Dream II: The Realm

by RW Krpoun

  “Human life is a cheap commodity,” Shad nodded. “Unless you can throw a ball or act. Now that we’ve reviewed the injustices of the Human condition can we return to the matter at hand? Thank you. This is going to be a long outing so pay very close attention to your load-outs. Make sure you have at least four hundred rounds in reserve for every weapon except Derek’s Le Mat shotgun and Fred’s Sharps; those can go lighter, but not too light. Make sure you’ve got a spare pair of boots, plenty of socks, and at least four bars of soap. Derek and Jeff, prep for a heavy use of your abilities; Fred, make sure you have the tools for dressing out anything from a gopher to a bull buffalo, and I’ll make sure we bring plenty of salt. Get your horses re-shoed and your saddles looked over. Any questions?”

  “When do we leave?” Jeff asked.

  “In five days. I figure we’ll stay with the Expedition to their destination if they keep a steady pace, rest there a couple days, and then push off on our own.”

  “Sounds workable,” Jeff commented. “How are your history lessons coming along?”

  “Interesting reading, but nothing that appears to have any bearing. I’m getting hints that the Tek’s ancestors, the Humans whose breakout created the Realm, were from the Mound Builders of Ohio, maybe with some pyramid builders from west Africa thrown in. Derek, anything?”

  “There’s more books here than in the Prison due to the printing presses, but the really good reading on magic is still hand-copied. I have learned that the Tek’s strength is in their inset gems. Each Tek of any significance has at least one stone embedded in their skull, and those of rank have several. The stones are renewed at arcane emanations in each pyramid, they call them Heart Flames or something similar.”

  “Do they build pyramids to create the flames, or do they build pyramid around existing flames?” Jeff asked.

  “Its like oil fields: you find where the oil is, then you build the well.”

  “So can anyone tap in?” Shad asked.

  “No, the Tek have a lock on the knowledge needed. Anyway, that’s not the biggest news,” the Alienist paused for effect. “Guess who is considered the Human expert on the Undead, necromancy, and Death Lords?”

  Jeff shook his head. “Cecil Standbry.”

  “Yup. According to his bio in the books I’ve gotten access to he’s a professor of the forbidden arts, lives in the Protectorate but it didn’t mention where.”

  “The leading authority on something as important as a major faction won’t be teaching school in Bloodseep,” Fred shrugged. “But we can find him. Maybe we should.”

  The others pondered the idea. “If this guy is smart, and everything we’ve seen suggests exactly that, he will be laying low,” Jeff pointed out. “Keep in mind that we’re outlanders. He’s got all the advantages of a civilized state behind him.”

  “Plus the longer we delay, the more comfy he’ll get,” Shad agreed. “This guy is an ivory-tower type, probably a liberal to boot. He’ll get over-confident and careless if he thinks we’re a bunch of easily-predictable thugs for hire.”

  “For hire to do what?” Fred growled. “There’s a commercial enterprise setting up a trading fort a hundred miles from the center of the trail we’re supposed to be following. This whole thing is a smokescreen.”

  “Fred’s right,” Derek nodded.

  “He’s probably right, but that doesn’t prove anything without other facts or leads,” Shad shook his head. “We need to have some idea of what is going on before we make a dynamic move. Looking dumb is the best course right now. If Cecil thinks we’re playing his game he’ll leave us alone.”

  “I’m with Shad,” Jeff took a pull at his mug. “Look: we’re drawing XP every day, which is a point in support of the idea that Cecil’s job for us is legit, even if he may be lying about the motivations or some of the details. We need more facts.”

  “We’ll revisit the subject after we check out Wellring,” Shad assured Fred.

  Chapter Seven

  Derek had named the mule Durbin out of sentimentality, and as the Black Talons administered the final touches to their gear Shad checked the animal’s pack saddle. The mule was carrying two hundred pounds of equipment and supplies but didn’t appear to be overly concerned about it, although he tried to kick the Shootist out of habit.

  “Everyone ready?” Shad surveyed his crew. Derek had added a bowie knife and a custom-made bandolier for his spell papers, while the Shootist now wore the two shorter-barrel Artillery Model Colts in a dual shoulder holster rig which was more comfortable than his previous gun belt. He wore a cartridge belt over his pants belt, and had purchased a holster assembly that held his longer-barreled Cavalry model Colts on his saddle, one to either side of his saddle horn. All four Colts now boasted ivory grips, and in fact every firearm the Talons carried had improved wooden furniture in hopeful anticipation of arcane enhancements. Jeff had a sabre strapped to his saddle and a sword belt in his saddlebags, while Fred had a tomahawk tucked into the back of his gun belt. “Let’s go.”

  The sun hadn’t cleared the horizon as they urged their mounts into the street; at the restaurant across from the Dancing Drover a red-haired young man with a horse-drawn cart was unloading kegs of fresh milk. He paused in his labors to watch the four riders for a moment before returning to his task.

  The Black Talons found the Count Louis de Bois’ carriage, drawn by eight powerful bays and heavily loaded with supplies, waiting just past the entry gate house. Emil, the Count’s valet, and Yusef, his driver and odd-job man were slumped on the driver’s seat while deep baritone snoring could be heard from within the carriage.

  “Long night?” Shad asked Emil, who was a poker-faced man of forty-odd years, lean and somber in manner and dress. He reminded the Shootist of a very professional funeral director.

  “His grace has developed a wide circle of friends in Bloodseep,” Emil said emotionlessly. “He chose to seek his rest in the carriage after suitable farewells were made in order to be fully ready for the journey.”

  “Good for him.” Shad urged his horse alongside the others. “How do they look?”

  “Organized,” Jeff admitted. “They can drill and fall into a marching formation well enough.”

  On the road ahead of them the Expedition was forming up: first the Colonel (a tall lean man who Shad thought resembled the actor Bill Nighy) and his staff, all mounted, then two companies of infantry, the artillery (the guns broken down and transported on pack mules), the Sappers, six carts, a long string of pack mules, and the final company of infantry.

  “Pretty brave showing, Derek observed.

  “Yeah, but can they fight? Everybody looks good in peacetime,” Shad shrugged.

  “Nothing in that column is worth the fight to get it,” Jeff scratched his mustache. “The Tek might have their own motivations, though.”

  “If they can stand their ground an aimed conical .56 bullet will kill any raptor ever born,” Shad adjusted his hat. “The question is, will they hold ranks and can they aim?”

  “Let’s hope we don’t have to find out.”

  “Amen.”

  It was quickly apparent that the Expedition knew how to march, maintaining decent order and intervals, stopping for ten minutes every hour, and paying attention to water discipline. Free of specific duties the Black Talons tied Durbin’s lead rope to the carriage and roved ahead, taking in the sights and avoiding the Expedition’s dust.

  There was a bit of interest around noon when the Count awoke and ordered his carriage to stop so he could exit and vomit copiously. At that point it was revealed that there were two young ladies in some disarray who had also been asleep in the carriage as well. Shad dispatched Jeff to the nearest farming village to arrange transport back to Bloodseep for the disheveled belles, and the carriage resumed its progress.

  “The Count reminds me of that French actor, the fat nutjob,” Derek mused. “Only a little younger.”

  “Well, that narrows it down,” Shad rolled his eyes.

  �
�The one that pissed on that airplane.”

  “Gerald Depard-something,” Jeff nodded. “Yeah, I can see it.”

  “It must be depressing to be French,” Derek adjusted his derby. “Genetically disposed to surrender at the first sight of a German. Tourist season must be hell.”

  Shad chuckled. “The Frogs will fight, and fight hard. Just not well.”

  “They do OK if they don’t have French leadership,” Jeff observed. “Look at Napoleon.”

  “Yeah, if it hadn’t been for Hornblower and Sharpe Europe would be speaking French,” Shad observed drily. “In their day they gave the Romans some trouble, and Brits had their hands full for centuries dealing with them.”

  “The Brits can fight,” Fred nodded. “Those islands turn out some hard types.”

  “Funny how it works-the Germans have been hard cases throughout their entire history. Even the Romans in their heyday gave up on them,” Shad pointed out.

  “The Romans were the last time the wops fought worth a damn,” Fred mumbled.

  “Not true,” Jeff disagreed. They fought well in the Napoleonic era and in both World Wars, at least at the unit level. Their problem is very bad leadership and economics, pretty much the same thing that cripples the French. What allows the Brits and Germans do as well as they have historically is that they pull together as a group.”

  “Unity and discipline is everything,” Shad agreed. “A trained unit working together is much more effective than its component elements.”

  “Which is the million-duro question about the Expedition,” Fred sighed.

  “It is,” Derek agreed. “There’s a lot of farm kids in the ranks.”

  “Farm kids have been winning wars since Gaius Marius raised his first Legion,” Jeff pointed out. “The key is whether the NCOs are any good. A unit without solid NCOs is a mob.”

  “Kinda like Bravo’s Third Platoon,” Fred grinned.

  “Man, those guys were something,” Jeff laughed “Remember when Shad figured out how to swipe all their new batteries?”

  “I scrounged some batteries,” the Shootist corrected him. “The source was never confirmed.”

  “Or the time we bought Iraqi and Turkish flags off Amazon for ten bucks apiece, dragged ‘em in the dirt, shot a few holes in ‘em, and sold them for sixty bucks a pop to the fobbits? We told ‘em we captured them from loyalist forces,” Derek snickered. “We told them the Turkish flags were the Islamic Front volunteers’ flags, the Fedayeen.”

  “Good times, good times,” Shad grinned. “I wonder if any of them ever caught on?”

  “Hey, Shad, tell us the truth: did you really smuggle a SVD rifle home?” Jeff nudged Fred.

  “Of course not, that would have been illegal.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “Believe what you want.”

  “C’mon, you can trust us; you smuggled it back in the stuff the Battalion was bringing back to display in the Division Headquarters on Camp Mabry. They ran the drug dogs over those crates but never searched them.”

  “I don’t recall that.”

  “Double bullshit!” Jeff exclaimed. “You were the NCOIC of that detail, and Lieutenant Han was an absolute screw-up. You could have had a couple hundred pounds of gear in those crates without anyone being the wiser.”

  “He sure stuck close to ‘em, remember?” Fred grinned.

  “I was signed for them, so can bet your ass I was sticking close,” Shad shrugged. “I always took my military responsibilities seriously.”

  “Yeah, unless they got in the way of stuff you wanted to do, same as with the Rules of Engagement: you followed ‘em until you came across something you wanted to shoot,” Derek scoffed. “We spent more time playing Rat Patrol than anyone else.”

  “We got to see some action, didn’t we?” the Shootist countered. “My squad had the best combat record in the Battalion.”

  “Only because Lieutenant Colonel Hammer was a complete maniac,” Jeff pointed out. “And even then you got terrible evaluations.”

  “Screw the evals, I knew I was getting out when my enlistment was done,” Shad shrugged. “The only time any of my guys got hurt was when I was doing it exactly the way the brass said to do it.”

  “True,” Derek admitted, absently rubbing his lower back. “There is a strong argument for unpredictability.”

  “It’s in the field manuals, in fact,” Jeff agreed.

  “And quit blaming me for all the wild stuff,” Shad jabbed a finger at the Alienist. “Jeff found most of the stuff we got into. And don’t forget Fred stealing that air conditioner from the contractors.”

  “Scrounged,” the Scout said laconically.

  “Yeah, well, when we got caught it was six weeks on outer patrol.”

  “Which bit the El-tee on the ass because we never stayed put,” Jeff chuckled. “He should never have sent us out without supervision.”

  “I have to say, it wasn’t boring,” Fred agreed.

  The Black Talons were pleased that the Expedition made twenty-five miles a day on the road, a pace they kept up for seven days straight, all the way to the great crossroads where they must strike out across the prairie. The Colonel ordered a full day of rest before leaving the roads, which even Shad agreed was a sensible precaution.

  They were less pleased with their employer, as the Count was growing bored and was in the best of moods insufferably arrogant. The Talons avoided him at every opportunity, and were not terribly dismayed when the nobleman decided to return to the Protectorate after reaching the crossroads. The Count paid them for the time served and ten duro severance pay, and they parted ways amicably.

  They were not done with the Expedition, however, as the force of Celts who were supposed to be waiting at the crossroads were conspicuously absent, and were still absent at the evening of the next day. Very grudgingly Captain Patek relayed the Colonel’s offer to the Black Talons: scout and hunt for the Expedition for ten duro a day and rations, an offer which was graciously accepted.

  When the Expedition set off cross-country the travel slowed to twenty miles a day, still in good order. Every day the Black Talons rose before dawn and would circle the Expedition looking for evidence of trouble, then head out to scout the route a few miles ahead, a pair of Talons riding back to the main body twice a day to update the Colonel on the lay of the land. Towards evening Fred would shoot two prime bison bulls and gut them, marking the kills for the cook’s details. Even at six hundred pounds of red meat per carcass a bison didn’t last long when feeding men who were marching twenty-odd miles a day carrying full packs and a nine-pound rifle.

  Late in the afternoon on the fourth day going across the plains Shad and Derek were sitting on handy rocks watching Fred use a steel hook attached to a rope and his horse to pull the hide off a freshly-gutted buffalo. Jeff was sitting on a sun-bleached buffalo skull with his back to the pair, watching the opposite direction.

  “He’s getting really good at this,” Derek observed as a shirtless Fred, whose hairy torso was turning pink with early sunburn, climbed off his horse and detached the hook from the now-separate hide. “Hardly a wasted motion.”

  “It would be quicker if someone leant a hand,” the Scout snapped.

  “You’re doing fine,” Shad assured him. “A dynamic use of class skills.”

  “Shooting them is a class skill; the gutting and stripping of the hide can be done by anyone.”

  “But you do it so elegantly,” Derek said.

  “Plus I don’t want to,” Shad added. “It looks pretty disgusting.”

  “Screw all of you.”

  “Company,” Jeff stood.

  A hundred yards away at the top of a slight fold in the prairie were three men mounted on long-legged ponies.

  “Son of a bitch,” Derek breathed.

  The three men sat easily on simple bison-hide saddles, lances held casually, quivers and bow cases slung across their backs. All three appeared to be of American Indian descent, average in height with chiseled facial featu
res burned dark by the sun, their inky hair worn long in loose braids hanging in front of their ears. They wore fringed leggings, brightly decorated moccasins, trade cloth breechcloths, and one wore a light cotton shirt in a red and white check pattern.

  As the Black Talons watched they casually guided their horses to the four men.

  “Stay easy,” Shad said quickly. “There could be twenty more nearby. If they follow Earth customs they’re not dressed for war.”

  “What if they don’t follow the old ways?” Derek muttered.

  “I’ll take Checked Shirt, you go bare chest left, Jeff drops bare chest right, and Fred watches for company.”

  Jeff raised a hand, palm first, as the three drew close. “How.”

  “Dear Lord,” Derek sighed.

  “Hello,” Checked Shirt nodded. “Where are you going?” To the Talons’ ears he had an accent, something akin to a faint Russian or Eastern European accent.

  Shad glanced at the sun. “That way,” he pointed. “Four or five more days. They’re going to set up a trading post.”

  Checked Shirt looked thoughtfully in the indicated direction. “That’s Tek territory.”

  The Shootist shrugged. “That’s a problem for another day.”

  Checked Shirt nodded. “Do they have goods to trade now?” he jerked his head towards the pillar of dust that marked the approach of the Expedition.

  “Some. Plus I believe they would pay for guides. We four are scouts, the Black Talons. I am Shad, that is Derek, Jeff, and Fred.”

  “I am Rains-in-Sunlight, this is Bison-Sleeps, that is Spotted Wolf ; we are of the Three Rivers.”

  “We’ve heard of your people,” Shad lied. “We are told you are good friends and fearful enemies.”

  “When we travel, we bring women to do the work,” Rains-in-Sunshine nodded towards the buffalo carcass. “When we ride to war we do not.”

  “We are going into Tek lands,” Jeff smiled easily. “We must be prepared for that.”

  “If you build a trading fort the landsmen will blaze a road from the roads to the north to the fort, right across our hunting lands. The landsmen are mad for roads.”