orpheus, as he hands him the container, “More ‘oney, barkeep!”  

“I’m no barkeep,” Orpheus says, yanking the jug from Pug’s hand and returning it to Shalma. 

All eyes shift to Pug, who fidgets uncomfortably.  “What?  Am I s’posed to turn into a newt, or somethin’?” 

“Unfortunately, no,” Shalma says, gesturing for the brute to get lost.  “It would be an improvement.”  As Pug shuffles away, confused but healthy, Shalma turns to you, “Satisfied?”

You’re momentarily flummoxed that Shalma is inquiring to you about something with potentially life-or-death consequences.  “The squirrel had fallen from the tree by now,” you say with a shrug.

“Good enough for me,” Shalma says, hoisting the bottle to her lips.  She takes a long drag, and the delicate pooch of her abdomen seems to quiver in delight.  After gulping half the bottle, the barbarian wipes her mouth with the back of her hand and releases a satisfied belch.  "He's right," she says, setting the flagon on the slab in front of Orpheus, “It needs more honey. After that, get busy treating the rest of the foodstuffs.  Start with those tasty-looking pies.  And you,” she says, pivoting your direction, “follow me.”

You dutifully follow Shalma, trying not to stare at her ass as it undulates with a violence befitting the bloodlusty barbarian.  At the back of the cave, Skasnell sits at a makeshift table formed by large rocks cloistered around a boulder with a smoothed surface.  Shalma sits beside him and, when you hesitate, nods for you to sit beside her.

“We have a problem,” Skasnell says after you’re seated.

Shalma smiles.  “Not enough honey in the mead?”

“Worse than that.  Prince Harrington obviously wants us dead.”

“Are you sure it’s the prince?" she asks.  "Maybe it’s the king who has it in for us.”   

“No,” you interject.  “It’s the prince.  He’s the one the caravan master spoke of, and he’s the one who sent us the invitation to that bogus strongman competition.”  You wonder what would have happened had you made it to Darrumburgh to enter, other than boos from the crowd.  “Besides, the king has his hands full with the war in the west.”

“How disappointing,” Shalma huffs.  “The prince has never interfered with our activities before.”

“We’ve never been camped on his doorstep before,” Skasnell contends.  “Don’t let the fact you’re sweet on him cloud your judgment.” 

“I am not sweet on him,” Shalma says.  She’s surprisingly defensive.  Apparently, Skasnell struck a nerve. 

“Good.”   The burly warrior holds up a piece of rolled parchment.  “Then you won’t mind if I tear this up.”

“What is that?”

“A letter from the prince.  It came for you while you were minding the mead.”

In a flash, Shalma snatches the scroll from Skasnell as if it were a dagger pulled by a thief.  As disarming as her beauty is, it’s no match for her warrior reflexes.  “Have you already read it?”  

“Of course not.”  Now it was Skasnell’s turn to be defensive.     

“Did it come with one of those tasty squabs?”

The bearded warrior’s fist falls upon the improvised table.  Had it been wood, it likely would have splintered, but against the solid bedrock, it barely makes a sound.   “I’ve told you a hundred times, those aren’t gifts.  They’re royal carrier pigeons.  I let it go.  No sense in painting even more of a target on our backs.”

Shalma smiles at her second-in-command’s frustration before unrolling the scroll.  Any doubts you have about Skasnell’s claim that the busty barbarian is smitten are squelched by the dance of her eyes across the page and the way her lingering smile mouths particular words.  When she finishes, she lets the parchment snap back into a tight roll and slides it into her cleavage.    

“He wants to meet with me,” she says, summarizing the now-hidden scroll’s contents.   

"I say we all meet him,” Skasnell urges.  “I'd like to introduce him to my blade."  

"He wants to dine with me alone.  He makes it clear that it will be to our benefit."

“He's a desperate man.  What can he possibly give us that we can't simply take?”  Skasnell seems to think Shalma's feelings for the prince are affecting her judgment, but his underlying feelings for Shalma are clearly affecting his own.

"I thought you didn't want to put more of a target on our backs?" you challenge.  

The bearded warrior shoots you a look that tells you to expect no quarter during your next training session.  "Should we simply ignore the fact that the coward tried to poison us?"

"No," you say, glancing at the slowly expanding crease at Shalma's middle.  "But revenge is a dish best served cold."

Skasnell considers this momentarily, then says something you don't expect.  "What would you do?"

How do you respond?