Accidental Warrior: A LitRPG Accidental Traveler Adventure Read online

  Hal watched the man go and then untied his blanket roll from the bottom of his backpack. As he unrolled it, he saw it consisted of a thin padded leather ground cloth that would keep some of the mud and moisture off of him as he lay on it. There was also a woolen blanket to pull over top of him. That, along with his cloak would be all he’d have to keep warm if the weather turned cold.

  Lying down atop the ground pad, Hal harkened back to his younger days as a boy scout back home. It had been a long time since he’d been out camping under the stars. He stared up at the sky and wondered if Earth’s sun was one of the multitude of stars he could see from where he was. Hal thought about Mona and Cari back home until his eyes drifted closed and he fell asleep.

  7

  “Wake up, young ‘un. Time to get moving. We’re burning daylight.”

  A boot nudged Hal in the ribs hard enough to be slightly painful through his ring mail armor.

  “Ouch,” Hal called out. He opened his eyes to stare up a grizzled, gray-bearded face bent over him.

  “Don’t ‘ouch’ me, boy. Around here, you’re expected to be up with the sun if you ain’t already on guard duty. Rise ’n shine.”

  “Yes, sir,” Hal said. He rolled off his pad and pulled the pad and blanket out from under the wagon. He looked around, trying to decide what to do with it and his pack.

  “Roll up your stuff and throw it in the back of this wagon,” the older man said. “That will be where you’ll keep your gear when you aren’t using it. Bring your weapons and shield over with me while we get some breakfast.”

  “You must be Bilham,” Hal said as he rolled up his blanket and pad and tied it to his backpack. “Jethro told me to look you up when I got here.”

  “My nephew still working in that tavern in town?”

  “Yes, he’s tending bar there.”

  Bilham spit a stream of tobacco spit on the ground. “Boy ran off when he didn’t want to work on the farm no more. He’s been settled here in town for long enough now I guess he don’t want to go back. I hope he sends my sister word of what he’s doing with his life. She depends on me to check up on him from time to time and that ain’t right. It’s his job to keep in touch with family.”

  Hal didn’t know what to say so he kept his mouth shut and followed the old guard through the bustling camp until they arrived at a wagon that had a large plank table that folded down from the side. There was a spread of hot food laid out there including stewed apples and fresh griddle cakes.

  Hal took a tin plate and loaded it up before sitting on the ground nearby to eat. A few of the other guards glanced his way but no one talked with him so Hal focused on eating. The food wasn’t the best he’d had but it was filling and mostly tasty. When he finished, he dropped the tin plate in a large bucket hanging from the rear of the cook wagon as he’d seen others do and walked over to stand by Bilham.

  The guard captain was chatting with one of the other guards so Hal took the opportunity to look around at the camp and get his bearings in the daylight. The caravan consisted of about twenty wagons, all drawn up in a circular camp. There were several campfires spread across the interior of the circle along with a small area where the horses were kept and fed. Hal guessed they kept grain on hand to supplement the grass and other fodder they’d find along the trail.

  It was easy to tell the guards from the wagon drivers and other caravan attendants. Though everyone was armed with at least a short sword or small axe, the guards were the only ones wearing any sort of armor and carrying more than one weapon at a time. It looked like there were twenty to twenty-five guards in all, counting himself.

  Bilham finished with his discussion and the other guard set off on some task across the camp. Turning his attention to Hal, the sergeant looked him up and down as if trying to assess his abilities based solely on his gear.

  “You’re equipped well enough. Let’s see how you do in some light sparring. Come with me.”

  Hal followed the captain across the camp to an area cleared of other gear and equipment.

  There was a barrel with a bunch of wooden sword hilts sticking up from it. Bilham glanced down at Hal’s sword and then reached into the barrel, selecting a sword there. As he pulled it free of the others, Hal saw it had a carved wooden blade.

  “This looks to be about the size and weight of your blade. Let’s give this a try.”

  Bilham tossed the wooden practice sword in Hal’s direction and he scrambled to catch it. He managed not to drop it in the dirt and turned it around so he could hold it by its hilt. Giving it a few practice swings, he decided it would do well enough as a stand in for his blade.

  “Let’s see how you do in a fight.”

  Hal saw the older man had pulled another long wooden blade from the barrel and had pulled his rectangular shield around to the front and now held sword and shield in front of him as he advanced on Hal.

  Pulling his round shield from his back and sliding his arm into the straps, Hal hefted his wooden blade in the other hand and prepared to spar with Bilham.

  “Come at me boy, don’t just stand there,” Bilham ordered, stopping a few yards away.

  Hal raised his sword and tried a downward swing the older man easily blocked with his shield.

  The follow up sword attack was quick and low. Hal barely got his shield down in time to knock the wooden blade aside. That motion left him hunched over with his shield arm down towards the ground.

  Bilham stepped forward, stomping his leading foot on the ground and punching forward with the metal boss in the center of his shield.

  Only Hal’s excellent speed allowed him to shift backward and roll his shoulder away from the brute force attack. It still almost knocked him down and he backpedaled to catch his balance.

  The other man wasn’t finished with him and pressed his attack.

  This sort of combat was so different from what Hal had used in his days as a rogue where stealth, speed, and surprise counted for so much. He realized he needed to push back with all his strength and attempt even greater brutality if he wanted to perform well in this test.

  Batting away the flurry of attacks Bilham directed at him, Hal stopped backing up and starting trading blow for blow, using his youth and speed to his advantage to keep his shield between himself and the attacks that came in. He started using his shield as a weapon in the same way he’d seen Bilham do, bashing it forward to follow up a sword thrust.

  Skill learned - Shield bash

  Bilham smiled the first time Hal did that and gave a small nod of approval. He didn’t let Hal have any rest, though. He stepped forward again, angling his shield so he chopped it down on Hal’s leading leg.

  The shield’s edge caught Hal just below the knee, above his metal greave armor. Hal yelped in pain as his knee buckled to the side, absorbing the blow and taking him to the ground with it.

  The point of the older man’s wooden sword blade pressed against Hal’s sternum as he lay on the ground looking up. He was sure he’d failed the test and the pain in his buckled knee was bringing tears to his eyes.

  Bilham pulled the practice blade back. “You kept sticking that leading leg so far out in front of you I decided to teach you a lesson you won’t soon forget I think. You’re quick, though and you learn fast on your feet. I think you’ll do with some work. You can stay on but you’re sparring every day after dinner and every morning before breakfast with me until I think you’re able to stand on your own in a real fight.”

  The old guard turned and handed his practice blade to one of the other guards. “Someone fetch Anson and get the boy’s knee tended to. The rest of you, get the wagons ready to go. We’re packing up and rolling this morning as soon as Ghent gets back from the city.”

  Quest completed - Get hired as a caravan guard.

  200 experience points awarded.

  Garth came over and crouched down next to Hal. “He got me with the same move one of the first times we sparred when I joined up. I hurts like a bitch, don’t it?”

&
nbsp; “I don’t suppose that’s the only trick I need to worry about the next time is it?” Hal asked.

  Garth laughed. “Old Bilham has forgotten more about fighting than you or I will ever know. He’ll hit you with more tricks and moves than you can count. He says if we train the way we plan on fighting more of us make it all the way to our destination.”

  “You lose a lot of guards on these trips?” Hal asked.

  “We lost three people on the last leg of the journey here. The bandits are getting braver than ever before to hit a caravan of this size. We fought them off, but it cost us.”

  “I heard Bilham call for Anson. Who’s that?”

  “Brother Anson’s our healer,” Garth said. He pointed to a man in dark brown robes walking across the center of camp holding a leather satchel in front of him. He was mostly bald with a thin half-circle of hair on his head running from just above each ear and around the back to the other side.

  Brother Anson arrived, dropping his satchel on the ground beside Hal. “Another damned knee, I see. Doesn’t Bilham use anything else on the new recruits?”

  “I think he does it because it’s so painful and because he knows you can fix it,” Garth observed.

  “Probably,” the healing monk grumbled. He unbuckled the greave from Hal’s injured leg. The knee was swollen now and Hal thought if he were home, this would be akin to one of those season-ending ACL or MCL injuries athletes got all the time.

  Hal gasped in pain when Anson gripped his swollen knee in both hands and bowed his head, muttering under his breath. He watched in amazement when a warm yellow glow shined from beneath the hands on his knee and the swelling decreased along with most of the pain.

  “There, that should do it,” Anson said. He rummaged through his bag and pulled out a rolled up strip of what looked like thinly shaved wood about an inch wide. The monk pulled a small knife from his belt after unrolling about twelve inches of the wood and scored it in four places along the strip he’d exposed. He then snapped the foot-long piece free at the last score mark and handed it to Hal.

  “This is willow bark. Break off a piece now and chew it until it’s pulp then put it in your cheek like tobacco for a half hour or so. Swallow the juice, don’t spit it. It will help with the swelling and residual pain. Repeat it at midday, supper and before bed tonight. You should be good as new in the morning.”

  “Thanks, Doc,” Hal said.

  “I am not one of those butcher hedge doctors who cut people open to try and heal them. I am a Brother of Isold.”

  “I’m sorry,” Hal said. “I meant no offense. Thank you for healing me.”

  “It’s my job. You would do to learn the lessons, Bilham has to teach you and quickly so I don’t have to see you again.”

  The monk rose, grabbing his satchel from the ground and stalking off, grumbling under his breath.

  “What’d you go and call him a doctor for, Hal?” Garth said. “Now he’ll be in a foul mood for days. He’s gonna dose us for lice and vermin now for sure, just to be mean.”

  “I didn’t know. Where I come from, it would have been a compliment. What’s wrong with him taking care of lice. I don’t want to be itching all the way to Hyroth.”

  “You’ll see. He brews this horrible tea and makes us all drink it until it’s gone. I think it works by making our insides taste so bad that the bugs just leave rather than keep biting us.”

  Hal laughed as Garth reached down and offered him a hand up. Hal took it and stood to his feet with the assistance. His knee throbbed a little but he could put weight on it again. He bent over and buckled his greave on his injured leg, then took a few tentative steps to see how it felt.

  “Don’t forget that willow bark. It will help with the pain,” Garth reminded Hal. “Now come with me and we’ll start getting this caravan ready to move.”

  Hal broke a piece of the bark off where it had been scored by Anson’s knife and started chewing on it. It was terribly bitter and Garth laughed at the look on his face as he chewed the wood to pulp before sliding it to one side between his cheek and gum.

  He hobbled after Garth and started helping to load up the camp supplies and gear into the wagons with his new friend. It was time to get on the road.

  Name: Hal Dix

  Class: Warrior

  Level: 1

  Attributes:

  Brawn: 16 — +4

  Wisdom: 8

  Luck: 24 — +8

  Speed: 14 — +3

  Looks: 8

  Health: 88/88

  Skills: Shield bash - 1

  Weapon proficiencies: Long sword - 2, Crossbow - 1

  Warrior Experience: 200/300

  Rogue Experience: 146,100/250,000

  8

  Hal coughed as he adjusted the cloth he had tied across his face. The dust kicked up from the trail by the wagons and horses in the front of the caravan hung in the air and made it hard to breathe if he didn’t cover his mouth and nose.

  It also made for crappy visibility, especially when he was supposed to be watching for trouble from his perch. Hal sat alongside one of the wagon drivers towards the rear of the line of wagons. The man holding the reigns to the team of horses pulling this wagon called himself Burt. Three long days sitting next to him and that was all Hal knew about the man.

  Despite several attempts at conversation for the last few days, Hal had been able to discover nothing more than the man’s name and a wide array of other sounds. Most of the time the only answer Hal would get was a grunt or maybe a single muttered and unintelligible word. Burt was a large man with a big belly that hung out over the waist of his pants stretching the linen fabric of his tunic.

  Attached to Burt’s belt was a long knife on one side and a coiled whip on the other. He occasionally used the whip to urge the horse team forward a little faster keeping pace with the wagon in front of them. He had also flicked a small bird out of the air with it as it flew by, which both impressed Hal with the skill required and concerned him by the callousness of the act.

  Hal set the loaded crossbow carefully on the seat next to him and retied the dust cloth on his face for what had to be the tenth time today. The dust was worse this morning than other days. The land here was in dire need of rain.

  The caravan had left Tandon three days before, soon after Hal passed his test with Bilham. The Sergeant had been true to his word and Hal had been forced to spar with the guard captain or one of the other more experienced guards each morning before they started moving and at night before they settled down.

  Those sparring sessions were as painful as they were instructive and Anson had been required to use his healing magic on Hal on two additional occasions. In addition to the sparring training, Hal and several of the other less experienced guards were required to fire twenty crossbow bolts at a target, fifty yards away, each night before night fell. This had become something of a contest between them, mostly because the loser had to wash all the dinner pots and plates.

  Hal liked the crossbow and found he had a knack for the ranged weapon. He was now able to hit the target with every bolt he fired, though not always in the center. He figured during an attack on the caravan he’d be able to at least wing a man-sized target from a distance before they closed to melee combat.

  Aside from a few scattered farmsteads, though, there had been no sign of trouble so far. Bilham had warned them all against complacency that morning before they set out. The farther they traveled from Tandon, the more likely they would encounter an attack.

  The guard captain was the only one of them who rode a horse. The other guards all rode among the wagons stretched out along the length of the caravan so they could watch and guard the whole stretch of the wagon train.

  Hal picked up his crossbow and looked out to the right side of the wagon, scanning the nearby forest that skirted the edge of the wagon track. They’d been climbing into the foothills of an eastern mountain range and the trees were a mix of birch and pine at this increased elevation.

  Hal hea
rd hooves approaching from behind and turned to see Bilham ride up beside the wagon on Hal’s side.

  “Captain,” Hal said in greeting.

  “Keep your eyes open, Hal,” Bilham said. “I’ve got a feeling.”

  “What kind of feeling?” Hal asked. He didn’t feel anything.

  “The kind of feeling that’s kept me alive all these years,” Bilham snapped. “Just keep your eyes open and your mouth shut.”

  The captain kicked his horse and trotted forward to the next wagon in the line to pass the message along. Hal gripped the crossbow in his lap tighter and scanned the trees again through the dusty haze of the caravan’s passage.

  The first warning of the attack came when an arrow thudded into the side of the seat where Hal sat. The sound of the arrow striking wood startled Hal and it took him an instant to register what it was.

  A scream sounded ahead as one of the guards was hit by an incoming arrow. Hal saw the man clutch his chest where an arrow stuck out and fall from the wagon to the ground.

  Hefting his crossbow, Hal turned to the right and looked in among the trees at the edge of the forest and saw figures moving there. He raised the weapon to his shoulder and took aim at one of the shadowy figures. Hal squeezed the trigger and let the bolt fly with a thrum of the bow’s string.

  He heard a yelping cry and saw the figure he’d been aiming at twitch to the side and fall back into the shadows.

  Hal began pumping the lever to ratchet the string backward as quickly as he was able. His blood was pumping in time with the beat of the lever on the crossbow. A war cry sounded and a group of men dressed in furs, leather, and assorted bits of armor charged from the tree line at the caravan.

  He managed to place another bolt just in time to take a final shot at a charging man with a battle axe coming right at him.

  Thrummmm.

  The bolt flew outward and struck the man squarely in the chest, the impact of the powerful missile knocking him backwards to the ground.