***Boots***
Boots and his small party moved swiftly thought the Drakewoods. They were in the far northeast of the woodland on the other side of the main road to Oswald's party, making their way towards the small camp that detained the townsfolk of Fenniton.
Boots took a quick look over his shoulder to confirm they hadn't lost anybody in the undergrowth. There was a total of six people in his party.
He had Fiona and Gerald with him. Behind them was Eric, Derek and Peter, three farmhands that had volunteered to come along. Bringing up the rear was Oliver, a local locksmith whose experience could prove most useful with freeing the prisoners.
They didn't have much by way of equipment, however. They had managed to gather a few knives and daggers; Derek had a spear. Oliver had managed to grab a few iron nails and what appeared to be random scraps of metal from the camp. He seemed to think they could come in handy. Boots was sceptical but had to admit he didn't have any idea how to pick locks, so it was a moot point.
Boots slowed the party to a halt with a paw movement of his paw.
Gerald's heavy breathing was bothering him.
He was pleasantly surprised Gerald had agreed to come along after hearing Boots's plan. True to his word he had jumped at the chance to volunteer. Boots suspected his eagerness was one of the main reasons the others had agreed to help. So he was thankful for that. Besides, for a geezer he was still surprisingly swift on his feet.
His makeshift walking stick moved in a blur beside him as he rocketed along like a man possessed!
But he was old.
Terribly old.
Boots didn't make a big deal out of it, he had been old himself once, well, at least once. He knew the feeling of trying to keep up with youngsters well.
"We'll take a five-minute breather." Boots muttered to his followers quietly, "I'd like to listen for enemy patrols."
He didn't need to do that at all. He could tell immediately there were no enemies nearby. He just didn't want Gerald to pop a lung before they got to their destination.
They sat there quietly in the undergrowth, catching their breath and listening.
"Boots," Fiona whispered, moving closer to him, "do you think the rest of them will really be okay back there?"
"Hmm." Boots considered.
They had brought the rest of the townsfolk with them into the Drakewoods but dropped them off at a clearing around a kilometre back. The possibility of enemy clearance patrols was very real in normal warfare.
But if Boots's estimate had been correct, the enemy would not treat this like a normal occupation. It was the army of Raxia attacking a town of Raxia. There was no army coming to liberate it. Judging what he had seen and heard so far of the enemy's discipline. He doubted they were maintaining battlefield practices and probably saw this more as a policing action rather than a potential battlefield.
Which more than played into Boots's favour. Although he was loathed to admit he could have done with more scouting and intelligence gathering before launching into this operation. If it wasn't for the time sensitive nature of their circumstances, he would have used tonight to gather information about his opponent and would've attacked tomorrow night, fully informed of his enemy's routines.
But the people of Fenniton didn't have that kind of time. Come tomorrow more snatchers would be turning up and more barges would be leaving with the much-needed supplies of the town.
He had to strike tonight. It was the only way.
"They should be safe Fiona; they will only be there for a few hours at most. And the enemy appears to be quite lacklustre with their security. There is no need to worry." he said with confidence.
Fiona nodded quietly, not fully convinced.
"It shouldn't take us long to free the rest of them either. The enemy has been quite helpful by putting all his eggs in one basket for us." Boots said with a smile.
"-ah!" Fiona said, surprised, as if suddenly remembering something.
Boots raised an eyebrow in her direction.
"Oh, its nothing." she said, biting her lip.
"Okay, in that case," Boots said, rising to his feet, "let's see if we can get a little closer then, shall we?"
***Roman***
Roman and the rest of his group followed stealthily behind Oswald.
The young apprentice was casting his 'Shadow of Darkness' spell in front of them.
It was certainly a bizarre thing to behold.
Roman had seen elemental magic before, but dark magic was a complete enigma to him. He found it quite impressive and mystical, truth be told.
They followed along single file behind Oswald into the passageway under the gate. They edged along the narrow path, wary of its bank. Falling into the waterway would spell immediate disaster for them.
Roman chanced a look over Oswald's shoulder, he couldn't see much, vague outlines in the distance at best. One of the downsides to the spell was that it was effective both ways, while it obscured their enemy's view, it also obscured their view of the enemy.
He just had to hope they wouldn't be noticed.
They moved further up the path and made it to the other side of the gate.
The sounds of the soldier's banter and horseplay grew louder and louder as they approached.
Roman could feel the sweat thickening on his paws.
They moved at a snail's pace so as not to attract attention through sudden movement.
It was sickeningly slow going.
As they manoeuvred cautiously round the perimeter of the inlet. They finally got close enough to hear some of what the five men on the dock were talking about.
"I mean, did you see the way that guy fell though?" said a short, but rather wide soldier
"Yeah it was messed up." said the one closet the lantern.
"I know right, it was so messed up, it was like…" the short stocky man started doing some sort of impersonation, with sound effects. Eventually falling to the floor to the cackling laughter of the group.
"I guess that's just what happens if you hit somebody in the spine hard enough." said a guy sitting on a box.
"Did you hear the crack it made!"
"It was kind of creepy, almost felt bad for a second." said the short one.
"Almost?"
"Aaaaaaah-ahahahaha!" he laughed mockingly, the rest of them joining in. "As if I'd feel bad for these rat-eating vermin!" he spat on the floor to emphasize his point.
His fellows cheered and the banter continued, louder still as they downed their drinks merrily.
Roman felt his hand tighten around the handle of the sword Fiona had given him earlier. It was a fine blade, the one that snatcher used to sit polishing all day at the camp. How Roman would love to bury it into the guts of those mutts on the dock! He'd bury it to the hilt!
He felt his hackles flaring as emotion started to get the better of him.
They were talking about a person, perhaps somebody he knew, and laughing about their final moments.
He would have to control himself for now though, there was important work to do.
They finally made it to the piles of supplies on the far-right hand side of the dock.
Oswald cancelled his spell once they were all nicely tucked out of sight.
He sat down, breathing heavily, it appears that the spell had been quite draining for the young man.
Roman decided to do a bit of looking around to see if there was a clear route out of the dock.
The most direct way would be to walk along the planks to the centre, where the street meets the wooden boards of the dock. However, this also happened to be the area where the buffoons were congregating.
Luckily, being a local town guard, he knew exactly where he could go to get to where he needed to be. There were two towers built into the wall, they stood either side of the gate. The entrance to one of those towers, was just to the right of the dock. Around thirty metres from their location, if that.
Roman silently conveyed to the others that he wanted them to follow him. Beckoning them with his hand. His companions nodded and fell in behind him in single file.
Using the crates and barrels they zig-zagged their way to the far-right hand side of the dock to a small stone doorway, built into the wall.
Roman closed his eyes momentarily, before gently trying the handle.
It was stiff, but not locked.
He wrestled the weathered handle free and pushed open the door quietly, listening for any change in the conversation on the dock.
Those morons were too busy with their drinking.
'Good.' thought Roman, giving one last look back before heading up the dark spiralling staircase.
He would burn the sound of that man's voice into his memory.
He hoped to see him on the battlefield.
They ran up the long flight of stairs all the way to the top to another unlocked door.
Opening the door, they found themselves atop the town wall, the wind sharply blew as they forced their way out onto the empty battlements.
It afforded them quite the view.
It was easy to see what the soldiers had been up to from up here, the town was relatively well lit at street level. There were drunk soldiers wandering around the streets, furniture, clothes, food and the occasional body lined the cobbled roads of Fenniton.
From up here it almost sounded like there was a festival going on. Small fires and groups of drunks falling over one another.
The Crusaders were having a wonderful time at the expense of the town they had ruined.
How could these savages call themselves soldiers?
It made Roman sick to his stomach.
He had grown up in this town, playing in its streets and fields. Almost everybody he ever knew lived here, every friend, family member and rival.
To see it in this state.
It just felt so wrong.
He just stood there, staring at it all.
He felt a hand squeeze his shoulder. He looked over and saw Simeon standing behind him.
"C'mon mate," he said with a hint of strained emotion, "we've got a job to do."
Roman nodded silently, there would be a time for retribution.
He would live to see them pay.
"Let's go."
***Fiona***
Fiona gingerly followed along behind Boots being as stealthy as she could. She had ventured into these woods many times as a girl, so she knew them well.
They felt so strange to her now though. It was such a familiar place, but where once was safety and laughter, there was now anxiety and fear.
She just wanted this to be over.
Boots had really surprised her; he had flipped her expectations of him on her head.
She never knew he could be so, competent.
Was this really the same man who made a hat out of bubbles in her family bath?
How could he be so calm?
How could he possess such tactical brilliance but bonk his head on every doorframe?
How could he wield that monstrous hammer like a knight of legend, when he can't even remember where he's from?
How can he be so cunning yet unable to tell a convincing lie?
How can he call himself a King when he can't even read?
Everything about him was a mystery. He was a walking contradiction.
But for some reason she trusted him.
Everyone trusted him.
You spend more than two hours with the man and he just gets to you. It's like he pulls you in with those big, goofy yellow eyes of his.
You end up wanting to be around him, just to see what he does next.
"Urrugh." Fiona vigorously scratched her head with annoyance, shaking the unwanted thoughts from her mind.
She had to focus on her task, the area where the camp was supposed to be, should be just up ahead. She could see the moonlight starting to penetrate the canopy more frequently. They were approaching the northern edge of the Drakewoods.
Finally Boots held up his paw to signal them to stop. Gerald let out a sigh of relief, like a housewife climbing into a bath for the first time in ages. Throwing his stick to the floor haphazardly and slumping immediately onto his arse. He sat their catching his breath.
Was the old guy going to be ok?
To be fair Fiona was amazed he'd made it this far, wasn't he like two hundred or something?
Boots quietly took in their surroundings.
"I can see the camp." he said after a long pause.
"I will go to scout out their sentry positions, alone," he continued looking back at them, "when I return I will brief you all on what I need you to do. Start getting your heads into the game now, think about your individual tasks and how you are going to achieve them. Visualise them in your mind."
Boots's small group of companions nodded in unison.
"C-can you see them?" Fiona asked tentatively. Before Boots could leave, "how many ar-"
"I can't be specific from here, but by the looks of things," Boots weighed up the scene, "Well over a thousand remain."
It was better than she'd hoped.
All they had to do was get them out of there.