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Red on Red	By : Sylviana_of_Qualinost Category: A through F > Dragonlance Views: 4499 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Dragonlance or any of the characters. DL belongs to Wizards of the Coast and Weis and Hickman. No money is made from these installments.

Chapter List
- 10
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Chapter 10: Plan in Action pt. 1

The goblins and hobgoblins kept strictly away from the main body of Terris' vagabonds and that suited everybody just fine- especially Raistlin. He kept his sly eye towards what was going on in both camps and saw the hardly disguised hostility hidden behind the deformed snouts of the hobs and the hard, suspicious glances of the men. One evening, a particularly nasty brawl broke out among the bandits as a younger man tripped on his way back from fetching stream water and knocked over a hob commander eating his meal.

“You hideless scum!” spittle formed on the hob's- Commander Torf's- nuzzle as he picked up the shivering young man by the scruff. “You made me spill my soup and now I will go hungry this evening! Perhaps I should chop off those useless prongs you call legs and have myself a meal?”

The youth was wriggling frantically in the hob's grip. An older man sitting by a nearby fire got up slowly, loosening his sword in its scabbard as he did so.

“Let the boy go, Torf and pick on someone your own size for a change,” the man growled threateningly, boredom making him itch for a fight.

The great hobgoblin released the youth, pushing the scrambling fellow roughly out of the way.

“Looking for a scuffle Brendaun?” Torf spat nastily at the ground and grabbed the handle of his double- edged battle axe.

“With the likes of you? Always,” Brendaun's sword was out completely in a flash and the hob barely had enough time to lift his buckler up for defence before the taller warrior was upon him. Yet Torf was not a green soldier and recovered quickly from the attack bringing around the elbow of the buckled arm and aiming it hard into Brendaun's side. The warrior jumped back and the blow barely glanced him. The two opponents now took a good measure of each other, bracing their legs hard into the ground, hands gripping their weapons, they began to circle one another. A circle formed quickly around them, with the hobs and gobs backing up their leader while the restless men took their places behind Brendaun. Cheers were going up and somewhere in the background a call for bets was taking place.

The excitement did not last long as Terris Loft came slowly into the clearing, his pinched face grimacing with obvious disgust. At the sight of him, the cheers of the mob quickly died and the two combatants shifted their weapons uncertainly.

“Break this up you two!” Loft did not have to raise his voice, it passed easily through the hushed crowd. “I do not care what the lot of you do to one another once we have taken Hope's End. Until that time has come, we will remain unified for the greater cause. I realise there has not been a caravan in a while and you are growing restless,” here the outlaw grinned broadly, the firelight shining on his silver stubble. “But I have good news, friends! Our spies have reported a great and armed delegation heading towards the main road. By early morning tomorrow they will be in a strategic place for an ambush and we will get to have some fun, boys, what do you say?”

At this, a great cheer once more broke out among the crowd. Terris continued smiling.

“Brendaun- put away the sword and come with me. You too Delgo and Maurice- we must make plans for tomorrow!”

The three men approached their leader. At this the hobgoblin leader regained composure and a hint of spite and malice lit his ugly face.

“Loft!” he roared approaching the bandit leader hastily. When the ungainly creature reached the tall man a tense silence once again fell upon the camp. “You always leave my men behind- I wonder how you expect me to stick around when I think you are ripping me off my share of the spoils,” Torf winced maliciously.

Terris did not budge.

“After what happened last time we decided to take your troops to ambush I think it is best we do not attempt that again until Hope's End.”

Torf looked like he was about to argue, but taking a closer glance at Terris decided against it and reluctantly moved aside for the men to pass on their way towards their own camp fire.

In the shadows, Raistlin waited, having watched the whole thing from the beginning and awaiting his time to act. As soon as Terris and the other three men moved far enough out of view, the slender mage detached himself from the dark cover of the autumn trees and quietly followed the angered hobgoblin who was hissing none-to- silent oaths under his breath. Not having much else to do in camp, Torf moved on towards his tent, muttering all the while about stinking men and money owed. When he reached his tent and moved beyond the flap into its confines, Raistlin was right behind him.

Mumbling under his breath about filthy humans and rummaging through his belongings kept the hob busy for several minutes during which he remained unaware of the skulking mage. Finally, Raistlin got tired of waiting and cleared his throat nonchalantly. Torf jumped in the air and spun around with agility surprising in one possessing such great bulk. Several rolls of greyish fat bounced, as a result, morbidly protruding from the commander's mismatched armour. Seeing the wizard, the hob squinted his piggish eyes suspiciously.

“You! Mage,” he barked menacingly, “what do you want here?”

Raistlin put on his most gracious face and made a small bow in the hobgoblin's direction. A sly smile played across his gaunt features.

“I have been waiting for a chance to speak with you for some time,” Raistlin replied in his whispering voice. “I think it best to keep our chat a secret from Terris Loft.”

A spark of interest crossed Torf's fat face and he grinned back nastily.

“And what would you say to me, magic user?”

“Only that I find it unfair that such well-seasoned men as yours are kept on the sidelines while the rest take the better part of the loot,” Raistlin shrugged his thin shoulders.

“And what's it to you?” Torf looked slightly less suspicious now, all hobgoblins being fools for flattery.
“As you have noticed, I too have been held back,” Raistlin continued, “and to be frank, I grow weary of being denied part of the loot while the rest of the men grow rich from spoils.”

Torf hobbled over to a large chair in the center of his tend, sitting down with a great heave and observing Raistlin with curiosity. The chair buckled and squeaked in protest under the tremendous weight.

“You heard Terris tonight,” The hobgoblin said gruffly, “we will get to see plenty of action and loot once we mobilise to take Hope's End.”

“Oh, I do not think so... at least not from what I hear.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“Let's just say I overheard Terris and his men talking about their actual plan for the invasion of the city and it is not the same as what he would have us- or you- believe.”

“Well don't just stand there leering like a shmuck- spill the beans?” Torf was losing his patience.

This was the moment Raistlin was waiting for.

“After tomorrow's ambush this company is preparing to take the city at last- before the snows begin,” Raistlin licked his lips and held a dramatic pause for emphasis. “But first they will take out the trash and slaughter your hobs and gobs because surprise, surprise- bandits don't like to share.”

That was not the case, considering the hobs comprised a good third of the entire bandit force. However, Raistlin played upon the commander's suspicious nature and brewing anger to convince him of what he wanted.
Torf was up from his chair in a spitting rage. The abused piece of furniture fell to the floor with a loud noise of protest.

“That filthy piece of man flesh!” The hob screamed, “why I would... I would....”

“May I propose a plan of action?” Raistlin intervened smoothly.

“And what's in it for you, mage?”

“Let us just say that Loft's tent is overflowing with the treasure he has wrongfully kept back from you,” Raistlin pulled a hand out of his pocket, showing Torf a palm full of multicoloured gems. The jewels caught the light of an oil lamp and began to glow brilliantly.

Torf caught his breath and hobbled over to the mage licking his lips and bending over the gems with an outstretched hand.

“A-a-a-” Raistlin waved a finger of his free hand in the hobs fat face. “Finders keepers. You may look but no touching. There is plenty more where this came from. However, the jewels interest me little. I know there are some magic artefacts among the hoard which I wish to claim as my reward for the help.”

Torf snickered.

“Magic users are always power hungry- however, I am sure we could be of use to one another. What do you propose?”

“I will drug the soup rations tonight- the majority of Terris' men will be afflicted with a terrible stomach ache tomorrow morning. Which will mean that he will have no choice but to take my men with him to the ambush. Once the caravan has been taken, my men will overwhelm Terris and anyone loyal to him. At the same time your men should take the camp. Forget Hope's End. Why waste your lives when you can have treasure enough to live comfortably and not lick the heels of some pathetic human?”

“Simple yet efficient,” Torf rubbed his chin in satisfaction, picked up the knocked over chair and plumped his heavy body back into the seat. “I like the way you think wizard- how will we know when the time has come to take the camp?”

“The elf-girl will be with the men going to the ambush- once Terris has been dispatched she will set off a flare that will signal us to action over here. There is only one more thing I require of you, commander.”

“And that is?”

“Loft has been reluctant to reveal what he knows about the Northern armies. I want to know what is going on up there.”

It is true that after their initial capture the outlaw leader had been careful not to speak much more about the armies.

Torf, however, was more than enticed to be indulgent.

After learning what he needed to know, the young mage exited the tent carefully, making sure to look around for anyone that might see him leave before he sank into the shadows of the trees. Raistlin fingered the glass baubles in his pocket and smirked to himself. So easy to fool those who want to be fooled with a bit of glamour magic. His hand then moved from the baubles to the full pouch of powdered mandrake root under the fold of his robe and his smirk deepened. It was good to finally be active after weeks of stagnation.

Raistlin reached the main camp and caught sight of Silviana. The elf-girl sat near the edge of the clearing on the far side of the camp from him, exactly where they agreed she would be when he came back from Torf's tent. She sat cross-legged, her journal propped open on her lap, chin resting lightly on the palm of her hand. Her loose, wavy hair spilling over her shoulder hiding her face in shadow and the campfire coloured it a warm, honey amber. For a second, Raistlin's caught his breath, allowing himself to admire the beauty that was so rare for him to see. The next second, Silviana was looking up, eyes scanning the trees in search of him. Once their gazes met across the glade he nodded to her briefly and disappeared back into the forest.

Silviana got up from her spot and loosened her own pouch of mandrake. Proceeding silently she approached the soup cauldron closest to her and dropped a handful drugs into the boiling brew when no one was looking. Somewhere on the other side of camp, Raistlin was doing the same thing.

***

The following morning started with a bang and a prolonged sound of retching that, amplified by the quiet of dawn, awoke the entire camp.

Brendaun, having stumbled in delirium and knocked over a cauldron, was now heaving into the remnants of spilled stew.

“Bloody Abyss!” The lank-haired warrior bellowed hoarsely. “What confounded fiends wrecked havoc upon my stomach last night?”

All around him, others were rising to see what the commotion was. Several bandits grew green upon gaining their feet and, grabbing at their own bellies, fell back on the ground. A collective sound of puking and swearing ensued as more and more men found themselves hopelessly sick upon waking. In no time, the ground was covered with bile and writhing figures.

“What is going on here?” Terris Loft called out, running toward the center of the grisly scene and minding his boots. “Brendaun, what happened?”

The man, now lying on his back and shaking uncontrollably, caught Loft's eye with his feverish ones.

“The sweating sickness is upon us!” Brendaun murmured, “the wrath of the gods is laying waste to our forces!”

“'The wrath of the gods?'” Terris was in a fury, “You are delirious man! Get up the lot of you!”

The command had no effect on the ill men. Those of Loft's bandits who had evaded the effects of Raistlin's poison shuffled over uneasily, weapons clasped uncertainly in hand. The overall impact was devastating. Nearly all of the strongest members of the group were rendered useless, slumped in shapeless lumps all over the encampment. Among them were Loft's fifteen chosen cronies, the ones he trusted most. Of some two hundred men, a mere fifty seemed fit for battle.

“The caravan is drawing near and the lot of you do not have the experience of my usual men!” Loft spat at the ground, only one thing in mind, “With Brendaun and the rest out of commission there is not much time to reorganise and prepare, unless...”

His quick eyes darted toward Raistlin's group. The mercenaries from Hope's End sat against a large oak tree, not having drawn near when Loft called his summons. They rarely went out as a group together, although Caramon was usually picked to go on the excursions. Now Loft, desperate for his plan to proceed, approached them with a feverish glare.

Silviana caught her breath and tried not to look anxious, her hands knotted into tight fists under her cloak. Last night's skulking mission had deeply affected the girl's nerves. The encampment was a vast one, many of the tents hidden among the trees. There were over a hundred large cauldrons in all for preparing the stews. With any less preparation, their plan would have failed easily. But they have had weeks now to note the positions, to count the steps, to figure out who ate first and who last. In the end, it has been almost too easy; the bandits paid little heed now to Langtree's small troop and Silviana and Raistlin were good at hiding in the shadows. Only a few had managed to fit in their meal before the pots had been drugged with mandrake and the disparaging effects were obvious now. Out of all the smaller groups in the encampment, Langtree's mercenaries were the only ones to seem fully intact.

Loft must find it suspicious how none of us has been taken ill, Silviana found herself thinking. However, Raistlin had been a good judge of character. He had assured them that men like Terris, whose main drive was ambition, would always fall apart at the slightest hindrance to their plans and as such, would fail to notice the obvious.

“Aye! Two wizards should seal the deal! Assuredly! You men will all go out today and the two mages will spin some magic for us!”

Loft's desperation was obvious from his throwing caution to the wind and suggesting to have the mages accompany them, something he had never done before.

Caramon, Rudd, Scrounger and the others rose slowly. Raistlin made a show of struggling to his feet, clinging to the Staff of Magius. Halfway up, the young mage fell to his knees, sweat dripping from his brow and hoarsely vomited on the ground.

The rest of their small group drew away abruptly as Raistlin quaked with feigned fever. He was, after all, a performer and doling up some fake vomit was child's play. The rest of the mercenaries acted in accordance with the show and no one skipped a beat.

“Raistlin!” Silviana rushed forward to grasp his shoulder, feeling him even now recoil from her touch. “Raistlin, are you alright?”

“I am afraid,” the mage whispered in his low voice, “that I too have the sweating sickness.” He coughed, and some quite real blood dribbled down his chin.

Loft was growing angrier, his men becoming more agitated as a result.

“We could take the hobs and gobs...” someone in the assembled crowd suggested meekly.

“I will not do an ambush with them again!” Torf snarled, “they will serve their purpose when we reach the city and catapult their slimy asses over the walls of Hope's End.” He aimed a disgusted look at Raistlin. “You better not die until then you simpering wizard! The woman mage comes with us and so do the rest of you! NOW!”

With that the outlaw turned on his heel, sword in hand and motioned for all to follow him toward a hidden path out of the clearing. Caramon looked at Raistlin uncertainly, worry in his big, round eyes, not wanting to leave his brother, even knowing that Raistlin's illness was mostly feigned.

“Raist..” he started a weak protest knowing it was no good even before his twin's steady gaze commanded him to go. Biting his lip, Caramon turned and went after Terris. This was, after all, their best means of escape, if they failed to succeed they would be found out for sure and then likely put to death.

As Silviana followed suit warily, Raistlin caught her arm in his thin hand, his fingers clasping her wrists so tightly she nearly gasped.

“Do not fail,” she heard his barely audible whisper.

Gulping nervously, the elf-woman ran to keep up, her chin set and determined, long hair braided and trailing behind her.

Raistlin watched her go and told himself that he felt nothing. Nothing, as the beams of the rising sun hit her locks in a dazzle of refracting light; Nothing, as her faint smell of lilacs lingered on the air when she passed; Nothing, as the warmth of her hand faded from his gaunt shoulder. Nothing was and nothing will and nothing may again.

Suddenly tired, the red-robe slumped back against the oak-tree which decomposed in his sight and closed his eyes against its skeletal limbs, wanting to feel only the sturdy life that was in this wooden giant. Sighing bitterly, Raistlin cast her retreating image out of his mind and waited. He would need to give them half an hour at most before proceeding with his end of the plan. Unbidden memories swam before his eyes as he began to count down the minutes till taking action...
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Red on Red