"Folk get kicked out of towns for being witches too," one of the other men noted.
"It's warlock, you dick-sucking morons." Turvall grunted and pushed slowly to his feet as he tried to ignore the small twinges in his joints. It was possibly not wise to antagonize them, but he had a special disdain for stupidity. "Witches are women, warlocks are men. Do I look like I have tits to you?"
The group exchanged a glance as they considered the terminology they had just learned.
The crossbowman was the first to speak. "Is you one of them…warlocks, then?"
"Do you honestly think a warlock would allow a group of hapless deserters to sneak up on him? Or that a man who can call fire down from the sky like rain would allow himself to be pushed onto the ground?"
The group shuffled warily and the leader glared at Turvall.
"How does you know that we's deserters if you's not a war…warlock?" He sounded like the word was an unfamiliar taste in his mouth and had to work his jaw a few times to get it right.
"Because your armor and weapons are stamped with the mark of the Viscount of Benning. So either you killed the previous owners and took it from them, or you were outfitted and deserted. All things considered, I find the latter option more likely, don't you agree?"
The men nodded, unaware that they had been insulted. The truth was, it did make more sense, even to them.
"Fuck that shit, old man," the leader finally stated. "We're taking your possessions and your donkey, and if you try to resist, we'll kill you. If you don't, we'll leave you alive. With naught but the clothes on your back, unfortunately, which might as well be a death sentence for you, but those are the risks you take when you venture through wild territory."
"So, the options are to die quickly at your hands or die slowly from the cold or starvation?" Turvall asked and looked at each man in turn. "Are you sure those are the options you want to present me with? Because if I'm perfectly honest, being gutted and left to bleed out does feel like the better choice."
Once again, the group looked stunned. They hadn't expected to find a victim who preferred to die quickly.
"Well then, we might as well kill you and take your possessions," the leader snapped, pushed him down again, and motioned for one of the men to come forward with a spear.
Turvall raised his hands to stop them. "Hold!” The brigand hesitated. “Or I can give you something a great deal more valuable—something that will allow you to leave these wretched parts and enjoy a few luxuries in life instead of scratching a living from unfortunate travelers, of which there cannot be many. I would do this willingly in exchange for leaving me my possessions and my donkey."
The leader motioned for his men to stop their rummaging and narrowed his eyes as he stepped closer. "What d’you speak of, old'un?"
He pushed onto his elbows and finally into a seated position, leaned against a nearby pine, and eased himself into a more comfortable position. "Even you must have heard of the Mercenary Guild in Verenvan? ʼTis where folk of your particular leanings are able to make a legal living—and a good one—while living under the protection of Archduke Primor."
The group exchanged glances.
"Of course," the man answered and once again seemed oblivious to the suggested insult in the words. "But we’re not likely to earn ourselves a membership given our status as deserters. High-and-mighties tend to frown on that kind of thing."
"Generally, you would be right, but if you show yourselves capable of great deeds and have the proof thereof, exceptions will be made. For example, if you were to clear a dungeon already on the Guild's bill of dangers, you would be presented with a membership to the guild without so much as a question about your more questionable past."
The ruffians looked interested and inched closer to the old man, who remained seated and remarkably calm for a victim.
"It transpires that I am in possession of a contract with a map leading to one such dungeon. This was entrusted to me by the Lord Marshall himself to deliver into the hands of a group I deem capable of fulfulling the contract and collecting the reward, both that they might find within the keep as well as from the Lord Marshall. It would be sufficient to find you all comfortable lodgings in civilized company, with more work to follow."
The brigand leader took another step forward. "I won't simply take your word on it, old'un. Hand it over. Show us."
Turvall tried not to roll his eyes at the age-old tactic, but he reached into his coat pocket and pulled the scroll out. It was provided with a leather covering sealed in golden wax with the sign of an eagle with three arrows in its talons.
The foul-smelling man with a scraggly beard and tattered clothes under his armor snatched it out of his hands and peered at the inscription. It took him a few seconds of idly looking at it upside down before the old man realized he couldn't read.
He soon acknowledged his limitations and merely handed it to the crossbowman, who immediately turned it over and mumbled softly.
"For everyone to hear, idiot!" the leader shouted.
"Right. It says that the bearer of this scroll is empowered and protected by the Archduke Primor in their quest to accomplish the deeds written within. Any attempt to…in…inter…"
"Interfere," the old man supplied helpfully, his expression neutral.
"Interfere in their actions will result in panel…penalties to be enforced by Grand Marshall Grimure."
"How do we know if this is real?" the leader asked and nudged his captive with his foot.
"Touch the seal and you'll find it is marked by the seal of the Archduke," he pointed out. "And the sting confirms that it was applied in the presence of his mage."
The warning was a few seconds early but still unheeded as the crossbowman touched the seal with his thumb, snatched his hand away, and uttered a yelp of pain as he dropped the scroll.
"It stung me!" he shouted.
Turvall raised a bushy eyebrow. "I did warn you."
"Very well. The scroll is as you claimed and we don’ have to kill ya for lyin’ t’us." The leader shrugged and gestured for the man with the spear to approach again. "I also hav’ta say you surrendered the best of your possessions without a fight.” He fixed the old man with a hard look. “A pity, then, that’ya would be able to tell the Grand Marshall that the scroll was stolen from you. As this would end poorly for us, we will have to kill you to silence yer gods-sucking blabbermouth."
Perhaps the man was a little smarter than he had given him credit for, the old man decided. Anyone found in possession of a stolen guild scroll would be drawn and quartered, and if he survived, he would certainly return to the guild and report it stolen. He had hoped the men would take the scroll, complete the task, and return for a reward that would be delivered by four horses sprinting to the four corners of the earth.
Then again, that would have been a little too easy.
"Scour the old'un's possessions," the leader commanded. "Take anything of worth. Then we gut the stringy bastard and leave him for the wolves."
Turvall sighed and leaned back against the tree again. It seemed he would have to revert to his original plan. This was what always happened when he tried to be a little too clever with his dealings.