Skeletons. Medium speed. Hundreds. Dangerous. No room to manoeuvre.
He wasn’t going to dodge or sneak his way through that lot. “Okay, we’ll go up and over instead.” Ingar swung his everlight over the cavern walls: smooth.
Climbing the cavern walls is a level 15 challenge.
The skeletons became agitated, clattering and swaying.
“Or not,” he said, lowering the light. “How about…”
“Don’t look at me,” said Torstag. “It’s a level four challenge just to repel one skeleton. There are hundreds of those things! It’s…” He paused, obviously listening to his Tempter. “…a level nine challenge to shift that lot.”
“You can do it!” said Ingar. “Level One Necromancer, right? Hammer away at your Form to get a five, gives you Performance six. Add two for whatever the feat is takes you to eight…a bit of luck takes you to nine.”
Torstag shook his head. “I’ve only got three Potestas. I’d need to get Form five first time, so I could have more than one try at the spell. But anyway, my Necromancer feats only let me do a spell. They don’t give me a boost like my Scout feats do.”
“Ha!” said Ingar. He rummaged in his pocket and brought out the prize from his first attempt at the Pick Pocket feat. “Look! Old Smelly Newt’s chalk!”
Torstag eyed it sceptically. “Do you think it will work?”
“I’ve watched him use it,” said Ingar. “He never chants or prays. The spell has to be in the chalk.”
“Great,” said Torstag, “but what are you going to do with it?” He surveyed the cavern. “You’d be cut down before you drew anything. They’ll reach over the lines, just like in the practice vault, except with swords.”
“Fuck,” said Ingar.
“Hang on,” said Torstag. “Why’s this cavern so big?”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s a waste,” said Torstag. “A handful of skeletons would be enough to stop intruders like us. They don’t need an entire cavern.”
“What if they had to hold off an army?” asked Ingar.
“Any army that got here would have to have magicians who could cope with skeletons fine…” Torstag snapped his fingers. “This is an army. That’s the point. This is where they store the skeletons for manhunts. This is the first place they’ll come once they realise we’re missing.”
“Shit. We’d better get a move on,” said Ingar. “What if we…?” He peered over the edge of the platform. A rough white line kept the skeletons from mounting the steps. “Well fuck me! It’s just a chalk line keeping the skeletons back.” A plan formed in his mind. He was…fairly sure it would work. He moved over to the right hand side of the platform.
The skeletons huddled into the cramped space, as if expecting him to jump off and try to get past.
Ingar raised his robe…
Testing Potestas, 3. Performance Anxiety resisted.
…and urinated. He aimed the stream not in their faces—though that was tempting—but down on the chalk at the base of the platform.
“What the hell are you doing?” asked Torstag. “You’ll erase the…Oh Hell!”
Something unnatural snapped.
One of the skeletons moved across the steaming puddle and took a swing at Ingar’s ankles.
Ingar skipped back. The other skeletons were already filing in behind the first.
He turned.
Sure enough, in moving to the right-hand side of the vault, the skeletons had cleared the left-hand side. “Come on!” he yelled. He sprang down off the platform and started running for the door at the other end. “Wheee!”
“You’re mad!” panted Torstag behind him.
Ingar slammed into the door, spun to face the way he’d come.
There was no pursuit. At the other end of the vault, the skeletons were filing around the inside of the chalk, and up the steps.
As he looked on, one crossed the threshold at the far end. The entire lintel slammed down, obliterated it with an almighty crash, then banged back into place.
“So there was a trap,” said Torstag.
As if an officer had shouted a command, the surviving skeletons about-faced and filed back down the steps. Already half a dozen skeletons were rattling down the cavern toward them.
“Bugger,” said Ingar.
“How about getting this door open?”
“Holy chalk first,” said Ingar. He pulled out the stick of chalk and stooped to mark the floor.
Form 3. Performing Artist at Level 3. Unlock…?
No shut the fuck up Doofus.
He drew a wide half circle from one side of the door to the other. “There.”
“Hmm,” said Torstag, squinting at the chalk. He positioned himself in front of the door. “I’ll watch your back just in case.”
“Suit yourself.” Ingar crouched in front of the door and started prodding with his bent wire.
Form 3.
Performing Burglar at level 6.
Using Open Lock, cost 1 Potestas. 2 of 5 Potestas remaining.
Something clunked.
Result = 6 (Performance) + 2 (Feat) -1 (Luck) -8 (Challenge) = -1
Effect = Failure.
Ingar turned the handle and pulled. Nothing happened. There was still more work to do. “Bugger.”
“Damn!” said Torstag. He bumped into Ingar’s back.
Ingar pivoted in time to see Torstag throwing himself at a skeleton that had squeezed between the wall and the end of the chalk semicircle.
Torstag twisted the monster’s weapon free—a short spiked mace.
The skeleton raised its round shield, but too slowly.
Torstag’s commandeered mace caught the thing on the cranium, reduced the skull to dust.
Bones rained on the stone. The round shield hit the ground and rattled like a dropped coin.
Already, a second skeleton was trying to squeeze through the gap.
Torstag scooped up the shield. “The good news is I’m on Form 5 and have the advantage when they try to force their way in. The bad news is that I’m out of Potestas and you can’t draw. How about just getting the bloody door open?”
“I’m doing my best,” said Ingar. He got the wire into the right spot and twisted.
Result = 6 (Performance) +2 (Feat) +1 (Luck) -8 (Challenge) = 1
Effect = 1.
The lock moved just a little.
Result = 6 (Performance) + 2 (Feat) +1 (Luck) -8 (Challenge) = 1
Effect = 1.
There was a crash behind him. “Two down,” said Torstag. “Damn…” Another crash.
Ingar forced himself to focus on the job in hand.
Behind him, Torstag grunted and there was another crash.
Ingar twisted the wire. The lock squeaked.
Result = 6 (Performance) +2 (Feat) +0 (Luck) -8 (Challenge) = 0
Effect = 0.
Result = 6 (Performance) +2 (Feat) +1 (Luck) -8 (Challenge) = -1
Effect = 0.
Result = 6 (Performance) + 2 (Feat) +0 (Luck) -8 (Challenge) = 0
Effect = 0.
Total Effect 4. Lock Opened.
Ingar rose, yanked the door open and stepped inside. “Come on!”
Torstag dived past him.
Ingar pulled the door shut.
Immediately, the handle started to turn. Ingar put his weight into holding it still. “The buggers know how to open doors.”
“They were people once,” said Torstag.
“They can’t weigh much,” said Ingar, taking one hand off. “Swap over,” he said, “and I’ll try to reset the lock.”
Torstag stepped back and raised the spiked mace. His eyes twinkled. “I have a better idea. When I reach three, move your hands.”
The mace’s ball head seemed to fill Ingar’s vision. “Holy Fuck you are supposed to be cautious!”
Warrior. Dangerous. Fast.
“One…
The skeletons scratched at the door, the pressure on the handle grew harder to resist. More than one sk
eleton must be adding its weight.
“Two…three!”
Ingar yelped and snatched his hands away.
The mace slammed into the door handle, crushed it.
There was a clang from beyond the door as the rod shot out into the skeleton cavern, taking with it the handle on the other side. The crushed door knob clanked onto the natural stone floor.
“Sorted,” said Torstag.
Ingar looked beyond him.
Rank after rank of kneeling mummies filled the cavern. More tunnels led off the rear, all lined by human figures
“I see…dead people,” said Ingar. “Lots of dead people.”
Torstag blanched. He squared his jaw. “I’ll take it from here.”
Chapter 17: The Bluestocking Librarian and the Naked Barbarian
Millicent blinked into the warm air that gusted through the preternatural doorway.
It really was a naked barbarian!
Tattoos whorled over powerful muscles. Spiky hair added to his impressive stature. His clean-shaven chin and a long well-cared for moustache spoke of a certain sensual self regard.
A thick rope hobbled his ankles. His hands were clearly pinned behind his back.
Their gazes met.
Laughter lines bracketed his twinkling eyes. This was a man facing death with an ironic smile. He raised one eyebrow as if to ask what a lady were doing in such a dark place.
Beyond him stood men wearing conical hats bedecked with little bells, and ornamental-looking bronze breastplates. Each carried a spear with a leaf-bladed head in the same metal. They saw her, lifted their weapons. One man changed grip for a throw.
Millicent aimed her pistol and fired.
Form 2.
Using Skill Shooting 4. Cost 1 Potestas, 4 of 6 remaining.
Performing Shooting at Level 5.
Result = 5 (Performance) +1 (Luck) -5 (Challenge) = 1
Effect = Rope cut.
The bullet chipped the stone between the naked barbarian’s ankles, ricochetted. Blood flecked from the inner thigh of a grey-bearded man who sported a felt shawl or cloak. His knee buckled. He toppled sideways.
“Damn! Sorry!” blurted Millicent. “I didn’t mean…”
The hobble rope, meanwhile, had parted.
The barbarian spun on one powerful leg, lashed out with the other. His big foot slammed into a breastplate, sent a spearman crashing into his comrades.
The one using a throwing grip drew back his spear to cast.
Test of Potestas 3, declared her Voice.
“Sorry! Sorry…” said Millicent, even as she aimed and fired.
Current Form 2.
Using Skill Shooting 4. Cost 1 Potestas, 4 of 6 remaining.
Performing Shooting at Level 5.
The weapon crashed.
Pistol takes effect first.
Performing Shooting at level 9. Cost 1 Potestas, 1 of 6 remaining.
Result = 4 (Performance) -1 (Luck) -0 (Challenge) = 3
Armour 1 (2 halved) negated.
Effect = 3 (Result) +3 (Revolver) = 6.
Target slain.
A black hole appeared in the thrower’s breastplate. He tumbled off the edge of what appeared to be a wooden platform. The cheering stopped. Somebody screamed into the silence.
Millicent kept on screaming.
You are Self Hating.
Test of Will, 3. You have resisted acquiring an Issue.
The last two spearmen rallied and charged across the wooden deck.
The barbarian flipped onto his back.
The blood rushed in Millicent’s ears, making it hard to think. Like a sleepwalker, she stepped forward through the portal and out onto the platform, even as part of her realised that if the barbarian actually needed her help then they were both doomed.
The barbarian, however, evidently uninjured, drew in his knees, brought his bound wrists past his muscular backside and round in front of him. He kicked the knees of the nearest spearman, then rolled to his feet. A flex of his muscles and his wrist ropes snapped.
The other spearman thrust at his kidneys.
Millicent aimed and fired.
Nothing happened.
She stared at the revolver, while ice water seemed to trickle into her gut. The cylinder had four rounds left, but none of them were going to fire in this Realm because she was now well beyond the Pale.
It wasn’t just the little sparks dancing over the surface of her father’s revolver that told her this. It was also the scene on which the portal had opened; a wide triangular plaza lined by multi-tiered buildings with taller towers visible above the roofline. The architecture—lots of triangular columns—was unfamiliar, as was the costume of the crowd—everybody in tall conical hats with bells, men with pierced noses, women with bared bosoms and… “Ouch.”
The portal in the ruined tower had clearly taken her to an entirely undocumented civilisation, one on which she had inadvertently declared war.
There was a scream and a crash. The barbarian had disarmed the man behind and used the weapon to slash the throat of the one in front.
Blood sprayed. The surviving spearman screamed and jumped off the platform into the crowd. The barbarian roared some kind of complex invective and hurled the corpse after him. It crashed into the back of one of a company of bronze-armoured soldiers who were keeping the mob back from the platform.
Everything, realised Millicent, had happened faster than they could react.
Now an officer barked orders and the soldiers about-faced.
Something drew Millicent’s gaze beyond the armoured men to look over the top of the now-muted crowd.
The platform she was standing on had duplicates at the other two corners of the triangular plaza, both built around a monolith with a wooden door. The lack of fortifications suggested that each portal led to somewhere equally fatal. Even so, according to her memory of the chart, and to the strong intuitive pull she felt, she needed to get to the one on her right.
The barbarian stamped a bare foot, making the boards thud. He banged the bronze-shod spear butt on the wood.
The sound echoed back from the surrounding buildings, breaking the uncanny silence.
Still thumping the spear, he launched into something that was somewhere between a chant and a song. The language suddenly became vaguely familiar.
Using Scholar Feat, Read Gorlakian Runes cost 1 Potestas, 0 remaining.
Current Form 2. Performing Scholar at level 6.
Result = 6 (Performance) + 2 (Feat) +0 (Luck) -2 (Spoken Language) = Understanding Gorlakian at level 6.
“…so know that I am Withard, son of Maeve the Cruncher, daughter of Mighty Oak King of the Lone Tower, son of…”
An order rang out.
Three soldiers detached themselves and ran up the steps to the platform.
Slash!
Stab!
Butt-strike.
Withard, son of Maeve the Cruncher despatched all three enemies without breaking the rhythm of his chant.
Another order and a solder blew a horn. An answering call rang out from somewhere beyond the plaza.
Withard, son of Maeve the Cruncher’s only response was to chant louder and brandish the spear higher so that drops of blood fell like rain.
Millicent drew herself up. This was no situation for a lady. However, going back into the cold Realm entailed certain death. Unless…
She returned her revolver to her shoulder bag. Stooping, she grabbed a dropped spear—it weighed a good two pounds—and tossed it back through the portal.
The wood clattered on the scattered bones.
She did the same with the remaining three spears. Eight pounds of wood. Not enough.
A trumpet resounded from the other side of the plaza. A column of cavalry started to nudge through the crowd. Each rider carried a big recurved bow.
The platform was a creaky thing. How well put together was it?
She stooped and grabbed the edge. One good heave and a plank came loose, then another
. She tossed them through the door.
The cavalry fanned out a good hundred yards from the platform. This was going to be down to archery.
The crowd streamed around the horses, getting out of the way.
The greybeard had bled out, so Millicent tore off his felt cloak.
Withard, son of Maeve the Cruncher, and—to be honest—possessor of a very fine and muscular rump—was still chanting his defiance.
Millicent half turned away, then said, “What-ho, Withard. Um, we makee strategic-um retreat-ee?”
Current form 2. Performing Virago at level 6.
Result = 6 (Performance) +0 (luck) -4 (Target Will) = 2 Tentative Practical Response.
The naked barbarian wheeled to face her.
Behind him, the mounted archers bent their bows.
It would have been ladylike to blush and avert her eyes. Instead she barked, “Come on!”
The bows rippled.
Millicent turned, threw herself through the door onto pile of scavenged timber and spears.
The naked barbarian landed on her.
Millicent rolled around. “Get the door closed!”
An arrow thudded into the plank she’d just vacated.
A figure appeared in the doorway.
She grabbed her bag, scrambled inside for her pistol.
The door closed shut, plunging them in darkness.
The barbarian rolled to his feet. “Stay down, woman. Dragons!”
“Um…” Millicent thought frantically. “Me kill dragons with bang stick?”
Silence. Then he said something too fast for her to understand.
Had she insulted his barbarian manhood? “Sorry! Sorry!”
“I say…you like Great Cormaxaz! Warrior Queen!
The Jungle Tomb of the Ice Queen (The Flying Tooth Garden Book 1) Page 11