Shalma's Destruction (Part VI)

As appealing as the thought of Shalma growing fatter on all that rich food is, something isn’t right.  A merchant crafty enough to survive in Darrumburgh doesn’t just transport their wares on the caravan equivalent of a silver platter for any brigand or highwayman to help themselves.  However, Skasnell doesn’t seem interested in hearing about any possible ill intent.  He doesn’t seem interested in hearing from you, period.  He won’t even stop walking.  

“What are you blathering about?” he says over his shoulder.

“The merchant train,” you huff, jogging up behind him.  “I think it’s some kind of trap.”

Skasnell laughs.  “That caravan couldn’t stop an angry band of twelve-year-olds.”

“That’s my point.  All that merchandise so poorly guarded?  It doesn’t make sense.”

“Of course it does.  Trade magnates are tighter than a virgin’s orifice. I should know.  I’ve serviced my share of both.  They’ll wizen up once Shalma hits a few caravans, but by that time we’ll be gone.”

“But…”

“If we’re lucky, there’ll be a scrap or two left upon our return.  Of course, I wouldn’t put it past Shalma and her mongrels to gobble every morsel out of spite.”   Skasnell chuckles and smiles over his shoulder.  “This strength competition will be good training.  We’ll probably need to roll her out of that cave when we get back.”

For a moment, you contemplate the image Skasnell plants in your head.  A helpless Shalma, round and quivering like a bubble, primed to be popped from existence with your xiphos. 

“Stop!” you shout, before your manhood grows stiffer than your resolve.  When the warrior still refuses to heed your words, you act, freezing in the middle of the path like a stubborn mule. 

Skasnell finally pivots wearily.  “Don’t think I won’t carry you.  If Shalma wants you in the contest, you’re going to be in the contest.”

Your mind races for something that will keep Skasnell from carrying you like a sack of potatoes all the way to Darrumburgh.   That’s when you spy a red orb tucked inside a wheel rut further down the trail. 

“That’s better,” Skasnell says as you race past him.  

It’s an apple, freshly fallen from one of the overloaded carts.  You pick up the fruit and examine it.  It’s coated with some sort of wax that makes it redder and shinier than it should be.  You can almost see your reflection in it. 

When Skasnell catches up, you offer it for his inspection.  He takes it and studies it.  Then starts to take a bite--       

“Don’t eat it!” you cry, slapping the fruit from his hand. It rolls off the path into an adjacent ditch.

Skasnell cocks his head, and his bottom lip tightens against his top.  “You’re testing my patience, boy.”

“Just wait.”  You retrieve the bruised fruit from the tall grass and cut off a small piece with your dagger.  You toss the scrap toward a squirrel watching curiously from the base of a nearby tree.  The creature stiffs it, then scurries up the trunk with his prize.

“That does it!”  Skasnell lifts you and tosses you over his shoulder. He carries you as easily as the squirrel carried the scrap of apple.   “From now on, the only animals you’ll be feeding are whatever ones are in that contest.”

It’s official.  Any goodwill you'd built with Skasnell is gone forever.  He thinks you’re a loon.  Or a coward.  Or both. 

Maybe you are?  Dangling over Skasnell’s shoulder you begin to doubt yourself.  Perhaps this was exactly what Skasnell thought it was: a convoluted stall tactic contrived by the addled mind of a desperate man.      

That’s when the squirrel falls from the foliage and onto the hardened trail with a thud. 

You clamber off the big man’s shoulder.  Lifting the frozen rodent by the tail, you hold it like a boy showing off his first kill to his huntsman father.

“Well, I’ll be…”  Skasnell’s eyes quickly turn from wonder to worry.  “We must warn Shalma.”

You nod, relieved that Skasnell finally believes you…and that you won’t have to wrestle a Goliath, pull the ears off an ogre, or any other vicious and painful public spectacle.    

Skasnell stares off in the direction of the long-gone wagon train.  “Or perhaps we should ambush the caravan ourselves?”  You suspect he’s merely thinking aloud rather than asking your opinion, but the fact that he’s making his thoughts known to you at all is positive. 

Ambushing the caravan doesn’t sound much better than the pain and humiliation of the contest.  It’s probably worse.  At least royally sanctioned events rarely result in death.  There were no such assurances when attacking a merchant caravan outnumbered 3:1.

Still, a successful raid would likely raise your stock in Shalma’s eyes more than a mere warning.  Of course, it might also lead to a death sentence decreed by the prince.

You sigh.  Maybe it’d be better if someone else made the potentially murderous or seditious decisions.

What do you do?