by Keith Ahrens
He begins to march imperiously across the field on the brilliant silver carpet. Three hooded and robed advisers follow closely behind. A pair of servants follow, holding the end of the oiled tarp aloft on poles.
From the brass armored coach emerges a hulking mountain of a figure. Clad in a voluminous brown, hooded cloak with a large two-handed flail strapped across his back, he stomps down into the morass. A servant squeezes out past the figure with some difficulty. The splendidly dressed servant, in trappings of brown and green livery, is tiny in comparison to his master, but his voice echoes loud and clear.
“I present Lord Kairn Midchain, ruler of Terrestris Laminis, Conqueror of Corydalis and Destroyer of Sativus Exalta! Be it at his Mercy that you all bask in his glory!” The small elf finishes with a grand bow, his fine vestments now soaked and sodden.
Lord Midchain strides confidently across the muddy yard; three of his own advisers, all heavily armed with functional axes and flamberges, follow in his wake. One adviser is slightly smaller than Midchain; the other two are of average elf size.
He stops at the table and swings the chair around backward. He plops down, straddling the seat, and reaches up with black leather gauntlets to pull back his hood. The pouring rain immediately mats his long hair to his large skull. I'm a little surprised to see his hair parted evenly, half-albino white, half-jet black. One eye is a dark, pupil-less red orb, the other is a drab brown. His skin is quite a pale green, and twin tusks stick out from his square lower jaw. He smiles and leans forward on crossed arms.
“I tire of all your pomp and ceremony, Elf. Are we not here to fight?”
Dullahan sits on the edge of his seat, somewhat primly, with a slight sneer on his face. “I see the half-ogre in your nature knows no manners, nor respect for tradition and propriety.”
Midchain laughs loudly. “You never cease to use multiple words when one or two would suffice. I will make you the same offer as last year, Elf. We can forgo this entire charade of a 'battle' if you would just agree to single combat. It would save many lives, and I dare say, make many of your retainers quite happy.”
“You know it is not the place of the Nobility to fight like common fodder. The life force of the fallen is needed to refill the energy spent this past year, as you well know. However, I will counter your offer with the offer to accept your surrender. As you have stated, it would save many lives today.”
“Foolish, spoiled child”—Midchain turns his head slightly and spits onto the sodden ground— “there seems to be nothing left to discuss. As last year's victor, I offer you the first strike. Let us retire to our sidelines and watch our pawns tear each other to pieces in your 'most noble of traditions.'" Midchain laughs again as he stands up to his full height of almost six foot five. “Call the Arbitrator, and let us begin this nonsense.”
“You mock traditions that you know nothing of. You are an abomination and do not deserve the power you've stolen. That ends this day!” Dullahan springs to his feet, annoyed, and gestures to a servant.
As the Lord of this land turns on his heel, the servant takes a wooden horn from under his livery and raises it to his lips. He blows two long, mournful notes as both rulers turn their backs to each other and make their way to the ornate chairs awaiting them in the grandstands. From here, I can just make out Thorn standing near the giant crystal with another elf and a troll.
As the notes fade away, a small circle appears in the center of the field, a ring that grows brighter with a blue-green light. A figure slowly fades into view, an elf, tattoos on his shaven head and thick chains of various metals around his neck. Before he has fully formed, he glances up in mild irritation at the rain and waves a hand absently in the air above him. A dome appears, only defined by the rain now running like small streams off the sides of its invisible form.
He’s only a few yards away from us. I idly wonder if I were to shoot him now, would it stop all this from happening? I then realize I don’t have a clear shot, and I don’t even know if my pistol is accurate or not, so I just wait. I think missing would be worse for us all in the long run.
“On behalf of the Greater Kingdoms, I am here to enforce the Laws and Traditions of Mortis Causa Ludicio Exercitus. Let their Seconds come forth with the opening Incantations.” He raises both hands equally at the sidelines, open palms held up to the sky.
From the side of Terram Caeruleum steps a figure in plain blue robes, who walks with a simple wooden staff. Under his left arm, he carries an ornate box decorated with silver filigree.
From the side of Terrestris Laminis also walks a robed figure. Various bits of heavy leather cover his black cloak like armor. In his right hand, he carries a short, thick brass rod tipped with a red crystal. In his left hand, he carries a burlap sack, letting it swing casually.
Both humanoids arrive simultaneously at the Arbitrator. The blue hooded figure stops and plants his staff in the ground and pulls back his hood. Short, green-black hair sticks up from the troll's head, and slit, yellow eyes are deep-set into a scaled, dark green face.
The black-robed figure also pulls his hood back, revealing a heavily scarred face. The burn and slash marks obscure the delicate features of the elf, his pointed ears pierced many times with various gemstones and hoops. His blue eyes glow softly as he looks at his counterpart with mild surprise. “Skemend. Well met. I have not seen you since our flight from the Hags. I see time has not brought either of us much higher in the world.”
Skemend blinks slowly but smiles, showing pointed fangs. “Maclure, I have long wondered if you survived that day. ’Tis a pity we must meet at such times once more. Perhaps when this business is through, we may be reacquainted.”
“Perhaps, old friend. I think I would enjoy that.”
“Are both Fiefdoms in agreement that there is no other course of action?” interrupts the Arbitrator, a bit of annoyance evident in his voice.
Both Seconds look at each other for a moment, then nod in reluctant agreement.
“Then let the Mortis Causa Ludicio Exercitus begin.” He gestures to the box and the bag. Skemend and Maclure open their respective vessels. Three crystal orbs float out of each one and rise high in the air. A horn sounds a single strident note.
All around me, everyone is drawing weapons and assuming defensive stances. I raise my shield and tighten the grip on my spear.
14
“Get ready!" bellows Haynes. "It’s starting!” Other squad leaders echo his command across the field.
The first orb rises higher than the rest and shatters in midair. A huge blast of lightning streaks through the atmosphere and smashes into the front line of the opposing ogres. Bodies are vaporized in an instant. Giant figures get thrown violently in all directions as their brown uniforms burn. The pieces of their sundered carcasses seem to hit invisible walls within their square and fall to the mud. After a moment, each body looks as if it ejects a streak of white light that soars overhead. The white light flies almost as fast as the lightning and slams into the wood entwined crystal behind us. The veins of light splash against the orb and absorb into it.
“Easy, boys! Don’t let the bastards scare you before we even get to fight!" Haynes says to us in a level voice, followed by a booming command. "Stay in formation!”
Before the ozone smell even hits us, a bright flash of fire streaks from the next orb over our heads to land in the fourth or fifth row behind us. It’s difficult to see from here, but the impact is strong, and the screams are louder than the howling wind. Six more streaks of white light, cutting through the thick steam, beam toward the metal- and stone-held crystal.
“They’re just trying to soften our ranks up! If it was meant for our group, we’d be dead already. Keep sharp! Tighten up the front row!” shouts the Sarge, voice steady and in command.
The next orb seems to be one of pure force. It is as if a giant sledgehammer twenty feet across simply smashes the next grid of our enemies into the muddy ground. A wave of water, mud, and body parts splash against like invis
ible barriers of their surrounding squares. Six more streaks of light. Without a pause, the barrage continues.
The next one happens right in front of us. The orb shatters, and for a moment, nothing seems to happen. Then the ogres within the square all begin to gag and choke. Weapons clatter to the ground, forgotten as they clutch at their throats. Their skin darkens to deeper shades of yellow or green, one by one, as they drop to their knees. Clawing at their throats, their eyes bulge, yet no noise comes from their gasping mouths. Slumping to the ground, some face up, some face down in the mud, they all lie still, lights leaving their forms and finding a home in the enemy's crystal.
“There we go! A few less ogres for us to kill! Anyone feeling sorry for those bastards?”
“No, Sergeant!” we all shout in reply. Adrenaline begins to surge along with anger, replacing the fear that swirls in my gut.
The next orb is even more startling. The Knights in the back row of the Terrestris Laminis side try to remain seated as their horses begin to rear. But there is no escape from their square. The muddy earth thins rapidly, and three horses neigh in terror as they start to sink. The heavy armor and the mounted knights' weight add to their struggle. With three deep splashes, the horses and knights sink under the ground, leaving no trace in the muddy soil. Six more streaks of light disappear into our crystal—three for the knights and three for the horses.
The final orb is the most disturbing in my opinion. It shoots out and lands in a square that is occupied with dead bodies from a previous kill. This one just happens to be right in front of us.
It shatters with a sickly green spark. The four bodies of the asphyxiated ogres also flicker green as the spark arcs, splits, and enters each body. Each time the green spark lights up, the bodies all twitch, the spasms growing stronger with each jolt. Slowly they get to their feet, gathering up their weapons as they do. Two of them turn toward our squad, and two to the ogres to the left of them.
“Get ready, you lazy bastards! We’re about to earn our keep! Weapons up!” barks the Sarge. The very air around us blazes with a green light as our square is selected for the opening melee.
“UNDEAD!” screams Des as he slips in the thick mud. He’s smashed off his feet by a studded club and slams into Haynes, both going down in a heap. At a guess, I’d say he got a ‘Natural 1’ for initiative. Jesse leaps forward and with a precise slash, whips his saber across the ogre's throat. Very little blood runs from the deep wound, and the beast barely seems to notice. I thrust my spear as hard as I can into the dead center of its chest. The broad head smashes through its breastplate and sinks deep into its heart and lungs.
The Gnolls both attack the second ogre. Nian viciously hacks with a heavy blade to cleave its helm into two uneven pieces. He spins out of the way as Thirax finishes it with a brutal two-handed overhead chop to the ogre's skull. The blade bites deep, and gelatinous brain matter splashes out of the fractured skull. The body drops like a puppet with its strings cut; no light emits from the body this time.
The ogre I speared doesn't even seem to notice the seven-foot pole sticking out of its chest. It draws its arm back for another swing of its club, and I push harder on the spear shaft. I might as well have been trying to push a Buick with a matchstick. All at once, I feel like a real dumbass. Everyone knows to kill an undead anything, you must destroy the brain. All I have now is an eight-foot ogre-on-a-stick.
Luckily, at this point, Haynes has made it back to his feet and swings a heavy bladed Falchion into the hamstrings of the undead ogre. Reanimated corpse or not, if the muscles are severed, simple physics wins every time. It collapses under its own weight, and I use the spear as a lever to knock it to the side. Jesse steps up and finishes what he started by beheading the creature with a second, well-placed slash to the back of its neck. The head rolls through the mud and stops at my boot.
The ogres in the adjacent square aren't fairing as well as we are. It's four live ones against two undead, but numerical superiority doesn't make a difference. The live ogres are committing the same mistake I did—not going for the head.
It’s a straight-up slugfest, studded iron clubs against armor and tough green hide. One of them is down already and not moving. Another is favoring a broken arm, the bone sticking out of the skin just below the shoulder with thick, rusty red blood flowing freely from the wound. The two undead are looking battered but are still up and swinging their heavy cudgels.
A lucky swing caves in the side of the undead ogre's head, the force hard enough to snap its neck. Not enough brain is crushed to kill it again, but it develops a nasty twitch. It drops its club and begins to stagger about in a circle.
The big, dumb Fey makes a fatal mistake, stopping and laughing at the damaged creature. The taunting ogre takes an iron capped club directly to the face for his inattention. Teeth, bone, and blood spray through the air, mixing with the downpour. Its body lands with a thud and a splash. Before it stops bouncing, its light leaves it as well, shooting to the enemy's orb.
The last healthy ogre makes a powerful overhead shot and crushes the undead's cranium down into its shoulders. It drops to the ground, face down, and dead for the second time. A backhand swing takes out the final one, cleaving its head clear from its body. The last ogre raises both fists to the sky and roars defiantly into the storm. An uneasy silence fills the air for the next few tense moments, only to be broken by the elf that started this massacre.
“The opening moves of Mortis Causa Ludicio Exercitus have been completed,” the voice of the Arbitrator resonates out over the storm. “The Seconds may return to their Masters' sides. The Fiefdom of Terram Caeruleum has the next move.”
I rock my spear back and forth to loosen it from the ogre corpse and glance over to the grandstand. The giant crystal behind Dullahan is glowing brighter.
From where we are, it is impossible to hear what the Nobles are saying or what they're planning. We can only stand idly by, helpless as we watch squares filled with our allies light up and attack their opposite numbers from the opposing side. After a few minutes, bodies begin to stack up on both sides as we remain there, powerless to do anything about it.
Thorn
Dullahan laughs and calls for more wine. He stares at the carved wooden board in front of him, noting the different sigils and empty spaces. Of the thirty-six squares originally occupied by his forces, thirty-two remain filled. His opponent has thirty-three still occupied.
“I am winning, and it is still early! The imbecile Half-Ogre has no concept of strategy!” The Highborn elf sloshes wine from his ornate goblet. “We will continue to drive through the middle and divide his forces.”
“Milord, as you say, it is still early. Overconfidence can be deadly, and so can poor math skills… we are one square down,” replies Osmanthus.
“Silence, Jester, write an ode to my impending victory or something useful. I've taken a squad of his knights; he has taken nothing but pawns. Skemend, in what area did we locate those troublesome humans?”
“Second row, just left of the center, Milord. The place in front of them is open and they are free to move,” replies the troll mage.
“Excellent! The barrack cells will be more compliant without them.” He reaches forward to highlight the square. A small box projects above it, showing a small picture of Thorn’s friends and a few details about each one. Levels and Hit Points remaining are the easiest to read.
“Excellency, a moment, please," Thorn pleads, unable to hide the tremble in her voice. "They are a strong force; perhaps, it may be best to save them for later in the conflict!”
Dullahan freezes in place. “Your position here is honorary only, peasant! If you speak to me directly again, you will join your fellows on the field,” he replies in an icy tone. Deliberately and contemptuously, he presses the square and then another on the opposing side.
Skemend and Osmanthus share a long stare behind Dullahan's back. Thorn turns her head so she cannot watch the events about to unfold.
Game time ag
ain. Our square lights up around us, and we can clearly see our objective. Six armed and armored, drugged-out humans pull their weapons in anticipation. Haynes takes charge. “Like we practiced, gentlemen. Form up in a Roman Fighting Square, lock shields, and advance on my word.”
We swiftly get into our places. Haynes in the center with Jesse to his left, and Des to his right. I take the center of the second line with Nian to my left and Thirax on my right. I attempt to slow my breathing from the rapid panic that tries to overwhelm me.
“Move out!” Hayes barks, and we move forward, slow and steady, just as we practiced. We cross the open field and through the now open square the magic hammer had crushed. Our boots trample mud and crushed body parts.
As we approach in formation, our opponents attack with wild abandon. They begin screaming and running at us with no discipline whatsoever.
To my surprise, we cut them down with ease. The first three crash into our shield wall, stopping cold in their tracks. Those of us in the second line thrust our spears past our companions' shields. All three spear points sink deep and true. I hit my threat in the unarmored space between his chest plate and his chin. White light mingles briefly with the spray of arterial blood, and I know he's dead before he even falls. The final three go down with ease by our front line, their blades flashing and hacking.
In the end, we have taken the square and suffered no injuries at all. We’re left standing in the rain, amid six dead bodies, surrounded by the enemy. Insane and angry stares come at us from three sides. I shake my head, kind of overwhelmed and a little sickened by what I just did. But I don't have time to dwell on it right now. Stay focused, dammit!
“Swords out! Two on each side! Form up again when we know where our next attack is coming from!” Haynes shouts over the rain.
Jesse and Nian move to face the left side, Des and Haynes take the front, Thirax and I take the right side. I drop the spear into the harness on my back and pull my mace. I raise my shield defensively and wait. I try very hard not to look down at the bodies. I'm thankful that the rain keeps the stench of blood from reaching our nostrils.