Negotiations Ch 03

A/N: No porn in this one, just the dreaded plot rearing its ugly head. If you are looking for the a quick and dirty fix you have to go to previous chapters.

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The gusting north wind carries the battle songs of the war band to them as Pike tightens the straps of her cuirass. Grog leans on his great-axe, scratching his beard and smiling into the ice crystals the wind whips into their faces.

"Your remember old man Henderson? Two doors down on Coal Street? He had a dog, ugly mutt. Wagon drove over its tail once, made similar noises."

"It's Orcish Hyarunki, if I'm not mistaken."

"You speak that?"

"A few words. Enough to get the gist." We are the stormwind, the blade wind, Oazu's howling rage manifest. Ours is the fury.

"And?"

"They want to kill us all."

"Oh," Grog mulls that over for a moment, before nodding, "Good."

The caravan master is jogging back along the wagon line to where the rear guard is assembling.

"What are you standing around for like a bunch of sister-fucking morons? Get going. Hannes don't spare the whip with the oxen."

Pike raises a pale brow under her helmet. "What for? There is no way we can outrun a war band on oxcarts, especially on a road drowning in snow and with nowhere to go. Our best bet is trying to defend the river crossing. Kill enough of them, maybe they will reconsider, go looking for easier prey."

Master Hildebrand spits in the snow. "Ordinarily I would agree, but the de Rolos used to have a garrison in the pass. Outriders say it's manned again. If we can stay ahead of them until they come to our assistance we might have half a prayer of something better than a heroic last stand."

Pike frowns, quickly calculating distances and odds. Numbers know no mercy, Percy has taught her that. "Won't work. They will be upon us before we reach the foothills."

"Not, if we can collapse the bridge. Orcs are a hardy lot but they drown and freeze just like the rest of us and the Whiteknife is fast, and deep, and cold."

"Grog?"

"On it. You wimps, stand back and let me show you how it's done."

Grog steps forward, ice and snow crunching under his boots, into the rushing water of the river, just far enough to loop a heavy rope around the first pair of pillars, but already submerged to his hips in the icy flood.

The teamster cracks his whips and the team of oxen lumbers forward, while Pike and the rest of the rearguard dig their heels into the slippery slush of mud and snow and pull, as Grog smashes his gauntlets into the pillars, crumbling granite blocks like delicate spring flowers.

The bridge shutters, crumples and with a deep bass groan collapses in on itself in a cloud of stone dust and fountains of frothy ice water.

"That was fun."

Whips crack as the oxen pull forward and the wagons plow through the snow. Fear is breathing down their necks, the bellows of the quickly closing war band causing the tension in the shoulders of the men and the nervous glances over their shoulders.

The road is difficult, slippery ice under a layer of fresh snow, the animals fearful, and the men afraid. The land is rising slowly beneath their feet but progress is torturously slow.

"Hannes. Hey, Hannes."

Pike grasps the halter next to the wagoner and pulls the reluctant animal forward, paying no mind to the nervously rolling eyes and anxious mooing.

"Why don't we just abandon the wagons? Twice the speed and, more likely than not, our overeager friends back there will prefer easy loot to a bloody fight."

Hannes, pale under his tan, spits into the snow.

"Try suggesting that to the caravan master. Any man who abandons his charge, will never work for him again, his wages garnered to make up for the loss. I would be lucky not to end up in debtor's prison."

"If the Orcs catch us, you are all likely to die. You know that, right?"

The leathery, middle-aged man smirks bitterly. "If I'm jobless, I'll die of hunger or cold before the thaw comes. There is a famine, in case you hadn't fucking noticed."

Pike's pouty lips have thinned to a hard, bloodless line.

"Grog, buddy, I think we need to have some words with our esteemed caravan master."

Grog shrugs. Words are not his forte.

"Sure thing, Pike."

He picks her up and places her on his enormous shoulders, his long legs and mile-devouring stride catching up quickly with the head of the caravan.

Just when they are about to reach the front, there is a commotion as the lead wagon slides backwards on the steep and slippery incline, slips, tips against a rock hidden in the snow, topples and crashes backward into the following cart in a tangle of limbs, panicky draft animals and broken wood.

Master Hildebrand is bellowing and red in the face when they get there, his men dragging a wounded animal handler to safety and trying to right a cart.

"Lady Pike and Master Grog, Pelors blessing upon you, we are in dire need of your assistance. Master Grog if you could lend a helping hand to these useless layabouts, we need this wagon back on the road."

Pike regards him sternly.

"Indeed. These men need many things, but a helping hand is chief among them. Grog?"

"Could you please tip over the last wagon in the line and then work your way forward? Please remember to tell the men to dismount before you do, though."

For a moment shock and disbelief war on Hildebrand's face, before rage wins out.

"Are you mad, this fucking caravan is all I have left in the world ... stop. STOP. HALT! SEIZE THE BRUTE."

Three men hesitantly rise to their feet but sit back down hurriedly, their legs losing all strength, when Grog's gaze sweeps over them.

Hildebrand's hand falls to the handle of the long sword on his hip, his face white with fear and rage, but Pike's gauntlets close around his wrist, Ogre Heads roaring, hard enough to make bone grind.

"This will not end well for you, Master Hildebrand. Best to drop your steel."

The sword falls from nerveless fingers, sinks soundlessly into soft snow. Pike uses the elbow as lever to force the caravan master to his knees, but takes some tension from the man's arm, when he stops resisting, and pats him on the shoulder. There is no need to be cruel.

"It's just money. Not worth your life - or those of your men."

Hildebrand laughs shrilly. "Are you mocking me, you useless midget cunt? That shipment is my last chance at buying my people and me a place of protection in the only city within 300 miles which still has laws and food reserves, instead of knives and desperation."

Pike gives him her best stern look, the one usually reserved for Grog when he is fiddling with things in Percy's workshop he really shouldn't touch. She is willing to overlook the midget thing for now, but if the esteemed Master Hildebrand does not cut it out soon, she will have to rethink her policy on hitting crying men.

"Let's calm down and take a deep breath, yes? I know this is distressing but I happen to know the Lord of Whitestone personally and I can guarantee you, he will not turn his back on people in need."

His eyes are bright with malice and unshed tears. "Just because you spread your legs for him, doesn't change a copper penny to the reality of the situation. My men and I have no family there, no one to stand for us, no one to speak for us. The only things separating us from refugees and other useless mouths, are the resources we bring. When hunger bites the friendless are the first thrown to the wolves, your cunt of a lord knows that better than most."

"Hold your tongue, you up jumped horse thief." Pike's patience is running precariously thin and she will not stand for anyone bad mouthing her family.

The caravan master looks pensive: "Maybe, we still have a chance. Sending some women and children out in the cold is still better math than forcing out a coherent force of men of the best fighting age. De Rolo seems like a cold fish, I don't think he will flinch at the dirty parts, certainly didn't flinch at yours ..."

Crack.

Hildebrand howls and falls backwards into the snow, holding the bloody ruin of his nose with both hands.

"Apologies, Master Hildebrand, I'll be along shortly to heal that for you, but for the moment it's probably better for your long-term health, if you are too busy whimpering to talk, especially when Grog is within earshot."

She pats him on his back and turns towards the end of the caravan, where the crashing of splintering wood and the anxious bleating of draft animals, shows Grog hard at work.

A warning whistle from the outriders makes her head whip around and call for Grog.

There is movement on the slopes above them. For a few heartbeats Pike feels panic creeping up her spine, before recognizing the flowing white winter cloaks of the Pale Guard. A score of guardsmen on skis are coming down from the pass.

Grog is jogging towards her along the wagon line, hefting his great-axe.

"Playtime?"

"Not yet, buddy. Playtime later."

Grog eyes the caravan master, still quietly whimpering and nursing his nose, with curiosity.

"What happened to Mr. Face over there?"

"Stumbled over his wagging tongue and fell on my fist."

Grog seems slightly miffed. "That ain't fair. Anytime I want to whoop some ass, it's always ... 'but diplomacy, Grog', 'but we should talk it out first, Grog', 'violence is never an answer, Grog'. I want a turn, too."

Pike sighs quietly: "I'm sorry, big guy. It won't happen again. Let's say two, no three, of the biggest orcs are all yours? Ok?"

Grog interrupts his pouting to eye her curiously. "Is three more than two?"

Pike nods gravely, "So it is. So it is."

"I want more than three. Vex has been teaching me about negotiating with your shinies and she said never to accept the first offer."

The gnome groans and resolves to have some words with Vex'ahlia regarding the notions she puts into Grog's head. For all that he is not terribly bright, once his mind has latched on to an idea, he is like a dachshund, not very likely to let go, unless his jaws are broken open with a hammer.

"How many do you want, big guy?"

"I want a hundred."

Pike refrains from pointing out that the war band, thankfully, does not contain a hundred warriors.

"You got it."

Meanwhile the Orc band has crossed the river and is closing in rapidly, as the Pale Guard men slow their rapid descend down the slope and come to a stop in sprays of powder snow.

She knows their Sergeant, a grizzled old veteran, by sight from Whitestone, and does her best to assist him in assembling an improvised war council. Hannes speaks for the wagoners, and a whip-cord like woman known as Agnes, with more grey than red in her hair, for the caravan guards.

"We were planning on leaving the wagons behind to keep them busy and just run. At the very least our position in your fort should be more defensible then the open road."

Sergeant Theobald, or Shortnose, as he is known to his men, thanks to an old sword wound to the face, shakes his head.

"Out of the question, I'm afraid. We were ordered to bring the oxen in and any other food stuff the wagons might contain as a top priority. The copper sheeting and anything else useful, too, if we can.

Anyway, the old fort is a ruin, and the new one consists of five log cabins with no defensive works to speak of. We have better chances here. Block off the road with your damaged cards and pick them off while they are digging their way uphill through the snow drifts."

Agnes spits on the ground. "I didn't sign up for this shit, neither did my boys. I'm not fighting a double score of orcs for some oxen, not if we have alternatives. Don't get me wrong, I'm wishing you and your guards the very best of luck, but me and my men will be hightailing out of here as fast as we can."

Pike opens her mouth to protest, but Theobald is faster.

"You will do no such thing sell-sword."

Agnes is smiling thinly; hand on the grip of her rapier. "Will I not?"

"You won't." Theobald meets her gaze, coolly unimpressed.

"And why is that?"

"Because if you do, my men will simply retreat. We have skis, we can easily stay ahead of the Orcs, you, afoot in the deep snow, you will be dead meat within the hour. Even if some of you escape, as deserters and cowards the gates of Whitestone will be closed to you. The next civilized town is nine days march through snow and storms and wolves and roving war bands. What do you think your chances are of surviving that? Now compare and contrast with your odds if you choose to close ranks with us and fight the Orcs united, on favorable terrain and with a city to retreat to."

Agnes is no one's fool, she understands very well which way the odds swing and she doesn't like the answer one bit, if the cornered look in her eyes is any indication.

His arms wrap around her slim waist from behind, the sweat of their previous exertions still cooling on their bodies. His breath caresses the sensitive shell of her pointy ear, sending shivers down her back when he sleepily mumbles. "Numbers do not lie."

"Alternative proposal: How about we kill you and your white clothed nanny boys and take your fucking skis?"

Theobald's smile is entirely without humor. "You are welcome to try."

Pike can feel a headache coming on. "Oh, Sarenrae's Angels, what a genius idea. Let's fight this battle with our potential allies, to avoid the other battle with the bloodthirsty idiots, who will kill us for sure while we busy slitting each other's throats. Agnes, you are not stupid, so please stop pretending."

"Milady Pike." Hannes has taken of the crumpled leather hat, baring a thinning hairline, and is worrying the hat nervously with his hand. "Milady Pike, my boys are not really cut out for this kind of thing. Many of them have families to feed and don't get me wrong, no one better to have your back in a fistfight or tavern brawl ... but battling bloodthirsty monsters ... it's not what we do."

He lifts his head to meet her gaze, his eyes pleading. "You said you would speak for us, milady Pike. It's hard times and ... if a family loses a provider it will spell doom for them all. This kind of fight ... my boys will drop like flies. Could we not ... I don't know, provide support from a distance?"

Theobald is sympathetic but unyielding. "Numbers do not lie, Lady Pike. We are dangerously outnumbered as it is; we can't spare a single man, much less a score of them. They will have to go into the shield wall."

Pike stomach has contracted to an icy brick of fear, under the burning pressure of their expectant stares. Agnes, Hannes, even Theobald all subconsciously looking to her for advice, support, orders, absolution. The legends and the authority that the name Vox Machina carries have never felt heavier.

The war cries of the quickly closing band, drifting on the wind, fade and for a crystalline moment of stillness even the sound of Grogs grindstone on his axe blade seems to fall expectantly silent.

Pike breaths in, breathes out.

Makes her choice.

***

She wakes in the Court of Watchful Eyes and Whispers in the middle of the fourth night watch, in the stillness before dawn, with a soundless summons ringing in her ears.

She opens her eyes slowly before she moves another muscle, giving her eyes time to adjust to the faint glimmer of lamp light falling through the narrow window slit high in the bare stone wall of her sleeping cell. Her ears seek out the noises from the sprawling building complex around her. The groaning of settling cedar wood, granite shedding the last vestiges of warmth into the winter night, the gargling of copper pipes, the melancholic howl of a signal horn on the walls, the far off clang of heavy iron on an anvil, the golems swinging their rune hammers in the red forges...

She dresses and arms herself in the stygian darkness, her movements precise and sure.

On silent feet she pads through the endless corridors lit by flickering gas lamps. The Hunter's Court never really sleeps, but with the exception of a few watchful eyes behind wrought iron masks, few notice her passing, her black tunic and hood fading into the shadows.

This early, the baths in the Court of Steel and Blades are still empty, the guard regiments asleep in their barracks or manning their duty posts. There is little time for her morning ablutions, but she undresses, folding her clothes carefully, conducting the ritual cleaning. At the end she stands naked in the cold waters of the central basin and whispers three names to the four corners of the world.

Once for life.

Once for love.

And once for luck.

Once for the past, to find peace with her choices.

Once for the present to guide her hand.

Once for the future she hopes for.

The watch fires are burning high in the Court of Blood and Iron, but the first pale light of dawn is already painting the eastern horizon mauve. Her watchful eyes register not only the squadron of Warhounds in ceremonial regalia, iron teeth gleaming, but also the full Sept of Imperial Shades lurking in the shadowy alcoves around the great iron doors, signaling the attendance of the Jäger.

Seven swords and one pact, written in blood, for seven sons to hunt the night.

News must have come from the west. The air tastes of ash and electricity, vibrating like a barely constrained hunting dog on the leash. The elders are still in closed council. The stars are fading but the hunter's lantern is standing high above the granite dome of the Diet, red as blood.

A cold hand ever so gently plucks on the nerves of her spine, gooseflesh spreading down her back; her mistress will tolerate no further dawdling.

She hurries down through the maze-like corridors of the central archives, reaching a door in a dusty side corridor, piled high with files and bundles of parchment sheets, bound loosely with strings.

The unassuming iron door swings open, showing a narrow flight of steps disappearing into looming shadows. Only half of the lamps are lit down here and watchful darkness is pressing in around her.

This is the Court of Shades and Midnight where the night has eyes and teeth. Uninvited guests trespass at their peril.

The stairway winds ever deeper into the darkness, passing dozens and dozens of locked doors. Her first time down here she had tried to count heartbeats and passing passages, now she knows better and yields willingly to the sense of timelessness, which swallows her with nary a ripple.

The Court of Midnight has no patience for such fleeting human concerns; seconds, minutes or hours stretch and pull like rubber bands in these halls.

Finally a door swings soundlessly open before her, admitting her into a courtyard under a sable black night sky full of strange and unsettling constellations. She wastes no time wondering about the sunrise that surely is painting the copper and bronze domes of the city above her a rusty gold, or the dozens of meters of earth and bedrock this chamber should be buried under.

Her mistress awaits her, sitting cross-legged on a polished rock cylinder jutting upward from a night-black pond in the center of the courtyard, surrounded in a half circle by seven heavy ivory bowls.

The air is still and cold, but the water in the bowls is rippling in strangely hypnotic patterns. Rolling polished dice, her Mistress bends over the oracle bones, mouth moving soundlessly.

"The huntress, the maiden, the laughing fool. Crossroads, crossroads ... come closer child."

A slim white arm beckons her forward.

"A decision has been made. They will be raising the regiments and as soon as the roads are passable again after the spring thaw, they will cross the Sund."

"But ... the council is still in session? Has Jäger Wendel ..."

Her mistress raises her head from the dice, her eyes twin pools of black ice water, half her face hidden by a black obsidian mask, the other smooth and white as marble.