by RW Krpoun
“We’re not really deep thinkers-how much danger is there?” the Jinxman shrugged. “All Derek thinks about is goats.”
“Hell, I don’t know. I’m out of my depth, and I know it.”
“We have rep, street cred,” Fred observed.
“Look who’s hip,” Derek chuckled.
“He’s got a point,” Jeff wagged a finger. “Maybe what happened in the Prison got solely credited to us.”
“That would sound a lot more impressive than it actually was,” the Alienist conceded.
“I’m damned impressive,” Fred pointed out. “I was the last to fall.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Shad waved a hand. “Like we haven’t heard that fifty times. Anyway, plan for five days travel time.”
“Nine more miles,” Derek sighed. “I’m beat.”
“We’ll skip sentries,” Shad assured him. “We’ll picket the horses close and use them as an early warning system.”
“How long was I asleep?” Derek asked blearily, sitting up after Fred had kicked the sole of his foot. “It’s dark out.”
“Fourteen hours, give or take,” the big man grunted. “Dawn’s almost on us.”
“I can’t see the stars,” The Alienist observed, rubbing his face.
“They’re called clouds.”
“Cooking with dried buffalo crap is not my idea of fine dining,” Jeff grumbled as he raked his share out of the frying pan. The Black Talons were eating their breakfast around a small buffalo chip fire as the east grayed into dawn.
“Here’s a news flash: nobody cares what you think,” Shad snapped. “I leveled last night-anyone not?” No one hadn’t. “OK, I stayed with Shootist. Because of all my reading I got two free points in History, so I put one point into History, which entitled me to put my last point into Otherworldly Lore.”
“What’s Otherworldly Lore?” Jeff asked through a full mouth.
“I’m not sure, but I think it has to do with the Prison. It’ll take some use to get the skill knowledge organized in my head.”
“Two free points seems pretty liberal,” Fred observed.
“I thought so, too, but this place seems a little looser in regards to the level system. Or maybe it’s because we’re at a higher level. Plus I did read a lot of books.”
“I stayed with Alienist,” Derek headed off the conversation’s inevitable topic creep. “But I might pick up another level in Scav if I get more opportunities to use the skills. Anyway, I got two points in Drive Team for free, and I raised Undead Lore to three.”
“You’re not going to come up short in Alienist, skills-wise?” Shad asked.
“No, I have to have one point in Calligraphy per three levels in Alienist. When I first set up I was rushed and thought it was one per three total levels. So I’m set until Alienist level six.”
“Good.”
“What’s the big deal with Undead?” Jeff pointed a greasy spoon at the Radio shack manager. “Three points is a lot of skill.”
“The Death Lords are supposed to be invading. Once I sort out the skill knowledge I should be able to determine how truthful our erstwhile employer is.”
“’Erstwhile’?” Fred grunted.
“Bite me.”
“I went with Jinxman, took a point in Tek Lore, and upped my Rifle by one,” Jeff advised.
“Scout fourth, Horde Lore and Tactical Reload,” Fred reported laconically.
“Not much of a bump in tactical capabilities, but we should be in a better position to suss out what is going on around us,” Shad said thoughtfully. He glanced at the sky. “Let’s get moving.”
Wind from the northeast had pushed a range of thunderheads over them as the Black Talons had slept, and not long after dawn the rain started, a slow soaking precipitation that continued with few interruptions for the next twenty hours.
The Black Talons, sweating under their ponchos, rode through the rain, eating cold jerky and hardtack during their meal breaks, and passing tightly-bunched herds of sullen bison. They finally made camp in a small stand of trees, kicking out a half-dozen deer as they rode in, and spent a miserable wet night.
Riding was preferable to sitting or lying on muddy ground, so they were in the saddle at dawn the next day. The rain, which had stopped a couple of hours after midnight, resumed by mid-morning and dogged them all day.
“This is the utter pits,” Derek moaned. “I’m tired, sore, and chafed all over.”
“I should be able to work with that, but I’m too damned tired,” Jeff sighed.
“Hey, you were the one whose sense of wonder was sparked by this place,” Shad reminded the Alienist. “How’s that working out for you?”
“How far have we come?” Jeff asked Fred.
“Twenty-six miles or so,” the Scout grunted. “Twenty-eight yesterday, give or take a mile.”
“So we can stop?”
“Pick the patch of mud you want to make camp upon,” Shad shrugged, his poncho shedding water at the movement. “I would settle for one decent-sized tree, but all we have is bush on the riverbanks and grass as far as the eye can see. With the river rising we can’t risk camping on the banks unless you want to risk dealing with a flash flood in the dark.”
“Sleep in mud or keep riding,” Jeff shook his head. “There’s a range of options for you.”
“According to the map there’s an old trapper’s post a couple miles ahead,” Fred advised. “Might be some cover there.”
“If not, the mud there will be just as soft,” Jeff sighed.
“Hey, is that a Spanish Oak?” Jeff asked, standing in his stirrups.
Derek looked at the lone, tall tree five hundred yards away. “No. Beech.”
“Looks like there’s something beside it,” Shad removed his hat, flicked the water off its brim, and settled it back onto his head. “Could be a building, or what’s left of one. Is that the trapper’s post, Fred?’
“Should be.”
“Keep an eye out, guys: that’s the best cover from the rain we’ve seen in fifty miles,” Shad reminded them.
As the Black Talons drew closer they could see that the great beech partially overhung a long single-story building made of river stone with a wood-shingled roof that had seen better days a long time past.
“No obvious tracks,” Fred pointed out. “A bad roof is better than none.”
“I’ll clear the building,” Shad said, drawing a Cavalry model Colt and dismounting. “Fred, sweep for tracks and sign. Jeff and Derek, be ready to back up either of us.”
Fred was cantering up as Shad came out of the building, the lit torch in the Shootist’s left hand hissing and spitting in the rain. “Find anything?”
“Nope,” the Scout shook his head. “What’s the building look like?”
“Pounded gravel floor-pretty dry. A little cleaning and it will be all right. There’s room for the horses, and firing slits all the way around. No doors, no furniture, but someone left a stack of cut wood inside, and there’s a useable fireplace.”
“As good as a Marriot compared to last night,” Derek observed as he dismounted.
“Close enough for government work,” Shad agreed.
“Let’s skip a guard roster tonight,” Jeff suggested. “The horses will smell anyone long before we could spot them, and we could really use the sleep.”
“Motion seconded,” Derek agreed.
“OK,” The Shootist shrugged. “But work up some sort of barrier for the door, Jeff. Something to delay an intruder a couple seconds at least.”
“No problem.”
A full bladder finally drove Jeff from his blankets. Sitting up and reaching for his boots, he realized that there was gray light coming through the uncovered rifle slits and the door-less doorway, and that Shad was leaning against the doorframe looking out.
Boots on and his clothes adjusted the Jinxman joined the Shootist at the door. “What time is it?” he whispered.
“About a half hour past dawn.” Shad waved a hand to take in the drizzle com
ing down and the water-logged landscape. “I’m thinking we’ll spend the day here. We’re too far out from Wellring to use the weather for a tactical edge, so there’s no advantage in being miserable.”
“Sounds good to me,” Jeff lifted down the old plank he had wedged diagonally across the door and then stepped carefully over the planks in front of the door he had buried in the mud; the latter had exposed rusty nails jutting up across their entire surface. “I need to drench the landscape.”
“We’ll take today to rest, work on charms and spells, and general maintenance,” Shad announced as breakfast was prepared. He was breaking down and oiling one of his Colts. “I’ll fix up more ammunition with silver, too.”
“And maybe Derek can get off his dead ass and sort the loot,” Jeff shook an accusing finger at the Alienist. “I know we picked up a sword from the trophies hung on the raptors.”
“Hey, I’ve been fusing my spine on a horse since then, same as you,” the Radio Shack manager waved off the accusation. “Its been a rough few days.”
“Don’t forget to see to your saddles,” the Shootist reminded them. “Fred, you’ve got the pack saddle as well. This isn’t R&R, guys; we’re re-fitting.”
“Staying dry is all the R&R I need,” Derek grinned. “We’ve got two lanterns, so I’m taking this one to that corner so I can concentrate.”
Shad methodically oiled his weapons, then rubbed down his shoulder rig, cartridge belt, and saddle with saddle soap. As he and the others worked the musty odor of the long-unoccupied building faded under the odors of gun oil, saddle soap, and the smoke from the two lanterns.
Fred took it upon himself to tend to Jeff and Derek’s saddles, so once the Jinxman was done with his weapons he produced a fresh deck of cards and started work on charms. When Shad was done he dug out his tools and began the slow, methodical job of drilling a hole into the noses of cartridges (the round being clamped inside a small vise to ensure centering) and inserting a needle-wide bit of silver rod. Shotgun shells were easier: opening the casing and replacing half the buckshot with silver shot sufficed.
The four worked in a companionable silence that was broken by an occasional quartet rendition of the theme from Firefly, the Hero of Canton, or Weird Al’s Rocky XIII.
Fred made lunch, which was a thin stew made of pemmican and dehydrated vegetables, hardtack, and baked potatoes. “I’ll see about some fresh meat for supper,” he promised the others.
“How are you coming with the loot, Derek?” Shad asked.
“Done-I spent most of the morning working on hex sheets. Most of what we grabbed was just resale stuff, money, silver and gold ornaments, and the like. The big ticket items are a sabre whose blade is enchanted to give a damage bonus, amplified if fighting Undead.” He held up a curved saber that looked like the USMC dress Mameluke saber, except that the hilt was made of black horn plates riveted to the tang.
“Score!” Jeff grinned.
“And enough head stones to make six placet.”
“OK,” Shad said thoughtfully. “Fred and Jeff won the first two placet, so Derek and I get the next two. Jeff gets the saber, so Fred, Derek, and I each get another placet. That leaves one left, which we can dice for. Agreed?”
No one objected, and Shad won the dice roll. “Make all mine the one that blocks the ‘no-fire’ hex,” he advised as he dug three decorative coins from his saddle bags. He tossed two more to Derek and one to Fred.
“Mine, too,” Fred decided. “I’ll put it on my revolver. I’ve already got one on my Yellowboy.”
“I’m going to put one on my Spencer, and the second will amplify damage,” Derek pocketed the coins. “I’m not sure to go with a general damage hex or specialize against one type of creature.”
“Tough call,” the Scout nodded.
“Anyway, I think I have something on our situation,” Derek drained the last of his tea. “Undead Lore, specifically.”
“Lets hope so. You put three points into it,” Jeff shook his head.
“Cecil says the Death Lords are invading, right?”
“Yeah, from another place,” Shad nodded.
“It can’t happen.”
“What?” Fred leaned forward. “How do you figure?”
“My Undead Lore skill cross-referenced with class knowledge. The Death Lords are nothing but master necromancers-they don’t even use that title amongst themselves. They can cross between spheres, which is the technical name for places like the Prison and the Realm, but they can’t use roads. Instead, they cross where there is a disruption in the fields of magic, using a unique application of their Arts.”
“That’s how the Revenants ended up in Death Valley,” Jeff snapped his fingers. “A major disruption.”
“Exactly. Anyway, they normally pop through in small groups, no more than half a dozen. They’re like Communist agitators: they come to sell a creed and pass on skills. But it’s a one-way trip, they don’t expect to go back home.”
“Seems like a weird course to follow,” Shad observed. “In games and books necromancers are seeking eternal life and power.”
“Some do-remember the one we killed in the Prison? He was likely a local who had been trained by a Death Lord. Or by the trainee of a Death Lord. The Death Lords come to a sphere and ensure the spread of necromancy, create Undead as harassment items, that sort of thing. They’re not so much wizards doing forbidden magic but rather cultists of an evil creed.”
“Cultists?” Fred snorted. “What do they worship, death?”
“That, I’m not sure,” Derek admitted. “But they embark on a one-way trip purely for the purpose of spreading the arts of necromancy and to spread disruption by the creation of Undead creatures.”
“That is vastly different than I expected from the Death Lords,” Shad shook his head. “But it puts the lie to Cecil’s story: there’s no invasion, and no road to destroy. Most likely no girlfriend.”
“Crap, we’ve been riding for weeks for nothing,” Jeff spat into the fire in disgust.
“Well, we’re come this far, we might as well check out Wellring,” Fred sighed. “Maybe it will give us a clue as to what the hell we’re doing here.”
“The eternal question: Cecil wants us here, he wants us wandering around out in the boonies…but why?” Shad rubbed his jaw. “I had the idea that we were getting the daily dose of XP because we were opposing the Death Lord invasion.”
“Where do we go from here?” Jeff asked.
“Like Fred said, check out Wellring. From there…I don’t know. Cecil had to make a major effort to pull us here, and he’s smart. We’ve been here fifty-three days, and in a day or two we’ll be at one of the points he wanted us to visit. I have to figure that we’re not just on a wild goose chase, that he has a plan that involves us.”
“You thinking ambush?” Derek asked.
“What sense does that make? He called us here. If he didn’t want us around, why would he force us to come here?” the Shootist snarled. “But yeah, I’m thinking ambush,” he added. “Mainly because I always expect an ambush.”
“Well, my knowledge of the Horde sheds no new light on our situation,” Fred sighed.
“Ditto for the Tek,” Jeff agreed. “Lotta interesting facts, but no immediate application.”
“I picked up some stuff,” Shad said slowly. “But most of it doesn’t make much sense in terms of our situation. The Council’s big plan, the roads to our world, involved the Realm; they used it like a stepping stone. The roads went from the Prison to the Realm and then to our world. But that was just in mystic terms; we never actually were here on our first trip. More like a flight path, I guess. It made the road somewhat cheaper or easier to build. The other thing I picked up was that there is at least one other sphere, called the Isle. It was another breakout attempt from the Prison, this one spearheaded by a Japanese cartel, but including Chinese, Koreans, Burmese…regional types. Like the Realm, it failed to get home.”
“Oh, man, please tell me...” Derek virtually
glowed.
“Yeah, yeah, it’s a lot like medieval Japan, the way this place is mostly the Old West,” Shad made shushing motions. “But before you achieve an orgasm over Samurai and katanas let me state for the record: we’re not going there. The simplest reason is that there is no road.”
“So how do you know about the Isle if no one has gone there?” Jeff asked.
“Because that’s where the Death Lords come from,” the Shootist said grimly. “It has been pried out of a couple of them in years past, and by ‘pried’ I mean hot irons and small sharp knives sort of pried. There’s something wrong there, some sort of Lord of the Rings conflict going on.”
“Well, that amounts to squat,” Fred muttered.
“Yeah, but with only one point in Otherworldly Lore it’s what we get. But since it has to do with Death Lords and Cecil is the main expert on same, I figured it might be worth something. We know that Cecil is blowing a vast amount of smoke up our asses, but no clue as to what his purpose is for said smoking.”
“You know, Cecil equipped us a lot better than we were for our first trip,” Jeff shuffled a deck of cards thoughtfully. “If he wanted us dead an ambush could have been waiting for us instead of Amid. We obviously have been brought here for a purpose, and he is confident that we will accomplish that purpose.”
“How can we?” Derek wondered. “He gave us a list of locations in the boonies and a story about a girlfriend and an invasion. Unless the purpose is to ride all over looking at grass and buffalo, it’s a wipe.”
“We’ll just keep on keeping on until we get a clue as to what the campaign quest is all about,” Shad picked up his cartridge vise. “In the meanwhile let’s make good use of this down time.”
Shad was dreaming of being in his tiny kitchen, leaning against the short breakfast bar as the microwave hummed through the process of heating a meal. The kitchen itself was not much bigger than a walk-in closet, just barely space enough for a fridge, stove, sink, and a few cupboards; a space of pure functionality as Shad normally ate his meals in front of his TV.