by RW Krpoun
“That’s inaccurate,” Sam objected. “First, you guys are different-I keep pointing that out. Not many people travel a hundred miles other than bravos and merchants. So its not within easy walking distance. Second, this isn’t safe country. If you’re not a bravo or somebody else with several levels in combat skills, its really dangerous territory. And last, the valley may be full of treasure, but its not just lying there. A lot of locals die every year trying to get loot out it, and a lot of those who succeed come to an untimely end trying to get the payday home. This isn’t the California Gold Rush-the locals have learned that the treasure stays put for a very good reason.” He signed. “Most of them, anyway.”
“Do the non-Humans ever make a play for the place?” Fred asked.
“On occasion. Whole warbands have died in the attempt.”
Shad held out his mess kit up so Margit could fork over a slab of fish. “Thank you, Margit. Well, seeing is believing. I have to say that this is like finding a college frat full of virgins two blocks from a whorehouse.”
“Or unmolested goats close to Derek’s place,” Jeff grinned, but the Shadowmancer was too busy eating to flip him off.
Sam shook his head sadly.
The Black Talons made camp after covering twenty-five miles. They were surprised that Margit had no difficulty keeping up, and that despite his limp Durbin handled the distance easily. As soon as Fred chose a campsite the girl picketed the mule and set about building a fire and making their evening meal.
“A hard worker and doesn’t say a word,” Jeff observed to Derek as they approached the camp after a quick recon of the surrounding area. “I might marry her.”
“She’s a good kid. Her kind of life, a little kindness goes a long ways,” the Shadowmancer nodded. “Just an absence of abuse probably rates pretty high for her.”
Late in the second day from the river they turned east off the road and headed towards the line of mountains that slashed from north to south, covering a mile before making camp. “Another couple of days to the Valley,” Shad gestured vaguely towards the distant snowy peaks. “I still can’t get over how close it is.”
“The locals don’t walk twenty-five miles a day,” Sam said sourly as he examined a blister. “Horses aren’t all that common as mounts except in the military and for the very wealthy. People mostly stay put.”
“What can we expect to find there?” Jeff asked. “Could we run into other groups?”
“Possibly. There’s an old fort a group of Dwarves built a while back when they tried a scheme to get at the loot, and in the warm months there’s often a few bravos hanging around trying their luck. The area of effect within the Valley retreats a little every year, so every year there’s a few who try rushing, sneaking, and fighting to get at the loot closest to the edge. Although ‘close’ is a relative term. What I’m told, the first quarter mile on all sides was picked clean years ago.”
“And the magical radiation affects people?” Jeff dusted off the bowl of his mess kit and held it out for to the fish stew Margit had concocted.
“Just the locals, and only while they’re in it. They move slower and have trouble seeing the revenants. Figure losing three levels of ability. Outlanders aren’t affected, though.”
“Speaking of levels, everybody but Sam is on the verge, so plan your next move,” Shad pointed out. “You know, this stew is pretty good.”
“Beats the local field rations,” Derek agreed. “What’s the plan?”
“We’ll time our march so we arrive at the Valley in the morning, so third day from today.” Shad smashed a hardtack on the pommel of his dagger and dumped the pieces of hard bread into his stew. “Recon the conditions and figure it from there. Even with the bang sticks this won’t be easy.”
“Nothing is easy in Easy Company,” Fred intoned.
“All right-a Sgt. Rock reference!” Derek banged knuckles with the barbarian.
Sam sighed and shook his head.
Chapter Twelve
“That must be the fort,” Fred pointed.
The Black Talons were trudging up-slope between a set of deep ruts, the grass that spouted between the shallow trenches demonstrating the minimal nature of use the road was experiencing. The sky overhead was solidly packed with low-hanging gray clouds which were dumping a steady rain upon the bedraggled travelers.
The fort was established on flat ground near the crest, a triangle with three walls of packed earth fronted with slabs of slate and further secured by a deep ditch. A round fighting position of mortared stone rose at each of the three points of the triangle, and a narrow passage led through the center of the east wall, which also faced the rudimentary track the Talons were following.
The walls were unguarded but smoke rose from within the fort, and while there was no signs of maintenance the fort still looked solid.
“Now what?” Derek asked.
“We take a look at the Valley itself and then see who is in the fort and if we can find a dry place inside,” Shad scratched his unshaven cheek. “From there we work up a new plan.”
“My boots are leaking,” Derek kicked a tall, wet weed. “And so is my rain cloak.”
“Yeah, artificial fibers and factory standards make all the difference,” Jeff agreed. “MREs or even C rations totally eclipse what we’ve been eating on the road, too, although Margit is working wonders. At least the charms top Cutters or OFF.”
“I miss load-bearing gear,” Fred offered. “These packs weigh five times what ours did in the Army. And vehicles-I would kill for a HUMVEE.” He hefted his axe to his other hand. “Or my M249.”
“Night vision gear,” Shad sighed. “We could breeze through underground areas with thermal imagers.”
“I would kill for a case of Doctor Pepper,” Sam sighed.
“For soda, but not for Margit?” Shad grinned.
The Bard flushed, then shook his head. “For Margit, literally. Now that I’ve been able to think about it.”
“Conditioning,” Jeff nodded. “That’s why we are better at this, Sam: the Army beat the idea into us, and then they sent us to do it for real. You’ll learn.”
“I miss pizza,” Derek announced and the rest of the Talons sighed sadly.
“What about you, Margit?” Shad asked. “Do you miss anything?”
The girl, an indistinct figure in a rain cloak whose hem dragged on the ground, shook her head.
“How did we ever think this kind of place was…romantic?” Derek asked quietly.
“Because when you’re at the table or in front of the Xbox its all dragons, gold, magical loot, and tavern wenches with big tits,” Jeff shrugged. “Just like Medal of Honor is cool when it’s only pixels shooting at you.”
“Rescuing the girls at Wyrm was pretty good.” Shad eyed the fort as they slogged past. “But walking for a week gets damned old. I haven’t gone this long without reading a book since Basic and AIT.”
“How long has it been?” Fred asked.
“Today is day forty-nine. Closing in on two hours gone. Hopefully we’ll be back before we hit three hours.”
“I think I’ve lost ten pounds since we got here,” Jeff observed. “And on a related subject, I miss real toilets and above all toilet paper.”
“Yeah, Tolkien never addressed that issue, did he?” Shad grinned. “At least in Iraq…damn.”
The Black Talons straggled to a halt as they reached a slight crest and saw the Valley spread before them. It wasn’t a real valley but rather a glacial path that had been carved through the mountains when the world was young, a long and fairly broad expanse of open ground that ran east and west, about a mile wide at its broadest and five times as long.
Although the low-hanging clouds pressed as close over the Valley as anywhere else within sight the rain stopped in a sharply defined line, and within the Valley the tall spring-green grass was bathed in rich sunlight, swaying softly in a warm easterly breeze.
There wasn’t much intact grass, however; a titanic battle or series of
battles had raged up and down the open ground between the slopes to the north and south and while the scars of their passage had faded much of the armies were still present. The battle lines were marked with mounded dead, both warriors and mounts, with galaxies of skirmishers and the dying’s efforts to escape littering the surrounding areas with corpses. That the battle moved back and forth, perhaps over days or even weeks was clearly evident in the many battle lines that were marked with heaped dead, with lines occasionally lying at angles to each other.
Aid stations had been over-run during fluid portions of the battle when fast-moving mounted units and aerial creatures had clashed and roamed, healers cut down alongside wounded who had been butchered on their pallets and stretchers. Supply units had likewise been caught in mid-mission, teamsters and dray beasts cut down still at their posts. Command posts had been defended with desperate ferocity by elite guard units, sometimes with success, and artillery crews still lay around their shattered or torched weapons.
The deceased combatants were of great variety, and while it was unclear what size the armies had been the number of dead left behind was enormous-thousands of corpses littered the field. Men, Dwarves, Orcs, Goblins, Ogres, Giants, Bugbears, Lizard-men, and even small contingents of Elves numbered amongst the countless fallen. In addition there was plain evidence that some warriors had not been living at the onset of the conflict: both Shad and Derek recognized the signs of necromantic legions now inert amongst the fallen, cut down by enchantment or steel.
Not all the dead were humanoid; hundreds of horses, mules, and oxen had been slain, and were joined by beasts similar to large emu, various types of riding lizards, huge panther-like cats, wolves the size of ponies, and creatures which looked like thirty-foot komodo dragons employed as draft animals. Griffons, hippogriffs, wyvern, and other winged beasts lay here and there, brought down by arrows, bolts, or magic.
“There’s your dragon, Derek,” Shad said hoarsely, pointing. Its size made gaining perspective difficult, but the Talons realized that nearly a mile away a great winged and armored shape lay in the trench it had ploughed into the earth and through the unit caught beneath it as life had left its massive frame.
Who had fought, and who had won was impossible to ascertain, but from the scale of the carnage it would appear that the point might be moot. Battle-scarred banners still flew bravely above circles of defenders who had gone down fighting, and tribal totems stood defiantly amongst the mounded dead. Some units wore surcoats of a uniform color and marked with the coat of arms or insignia of their masters while other formations were clad in each warriors’ own preferred style.
Artillery positions littered the field, the shattered, burned, or half-melted devices ranging from light onagers which would not have been thought out of place in a Roman legion, to ballistas, catapults, and even stranger machines of war. Some of the latter were of Dwarven creation to judge from the complexity and the corpses surrounding them.
More than artillery littered their field: the armies had brought vehicles of a sort with them, massive constructions of timber, brass, and iron which had been drawn by teams of the great lizards. As many as ten pairs of the creatures had been used to drag the structures despite the many arcane runes embossed upon the fabric of the vehicles, some of which must have been intended to counter their great weight. The vehicles looked like a cross between a siege tower and a chariot, or a mix of siege tower and ship’s bow. No two were exactly alike, but whatever their design or purpose these structures had clearly been at the epicenter of many of the battles. Several were burnt-out husks, and all were damaged and surrounded by mounds of dead, both attackers and defenders. From the position of battle lines even after being knocked out the strange vehicles’ hulks had been used as strong points in later engagements.
The dead were long-dead, the corpses drying in the manner of bodies left in the high desert, the skin leathery tatters hanging on startlingly white bone. There was no odor, although the strange unreal breeze was blowing away from the Black Talons.
Clothing on the bodies had rotted away with the flesh it had housed, but armor, weapons, and personal accouterments did not show any sign of the ravages of time, although the effects of battle were plainly evident. In the bright warm sunlight that came despite the clouds overhead gold, silver, and gems winked from sword hilts, helms, chains, and myriad other items; uniform or individualistic, the armies that had fought here had been well-equipped, well-paid (or excellent looters), and led by heroes of legendary status.
Although bathed in sunlight, the vast battle-scarred plains was devoid of life. No birds flew over it, no rabbits patrolled the patches of uncluttered grass, and despite the countless tons of dead flesh no carrion-eaters, neither bird nor beasts, were visible. Not so much as a butterfly could be seen within the Talons’ range of view. What movement there was came from the breeze: banners, pennants, and guideons fluttered, scalps rocked gently on the edges of totems, and the manes and feathers of fallen beasts stirred.
“That looks like the Republican Guard after the airstrikes,” Fred mumbled, white-faced and staring.
“Like Gettysburg on the last day. Or World War One after Field Marshal Haig decided to see how many of his own men he could get killed in one day,” Shad murmured. “Only bigger-I can’t make out the far end.”
“What in blazes were they fighting about?” Derek asked, then elbowed Sam and repeated the question.
“What? Oh, for rulership. The practitioners of the really powerful mojo assembled their armies and had it out here. It was supposed to be one fight to end it, but it dragged on for weeks. By the end none of the big mojo users were alive, nor any of their lieutenants. Some were killed by their own troops.”
“I can’t get past the size,” Jeff rubbed his eyes and stared out again. “Its…I don’t know what it is.”
“Its one reason why this world is the way it is,” Sam rubbed his face. “That was the greatest concentration of military, administrative, and magical force ever assembled in the history of this world, and it was thrown away. They say there were Orc and Goblin nations before this, that Elves were more numerous, and that there were independent Dwarven states. Those populations never recovered from the shock. This place broke more than armies, it ruined societies.”
“Orcs and Goblins don’t have societies any more than fleas or rats,” Shad pulled himself back from the awe with a massive effort. “They exist because the locals lack the planning to properly exterminate them.”
“What was that!” Jeff exclaimed, pointing.
“What was what?”
“It looked like a shadow moving by itself.”
“That was a revenant,” the Bard shuddered. “They’re real hard to see from outside, and the locals can’t see them very well inside. We won’t have that problem, I’m told. Although there’s lots of dead bravos and adventurers of every race in there, and some outlanders have died in there as well. Well, not in there; once killed by a revenant you become a revenant.”
“Look at all the loot,” Derek breathed. “There must be tons of arms and armor, hundreds of thousands of Marks of gold and silver, and enchanted gear…all over.”
“That’s why we’re here,” Shad clapped the Shadowmancer on the shoulder. “Notice how there’s nothing within a quarter-mile of the edge, though. This isn’t going to be easy, and it probably won’t be quick. Let’s head back to the fort, see if we can find a place to camp out of the rain, and make a plan. Probably several plans.”
The fort had no gate, just a passage through the wall that was barely wide enough for Fred to traverse, with a sharp dog-leg midway through that gave Durbin some trouble.
“One guy could hold this without much trouble,” Jeff observed as the Talons passed through. “With a couple more to rotate for rest it would be as good as a gate. I suppose they hauled big stuff over the wall with a winch.”
“Cheap and efficient,” Derek nodded. “The entire thing is built with local materials. For Dwarves this is quic
k and dirty work.”
“They’re the German engineers of this world” Shad surveyed the interior of the fort. The three walls enclosed a courtyard which had been surfaced with gravel and fitted with rain channels and pipes sunk into the base of the walls to drain the area; a well was situated squarely in its center. Each wall had three doors set into it, and each of the chambers accessed by the doors had two X-shaped arrow slits covering the courtyard. Each wall also had an inset two-stall stable, and a lone door adjacent to the left-most fighting position.
As they emerged into the courtyard the door to the chamber whose chimney was producing smoke opened and a man stepped out, ducking against the rain. “Welcome to Justin’s Hold,” he called as he approached. “I’m Justin.”
Justin was in his twenties, lean and quick in his movements. He wore his dark hair cut close to his scalp, exposing a scar that ran from the crest of his head to an inch below his hairline, a twisted, reddish rope of angry-looking tissue that spoke of a terrible wound. He was armed with a broadsword and dagger, had a staff sling thrust through the back of his belt, and a shield slung across his back.
“Somebody’s at the arrow slit in his quarters,” Jeff said softly as the self-proclaimed proprietor approached.
“Our level or slightly higher,” Derek squinted at Justin’s shoulder-mark. “Sword-master is my guess.”
“We’re the Black Talons,” Shad said as Justin drew close. “We’re looking for shelter.”
“Well, you’re at the right place,” Justin grinned, suddenly looking much younger. “Best place for days in any direction.”
“You claim this place?” Derek asked as Jeff casually studied the other arrow slits.
“Yup.” The proprietor jerked a thumb towards his scar. “I came within the thickness of my skull-bone from becoming a revenant a year ago. Lucky for me I had just scrounged a Dwarf-forged helm and had put it on, and more luck that a friend dragged me clear. The rest of my crew are still out there, defending what we went in to get. I decided there were better ways to make a Mark.”