Fjird and the Hart looked down upon the unconscious figure of the dwarven boy. Just a moment earlier he had been tearfully thanking them. They stared at his grimy, mud-splattered body, covered in rags and wounds.

"Almost felt sad for that poor bastard, I did"

"Don’t bother about them, if the leader had things his way, they’d all be dead by now. Count them lucky" Fjird replied.

"Why don't the Leader do something about it? The cargo ain't gonna make it at this rate."

"Almost feel the coins slipping out our hands."

"What do you say we do something for them poor bastards? Heal 'em? Fix 'em up?"

"We might as well plaster them up with gold coins"

"Can't be that bad can it?"

"The plan couldn't have gone any poorer."

"Well, we only had a few casualties." They watched the boy wriggle around some more, the poison clearly having taken effect even within his sleep.

"We got something like ten of these bastards left. Unlike them orcs, they're fragile."

"We dealt in orcs before?"

"Yeah in the hundreds. Those were the good days."

"This band dealt with orcs?"

"Yeah most you new recruits don't know, but we dealt in orcs, and we dealt good. Was till this bastard came along and cleaved the old Leader's head off with Balthazar's certification. The Lord appointed this bastard."

"Is the Lord a madman? This bastard doesn't know the first thing about controlling the band."

"Anybody who demands orcs in the hundreds and throws out their remains the very next day is bound to be considered a madman. Not my place to really say things though. They say the rocks have ears, and axes if Balthazar were to have his way. But he pays us and that's all well and good unless we fuck the cargo up."

"What happens if we fuck the cargo up?"

"What happened to the last leader"

"What happened to the last leader when he fucked the cargo up?"

"We got our current leader"

"Ah."

"Well unless you want to be four feet underground, then you might as well drop this kid back onto the cart and get the next one." After sparing the suffering child one more glance, Hart left. Poor bastard, he thought.
____
The eldest watched the going-ons with much interest. He knew what awaited him. He would soon be fed that filthy bread and that poison. He shuddered. He didn't want to remember that pain. That terrible, terrible pain. Within moments of having consumed that poison, he would soon be incapacitated. It would reduce him to little more than a limp rag. He would become their cargo. He hated them. Those bastards, he hated them. It was them who had ruined his life. Damn it all, if only he had the foresight to see that this would be a trap.

It was far too painful to think of the consequences of his actions. He watched as Hirgid, Rnaik, and Frudln were all thrown upon the floor and fed that poison. If they tried to resist in the least, it was shoved down their throat, painfully. He needed to avoid it at all costs. Somehow he would have to avoid it. He needed food less desperately than he wanted to avoid the pain. That pain he would avoid at all costs. That pain he would avoid at any cost. Somehow. But how? That was the dilemma. They would force him to eat it. And they would make sure that he swallowed it. He winced as he saw Vinduln get kicked in the throat. A second later the poison went down painfully.

Perhaps he could bargain with them. A deal. To let him avoid that poison. But what did he have to trade? Nothing. Nil. Nada. Absolutely nothing. Wonderful, he mused. What else was there that he could do? His mind raced as he worked out what he could do. He had been elected the leader of the band because he had helped them solve many of their problems. Not merely because he had been the eldest. At the least, that was what he had believed till now. His competence had never quite been tested in this way before. As a leader, he had always solved their problems. Simple grudges that seemed rather complex to him at the time. An assortment of issues that couldn't compare to the life and death situations that awaited him now. He was completely out of his depth.

He glanced back up. Time was running out. Think he roared within his mind. Think. Think. Something. Anything at all would work. Frustration gripped him and he smacked head against the bottom of the cart. His head only stung, and no more thoughts flew into his mind. What to do, what to do. Perhaps the grass. Perhaps if he were to swallow some of those weeds, perhaps he might throw it all up later on. Perhaps. But did the poison work quickly enough? He didn't know. He could only wait for it all. He could only wait.
_______

 

"We done with them all?" spoke Fjird, as he shot a sharp glance at Hart.

"One left," Hart grunted. They both looked up at the three carts, two piled with bodies and the other holding supplies. Around them, tents fluttered in the cool breeze, some twenty all in all. The carts stood tall in the middle of the encampment, surrounded by the tents the men slept in. There were some thirteen tents in all, each housing one or two men. But at the very outskirts, a good hundred meters or so away, stood a lone tent. It was taller than the rest, and the only one with a banner. The banner itself was a monstrosity of red and yellow, with the crest of what appeared to either be a decapitated dragon, or an owl in the middle. It flapped despairingly with the wind, and what once must have been grandeur, had given way to an aura of decay. The reds were scruffy, almost a black, and the yellow the color of mud. Several holes proudly ventilated the tall structure, and it seemed malnourished, and in want of something; perhaps good stitching.

"Why do you reckon he does that?" Hart asked.

"Does what?"

"Y'know, out there."

"Out there?"

"Yeah, right out there. Could be killed by the wolves couldn't he?"

"I dunno."

"He don't trust us do he?"

"He doesn't trust anybody."

"The hell make a man act like that?"

"Rumour had it he was the only one to make it out of Balthazar's dungeons."

"Oof."

"But rumors will always be rumors. Certain to say that Balthazar knew this bastard well enough. Whether he was part of Balthazar's experiments I cannot tell."

"No? It damn well seems to me like he's seen some… things before..."

"Whatever it is, I don't wish to find out."

"Well back to work. As it is, we're running late."

____

The sound of footsteps did not bode well for the eldest. He glanced around him briefly, and then his eyes fell upon his captors. The two of them again. He shivered. It was time he made a decision. Beyond the time he made a decision really. It would have to be the dirt. He did not know what plants adorned the Iron Hills, and he did not care to find out if they were poisonous or not. He prayed to himself that the dirt would make him vomit whatever accursed medicine they made him swallow.

He felt the two hands grip him, and lift him up. In a second he was out of the cart. He glanced at a pile of feces that stood next to the cart. It was some wonder that could not smell it. Then again, the inside of his nose had been burning ever since he had swallowed that poison. He lay upon the floor, too weak to move, as they dropped a little water in front of him. He lapped it up eagerly, ignoring the metallic taste of earth. Before long he was offered the bread. He knew it to contain whatever poison they would give him. But he had to eat it anyway. With a grimace, it went down his throat. He could almost immediately feel the burning sensation that was indicative of the poison. He prayed that he would not fall victim to it again. As surreptitiously as he could he swallowed a mouthful of Earth. And another. The grains scraped his throat. He felt like he was choking, but he swallowed anyway. He could feel his stomach churning, but he ignored it. Would it work?

He waited for bile to rise up in his throat, for whatever he had swallowed to come back out. But nothing did. And then he passed out.
_____

"That better have been the last one," Fjird grumbled as he looked at the cart. It had taken them ages to arrange all of the dwarves. It had been difficult. The dwarves may have been short, but they sure as hell weighed as much as a full grown man. Short indeed. He snorted and felt somewhat satisfied, now that each of the bastards had been forced into upright positions. It was his handiwork. Couldn't have the cargo dying on them now. He glanced at Hart before continuing.

"Best we get a move on now. The bastards would've set up the fire already."

"If they did set it up early boss, you can count on me to give it to ‘em proper." Fjird laughed in response as they walked away from the carts towards the rest of the tents. The sky had grown dull, a dusky brown. The last rays of the sun were visible on the horizon, and the clouds were thick. The night would soon be upon them, and today would be the last day they could camp like this. After a day's walk, they would soon reach the center of the Iron Hills. The grass grew as tall as a man there, and little could be seen. But those were somber thoughts, and tonight Fjird banished them to the back of his mind. Tonight he would join the rest of the men in drinking the hearty beer that they had brought at Stannin. Unlike most dwarven beer it didn't taste of metal. Fjird smiled as he finally joined the men. They all sat in a large circle, with a large fire in the center.

 

The famed black grass of the Iron Hills fueled this fire. It was a fierce blaze, the sparks rising some fifteen tall feet into the sky. It certainly may have seemed like bad judgment to a stranger, but this was necessary. The men's morale would begin to flag as they moved into the heart of the Iron Hills. It would be a taxing journey after all. Many a beast, nay monster lay hidden within the heartlands. Wolf attacks would occur often, and often enough that at least a quarter of the men wouldn’t make it out alive. Here, the only threat was the Dwarven Knights. And it was unlikely that the Knights would follow them till here. During the last skirmish, they had made sure that none of the Knights could mount up for at least a week. Besides many of them were inexperienced in defense. After all, the Iron Hills was not exactly a hotbed of violence. Battles were uncommon, and the vast majority of the cities had no guard of their own.

 

As he walked a little cheer rose up amongst the men. He could hear several voices calling out to him. Older members of the group, some of the newbies, and a couple of his friends. He chuckled and accepted their greetings, returning a few of his own. He sat down on the dry dirt and accepted a mug of beer. A somewhat thin boar was quickly strung up on a stick, and let to roast. The warm and aromatic smell of appetizing food began to rise up into the air. A far cry from the normally dry bread and jerky they had to swallow every day. Today was likely the last day he would enjoy. He grinned and got ready to make merry. Today he felt like nothing could go wrong.

 

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the leader walk into the gathering. What a jinx. Behind him were Buck and Mort. Even Better. At this point, the two of them were practically infamous amongst the men. He snorted and ignored them. And then he heard the leader call out his name.

 

___

 

The leader had sworn as loudly as he could the moment he’d seen the damn cargo. The whole lot of them had been patched up, some filthy poultice lined their wounds, and they were all unconscious. Fjird had done it to defy him. It was clear. It was clear as day. Fjird knew it, and he knew it. They both knew what it was all about. It was a filthy waste of herbs. They would need the medicine when they made it to the grasslands, hell, if they didn’t have it they were as good as dead. Any waste of it would be an absolute nightmare. It was as good as throwing away their lives.

 

He knew that there was a mutiny brewing, and he knew that it would come soon. But if he didn’t do what he had to do, he would have it from Balthazar. The cargo would make it one way or another. The hell did Fjird know about transporting cargo more than him. He had sworn again and then called for Buck and Mort. Mort was getting a little too smart these days though. Took more time than he needed to. There seemed a bit more of a rebellious glint in his eye than before. Damned bastard. But that wasn’t what was on his mind right now. He swore loudly and walked into the midst of the men.

 

“Fjird you goddamn bastard,” Mort walked over and grabbed Fjird by the collar of his linens. The Northern Bastard stared back peculiarly, almost surprised. “The fuck you do to the damn cargo?”

 

The leader doubted if the bastard had even understood what he’d done. It mattered little though. It mattered very little. Fjird gazed back intently, pondering his response for a second. A Second was all he got. And then Mort’s foot hit him in the groin. The camp immediately descended into an uproar. There were curses being thrown about, and a bottle of intense smelling beer exploded next to Buck’s foot. Nothing hit the leader though.

 

“I kept the cargo alive, the hell else did you want me to do?” Fjird wheezed out. His breath was short, and he was undoubtedly in intense pain. 

 

“The Hell do you think you’re doing,” roared Hart. In a second all 130 pounds of Hart made contact with Mort’s somewhat surprised face. It had been a long time since any of the men dared to touch him. Unfortunately for Mort, he did not have as long a time to question his superiority before someone dared to touch him again. In fact, he had little less than a second to respond as Hart’s other fist found the other side of his face. And then Hart’s rebellious outburst stopped almost as quickly as it had begun. The leader’s iron blade next to his throat was a good enough prerogative for that. 

 

The leader’s scowl only deepened as he watched some bastard rebel. They were out for him, and he knew it. Sooner or later it would’ve become a mutiny, and it had now. What a surprise. If he gave the bastard any leeway it wouldn’t be long before all of the men would be up in arms against him. He had half a mind to kill that damn bastard, and that greasy backstabber, Fjird, right now. Fjird though was not dispensable. The bastard knew it, and that was why he dared to rebel. Damned bastard. A voice interrupted his silent contemplation though.

 

“Don’t screw with the newbie, he still doesn’t know how things don’t work around here.”

 

“An excuse if I ever heard one” Chuckled Buck.

 

“If he’s still incompetent, then nobody ought to give a fuck about him.” spoke the Leader. There was an uncomfortable silence.

 

“Do whatever you want to me then, he stood up for me didn’t he,” All eyes went to Fjird’s grim face. The leader was somewhat surprised. For a second he fumbled. His sword pierced Hart’s shoulder rather cleanly. That bastard Fjird. He was clearly pushing it. He was the healer, and he couldn’t be touched. He had to be taken care of. The newbie may as well have been an example. 

 

“You bastard,” Fjird roared, amidst Hart’s screams. It was a harrowing scene. The rest of the men stood silent upon the sidelines. Nobody wanted to be the next Hart. If they acted, they knew they would taste cold steel. He began to lift himself off the ground, only for Buck to graciously step on his head. His yell was somewhat muted as it came through the dirt. A second step promptly shut him up, and a kick to the ribs incapacitated him. That bastard Buck, he was getting a little too eager, wasn’t he? The leader hadn’t even given a command, and Buck had acted. It didn’t bode well. 

 

The leader somewhat casually shrugged his shoulders, before continuing his announcements.

 

“Now put out this infernal fire before you start a sky-high blaze. You might as well signal the damn dwarven knights to our location, you goddamn bastards,” He snorted in righteous indignation. Damn right, he thought. He still remembered the somewhat unnecessary conflict that had greeted them as they had walked away from one of the first dwarven towns. They had lost two men to the bumbling Dwarven Knights. It was an absolutely botched job. Not that anything about this whole mess wasn’t botched except for this.

 

He walked out unperturbed, letting the blood drip onto the iron grass as he walked. He would be damned if these bastards weren’t already planning a goddamn mutiny. It was time he nipped this insolence in the bud.

___

 

Fjird gathered up his little traveling apothecary back in the chest. He put each herb back in their respective places carefully, delicately. The chest contained everything he valued, and practically everything he owned. From the mortar and pestle to the little sachet of nightshade he happened to conveniently have on hand, he arranged them all again for the third time.

 

“The wound settling well?” Hart winced as he replied in short gasps.

 

“The pain’s gone, but the breathing comes hard.”

 

“It’ll settle.”

 

“The fuck’s wrong with him? You did what you did, and nothing’s gonna change that. Besides the cargo wasn’t going to make it otherwise.”

 

“Well, he is right about the grasslands though. We’ll need it there.”

 

“I’ll be damned if we made through the grasslands alive, only to die to Balthazar’s hands. What about the fire?”

 

“Damn idiocy. Then again, on the off chance that he was right, we would be in deep shit. Twenty of us all drunk, and unable to move an inch against fifty well-trained knights. What do you think of your chances?”

 

“Not the best eh?”

 

“No chance at all”

 

“Well I have to admit, right now I couldn’t care less.” And at that Hart laughed, before he choked in pain, as his ribs complained. Fjird took a look at the newbie and couldn’t help but join in. It was going to go fine.