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| Durant's Yellow Jackets |
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| Episode Two: Desert Raiders |
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| Part One of Two “And people live here?” complained Johannes, staring at the scattered clumps of scrabbly rock, scant tree cover and endless sand dunes. Karl Ulrich cuffed the newcomer on the side of the head. “Would we be out here if nobody lived here?” asked Karl, fixing the crossbowman with his good eye. “It ain’t like Marienburg, but some folk definitely call it home. Now shut up and keep marching. Else I’ll have you carry my pack too.” Disconcerted by the grizzled veteran’s glare, Johannes mumbled a few obscenities into the scarf covering his face and continued forward. The Yellow Jackets had been trekking through the deserts of Araby for three days now, their drink and gambling-filled sojourn in Marienburg long gone and greatly missed. They were supposed to have been in the Oasis of a Thousand and One Camels several days ago, but the magic of Franz Arbach’s summoning coin seemed to be a temperamental thing. Instead of arriving in the trading post, Durant had found himself face down in a high sand dune, with nothing but the shifting sands for scenery, and nothing but the wheeling stars to guide them. They had camped by day, trying their best to recuperate after the all night marches through freezing desert. Water was beginning to run low, and a few of the band were beginning to show the effects of dehydration. Thus it had been with great relief that Durant and his men had finally set eyes on their goal. Though Durant knew the Oasis was only the first stage in their latest mission. His employer, Franz Arbach, had given Durant the name of a contact in the Oasis, from whom Durant might learn the location of the Diadem of B’akhtar. That was all the information Durant had been given, and now he put his band of mercenaries in harm’s way once more. Durant regarded the sprawling settlement with a curious eye. It was the first time he had seen a city constructed almost entirely out of canvas. Tents formed circles and streets, with a heaving crowd of robed and veiled men and women throwing the sand that passed for roads. With the all-enclosing dress that was most favoured for the harsh desert environment, Durant found it difficult to determine much about the people moving about below. Race, gender, age were often left to the observer’s discretion. It was possible, for instance, that the lean, tall figures standing outside a carpet stall were Elves, but they could just as easily have been thin and lanky humans. Durant felt a twinge of concern. He always liked to know who he was dealing with. Wrapping his scarf tighter around his mouth and nose, trying to keep out most of the cloying dust, Durant le the group into the main thoroughfare of the Oasis, perhaps appropriately named, Trader’s Alley. It was time to put Arbach’s promises to the test. Durant recalled that the contact’s name was Kalhid Al-Kulleh, a spice merchant with whom Arbach had dealt with many times. The merchant Al-Kulleh was a thinly disguised fence, according to Arbach, which made Durant more uneasy. The bag of gold coins tucked far into Durant’s desert robes was to ensure Al-Kulleh’s assistance. The Yellow Jackets gathered around their captain, just out of sight of the tent city, concealed by a sand dune. “I know you’re all tired, and thirsty,” said Durant, scanning the faces of his men to see their responses. Nods and grunts of affirmation greeted him. “But if a group of a dozen of us just waltz into this camp, people are going to notice.” A few groans. Durant’s eyes narrowed. “If anyone wants to complain, take it up with Karl.” One look at the imposing, single-eyed brute was usually enough to quiet dissension. This situation proved no exception. Durant continued. “So, Torval, Heinz and I’ll go first. The rest of you split up into groups of three, and enter in about an hour, preferably from a different direction if you can. We’ll meet at this makeshift tavern, called The Three Camels, in three hours. Anyone not there-” Durant’s staring eyes burned into his son’s face, “- can consider their share of the loot gone. Got it?” Wilhelm Durant seemed on the verge of protesting, but decided not to. Durant shot a final glance at his son, then joined Torval and Heinz, who were already prepared. “Three hours,” Durant repeated, before he disappeared over the dune with his two companions. The remaining mercenaries remained quiet, until a young voice broke the silence. “So what are we supposed to do in the meantime?” asked Wilhelm. A firm cuff on the head from Karl Ulrich soon quieted the young man. “Wait I suppose,” mumbled Wilhelm under his breath. “Why yes, of course my old friend Arbatch,” said a hearty voice. “That’s, er, Arbach, sir,” chipped in Heinz. “Yes, dear old Arbatch, how is the man, that old son of a hobgoblin?” “He’s fine,” replied Durant. “He said you would be expecting us.” “That’s right, his message came a few days go. Then you must be Durrent, welcome to the Oasis.” Durant half-opened his mouth, ready to correct the merchant, but he was cut off. “So, Mr. Durrent, where is the money Mr. Arbatch promised me?” the jovial air of Al-Kulleh had disappeared suddenly, replaced by a ruthless glint. Durant had seen the same look in Arbach’s eyes whenever the issue of money was raised. “I have the money,” said Durant coolly. “If you have the information.” There was a tension in the air, Durant could feel the hairs on the back of his neck tingle. For the first time, he noticed that Al-Kulleh was wearing a curved sword at his belt, and was flanked two heavily-armoured thugs, both mean sporting thick beards and snarling expressions. Al-Kulleh’s hand was straying towards the jewel- encrusted hilt of his sword, and for several moments Durant wished he’d brought more men. Al-Kulleh’s face lightened, his hard-edged glint replaced by a smile. He turned away from Durant and the others, and picked up a glass filled with a greenish liquid. Al-Kulleh poured the liquid into four small glasses. He handed one to each of the mercenaries, and took the final one for himself. “I’m a man of my word, Mr. Durrent,” said Al-Kulleh, eying Durant over the rim of his glass. The green liquid reflected in his eyes, distracting Durant for a moment. “And if you’re sent by Arbatch, then I know who to come after should anything go awry.” Durant was impressed by Al-Kulleh’s Reikspiel, delivered with barely a hint of his Araby roots. The fruits of a lifetime’s dealing with men of Marienburg and the Empire. “Come on, drink up,” said Al-Kulleh. He went first, draining the small glass in a matter of seconds. Durant and the others followed suit. Torval let out an audible wince, he was one of the few men Durant knew who didn’t spend most of their share on drink. Durant himself spluttered upon finishing the glass. It was fruity, smooth, but very, very strong. While Torval and Heinz finished their drinks, Al-Kulleh took Durant to an ornate chest, inlaid in ivory and turquoise. The images carved into the wood were of historical warriors from Araby’s past. Durant couldn’t be sure, but he guessed the chest was worth more than his family’s home in Marienburg, perhaps even the whole street. Al-Kulleh inserted a silvery key, and lifted the chest lid open. The inside of the chest was fur-lined, but all that was inside was a folded scrap of parchment. Al-Kulleh lifted it out, and held it towards Durant. Durant removed the coin purse from within his robes, and held it out towards Al-Kulleh. Before the exchange was made, Al-Kulleh spoke in a low voice. “Just so you know, once we make this transaction, I’m not responsible for what might ensue. If you get into trouble because of this” - he brandished the parchment in Durant’s eyeline - “don’t come back here complaining to me.” “Fair enough,” said Durant, and he handed over the purse. Al-Kulleh passed him the parchment, which Durant tucked back into the same hidden pocket. “Pleasure doing business with you,” said Al-Kulleh. “May the light of Al-Zabar guide you.” Durant nodded his thanks, and gestured to Torval that it was time to leave. Heinz was the first out, followed by Torval. Durant was a few steps from the door when Al-Kulleh’s voice compelled him to turn back. “And Mr. Durrent, if you happen to survive this little adventure, and Arbatch stops giving you such assignments, do stop by. There’s always work in the desert.” “I’ll bear that in mind,” said Durant, and exited the tent to the low rumbles of Al-Kulleh’s laughter. Once out in the bustle of the Oasis, Heinz turned to his captain. “So, Captain Durant, are we in business?” “It would seem so Heinz. We should meet the others at The Three Camels.” Durant’s hand strayed to the pocket where he’d placed the parchment. His brow furrowed. “Something amiss Captain?” asked Torval, noting Durant’s concerned expression. “We’ll see Torval. Lousy merchants.” Wilhelm gaped at the jiggling navel before his eyes. The young mercenary was completely mesmerised. He had never seen the dance of the veils performed, and now he couldn’t imagine a more enticing form of entertainment. Another silken sheet fluttered gently to the ground, watched intently by Wilhelm. “Wilhelm,” said a voice, distant, distracting him from the dancing beauty in front of him. “Wilhelm,” came the voice again, louder this time, more insistent. Wilhelm just couldn’t tear his eyes away. A stiff slap to the face brought Wilhelm back to his senses, and simultaneously sent him sprawling to the ground. He lay for a moment on the soft bed of discarded silken veils, before rough hands jerked him to a decidedly more vertical position. He winced in pain from the unexpected slap, and stared into the single eye of Karl Ulrich. “Best keep your eyes off the dancers,” Karl let go of Wilhelm’s jacket, and handed him a pair of pistols. “And keep your hands on your guns.” Wilhelm took a closer look at the pistols and saw WD carved on each handle. The were his own weapons. “Yeah, sure Karl. Thanks,” said Wilhelm meekly. He checked the pistols’ chambers, and returned them to his belt. Karl stepped back and Wilhelm saw his father, a disappointed look on his face. “Keep your wits about you Wilhelm,” was Durant’s terse comment, before turning back to the rest of the mercenaries. “Listen up lads. We got what we came for, so finish your drinks and games, and be outside in five minutes or we’ll leave you behind.” Durant received nods of understanding from his men, then, satisfied with their response, strode out of The Three Camels. The blast of desert air hit him full in the face upon exiting the tent. He spat out a mouthful of sand, then wrapped his scarf tighter around his mouth and nose. He glanced up at the sky, mentally tracking the path of the sun. “Three more hours of daylight I reckon,” said Torval, his voice slightly muffled by the scarf covering his face. “That’s what I make it too,” said Durant. “Question is, can we make it to the mountains before that storm hits.” Torval followed Durant’s outstretched finger, to a dark line across, the southern horizon. Torval squinted, then turned to look toward the mountains to the north-west. “We’re going to be cutting it pretty close captain,” said Torval gloomily. “Ever been in a sandstorm before?” “No, and I don’t much want to be.” The two men watched as the Yellow Jackets filed out of the ten in ones and twos. Barely two minutes after Durant’s order, Karl was the last man out. “Come on lads, hope you’ve got your marching boots on,” said Durant, and then began to make his way through the crowds, and out of the Oasis. He knew that in a matter of minutes, he’d be wishing he was back in its shelter, for even the flimsiest tent was preferable to being caught out in a sandstorm. |
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| Part Two |
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