Chapter Five:
Thick as Thieves
“No.” Armand reached out and put a hand on the shoulder of the man kneeling next to him in the hunting blind. “Frontier kids getting mauled by a cane is one thing. Frontier kids found with arrows in them is another. We let 'em go, Jared.” Jared released the tension on his bow and returned the arrow to the quiver on his hip with smooth, practiced motions. Outside the blind, the two brats disappeared around a turn in the trail and were gone.
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“Well fuck me sideways if those two ain't the luckiest little shits in Elyria.” Jared spat on the ground as he rose to glare at the cane's corpse across the clearing. “We ain't got trained canes to spare on piddly shit like this, Armand.”
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Armand shrugged and started across the clearing. “Tempting offer, Jared, but you ain't pretty enough for me to fuck you sideways, front ways, any ways. Give it a few more weeks in the woods here and ask me again.” He stood over the cane's corpse, fingers drumming on the hilt of his sword. “This wasn't piddly shit, though. You know who the boy was?” Jared shook his head. “That little brat was Belleme's only kid. If he'd of died out here to a cane, might've made what we have to do to the father just that much easier. Grieving man makes mistakes.” Armand's face twisted in anger, and he drive a hard kick to the cane's ribs. “Hope that little bastard's arm rots off. Come on, help me get this thing back to camp. Don't want the local yokels comin' out here and getting a better look at the corpse.”
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The two men managed to drag the stiff body of the cane back across to their hunting blind, where they had left a small wagon. The cane's rigor made it impossible to stuff it back into the cage on the wagon, so they bound it on top with a few cords, and started to pull it back along a faint path further into the forest.
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After two hours - sweaty, tired and irritable, they began to hear the barking coughs of several canes on the wind. “Home sweet home, Jared,” said Armand, waving an arm broadly in front of him. “Ain't the life of a brigand grand?” Jared scowled at the sight before him and made no comment.
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The camp was a ring of wooden palisades, well-hidden with leaves and branches. It was situated at the top of a low hill, where it commanded a good view of the surrounding forests. As the they passed within the walls, Armand nodded to the two men on guard, barely visible in their woodland-colored cloaks. Inside the camp, a row of 5 tents were pitched along one side; 4 larger tents with crude bunks for the dozen or so bandits who called this place home, and Armand's smaller, personal tent. The other side of the camp was a training ground, with archery butts and pells arrayed in rows. The men training paused at seeing the dead cane being wheeled into camp, but quickly turned back to their targets after seeing the simmering anger on Armand's face. In the middle of the camp was a large, fenced area, and the rank, musty odor of canes poured out from it like a fog.
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Nine of the beasts were held inside the cage. Most were sleeping, or at least appearing to. One was awake and pacing back and forth in agitation, occasionally lifting its head to the sky and giving a mournful cry. Bones were scattered across the ground, stripped bare of meat and cracked open for the marrow inside. Canes were nothing if not thorough. A whip hung on a post outside the enclosure, and all of the beasts inside showed scars evidencing its frequent application, as did the corpse tied down to the wagon.
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“What d'you want to do with this?” Jared asked, prodding the dead cane. Armand pointed across the camp to where a firepit and several trestle tables stood. “Take it to Cookie, lads could use a bit of extra meat with supper tonight.” Jared nodded, and pushed the cart over toward the waiting cookfire. Armand gazed at the remaining nine canes for a moment, then strode off to his tent. “Matthias! A word, now.”
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A man in his middle years broke away from training at one of the pells and jogged across the camp, catching up to Armand as the bandit leader ducked inside of his tent. “What happened out there, boss?” Armand pressed his lips together tightly as he yanked his gloves off and tossed them onto his makeshift desk. “Nothing that concerns you, Matt. What's the status of the other camps?” Matt's face screwed up for a moment in thought – thinking wasn't Matt's strong suit. “Northern camp sent a runner over this morning, they got four canes trained up and four more nearly trained. West camp ain't so good, they're havin' trouble finding any canes 'tall. Too rocky for 'em. So far they've got two, and they ain't trained up yet.”
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Armand collapsed into a camp chair. “Fuck. Alright. Send word to the North camp, have them send over two of their trained canes to West. And have some of the lads go out tomorrow and snare another couple for here, we need replacements.” He closed his eyes and rubbed at his temples. “How about the new fish, they ready to spill any blood aside from their own yet?” Matthias made a sucking sound through his teeth. “Weeeell... we've got so most of 'em knows which end of the sword to hold onto. And a couple of 'em show some promise. But it's slow goin', boss.”
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“They've got one week to get there, Matthias. Seven bloody days, and we're due to start fuckin' killing. If they ain't ready by then, I'm going to be very displeased. And you're the one I'm going to take it up with. Got that?” Matthias gave a nervous salute. “No worries, boss. I'll handle it.”
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“Good. Get out.” Matt ducked quickly out of the tent, bawling orders at the new recruits as he strode back across to the training grounds. Armand stared at the roof of his tent for a moment more, then let out a sigh and pulled a sheaf of papers over to him and began to read. Arranging the overthrow of a Count was no easy task, and there was no rest for the wicked.
