The Supreme Warrior *2014 ABNA Contest 2nd Round*

CHAPTER 9.3: Into the Forest

The caravan made camp near to the edge of the Mahdiren Wood just a few paces from the road. Captain Naedros, knowing that bandits did not often venture outside the forest, allowed the cooks to build large bonfires. Since the men would not have such a luxury once they were in the woodlands, the Captain wanted them to enjoy the cheer of a fire and a hot meal. The guardsmen continued to drink, ignoring the activities of apprentices and hands as they swarmed over the wagons, preparing them for the night. Red-bearded Fardinanth opened his pack and pulled out a dicing cup. He shouted, “6-6-6!”

A group of four other guardsmen crowded around the bulky red-head. Aubert brandished his own dice cup and said to Cal, “Come along, new-boy. Show us what you got!

The young squire did know how to play this common camp game, though he never liked it. Aldon had insisted his squires shoot dice at least twice a week after asserting that he could learn more about a man's character in one dicing session than in a week of talk. Cal noticed his squad mates looking at him, and recognized he could not afford to turn away from their invitation.

He looked toward his squad leader, a tall man named Grimmold, who had seated himself in front of a solitary fire a short distance from his men. The grizzled sergeant watched with transient interest. He clearly lacked any inclination to interfere. Assured that gambling did not offend his immediate superior, Cal responded by bringing out his own dice cup.

Timor, a bulky young peasant whose incongruous baby-face topped a thick frame, protested he did not know how to play. Molestis scratched his patchy gray beard and croaked, “’Tis a simple game, newbie. Anyone can play.”

Cal suppressed a snort. Though easy to learn, 6-6-6 was anything but simple.

Before he thought to warn his fellow green-horn, another middle-aged guardsman named Philburn distrubted wooden betting chips to the two new recruits. The bearded man informed them he would be happy to hold their marker until their next payday. Just as Cal joined the circle, Fardinanth slammed his cup upon the earth with an anxious hand. Peeking under the brim, the red-head announced, “4,4,1”, and threw a chip into the pot.

He looked expectantly at Aubert, who was seated to Fardinanth's right.

Aubert stroked his full black beard, and then responded by tossing in his ante and slamming his own cup to the ground.

The black-bearded guardsman chose to ‘top’ and announced, “5-3-2”, nullifying Fardinanth's call and forcing Aubert to match the pot.

Philburn shouted out his ‘challenge’ before any others could open their mouths. Aubert revealed a 6-2-1, which won him the round since he had a roll at least equal to his call.

Cal despised the game because winning any one session depended on good fortune more than anything else. No amount of practice could improve the ability to cast winning throws—unless a player resorted to loaded dice, which Cal could not bring himself to do.

As play progressed through the night, chips gravitated toward Aubert—who seemed to possess an uncanny instinct for the game. Then came one round where multiple players in a row ‘topped’, building the pot into a mountain of chips. Aubert's last call had been the sky-high 6,6,3. Phil glanced under his cup, then the pot, and finally rested his gaze on Aubert’s stack before muttering, “I can't justify it.” He folded.

Fardinanth tossed his dice with barely-contained excitement before he looked at his roll. His face fell.

Molestis urged, “C’mon guys. We can’t let ’im take our money without a challenge. At least make ’im show. One more fold an’ he takes it.”

Phil expelled an exaggerated groan and held his round face in his hands. Cal shook his head. Fardinanth muttered, “Funny how brave he is when someone else is hold’n the cup.”

The stringy Molestis did not hear, or chose to ignore, the big red-head's remark and instead addressed the quiet Timor, “You’re up next, new-boy. Maybe, fer once, you can do sumthin' beside fold.”

Timor appeared nonplussed by the taunting. But, moments later, the peasant thrust his cup to the earth with exaggerated force, looked at his dice, and proudly proclaimed, “6-6-6!”

The predatory Molestis blurted, “Challenge!”, before anyone else could get a word out of their mouth. The over-sized young man shot a glance at this chip stack. A sheepish grimace crossed his wide face as he exposed his pedestrian roll of 4,3,1. He had squandered almost a full fortnight's pay on a foolish bluff.

The despondent Timor stood up and walked into the night. Before he could get far, Aubert excused himself and held a low conversation with the former farm-hand while Molestis raked in his winnings.

Timor and Aubert returned to the circle and the game continued. The farm-boy began to win a steady stream of rounds from the crowing Molestis, who only gradually realized his fortunes had turned. When the gray-haired guardsman had lost most of his winnings, he abruptly left the circle while muttering about his chronic bad luck.

                                                                          *    *    *

Gellan Ware sat on a low stool by a large fire, surrounded by his apprentices. The sober tradesmen could not help stealing jealous glances at the merrymaking of the guards.

Weder, hunched his thin shoulders, and scowled at the Master Trader for his laxness. Gellan grinned at his senior journeyman, and asked, “You think me a fool, don’t you?”

Weder bobbed his head, and then belatedly reconsidered the gesture. He brushed a lank blond hair from his narrow forehead with a nervous hand and said, “I said no such thing, Master.”

The Trader laughed, looking around the camp at his sullen apprentices, “Let them have their fill while we are safe. Later on, when the road is dangerous, they will have nothing left to drink.”

Styrian, a small, dark haired apprentice in his late teens, timidly asked, “Master, why do you allow them to have mead at all?”

“What, and have them sneak it along, cursing me with every step? ’Tis better to allow them their fun. They will only have themselves to blame when the barrel runs dry.”

After imparting this bit of wisdom, Gellan Ware left the fire and went back to his wagon to sleep.