TSA: INTERLUDE: Sabotage 

INTERLUDE: Sabotage 

Ricos, 5th Moon, 6th Day, 1624 Symfora Telos

The alehouse was dimly lit, its rafters heavy with smoke from the hearth and the thick haze of pipeweed. The murmur of conversation ebbed and flowed, punctuated by the occasional laugh or the clink of tankards. Ser Justin sat at a corner table, his cloak drawn tight against the chill that seemed to seep into the walls. Before him, a half-empty cup of ale rested on the scarred wood, untouched for the better part of an hour. His eyes flicked toward the door each time it creaked open, though his face betrayed nothing of the tension that coiled within him.

Beside him sat two of his men, similarly cloaked and hooded, their weapons hidden beneath the guise of roughspun tunics and woollen breeches. Their disguises were passable as merchants, though their silence and the way their hands lingered near their belts might have drawn suspicion had anyone been watching too closely. Fortunately, the alehouse’s patrons were more interested in their drinks and dice games than in three quiet men in a corner.

“They’re late,” muttered one of the knights, a younger man named Godric. He leaned closer to Justin, his voice barely a whisper over the din. “You’re sure they got the message?”

“Patience,” Justin said, his tone calm but firm. He took a deliberate sip of his ale, though the bitterness barely registered. “They’ll come.”

As if summoned by his words, the door creaked open again. A blast of cold air swept into the room, carrying with it the smell of damp stone and wood smoke. Two figures stepped inside, pausing briefly to shake the chill from their cloaks. Justin recognized them immediately: Ser Bran, the knight tasked with escorting the mason, and the mason himself, a wiry man named Edran with a face like weathered stone. They scanned the room before making their way to the corner table.

Justin gestured for them to sit, his expression impassive. “What did you find?” he asked, leaning forward slightly.

Edran wasted no time. He pulled a scrap of parchment from within his cloak, laying it flat on the table. The crude sketch depicted the keep’s bastion wall, its heavy lines marked with notations in a shaky hand. “The portcullis,” he said, tapping a spot near the base of the wall. “Here. The stone is weaker where the channels for the gate were carved. It’s old work, poorly maintained. The mortar has cracked, and the pressure from the gate’s weight has done the rest. If well-placed, the wagon will bring it down.”

Justin studied the sketch, his brow furrowed. “And you’re certain?”

Edran nodded. “As certain as I can be without prying the stones apart myself. It’s the best chance we have.”

Justin glanced at Bran, who gave a curt nod. “He knows his trade,” the knight said. “I’d stake my sword on it.”

Justin let out a quiet breath and folded the parchment, tucking it into the folds of his cloak. “Very well. Godric,” he said, turning to the younger knight, “take the message to the others. Tell them the target is the portcullis and that they are to prepare accordingly. When they arrive they are to declare…” he paused to think for a moment, “that they are messengers sent by Lord Tristan to deliver… ‘materiel’ to Lord Karls. That ought to deflect any suspicions. Also, ensure they send word back to Faywyn. Lord Levi will want to know our progress.”

Godric nodded, draining the last of his ale before rising from the table. He adjusted his cloak and slipped out the door without a backward glance.

“And you,” Justin said, turning back to Edran and Bran, “lie low for now. Tomorrow morning, we strike. Have everything ready. No mistakes.”

Edran nodded, though his lips pressed into a thin line. “We’ll be ready,” he said.

“Good,” Justin said, leaning back slightly. His gaze swept the room, lingering on the other patrons. Most were too deep in their cups to notice the quiet intensity of the conversation, but a few cast idle glances their way. “Now go. Don’t draw attention to yourselves.”

Bran and Edran stood, their movements deliberate and unhurried. They exited the alehouse one after the other, disappearing into the night. Justin remained at the table, his hands resting on the rough wood. He forced himself to take another sip of ale, though the sourness lingered on his tongue.

“Fuckin pig’s swill,” he hissed as he dropped the mug and a child’s handful of iron coins before leaving as well.

***

The morning was grey and damp, a thin mist clinging to the low streets of Ricos like a shroud. The wagon creaked as it rolled over the uneven cobblestones, its wheels splashed with mud from the previous night’s rain. Ser Justin sat atop the driver’s bench, his hood drawn low to shadow his face. His leather jerkin was plain, his sword hidden beneath a coarse cloak. He looked every bit the sellsword he pretended to be. Beside him, one of his men, similarly disguised, held the reins loosely as the draft animals plodded forward.

The keep loomed ahead, its bastion walls rising high above the surrounding buildings. The portcullis was down, the iron teeth dark and wet in the dim light. Guards moved along the battlements, their figures blurred by the mist, and the sound of their boots echoed faintly against the stone.

Behind the wagon, the rest of their group moved in a loose formation, their cloaks hiding weapons and armour. Some wore the garb of merchants, others the rough clothes of porters. They carried sacks and crates, lending credence to their guise, but their eyes were sharp, their movements deliberate.

As they neared the gate, a voice rang out from above. “Halt! What’s your business here?”

The driver tugged lightly at the reins, bringing the wagon to a stop. Justin looked up then, meeting the gaze of a guard leaning over the parapet. The man was broad-shouldered, his beard streaked with grey, his eyes wary.

“Messengers from Lord Tristan,” Justin called back, his tone calm but firm. “We bring a delivery for Lord Karls.”

The guard frowned. “What delivery?”

“Powder and some food,” Justin replied. “We was told to bring it.”

There was a pause, the guard’s frown deepening. He gestured to someone out of sight, and a moment later, another guard appeared, descending the narrow staircase beside the gate. This one was younger, his chainmail clinking faintly as he approached the wagon.

“Let’s see it,” the younger guard demanded, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword.

Justin dismounted slowly, his boots squelching against the wet cobblestones. “As you wish,” he said, moving to the back of the wagon. He unfastened the tarp covering the load with deliberate movements, revealing barrels stacked neatly beneath sacks of grain and bundles of cloth. The barrels’ surfaces were dark and weathered, the faint stencilling on their sides barely visible in the dim light.

The guard stepped closer, peering at the barrels. He knocked on one, the hollow sound echoing faintly. “Powder,” he muttered, straightening. His eyes flicked to Justin, scrutinizing him closely.

Justin shrugged, seemingly unbothered by the scrutiny.

The guard grunted, turning back toward the gate. “Raise the portcullis,” he called up to the battlements. “Let them in.”

Above, the chains groaned as the portcullis began to rise, the iron teeth lifting inch by inch. Justin climbed back onto the driver’s bench, his heart pounding in his chest with a panic he did not show. He signalled subtly to his men, who shifted into position as the wagon rolled forward.

The courtyard beyond the gate was quiet, the damp stones gleaming faintly in the pale light. A handful of guards lingered near the walls, their attention drawn to the wagon as it creaked past. The young guard from before walked alongside, his eyes darting between the barrels and the men around him.

As the wagon reached the shadow of the keep itself, Justin gave a low whistle. The signal was subtle, but his men acted instantly. One leapt to the wagon’s side, slashing the traces that bound the draft animals to the cart. The horses bolted, their harnesses trailing as they disappeared into the keep. Another man swu a axe into the wagon’s wheel, splintering the wood with a sharp crack.

The guard’s head snapped around, confusion flashing across his face. “What are you—”

He never finished the question. Justin’s blade flashed, striking true. The guard crumpled to the ground, blood pooling beneath him. Above, shouts erupted as the guards on the walls realized the ruse. Arrows began to rain down, thudding into the ground and the wagon’s sides.

“Light the fuse!” Justin barked, his voice cutting through the chaos. One of his men knelt beside the wagon, striking flint against steel until a spark caught. The fuse hissed to life, the flame snaking toward the barrels.

“Move!” Justin ordered. His men scattered, retreating back toward the gate as the guards above scrambled to respond. The portcullis began to lower, the chains rattling loudly, but Justin and his men were already through, slipping into the mist beyond.

Behind them, the guards on the walls shouted frantically. One of them leaned over the parapet, his eyes widening as he spotted the burning fuse. “The wagon! The wagon!” he bellowed.

It was too late. The explosion tore through the air, a deafening roar that shook the ground beneath their feet and sent Justin and his me stumbling. Smoke and debris billowed upward, mingling with the cries of the wounded and the clang of falling stone. When Justin turned to look, the portcullis was gone, reduced to a smouldering hole half-obscured by a pillar of black smog.

His men regrouped further down the road, their faces pale but determined. Justin took a moment to catch his breath, his hand gripping the hilt of his sword tightly. The townsfolk were scrambling now, their voices rising in panic and confusion as they tried and failed to make sense of what just happened. Seizing the opportunity, Justin’s men melted into the gathering crowd, their cloaks pulled tight and their heads low. Within moments, they had disappeared into the chaos of the town, leaving the destruction they had wrought far behind them.