Battalion Banished

by Nancy Osa

  The horses’ health was iffy, too. Although the animals and soldiers had fled from Lady Craven’s army, without some sustenance, they wouldn’t last much longer. Unless they wanted to eat snow, they’d have to seek out a food source.

  “Hey, team! I see some vegetation off that way,” Quartermaster Jools said, mounting his tall, cream-colored horse, Beckett. In his weakened state, Jools was a good three shades paler than the palomino, and his rumpled tweed jacket hung on him like an empty sock. “Follow us.”

  Frida—appearing more wiry than ever—got up on Ocelot and fell in next to Turner on Duff and the black and white paint horse they were leading. Kim, dressed in her customary riding clothes and boots, sprang onto Nightwind. Her naturally pink skin belied her poor health, but her tiny form had shrunk with hunger. The experienced rider seemed ill-matched with the big bay stallion that their friend and adviser, Colonel M, had bequeathed to her. Rob, the battalion’s captain, remained on the ground, leading his black horse, which was limping.

  “Saber’s all in,” Rob said, so Turner gave him the spare horse, Armor, to ride, and he ponied Saber alongside. They trailed behind the others, an unusually gaunt Rob gawking at the surroundings. He had arrived in this version of the Overworld not so long ago and could still be considered a newbie. Hailing from the high desert in his world, he had never seen a stretch of ice plains before, nor strolled across a frozen river.

  Frida reined Ocelot in and waited for Rob to catch up. Ever since she’d trapped him on his first day in the jungle, she had felt it her duty to teach him how to survive. He couldn’t have stumbled across a better tutor. “Hang in there, Captain,” Frida encouraged him. “We’re bound to find something to eat soon.”

  “Or someone to trade with,” Kim added.

  Their inventories had been replenished with diamonds, gold, and other bankable ores by Colonel M, but the old ghost could not offer them any food. He had escorted them swiftly from portal to portal in his native Nether, moving them out of Lady Craven’s range, but temporarily stranding them here in the desolate snowy plains on the surface. They’d have to keep moving if they wanted to save themselves.

  Battalion Zero’s ammunition was spent, and their weapons were damaged. Worst of all, they’d lost Artilleryman Stormie. They couldn’t do anything about that, but at least it was morning, and they had the day to travel unbothered by hostile mobs to seek food.

  Frida’s stomach grumbled. She had been raised to fend for herself and would’ve had no trouble getting by on her own. Groups complicate everything, she thought. They required more food, more resources, and more protection just to stay in the game. She said as much to Rob, who had unwittingly been thrust into the role of troop leader—a position as unnatural to him as it was to her. He’d told her that in his old life, he had often ridden fences for days on end seeing no one but his horse, his dog, and a few stray cows. Maybe that was why Frida felt so close to him.

  “Hey, sugarcane!” Jools called, as they moved into a small patch of reeds.

  The limited supply proved Frida’s point that groups were troublesome. There was enough cane to craft sugar for the horses, but not enough to prevent the troopers from starving. While she might share food with her comrades, she resolved to keep her magical griefer medallion a secret unless she absolutely had to use it.

  “Chins up, Bat Zero!” Kim said with forced cheer. “Pepping up the horses will get us where we’re going faster.”

  “Wherever that is,” Frida mumbled. She could always determine a course for herself, but, until recently, she had left company movement to Rob and Stormie. Without the expert adventurer and her map, though, their destination was less than certain.

  Rob was trying to maintain his command, no matter how difficult it had become. He summoned Frida after Ocelot had munched her small ration of sugar cubes. “Vanguard, ride out and see if you can spot the village that Colonel M mentioned.”

  The First War veteran had sent them through the nearest escape portal, assuring them that they could reach an ice plains village called Spike City by nightfall if they hurried. Frida rode off to scout ahead, giving the battalion a good view of Ocelot’s brown-spotted rump as the pony galloped toward the horizon.

  Horse and rider hopped up and down the low snow terraces, soon coming upon a small thicket of trees. Among the dark spruce rose a couple of oaks. Frida paused long enough to stand in the saddle and whack down an armload of apples. She crammed one in her mouth, gave one to Ocelot, and saved the rest for her friends. A wry smile crossed her green lips as she trotted away again. What would Mami have to say about this? Sharing would have been unthinkable in her old life, where survival of the fittest demanded an unflinchingly selfish attitude.

  Reaching a small six-block rise, Frida urged her horse upward to view the landscape. Off to the southwest, Frida could see the carpet of snow give way to higher-elevation forest. She noted its potential for a base hideout. Sure enough, off to the north, a facade rose from the plains in the distance—a sizable collection of ice spike formations that the colonel said had been settled by villagers. The wiry vanguard sighed with relief and wheeled her horse around to carry the good news back to the banished lot of soldiers.

  *

  Rob nodded through a mouthful of apple as Frida gave him her full report. “Thanks, Frida. That terrain intel gives me an idea. Battalion,” he announced, “we’ll split into two squadrons. Jools, Kim—you’ll ride south with me to build shelter. Frida and Turner will cash in some diamonds for food in the village and join us ASAP. Oh, and see what you two can dredge up in the way of work. We’re going to need some serious loot to fund our next campaign.”

  The two squads separated. Frida and Turner directed their own mounts northward. The sugar and apples had restored energy levels sufficiently to enable fast transport. They soon reached the outskirts of the largest city that either of the survivalists had ever visited.

  Packed ice covered the ground and shot upward in tower formations, which enterprising players had hollowed out and made habitable. Frida felt as spellbound as her newbie captain would have been at the sight of the sparkling condominiums lining the ice pathway. Torches burned brightly on the wayside, giving the town a holiday atmosphere.

  In reality, though, life in Spike City was no party. Far from its nearest neighbors, this settlement was its own survival island, and the population reflected that rugged state. Villagers in threadbare aprons bustled to and fro with their wares. Coarse-looking farmers tended heated and covered garden strips. Ragged children engaged the local snow golem in a harmless snowball fight.

  Frida and Turner rode up the main street until they came to a butcher shop. “I’ll hold the horses, Meat,” Frida said, using her pet name for her old friend. “You go get us some steaks.”

  “Meat’s my middle name,” he said amiably, leaving Duff behind.

  She kept her ears open while she waited. Eavesdropping was a skill that all of her female family members were required to hone. Frida soon overheard a priest chatting with a villager about a supply train that was scheduled to arrive in a few days.

  “It’s bringing a gem shipment down from the extreme hills,” the long-haired cleric in the frayed purple robe said. “Coming this direction, the griefers won’t find out about it.”

  The leather worker dressed in a dirty white apron shrugged. “But the syndicate will. We’ll be lucky to get a pile of gravel by the time they’re through with it.”

  They grumbled a bit more, and the tradesman walked off.

  “Say, Padre,” Frida said before the priest could also disappear. “It sounds as though you folks could use some muscle to secure your payday.”

  The cleric acknowledged the girl with a tip of his shaggy head. “It’s an ongoing problem, but there’s always a way to score if you hire the right people.”

  Frida narrowed her eyes. “Are you saying there’s bodyguarding work available?”

  The cleric smiled, revealing a few rotten teeth, but there was no humor in h
is expression. “If folks are willing to risk their lives for it.”

  “Is there any other way to work?” she asked.

  “Look, let’s talk about this somewhere more . . . private.” He glanced over his shoulder.

  Turner walked toward them, chewing on something. The meal had restored his normal stature: big, beefy, and almost completely covered with skin art representing the Overworld biomes. His version of Friday casual—ripped T-shirt, cargo pants, and combat boots—stood out among the frocked villagers.

  “Turner, the padre here has some news for us,” Frida said. “What’s your name, by the way?”

  “Padre will do,” he said. “Come along.”

  As he turned to usher them down the street, Frida noticed a small marking on the back of his neck when his hair momentarily shifted—a tattoo of an apple with an arrow in it. Just like the one she had.

  She froze for an instant, then followed, pretending not to notice. “Whatcha eating, Meat?” she asked Turner, handing him Duff’s reins and trying to distract him so he wouldn’t spot the familiar tattoo. Turner, himself, was so heavily decorated that one tat might not make an impression.

  Turner mumbled an incomprehensible reply and handed Frida some beef jerky from his new supply. They turned down a side street, after the padre who led them through a door, and inside a spike dwelling set with stained-glass windows. The entryway was decorated with a font that dripped water from an ice block set over a blue beacon. It looked to be the only thing nearby not made of packed ice.

  “You can bring your horses right on in,” the padre said. “There’s plenty of room.”

  Indeed, the ice chapel was meant for a large congregation, but sat empty right now . . . save for one soul who awaited the priest’s return. The young woman in short shorts and a black crop top stood on the other side of the wide room with her back to the door, a long, wavy, black ponytail cascading over one shoulder. She turned to face the visitors, and surprise crossed her dusky face.

  Frida and Turner volleyed the disbelief right back at her.

  “Stormie?” Frida exclaimed.

  The woman squealed in answer and rushed forward, startling the horses and the priest. She opened her arms and crushed Frida and Turner in a group hug.

  “Ow!” Turner complained, obviously more pleased than harmed.

  “Did you spawn here?” Frida asked.

  “I brought her here,” the padre said, annoyed that he’d been left out of the conversation. “You people know each other? She’s looking for work, too.” He regarded the trio. “I think you’d better tell me who you are. Now.”

  Turner opened his mouth, but Frida cut him off before he could say a word. “Okay, Padre.” She sent Stormie a meaningful stare. “We’re a mercenary collective, trying to stay afloat while we build up our herd of horses. You’ve met Stormie, here, the well-known adventurer. Turner’s a solid hand with weapons, and I’m a survivalist by trade. We can team up to provide whatever protection your people need.”

  “And who are you?”

  “Me?” Frida paused. “I’m your sister.”

  *

  The padre’s name was Rafe—short for Rafael, one of Frida’s clan who had been sent away at age eight to be raised by villagers.

  He and Frida compared neck artwork.

  “Sweet!” admired Turner.

  “What’s the apple stand for?” Stormie asked.

  “It’s our family crest,” Frida replied. “We come from jungle country, thick with apple-bearing oaks.”

  “And the arrow . . . ?”

  “Stands for this!” Rafe cried, springing at Frida and taking her down. They tussled, rolling on the packed-ice floor, each trying to pin the other.

  Finally, Turner broke up the sparring match. “Hey! Hey! C’mon, you appleseeds. We get it. You like to fight.” He grinned and elbowed Stormie. “Separated at birth, huh? Two peas in a pod.”

  When they parted, Rafe explained that they’d play-fought as kids. He knew that Frida would have gone on to learn the advanced technical skills that all the women warriors in their family were trained in. He’d entered the church and found it an ideal way to remain outside the limits of the law. “Where there’s good, there’s bound to be evil,” he explained. “Being a priest is the best way to make deals with the dark side.”

  Turner grunted. “And that’s always where the money is.”

  “Sad but true,” Rafe agreed.

  One thing still bothered Frida about her long-lost brother: boys in the family weren’t tattooed as the girls were when they’d completed their training and set off on their own. But she wouldn’t ask about it now. Mark or no mark, he was clearly one of her clan, and he appeared to be just what the battalion needed.

  Frida indicated to her friends that they could trust him well enough, so they gave him the bare details of their mission and their somewhat desperate circumstances.

  “I don’t know about saving the Overworld,” Rafe said. “I’m not really a joiner. That’s why I came out here. Spike City is more an outpost than a village. Folks come here after being thrown out or chased away from more respectable places. Mostly, they just want to be left alone.”

  “But it seems so . . . upscale,” Stormie remarked.

  “Well, builders have a lot of time on their hands and plenty of stolen goods to buy cheap.”

  “Sounds like my kinda town,” Turner said, rubbing his hands together.

  “Don’t get any retirement ideas, Meat,” Frida scolded. “We’ve got a job to do first.”

  She assured her brother that their crew would be interested in any risky employment opportunities with decent payoff to fund their crusade. He said he’d talk to his people.

  “We’ve got to go, Rafe. We’ll be in touch.”

  The brother and sister pounded fists, and the three reunited friends took their leave, marveling at their good luck. The turn of events had been amazing, even by extremely rare world probability standards.

  *

  “But how did you get here?” Frida asked Stormie as they rode southward, away from the village. Turner had pulled Stormie up to ride behind Duff’s saddle.

  “Well, I just followed the plan we’d agreed on back at Bryce Mesa for if we died and respawned. Remember?”

  Turner scratched his head. “That was one losing battle and two portals ago,” he pointed out.

  “I was supposed to get to the Nether and wait for y’all at the safe house,” Stormie said. “I probably showed up there before the last skeleton’s arrow hit your butt.”

  Frida laughed. “Once we entered the Nether, we didn’t slow down until Colonel M sent us back out onto the ice plains. He made sure the griefers couldn’t follow us.”

  “When nobody showed up,” Stormie said, “I went to the colonel’s fortress. He told me you’d eventually surface in the city. Funny that we were both drawn to your brother, though.”

  “No mistake, there.” Frida nodded at Turner. “We both know how to find a good con man.”

  “Amen to that, sisters,” he declared proudly.

  They journeyed to the coordinates that the two squadrons had agreed on as a meeting point. When they arrived, though, they found an empty stone enclosure and a note: Gone horse hunting.

  Turner drifted off to explore the area, leaving the two women in the hut to catch up on the details of Frida’s secret mission.

  *

  “. . . and that’s where you came in,” Frida said to Stormie, who sat cross-legged next to her in the stone shelter. The whole incident Frida had just recounted had been merely a prelude to their current predicament. That battle had been lost—and lost big. Like it or not, Battalion Zero was on the run.

  “That’s also where I went out,” Stormie replied, referring to her untimely death at the hands of griefer skelemobs.

  “Yeah, but you came back to fight with us another day.” Frida held out two palms.

  Stormie slapped them. “I told you so, girl.”

  “Glad to have you bac
k,” Frida said.

  “Glad to be back. So, besides wangling jobs and building up our inventories, what’s the plan?”

  The battalion had been forced to flee to a rough patch in the Overworld—one that made survival, let alone looting, a trial. Resources were scarce and settlements few and far between in the cold and snowy biomes. It had become clear that Rob and company would have to bend a few of society’s rules in order to reequip themselves to do battle.

  “The captain thought it would be a good idea to pick up some legit travelers and act as guides. That’ll give us a chance to keep on the move and look honest while we turn some jobs into gems.”

  “The kind of jobs Rafe was talking about could get us in hot water,” Stormie said.

  “And those are the jobs that pay, as he was saying. So, first we needed to get food and supplies. Me and Turner handled that. The others built this shelter, and I imagine they’ve already got a line on some extra horses. We’ll need them to shepherd tourists around.”

  “Awesome,” Stormie said. “I can’t wait to see ever’body. How is the captain?”

  Frida hesitated. She hadn’t shared her thoughts about Rob with Stormie, and there was no point in doing so now. “He’s fine.” Frida heard hoof beats in the distance and put up a finger. “Listen. They’re coming. He can tell you how he’s doing himself.”

  They got to their feet and went outside to greet the others. The sound of hooves grew louder, and a cluster of horses could be seen through the trees.

  Frida frowned. “They’re moving awfully fast,” she murmured.

  “I’ll say!”

  On rushed a trio of loose horses, with Rob, Kim, and Jools pushing them before Armor, Nightwind, and Beckett at a flat-out run. Frida had never seen placid Beckett gallop so fast.

  Stormie’s welcoming smile faded as Rob called out, “Take shelter! Get inside!”

  Stormie and Frida waited just long enough to watch the three riders run the other horses into a hole in the ground that served as a makeshift corral, where the injured Saber was waiting. Jumping off, Rob and company pushed their own mounts in. Then everybody dove for the stone hut.