V3: Don't Take Hittin'

Reining his dog in at the edge of the wrecked caravan, Lano swung out of the saddle even as his nineteen-rider crew went on to encircle the site. Even though they were not the first on the scene, it was standard practice amongst the Alistairs to do their own security; certainly not to entrust that duty to Leatherdogs; not that they were untrustworthy, by and large, but certainly distractible. What they lacked in discipline and resources they made up for with ambition and numbers.

There were about thirty of them in sight, searching the debris or butchering the fallen dogs, or loafing around waiting for the big boys to show up. One of those hopped off his seat on an overturned wagon, moving briskly to greet Lano even as the crew-boss headed his way. If they had any sense at all, and the group did look well put together, there would be about twenty more ranging in layered patrols; no problems for Lano’s people to worry about, in that case.

There was a rivalry between the elite warrior crews of the Alistair caste and the agglomerated band society of misfits, rebels, and wash-outs that were lumped together into the Leatherdogs. At a distance, the two groups might be considered interchangeable, both being dog-mounted and strategically versatile; both acted as multi-role fighters using shock tactics of sword and bow. There were three key differences, those being status, runic enhancement, and armament. Not even those traditions were always observed, but they made for fairly honest metrics.

Head and shoulders taller than the Leatherdog youth, Lano was in light Chalice Steel plate that consisted of a cuirass and guards over arms and legs. Less joint protection than what he would wear to war, but much easier to wear on a hard ride. By contrast, the younger, unaltered man wore a full suit of hardened Gargant leather complete with a studded helmet hooked to his swordbelt; the large buckle on the broad leather band showed a snarling wolf’s head. From the polished scars marking that armor, this kid was no pup when it came to getting stuck in.

“Lano Brown, Wild Bunch out of Shylo. Report,” Lano said, exchanging quick fist-to-chest salutes with the outrider. That the younger man had initiated the respectful motion told the Alistair a great deal about him; wash-outs who failed to meet the exacting standards of the List often went on to lead their own warbands. He also revised his assumption that the kid was a baseline Lakelander, since aspirants often acquired minor modifications if their early performance warranted it.

“Hali Whitefang, Boid’s Blisters out of Sweet Water Hold, sir, good to see ya. We got here about dawn, secured the area. Crew worth of dead dogs drew in some scavengers we ran off, no other corpses. Damnedest thing, sir, there’s no sign of our dead, or even enough blood for there to be any.”

Frowning, Lano scrubbed his gloved knuckles over a chin that was raising thick stubble. “How many in the caravan? Must have been about sixty all up.”

“Marks on the wagons make it more like a hundred, not counting the guards. Heading up to the Spillway loaded full, to put up a hold. Can go a lot heavier if you’re not crossin’ the marshes. Good fertile ground there if you can get along with the snake-eaters. What I hear, they aren’t as nasty as what it used to be.”

“Shit. Let me guess, all the supplies are gone too.”

“You got it, but that’s where things get fucky, sir. As near as my tracker can figure, it went down like this: our folks stopped for a break, probably near nightfall, probably without putting a picket out. Whatever hit them, the dogs didn’t catch on because it looks like a no-dog summer-surprise.” That was a favored tactic of Lakelander raiding parties facing a superior dog-mounted force; they’d separate from the main group and cover their scent, rather than take the nose-wise cavalry head on. “Whoever did it was good, real good. I never seen anything like this before. Then someone else showed up later, stomped around a lot in the bush. By the drag marks, what’s left of them, the hitters took the people straight north, and the sight-seers took the gear back towards the coastline.”

“Alright. I’ll have my people take a look just to be sure, but it sounds like you got a handle on it. There’s a group of salvagers coming up with their own security to reclaim what’s left of the caravan, about four hours behind us. Hold what you got til they get here, then you’re free to go.” Reaching into a pouch at his hip, Lano dug out an inscribed iron disc about the size of a man’s palm and handed it to Hali. “Don’t let those scavs give you any trouble over who owns what. They try it, show ‘em that, and if they still don’t stop you can knock some heads together, urruh?”

Pocketing the disc, Hali banged his chest in another salute. “Much obliged, sir. You goin’ after the people or the tools?”

“The people, ‘course. Why?”

“Well, I figure as long as you’re goin’ one way, me and mine might as well go the other, once we’re finished up here. I reckon they might’ve taken boats, maybe find a landing sight, or better tracks.”

Grinning, Lano reached out to bump his fist into Hali’s shoulder in a friendly manner. “Take care of yourself, snapper.”

“You do the same, big’un.”

Turning away, Lano crossed to his dog and mounted up, goading it back to its feet with an ireless “C’mon, sum’bitch.” On cue, the rest of his crew were coalescing back around the site, looking to their leader for more orders. Raising his hand above his head, he drew it in a tight circle then punched it northward. “Heyo!”

Twenty dogs set off at an excited run, their riders whooping farewells to the Leatherdogs, who responded in kind even as they held their own beasts in check with hands on collars and ruffs. Instincts were strong, and a dog taking that pace must be after something good; it was in the nature of Lakelanders and canines alike to be the first on the hunt.