Manoeuvring. Enemy advance. You stand ground. No tests.
The skeletons arrived together, but did not quite attack in unison. The one closest to the wall had a long knife. However, it shoved in with its shield raised in front as if trying to jam his mace.
War Knife outclasses Spiked Mace as melee weapon.
Torstag couldn’t retreat so he sidestepped and swung his mace low.
Result = 7 (Your Performance) +1 (Luck) -3 (“Outnumbered”, “Heavier Weapon”) -4 (Challenge) = 1
Effect = 1 (Result) +2 (Mace) = 3 damage. Target has 3 remaining Structure and Hindrance “Damaged”.
The mace cracked into the ribs, sending shards of bones flying.
The second skeleton was already swinging its axe.
Torstag let the mace blow follow through, raised his hand, and whipped the weapon down diagonally, covering himself with the round shield and stepping behind the strike.
Axe and Spiked Mace are matched as Melee Weapons.
Using Feat Wrath Strike, cost 1 Potestas, 7 of 4 remaining.
Result = 7 (Your Performance) +0 (Luck) -2 (“Outnumbered”) -4 (Challenge) = 1
Effect = 1 (Result) +2 (Wrath Strike) +2 (Mace) = 5. Target has 1 remaining structure and Hindrance “Damaged”.
The incoming axe clanged on Torstag’s shield just as his own weapon smashed into the skeleton’s shoulder, cracking the white bone.
The third skeleton squeezed past the mummies and clattered off in the direction of Ingar, who swore copiously and—judging from the movement of the light—started backing away.
Again, Torstag followed through and struck down the same line at the axe wielding skeleton. This time he did not bother with a feat.
The skeleton’s shield came up, but unsteadily.
Target has 1 remaining structure and Hindrance “Damaged”.
Result = 7 (Your Performance) -1 (Luck) -2 (“Outnumbered”) + 2 (“Target Damaged) -4 (Challenge) = 2.
The spiked mace passed over the top and struck the monster’s skull. It flew off and bounced off the rock wall.
Effect = 2 (Result) +2 (Mace) = 4. Target destroyed.
With a roar of triumph, Torstag pivoted to face the skeleton that had tried to jam him with the shield.
Target has 2 remaining structure and Hindrance “Damaged”.
You have Disadvantage “Outclassed Weapon”.
The skeleton’s long knife flashed in the uneven light.
Torstag raised his shield and hacked down behind it, letting the metal rim guard his hand.
The knife squealed down the face of the shield.
The skeleton, however, used its shield to bash the mace away.
Result = 7 (Your Performance) -1 (Luck) -3 (“Outnumbered”, “Outclassed Weapon”) +2 (“Target Damaged”) -2 (Target Feat “Parry”) -4 (Challenge) = -1 Capped at Tie.
Test of Potestas 7. Twitch available.
Torstag stole the momentum of the bash and whirled the mace back into another strike.
Using Twitch 4/6, cost 1 Potestas 6 of 4 remaining.
The skeleton, however, had its knife free and brought it down to parry against Torstag’s wrist.
Enemy Feat Travel After counters Twitch.
Effect = 1 (Luck) + 0 (Knife) = 1 Vitality Loss.
3 of 4 Vitality remaining.
Wet pain blossomed on his arm.
Torstag skipped backwards to get some space. Then, suddenly, he’d had enough. With an incoherent bellow, he launched himself into wild attack, flailing the heavy mace left and right, striking from one angle after the other.
Boldness grants +2 Result. However, on a tie, it instead grants +2 Result to the enemy.
Again, the skeleton tried a full parry that would end in a deadly Tie. However, the third skeleton had run past, so Torstag was no longer reacting to being outnumbered. The mace drew a spiral in the gloom, missed the shield, went up and around, then down behind it.
Bone crunched.
Result = 7 (Your Performance) +2 (Boldness) +1 (Luck) -2 (“Outclassed Weapon”) +2 (“Target Damaged”) -2 (Target Feat “Parry”) -4 (Challenge) = 4
Effect = 4 (Result) +2 (Mace) = 6. Target destroyed.
The skeleton’s component parts scattered the floor.
“Some help, please!” yelled Ingar.
Torstag twisted. Ingar was still backing away from the third skeleton, blocking its blows with a rapidly deteriorating book stand.
Torstag’s injured arm whipped the mace into a throw.
(And in the back of his mind, he heard himself talk to his Tempter:
Unlock Hurl as 5th Warrior Feat?
Yes.
Hurl unlocked at 2/6 Grasp.
Using Hurl 2/6 cost 3 Potestas. 5/4 Potestas remaining.
The weapon spun in flight.
Ingar, eyes wide with fear but still holding up the everlight, skipped backwards, away from the onrushing skeleton.
Target is in Melee range.
Result = 7 (Performance) +2 (Feat) +4 (Enemy not defending) +0 (Luck) -4 (Enemy Challenge) -1 (Range)= 8.
The head of the mace cracked into the monster’s skull.
Effect = 8 +2 (Mace) = 10 Damage.
White bone shattered. The skeleton fell apart. The mace dropped at Ingar’s feat.
1 Point of Fatigue incurred.
2 of 4 Vitality remaining.
6 of 4 Potestas remaining.
He contemplated the gash in his forearm. The everlight made the blood look black. He tucked his his right hand under his left armpit, hugging the wound to his robe. “You were a lot of help,” he said.
“Fuck you,” said Ingar, “I’m only Warrior zero.”
Torstag just stared at him while the wound stung.
“Look,” said Ingar, “It was your bloody stupid idea to fight them.”
“I did, didn’t I?” said Torstag. He threw back his head. The tunnel echoed with his laughter.
“And you got injured.”
Torstag shrugged. He kicked one of the broken skulls. “By the Gods! I needed that!”
Ingar winced. “If that had been people it would have been…fucking disturbing.”
“But it wasn’t.” Torstag laughed. “Oh, you were wrong about Vitality. It’s two plus the ‘highest applicable Vocation’. Or was for me. Warrior goes straight into it.”
“Fuck,” said Ingar. He chewed his lip. “So it must be half for Vocations that are kind of physical, like Burglar, but the whole whack for big tough Warriors.” He cocked his head at the mummies. “Aren’t you going to touch the other one?”
“The necromancer?” Torstag shook his head. “Do me a favour—rip his arm off.”
“What the fuck?”
“Surge gives us five Form, doesn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“And heals us. So handy for later.”
“Yep.” Ingar nodded. He tore off the arm of Lashton the Necromancer and tucked it into his belt. “Let’s get the fuck out of here.”
“No, wait. Lend me the everlight,” said Torstag.
“What? Sure. What are you going to do?”
Torstag placed the orb on the stone plinth, raised his mace—Morningstar, corrected his Tempter.
Ingar took a pace forward. “No!”
Torstag brought down the weapon.
The orb cracked. A sliver of flame escaped, formed itself into a tiny dragon. For a heartbeat, it hung in the air. Then it dove hungrily into the belly of the mummy of Berotspan the Marshal.
Fire whooshed. Black smoke coiled.
“Great,” said Ingar. “But now we have no light.”
Torstag handed the mace to Ingar. “Hang onto the mace.”
“If you say,” said Ingar. “What about light?”
Torstag stooped and picked up one of the long knives. It felt good in his hands. He thrust through a fold in his robe, then wrenched at the Marshal’s left arm. It came off with a sickening crunch. He dipped the stump end in the fire. It caught instantly. He offered it to I
ngar. “If you don’t like the dark, you can hold my hand.”
Coughing, Ingar took the relic by its wizened wrist. “Fucking lunatic.”
The flames spread to the mummy of Marvon the Mutilator.
Torstag grabbed it by the head.
“Hey…! Began Ingar.
Torstag hurled the mummy across the tunnel to land amidst another pair of mummies. Fire whooshed. Black smoke now billowed over the rough-hewn vault.
The Marshal’s right hand was free of flames. Torstag grabbed it—felt old scars, had flashes of cutting down his enemies like so many dogs—twisted and pulled. With a crunch, both hand and burning forearm came free.
Something buzzed past and pinged into the cavern wall.
Crossbow bolt. Off Target.
“What was…?” began Ingar.
“Crossbows!” Torstag started moving. “Jink as you run.”
They turned and sprinted down the corridor, stepping left and right to make things harder for the enemy.
Somewhere behind them, a dog bayed. It was an unnaturally hollow sound that chilled Torstag to the bone.
Chapter 20: Hazardous Hospitality
“Over that pass somewhere,” said Trophimus. “But we should spend the night first.
The lode bone pointed straight up the valley, but the sun was setting behind the mountains and the valley floor already in shadow.
“No fucking inn,” said Cerdic, sweeping a mailed arm to indicate the scrawny village that sprawled on either side of the road. Drops of water flicked off the rings of his armour. It had been drizzling for the last hour, and the evening sky promised more rain or possibly sleet.
“That could be a problem,” said Trophimus.
His little column of twelve bounty hunters had been riding for a month now, crossing through a dozen portals in that time. The training had gone well. They’d just completed a three-day stopover in an overpopulated Realm with a ready supply of practice victims, and a readily bribable local magistrate.
Readily bribable, but not honestly bribable, alas: clearly, they’d flashed around too much coin. They’d managed to ride off just a few moments ahead of the magistrate’s henchmen. Then they had had to waste most of the day doglegging through portals to throw off pursuit. Everybody was treating it as a great joke, and would continue to do so until they remembered that in doing a runner they’d not had time to lay in supplies, nor had they picked up warmer clothing for this part of their journey.
“We’ll just take what we need from the peasants,” said Cerdic.
“Castle,” said Trophimus. He pointed to where a walled structure seemed to fade into the rocky head of the valley just before the road climbed the pass. “I suspect the local lord would object.”
Cerdic shrugged his mailed shoulders. “A place like that, there won’t be proper soldiers, just servants with spears.”
“Yes, but he’ll be able to organise the locals,” said Trophimus. “We won’t sleep nearly so well as we’ll eat.”
“Fuck,” said Cerdic. “I hate the wanker already.”
Dekan leaned over in his saddle and said, “We’ll ask for hospitality.”
“That’s for nobles,” said Trophimus, slapping him down on general principle; Dekan had a tendency to speak up as if he had the same seniority as his wife.
“I beg your pardon, sir,” lisped Dekan, exaggerating his patrician accent. “I am the Baron of the Vale of Hoyitt, and this is my nephew Sir Rovan who I am escorting to his wedding in the…”
“The Baronies of Oldgorge,” said Cerdic. “That’s through the next portal or so. Fuck me! I think this will work.”
“At your service, sir,” said the Kid, bowing in the saddle.
Trophimus sighed. “Right,” he said “Listen up people. Axe Girl’s Dekan is going to tell us how to behave like a noble’s retinue.”
“It’s not complicated…” began Dekan.
The castle was sited to catch the last of the light. As they drew nearer, the details became apparent. It had high rough stone walls with no crenelations, and a single tower that seemed to serve both as keep and a gatehouse.
Thunder rolled. The drizzle became a downpour that rattled on Trophimus’ helmet.
Somebody lit a lantern in the castle gateway.
“They have prepared a welcome!” declared Dekan.
“A castle can be a trap,” said Trophimus.
“Servants with spears,” said Cerdic over the din of the rain. “I think we can handle them.”
It was in fact a single servant with a spear; one bored old man guarding the gate, which by all good practice he should have closed in their faces. Instead he left it ajar while he fetched his lord.
Lord Dreik, a stubby little man with a long white beard, appeared in the gateway. A burly servant stood behind him, holding a lantern aloft with a muscular burn-scarred arm.
“Soldier?” said Cerdic.
“Hmmm,” said Trophimus.
Dekan slipped from his saddle and bowed deeply. “You are most gracious, sir. Allow me to present my nephew.”
Trophimus dismounted and the others followed suit.
“Welcome, messers, an unexpected guest is a welcome one.”
“Ah well, my lord,” said Dekan and launched into a fictitious anecdote about their journey.
Lord Dreik ushered them into the vaulted gate tunnel. The second, inner, gate was still closed. Two additional servants waited within. These were younger and stronger looking than the old spearman, and wore long knives on their belts. They shared Dreik’s thick eyebrows. Since he hadn’t introduced them, it followed that they were his by-blows, bound to him by blood but not inheritance.
Cerdic jerked his head to indicate “up”.
Trophimus squatted as if checking his horse’s girth strap and took a good look at the vault.
It had the usual murder holes. A flame flickered. Was somebody moving up there. Now would not be a good moment for Lord Dreik to turn on them, but nor would it be a good moment to try to jump him.
Dekan and the Kid were working smoothly through the exchange of aristocratic courtesies. Dreik seemed relaxed enough, for all that the burly lantern bearer stayed close to him.
Trophimus turned to get Axe Girl’s opinion. The life-worn woman was watching her nephew and younger husband with the kind of glint in the eye she normally only showed when they brought in a really big target. What was it like to feel that way?
“You and your retainers must be tired and wet,” said Lord Dreik. “The servants will attend to your horses. Since my poor hall is somewhat cramped, it might be better if you left your arms on your mounts.”
“I…er…” began Dekan.
Trophimus tensed. Dekan had gotten in out of his depth. He wouldn’t want to surrender their weapons, but he probably didn’t know about the murder holes. What hellish concoction was Lord Dreik planning to drop on their heads if they quibbled over disarming? He would have seen them advance down the valley. There was plenty of time to prepare a vat of pitch or even tallow.
Could he grab Cerdic in time? Not with Dekan and the Kid in the way. And if everybody else got singed, the mission would be a washout.
“Is there some problem, sir?” asked Lord Dreik. “Custom, of course, dictates that you keep your eating knives, so there will be no inconvenience.”
“Um…that is…” said Dekan.
“Begging your pardon, sire,” said Trophimus, putting on his best Trusted Retainer voice, “that wasn’t an insult. The folks in these parts don’t have weapon shrines.” He started unbuckling his sword belt.
“Weapon shrines?” asked Lord Dreik.
Trophimus opened his mouth to offer an explanation, but Axe Girl’s husband got their first.
“Ah yes,” said Dekan. “Our people have a tradition of honouring the weapons of our guests by placing them in Shrine to Bellafortis, our War Goddess. Anything else is an insult. Hence my confusion, since you seem such a gracious host.”
“Your pardon,” said Lord Dreik.
“You must think us very rudely provincial here.”
“Not at all, sir,” said Dekan smoothly. “It is I who am poorly travelled.” He turned to flash a grin at Trophimus. “Hang the weapons on the horses. We regard our mounts as embodiments of honour, so none of us could take offence if our weapons shared their lodgings.”
“You heard his lordship,” said Trophimus. He hooked his sword belt over his saddle bow. He cocked a head at Cerdic then raised his arms so his comrade could unbuckle his scaled lamellar shirt for him. As always, Trophimus got out of his armour completely—not just the lamellar, but his greaves and vambraces—before helping Cerdic out of his mailshirt. That way, if things went bad, only one of them risked being hampered by having some piece of kit flapping around half off.
It took a few minutes of fuss to stow everybody’s long knives and swords. The shields were already on the pack horses, along with Trophimus’s thief catcher and Axe Girl’s signature weapon.
Trophimus took great delight in handing armour to the old servant. “See that it is hung where it will dry. It would not do to embarrasses his lordship with a rusty escort.”
The old man bobbed his head as the weight made him stagger.
“This way, messers, this way,” said Lord Dreik. Somebody took that as a signal and the inner gates swung open, letting them into the rain soaked courtyard. “Be welcome!” declared the baron, striding ahead and waving his arms as if to make up for his short stature, “A warm fire awaits.”
Trophimus paused under the inner arch. The rain and darkness provided a little cover, but if there were archers in the keep gatehouse then this could be suicide.
Cerdic stopped beside him. “What do you think?”
“Warm fire!” said Rufus, sliding past. “Come on!”
The Blade Bitches just pushed between them. “Out the way old men!”
The Jungle Tomb of the Ice Queen (The Flying Tooth Garden Book 1) Page 13