Cat-Nip

Larok the Lurg sprawled by his small camp-fire and was happy. Bullion destined for the fabulous Zinka Treasury weighed his bandits' panniers. The incredible Rope of Coronation Pearls made pea-pod bumps in his pouch. Best of all, two of Cruel King Zinka's nubile teen-age Princesses were now manacled to the tree-stump over which he'd pitched his tent.

Larok did not fear the remnants of their paltry cavalry escort. Those few riders had fled, swiftly scattered, broken and routed by his ambush. Larok's grim Lieutenant Makk cheerfully waved from across the fire, pillowed on the panniers that held his ten percent. Larok nodded reply. It was getting late. They had to move at dawn. If he wanted even an hour's rest, he must start with the girls soon.

Larok stood, stretched, belched unpleasantly. He looked around his small clearing. He could not see the four sentries but, since Makk strangled one dozy fool, they'd surely stay alert. He cast a glance to the larger clearing, with its roaring fire. He listened to the ribald merriment for a moment. He smiled. He'd led his troop of bandits to wonderful plunder. He'd lead them to more. He turned to the simple tent.

Larok ducked inside, let the flap drop. The girls stared at him like rabbits at a wolf. He had time to enjoy their fear. He had time to anticipate their many pleas, bird-like cries and floods of tears. He had ample time to enjoy his first victim's agonies as she became but dull-eyed, yielding flesh. He even had time to relish the elder girl's horror as she watched her lively sister swiftly broken to a willing, witless wench, and knew it as her own fate. He had vague plans for the huge ransom they would surely fetch. He looked them up and down, smiled happily. He did not concern himself with the soft cough out-side, or the stilled motion. After all, boys will be boys !

Larok smiled wider, touched a long, strong hand to the younger Princess's pretty jaw. She shivered. He ran coarse finger-tips along her chin. She squirmed. He squeezed.

She moaned, "Nooo!"

"Oh, you talk?" Larok grinned, "You'll sing and dance a-plenty before the dawn!"

Larok did not hear the the tent flap open. He squeezed harder.

"Stop."

Larok spun in rage, halted. A slim youth stood there, armed with a long knife in his right hand, a pry-bar at left, a soft knap-sack shouldered. Outside, one sentry sprawled dead across a log. Makk slumped in death where he'd reclined. Beyond, the troop still sang and cheered in their own clearing. The tent flap dropped.

Larok snatched the hooked fighting-knife from his belt, thrust viciously. The youth met the attack on the bar, eased it wide, drove his long knife up through Larok's exposed throat to take his life. The youth stepped over the bandit's twitching corpse, lifting the pouch of precious pearls almost en passant. He noticed the staple that secured the girls' slave-chains. His pry bar eased the crude hook out like a festered thorn. Quietly, quickly, the girls slid the chains from their manacles, the irons from their slim wrists.

The long knife slit the tent-back's coarse fabric as swift as rotten gauze. The youth threw a small, black prism onto the bandit's body, then led the way into the dark. The girls' final, rearward glance showed a wisp of steam or smoke rising from Larok's corpse. Moments after they reached the shelter of the trees, a roar of blue-white flame engulfed the tent. Yells of alarm, dismay, confusion rose from the camp. The three went on. Twice in fifty yards, a dead sentry's legs trailed from beneath bushes beside their path.

A fast quarter mile bare-foot, in scant gauzes, was quite a trial, but the girls did not protest. They thought his pause was for them to rest. Instead, the youth lifted some leaves. He withdrew a large cloth bundle from the hole. Thick socks, stout country boots, thick woollen dresses, night cloaks and a flask of water to rinse their feet were gifts beyond any price. The youth smiled. He presented the elder girl with a luminous compass on a lanyard and pointed her North-East. He presented the doe-eyed younger girl with the pouch of pearls. He shouldered his soft knap-sack, tossed the girls a small salute, and was gone into the night.

The compass bearing brought them to a road within a mile. To their left glinted the single window of a Forester's simple cottage. Nearer, they heard the nicker of tired mounts. A weary, distraught patrol shared the Forester's watered gruel. The visions of beauty at their very door dispelled all gloom. Even their horses seemed fresher as they soon cantered away.

Retribution was terrible and swift. Two score of King Zinka's cavalry met with thirty mounted Militia lent by his appalled Mereland neighbours. An hour before dawn, the combined force hit the bandits' camp like a Tornado strike. It was over-kill. Most of their bloody work was already done.

Leaderless, the bandits' haul of gold had proved a honey-trap. Many were dead, and more wounded in vicious faction fights. The troopers slew them where they stood, or rode them down as they fled like rabid wolves.

Spilled coins littered the blood-soaked grass like dew-spangled mushrooms. Hoards emerged from hasty scrapes and holes 'neath roots and turf. Fat panniers lay at random where their bearers had panicked or died.

The troopers collected, reckoned up the gold, horses, saddles, panniers, bed-rolls, weapons and dead. They found a single oddity, a curious doubt.

The Princesses had told of the booty's split: Some gold was scattered, trampled into the ground, yet only the dead Makk's panniers with that ten percent were gone.

Though jack-daws gathered stray coins for many years, and Foresters delved in that glade 'till Zinka's Loss was Legend, no trace of those panniers was ever found.

Mind you, the reward Cruel King Zinka offered for his girls was but five percent...