Bandits, stationary and roving, had played less of a part on their journey than Mazelton had expected. It came down to economics, apparently. You could be a bandit in the middle of nowhere, safe from organized retaliation, but your ability to raid would be limited. You could be a bandit near a big settlement, but that only worked until the townsfolk organized troops to clear you out. The best balance was to either hit small villages or towns repeatedly, or to camp on a busy trade route between two far flung trading centers. The route from Cold Garden to Vast Green Isle was a pretty nice choice, actually. And the location was a peach.

A steep drop to the south, a climbable slope to the north… but you couldn’t move a wagon up it. To the east… well it was clear, but not much room to turn around in. Which was relevant, because west was a deep, and modestly wide gorge. Put another way, when a caravan reached here, there was no way around, and going back was almost as impossible. The only way out was through. And the bandits had done their level best to dig in.

They had dug in stakes along the road and stabbed even more into logs. No speedy trooper on a cheve was going to use mobility against them here! For range attacks, they had made more solid wooden barricades with arrow slits. Some horizontal- crossbows? Mazelton was curious about that one. Crossbows generally needed a lot of metal parts, and metal was very pricy. You could make them with algae polymers, if you had the tech base. But these guys?

Now, if it was him, he would have a few of his better shots with rifles or very big crossbows up on the mountain on the other side of the bridge. Definitely a longer shot, but still in fairly comfortable rifle range. But then, rifles also meant a lot of steel. And that you really did need a proper tech base for them, too. The Collective could have a lot of guns, because they gave up on many, many other things.

Mazelton tried running his heat sense out across the bridge. There were quite a few bandits- thirty, as many as forty, maybe? Which seemed pathetic compared to the hundreds of caravanners and emigrants, but, and this was the crucial bit, the bandits were fully prepared to do violence, and most of the caravan was not. Mazelton couldn’t spot any up in the trees, too many cores there already, and none of them moving around much.

The caravan adopted its now semi-customary Bandit Protocol. Everyone was cool, everyone discreetly kept their weapons handy. A given wagon might only have one hunting bow or a couple of slings, or perhaps some more exotic weapons. But, well, that was still an awful lot of weaponry. Mazelton settled back comfortably in his seat, calm with the knowledge of all the firepower behind him.

Directly behind him.

As in, he was between the targets and the weapons. Fired by people who couldn't see the target, because they were all in a straight line on a narrow trail.

Mazelton’s brain kicked into high gear. Forty bandits dug in, firing on functionally only ten or less people at a time. They were at a total numbers disadvantage, but at the point of the bridge, they had an overwhelming local numbers advantage. And they knew it. Which meant that this negotiation could go sideways very, very quickly. Mazelton waited until Polyclitus was drawing attention to himself before easing into the back. Time to get armed.

“That’s far enough. Why don’t you stay right there, mister.” One of the grimy band stood out and called to Polyclitus.

“Fine by me. So. Straight to business, all right? How much is the toll for this bridge?”

“Oh, we ain’t too greedy. One piece in five. Of everything.” His grin was missing a few pieces, maybe even more than one in five.

“Can you even swallow one in five? Not being funny here, I mean, literally, you can’t eat all that, can't carry all that, can’t even drive all that if we left you the wagons. Which we ain’t.” Polyclitus asked conversationally. “I can see about getting you boys squared away with a few weeks rations, maybe some cores too. Wouldn’t be impossible for some rads to change hands neither. Then we can all be on our way.”

Polyclitus looked calm, relaxed in a way Mazelton hadn’t seen him in months. His smile looked soft and genuine. It was the most impressive performance Mazelton had seen in years. Look at that posture- how could you stand to hit someone looking so easy to talk to.

The bandit shook his head.

“Nope. No need to worry about us, reckon we can mind our business. You just mind yours. One in five.”

“Now, you know that can’t work. People are going to die if they choose that. Might be that they risk dying now instead of definitely dying later. That’s just bad business for you. Much better to take the easy money. And food.” Softer than a cooing dove was the voice of Polyclitus, and warmer than a child’s smile.

“Don’t think you are quite getting me, mister. This ain’t a negotiation. We don’t much care if fighting starts or not. So it’s pay up or we pick it off your body. One in five, not one grain of rice, one crumb of flour, one single bean, less.” The bandit sounded genuinely sorry, in the way that someone might futilely pat their pockets as they walked past a beggar.

Polyclitus shook his head and walked away. This sort of thing had happened before. Generally, a bit of patience, even inviting them over for an early lunch, did the trick. Bandits were starving, mostly. Full bellies eased tempers.

With a soft thunk, a meter long arrow thudded into his back and drove Polyclitus into the earth. Arrows came hissing out from behind the barricades, and slow thunders of musket fire came from the mountain. Huge balls the size of a child’s eye smashed into the leading wagons, killing oxen and teamsters as the arrows arched overhead and started working back from the front. Mazelton dove out of the back of the wagon. He didn’t see what had happened to Polyclitus, but he knew gunfire when he heard it.

Duane ducked under the wagon and stayed put. He fetched a long handled ax from the undercarriage, and a smaller throwing hatchet. Mazelton waved at him to stay put, while he broke for the treeline. Arrows thudded around Mazelton, not aimed, thank Mother Moon, they were just shooting at range, and the rate of fire wasn’t as heavy as it might have been. He got into the trees, but there wasn’t much cover to work with. Too small, too scrubby. No matter, they broke up his shape, and he could work with that. Concealment wasn’t cover, but… Gunpowder billowed. Arrows flew. And Mazelton was the only man on the field with a weapon that killed invisibly and silently.

He stayed low, moving from tree to tree, rock to rock, as he tried to maneuver on the bandits. They were concentrating on clearing the first dozen or so wagons, plainly not looking to take prisoners. The caravanners and the more militant emigrants were starting to swarm up, a wagon was turned ninety degrees and an improvised barricade was made. The defenders started to rally and get organized, or as organized as you could be ninety seconds after it all kicked off.

Mazelton ignored the bodies. He knew those people, but it wasn’t a right now problem. He saw Polyclitus face down in the dirt and not moving. It wasn’t a right now problem, even if he was smelling smoke and hearing his cousins being beaten to death in the sewers he never really left. Right now, he was a man on a mission.

No. Not a man on a mission. Mazelton looked down his crummy fixed sight at the man who had stood out to parley. He slowly poured his heat into the weapon, catalyzing it into pumping a ferocious beam of radiation into his skull. The bandit’s brain boiled inside the skull as the tissue necrotized, the pressure causing blood vessels to burst across the man’ head. He turned into a bloody skull and fell, not even able to scream.

Not a man on a mission. An evil wizard. And you just killed my friend! He dropped the next one, and the next. The fourth one went down right in front of someone who had the wit shout “Sniper! Sniper!” before a caravanner smashed his head in with a well slung stone. The Caravan was fighting back now, their own bows and slings coming into play. Even a few muskets here and there. One wagon was assembling an honest to Mammon Scorpio on a tripod, a small one, but it could shoot meter long arrows one hell of a long way, clearing out light fortifications as they went.

The bandits started firing randomly into the tree line, but they didn’t dare let up too much fire against the caravan. The numbers advantage was overwhelming to begin with, but the Dusties had emigrated expecting a war. They had already fought one real battle.

One team of Dusties rushed forward, moving from cover to cover, carrying sacks of flour. Once they got close to the action, they piled them up below a wagon and used it as a bunker. They could only aim at legs and the like to start, but pretty quickly, they had downed bandits to pick off. The sling launched incendiaries appeared again, fire smashing into the barricades. The bandits panicked, rushing back towards the bridge. The musket fire picked up, moving from aimed shots to suppressing fire. Trying to keep heads down, and let their people retreat across the bridge. A bucket of pitch landed on one of the bandits, making him shout and flail. Then Mazelton lit it on fire, burning heat into his gut. The flaming man ran, screaming, trying to put out the flames. Someone with a brain kicked him off the bridge before he burned them all to death.

And Mazelton crouched above it all, looking down, and firing away. The bandits were falling back across the bridge, clearly not expecting such a savage retaliation. They were dead as soon as they had broke cover, they just didn’t know it. The caravanners and militant Dusties had clear shots now, and took them.

Mazelton glared across the gorge at the woods. He still couldn’t see the targets clearly. There was so much black smoke hanging in the air, it was like a second layer of concealment. But he could see the flashes of light, and the cores near those flashes. He aimed down his crummy sights at the cores. Sharp, stabbing beams of ionized radiation left glowing trails in the smoke, smashing into the chests of the musketeers. They had something to aim at now, and musket fire raked across his position.

Mazelton lay flat and crawled to the next cover. They weren’t even close to him, just aiming where they thought he was. And there weren’t many of them. Maybe three left? He lay on his belly and aimed around a rock. One less now, their organs rupturing inside of them. The guns went silent. He could see cores moving in the woods now. He picked them off one by one. No fear of running out of ammunition today- the black sun was burning hot within him.

Eventually the bandits were down, and triage began. Those few with some knowledge of first aid were called out, for what good they would do. Mazelton came sliding down the slope, charging over towards where Polyclitus lay. Duane was standing over him with his ax, glaring around, daring someone to touch the old man. Mazelton slid to a stop, then touched Polyclitus’s neck. A pulse! He looked over at the arrow and winced. It had missed the spine but who knew what it had punctured. Who knew what it would tear open if he pushed it out?

Well. One person would know. Mazelton looked up at Duane.

“My respects to Madam Lettie and she needs to get her ass over here right now!” Duane went.

“Hey boss, can you hear me?”

“For my sins. Hurts to talk.”

“Can’t hurt that much, you’re still full of piss and vinegar. Now, and this is important, what is the best whorehouse in Vast Green Isle?” Mazelton was checking Polyclitus over, looking for any more leaks. You kept them warm and you kept them talking. Shock was a sort of protection for the mind, but it was also potentially fatal. So you kept them talking, and you didn’t let them slip into sleep.

“You weird little bastard, I thought you were were staying loyal to Danae.”

“Can’t a man dream? Come on, you must know them all.”

“Bullshit. You think I am spending my hard earned money in those flea pits? The real action is the private accommodations. Independent courtesans, boy. You want to stay away from those in the volume trade.” He tried to nod sagely, which was tough face down in the dirt. “Sometimes, especially after a long time on the road, a man needs more than a wham bam.”

“No “Thank you mam?””

“Well, that too, but I want a bath-” He coughed wetly, blood pooling under his mouth. “And I guess mouthwash too.”

“Polyclitus!” Lettie yelled, rushing over. She was carrying a small kit of tools, mostly for sewing, and some for more medically invasive pursuits.

“Mazelton, how is he doing?”

“You tell me. Arrow is lodged near his kidneys, and I can’t see what’s damaged. How does he look?”

Lette looked hard at Mazelton, sighed, and looked over Polyclitus.

“Arrow cut an artery, and the shaft is currently sealing the hole. Organs look only minorly damaged, which is a mercy. No idea about infection this early, but nothing obvious at work.”

“You will have to guide me, then, when I stitch him up.”

“I do have forceps. You really think you can stitch together two ends of a blood vessel?”

“I know it can be done. Reckon I will figure it out.”

“Can I just say how reassuring I find the two of you?”

“Glad to hear it.” Mazelton grunted, and felt under Polyclitus’ chest. Yeah, it wasn’t all the way through. Well. That was good and bad, he supposed.

“Lettie, is the head barbed?”

“No, a field point tied on with a bit of gut. Huh. Wonder why they didn’t go for a broadhead. They can’t have been expecting armor.”

“Cheaper to make in bulk, so more to loot.” Polyclitus groaned.

“Fascinating.” Mazelton said, deadpan. “Now, do you have a recommended sex worker? And do they serve alcohol?” Before the Polyclitus could answer, Mazelton pulled hard, tossing the arrow behind him. The shirt was slit open in half a second, with the other half, he sterilized the skin and tools. One pair of forceps held open the wound. Another dove in to fish out one end of the vein.

“Left, more, oh hell, I’ll do it.” Lettie shoved him to one side, and moved in to clamp the wriggling, slippery thing that seemed to be trying to retract deeper into the chest cavity. “Got it. Now what?”

“Now get the other end and pull ‘em up where we can work on ‘em.”

“How many fucking clamps do you think I have? And how far do you think arteries stretch?!”

“Alright, here. I’ll hold that bit.” Mazelton stabbed in with a J needle, pulling up the artery while keeping out of the way. Blood wasn’t leaking out of it, it was on the other side of the arrow hole from the heart. Lettie dove in and grabbed the other end, bringing it over towards Mazelton.

“Now what? I can see what’s going on, but I know you can’t.”

“Sorry about this Boss, but I guarantee I will clear it out later.”

“What are you- HOT. HOT!”

Mazelton poured heat into the wound, soaking it in radiation. It glowed merrily in his sight, the radiation starting to shred the the cells around them. Tumors wouldn’t be far off. He would have to be very, very quick. Alright, like sewing on a sleeve. Just have to smoosh the two ends together as neatly as he could and stitch very, very small. Hard to hold a needle with a pair of tweezers, but, needs must. He was sweating. Nobody mopped his brow. He closed his eyes. He didn’t need them for what he was doing anyway. Tiny looping stitch after tiny looping stitch. The trade post swore the stitches dissolved in a couple of weeks, and were sterile too. Well, with this much heat, he believed the sterile part. Stitch, stitch, and don’t think about who you were stitching up.

He fished out the bone fragments when he was done, then cleaned out the heat. It obediently returned to him, it’s job done, but he had no way to guess how much he increased Polyclitus’s cancer risk. His stitching up the skin was pretty tidy, but he was tired so it wasn’t his best work. Oh well. Just one more scar amongst many. Not like he was trained to work on flesh. Not like he was any kind of doctor, in fact.

“Fuck me, I can’t believe that worked.” Mazelton said.

“Not on a bet.” Polyclitus replied weakly.

“What he said.” Lettie agreed firmly.

“I hate you both. I am going to go over there, so I can hate you from a distance. Maybe distract myself by stitching up that pile of people. Everyone is looking at me like that’s a thing I should do.” He staggered to his feet. “So maybe I should go do that.”

It was a long, long morning, and sickeningly enough, they had to clean the battlefield and get going again. This was no campground. And it was still seventy miles to home.