The air was cold, and as he sat, huddled up in the rock crevice overlooking the camp, he felt the chill through his body. His toes had become numb, and he did his best not to move as not to let the wind between his cloak and himself.
Day had given way to night several hours ago, and in the pitch black his eyes had almost started to adjust. The tiredness had started to kick in, and he began to dream of his warm fire and wine rack back in the Homesteads.
"If only I hadn't given the damned key away" he grumbled to himself, quietly.
No sooner had he said it, that four torches came quickly into sight, and the adjustment to the darkness meant that he squinted and covered his eyes, spots dancing in front of them. Rubbing his eyes, he felt his retinas sting, but he kept as still and silent as possible as he heard voices become clearer and clearer as they approached.
"I don't see why we 'ave to leave 'em 'ere!" one man said, sounding whiny and irritated.
"What do 'ye mean, why do we 'ave to leave em ere?" another replied, with an almost musical voice. "We cannae be leavin' 'em roond toon, can we like? Guards will 'ave us fer it, man"
"Shut it, whinging" said another voice, more authoritive and commanding. "We've done alright out of this haul, no mistake, and nobody will suspect anything out here"
"Aye, boss" said the second voice. "We've done canny good like, but ha'way man I'm freezin' me knackers aff bein' oot 'ere!"
There was a sudden yelp of pain, and Furley smirked, as he heard the crack of a hand round someone's cheek. He'd seen four torches, but it seemed that one of them had the nouse to be silent. Either he was clever enough not to irritate his boss, or he had eyes on the surroundings. That meant the group was dangerous. If you had a member who acted like a bloodhound and suspected everything, the slightest mistake or sound from Furley could give him away.
There was a sound of tarp and ropes as they were loosened, and the creak of box lids being pulled off. Various crashes and sounds pricked up Furley's ears as he listened to what contents might be in them. Steel. Weapons, perhaps? Coins. He could hear the clinking and the stuffing of coin into satchels. A few thumping sounds too, which he couldn't tell what they were.
"Don't know why we have to go through this every time. This is way too overcautious, boss" a voice growled, to which there was no response. A fourth voice? Fifth? It was gruff, and there was no response, so he deduced that it may have been the bloodhound. A man like that didn't get talked back to, regardless of who was in charge. Either way, he didn't move.
"Right then, lads. Let's be quick about it" the boss said, and they all seemed to be hurrying along a little more. Tarpaulins pulled, ropes lashed together, bags slung over shoulders and the scurrying of feet.
Still, he didn't move. Waiting more time than was necessary, he wanted to ensure the bloodhound had gone. Something about him made him uneasy.
Eventually, he crept out from his hiding spot, and waited until his eyes readjusted to the blackness. The sky was clear, which helped speed up the process as he could see vague outlines as it was. When he was satisfied that the coast was clear, he stood up.
And fell instantly.
His toes had gone so numb, that the tingling sensation and fuzzles he felt in his feet were too much and he winced in pain, but didn't cry out. He made a clatter as he dropped to the floor, and his hand scraped something on the way down.
One of the boxes hadn't been fastened back properly, and the lid was jutting out just over the edge. Using it to pull himself to his feet, he did his best to scrape the mud from his clothing, and propped himself on it.
Looking around for any sight or sound, his curiosity got the better of him, and he pulled the tarpaulin back and slid the lid a little further. As he did, he stopped and stood back, his breath momentarily gone. He hadn't seen the contents, but he'd felt an insignia, chipped into the lid of the crate. And he didn't need eyes to know what the marking was.
The insignia of the Company of the East Road.
Breathing in again, his mind tried to process the information as he thought about some of the missing shipments he'd dealt with whilst he was the Director. That time they'd been ambushed not far from here. And the one, missing cargo that had disappeared closer to the Trollshaws, never to be seen again. He'd lost his entire fortune on that shipment, and it had taken years to clear off his debt as a result, and one too many run-ins with the shark who had loaned him the money.
Before he could look inside the crate, he heard a quiet rustle in the thick grass beyond, and he slipped around the corner just in time, crouching behind an old fallen stone. Moments later, a torch rounded the corner.
It wasn't a large shape, but it was in a hurry, and that may have been what saved Furley as he just slipped away before he was seen. The silhouette seemed to stop, and as Furley peered, he saw it look around, as if checking the surroundings.
Paranoid. F*ck. It's the bloodhound.
Taking the hand he'd unconsciously placed on his hilt away, he didn't fancy trying his luck with the one that had a bit of sense about him. Then, as he watched, he saw the torch flicker as it examined the crate, and felt the lid at the part he had moved it further off, and the light then snapped back as the figure stood up in alarm.
In that one moment, Furley froze in indecision. Was this his responsibility? He was no longer a member of the Company, but he was also both furious and curious. If these were the men responsible for his crippling debts, he'd like to right that wrong.
"Boss! Come 'ere, quick!" the voice shouted, and Furley flinched, his decision being made for him.
"I've got to get out of here" he whispered to himself, and he moved a foot away to turn round, but as he did a stone dislodged. Snapping his head back, he saw the torchbearer move, shining the light in his direction, though once again, the light from the torch may have saved Furley again as it ruined his night vision.
"Who's there!" came a growl at him, before he heard a sound of steel, and a louder shout. "Boss! Lads! Get your arses back here, double time!"
"F*ck!" Furley repeated to himself, and started scampering away, all thoughts of stealth abandoned in his mind.
