Another Stupid Trilogy

by Bill Ricardi

  He explained, “I’ve been assigned to help organize the parade in Royal Moffit, the capital city in your southlands. Hundreds of mages will be on hand to demonstrate their arts, but they do not have… how can I put this kindly? They don’t have the kind of flair and pageantry that my people are known for. So we shall provide coordination, protection, and some amount of emergency services should there be any injuries. Accidents happen.”

  The minotaur licked his fingers clean, as he finished off the last of the cheese. “Anything else? I’ll tell you more about Ice House when we get there. You must be sick of hearing my voice by now.”

  I shook my head. “I’m not sick of it, your voice is like a rumbled melody. But you’ve held up your end of the bargain.”

  The bull-man stretched. “Good! Then I think we should turn in. There’s a small stream nearby, the last we’ll see for quite a while. I suggest we all get a bath before we leave in the morning.”

  There was a lot of subtle sniffing after the minotaur walked away from the fire. Silently, we all agreed with the wisdom of our companion’s plan.

  Chapter 10

  I hated to admit it, but the caravan master was right. The next couple of days brought us out of the somewhat bleak plains north of Limt, and into the extra-bleak wastelands of the former Gray empire. Two hundred years ago, it is said that these plains were lush and arable. But on our journey, the soil was a dusty, chalky white. Only the most hardy grass was growing and only in small misshapen patches.

  To make things worse, the trip would be getting colder as we moved towards the mountainous equator. And of course, that constant slight incline leading up to the proper mountains would be a wear on the horses, meaning longer rest periods and more resources burned through.

  The good news was that in such a featureless area, the scouts could see out to the horizon in all directions. The bad news was that anyone looking to make trouble would see us coming an hour in advance. Easily enough time to set up an ambush. With that in mind, one might think that we should focus our scouting efforts to the north so that we would be more likely to catch out those looking to set up an unpleasant surprise for us. But most eyes were fixed on the western horizon.

  To the west, far out of sight but never out of mind, was Castle Gray. Rick told me all about the history of the place soon after I gave him the electrum coins to sell. The empire had died generations ago. The only issue was that nobody told its defenders. Armies of the Gray rose again after the mystical annihilation of their castle and the surrounding city. Some say that the last king of the Gray lands, Sir Rhoaden Belefast, had made a deal with dark powers and things had gotten out of control. Apparently mages from the Arcane University had tried to spy on proceedings within the broken husk of Castle Gray. After briefly seeing a giant mummified figure on a dark throne, their magical eyes were banished from existence, and white hot pain was sent back through the magical link until it was severed.

  The upshot of this unfortunate set of circumstances: We had far more to fear from the dead in this place than anything alive. Toby had prepared for this leg of the journey, securing a few flasks of holy water from his Order’s monthly moonlight rituals. When the minotaur told me how much silver is consumed during that ritual, I groaned: It was more than a year’s worth of my material component requirements for Augmented Intelligence. But he assured me that the potent water produced was like a powerful acid to undead creatures.

  The holy water was poured into small clay pots, and then the lids were sealed onto the containers with wax. Each of the guard groups received two of these pots. Toby noted, “As long as you touch the undead or demonic creature with the pot, it will shatter. It will even work on ghostly creatures as the water itself passes through their incorporeal forms. The water wants to get out, it wants to purify the taint of evil.”

  Two days passed. Perhaps the real enemy in these lands was boredom. Or perhaps the enemy was depression. Either way, there was a palatable mood shift among the caravan members. Everything was more quiet, more somber. It was as in if happiness might be seen as an affront to these lands and undead retaliation would be the result.

  I wasn’t a very superstitious man. I believed that the gods existed certainly, I saw that their followers had power. And I knew that dark forces existed as well, it was hard to deny in a world such as this. But I had no god that I would call my own. Unlike Shaman and his beloved Kenvunk, unlike Will and Rick with their revered Vinara, and unlike Toby and his mighty Aro-Remset… I lacked a personal connection with the powers that be. I never felt that I owed the gods anything. In fact, maybe they owed me a little something for the years of oppression and abuse that I suffered, often times justified in their names.

  But even a skeptic such as myself felt a very real mental weight for no particular reason. It was as in if the chalky earth had seeped into my pores and invaded my mind, making it sluggish. Maybe the air itself, smelling of absolutely nothing in a place with so little nature, carried some nefarious vapor into our lungs that made us forlorn all of the time. Whatever it was, even I had to admit that the effect of this place was very real, on a physical and mental level. I for one would be glad to reach the snow capped mountains in the distance.

  The third morning in these desolate plains started like the last two. We ate our iron rations and drank our bitter coffee. The horses plodded along with as little enthusiasm as we had seen in days. The sun rose higher in the sky, but similar to the last two mornings, it didn’t bring with it the usual degree of warmth or comfort.

  But today there would be a difference. Today, we heard a shout from the rear wagon. The elves had spotted something.

  On the western horizon, a cloud of chalky dust had risen. Over time, the cloud grew. Something was closing in on us.

  Miles estimated that we had at least another twenty minutes of travel before we would have to stop and make preparations to receive whatever those things were. He went from wagon to wagon, letting each driver know exactly what was going to happen when he gave the order to stop.

  Meanwhile, the elves made good use of their keen eyes and scouting magics to give us regular updates as to what we were facing. At first they were able to tell us that there were riders. The next update said that the riders were not human. The update after that said the horses being ridden were skeletal. Finally, a couple of minutes before Miles called a stop, the elves said that the riders themselves were skeletal as well. Lovely.

  When the undead raiders on the horizon were discernible to human and orcish eyes, Miles gave the order. The wagons were quickly circled. Cargo that could sustain a direct charge (crates of armor, weapons, and the like) were lined up directly to the west, while the more delicate cargo was situated towards the east. The horses were gathered in the center of the wagons for protection. As bows wouldn’t be particularly effective against a creature that was nothing but bones, the elves and front line warriors prepared for melee combat. Almost a score of the crew and passengers used slings to hunt small game and defend themselves. They were organized into groups situated on the inside of the circle, waiting to be called upon. Their heavy stones could be quite effective against skeletal opponents.

  Toby stalked out to the front of the circle of wagons. He was the tip of the spear. The armored minotaur was an impressive sight. I swear his broadsword and shield were glowing slightly, and the others noticed this effect as well. Toby projected an aura of confidence. The other guards were quick to array themselves around and behind him.

  The mages, myself included, crouched in the driver’s seats of the three wagons on the western side of the circle. It meant we could ‘fire’ over the heads of our comrades, and then if necessary drop down to join them when things got more chaotic.

  Everyone was in position now, but it would take another minute before the undead riders were in range. It gave me time to… appreciate them, if ‘appreciate’ is the right word for the queasy admiration that I had to grant the unfortunate creatures. They rode fearlessly towards us, never t
iring. Their formation was even more perfect in death than it had been in life. A wedge of riders with rusted shields and tarnished longswords was followed by a group of riders with javelins and maces. All tallied, perhaps a hundred skeletal warriors and as many horses were charging our position.

  ...until the Fireball hit.

  Rick was an accomplished mage and scholar, with knowledge of some of the most obscure artifacts in all of Panos. But when that blindingly bright ball of flame exploded inside the main mass of riders, it was hard to think of him as anything but a battlemage. He timed it perfectly, catching part of the lead group but mostly focusing on the ranged minions towards the back. There was no force behind it, it wasn’t an explosion in the traditional sense, only a sudden raging inferno. A dozen and a half of the creatures and their mounts went up like dry tinder.

  Will, that kind and gentle man that I had come to know, then showed me that he was just as accomplished as his partner. A flash of lightning arced from his fingers, and in an instant the undead army’s left flank was decimated. At least ten of the riders fell, sun-bleached bones splintered and smoking in the aftermath. Inside of the circle of wagons behind us, the living horses were throwing a fit as the loud thunderclap rolled over them.

  I waited. My job was spot control: Identify people in trouble and help them, or identify important targets and single them out. Since the front line of skeletons was about to crash into our main fighting unit, there would be a lot of people who needed help very shortly.

  Though perhaps not quite as much help as I imagined. Thirty paces from the impact zone, Toby stepped forward, brandishing his shield. The symbol of Aro-Remset flashed golden as the minotaur shouted, “Back to the hells with you!” I had heard of holy men ‘turning’ the undead, but I had never seen it before. It was as in if Toby’s words washed over the charging skeletons and simply undid them. Bones fell away from bones, losing whatever unholy cohesion that they once had. Around fifteen of the ancient swordsmen found their final rest. Mounts without riders simply fled, running back towards their home in the west. The paladin had singlehandedly blunted the charge, allowing our wedge of armored men to engage on their own terms.

  It was inevitable that the undead army had their chance, and now was the time. Javelins arced in and struck our fighters, most of them repelled by their armor and shields but some of them finding softer flesh. The cries of our people triggered a kind of cold rage inside of me. So it was with a certain cruel pleasure that I shouted, “Fire!”

  From the tops of some of the nearby wagons, our slingers sent stones arcing into the back line of riders. Having spent their first volley of spears on our warriors, they couldn’t retaliate against our unarmored second line. Heavy rocks rained in, smashing into several of the javelineers and taking a few out of the fight. Our slingers slid back down to safety, awaiting their next opening.

  Soon after the exchange of missile weapons, I saw my first opportunity to help. The right side was getting pressed heavily. No fire or lightning had touched them, and undead swordsmen were going to overwhelm our warriors if nothing was done. I quickly dug out some spider’s silk from my pouch and fanned my fingers towards the enemy. My incantation was quick, and thick webbing glued riders to horses, and horses to the ground. They would be stuck for some time, unable to press the advantage on the right flank while our warriors dealt with the current wave of foes. With the adrenaline of battle, I hardly felt the drain. But with each spell I knew that I would be less reasoned and probably more aggressive.

  Swords and axes chopped through brittle bone. Undead warriors were sent to their final rest, and their mounts soon followed. At the head of our warriors was Toby. The bull-man’s massive broadsword flashed in the morning sun, sending white shrapnel and the dust of long-dried marrow everywhere. Everyone around him seemed inspired by the sight, and even those who were wounded fought on bravely.

  Will and Rick sent tiny mystical darts into the back line, disabling two more of the javelineers before they could heft their next missile. I opted for helping the front line’s pressured right flank. Picking up one of the pots of holy water, I hurled it at one of the more massive mounted skeletons. Even with the advantage of high ground, I missed the main target. The creature’s horse was not so lucky however. The pot shattered against its right flank, and the mount’s pelvis and femur melted in spectacular fashion. The huge undead rider was thrown to the ground as its horse perished, evening the odds.

  A javelin tore through the wagon’s covering to my left, and a second one embedded into the wood of the driver’s seat. Further to my left, I heard a cry. “Rick is down!” It was Will’s voice. A few moments later and a strange fog rolled in over the two caravans that the partners had been manning. The smaller human had created cover so that he could help our ally. I was upset and wanted to rush over to my friends, but the analytical part of my mind took over: Two mages were out of the fight, as one took care of the other. I needed to step up.

  I channeled my anger into a single word. “Fire!” Having spent their volley on the mages, the ranged skeletons could only watch helplessly as another cloud of heavy stones arced in and smashed into their dwindling numbers. I saw motion off to my right, much closer than expected. One of the unliving swordsmen had started to claw and crawl its way up the side of a neighboring wagon. I pointed and hissed out the words to my second oldest spell. I watched with satisfaction and a growing sense of bloodlust as the creature was hurled to the ground and shattered by my Force Bolt. At this point, the mental drain was somewhat desired. My bloodlust was rising, and I was welcoming it.

  Toby was helping to shore up the right flank now. The elves were dragging a human back towards my position, the young warrior too injured to carry on. I helped to haul the bleeding, semiconscious fighter into the passenger’s seat, and then handed the taller elf my last pot of holy water. There was a flash of begrudged respect in his eyes before he turned to rejoin the battle. Shortly after, I saw a skeleton melt away just before it could deliver an overhead blow that would have surely killed someone.

  Just as I was feeling some relief that I had perhaps saved a life, I spotted something. Walking calmly towards the front line was a creature unlike the others arrayed before us. It was wearing coppery scale mail armor that had not deteriorated from the ravages of time. It carried no shield, just a battleaxe that was strangely purple in hue. And it stalked towards Toby from the nearly bare left flank. The thing was moving with intent, as in if it was on a mission. I did some quick mental calculations. I didn’t see any way that Toby could face this thing and still hold the line.

  It was up to me.

  “Fire at will!” I shouted, realizing that if we didn’t engage the remaining javelineers, nothing Toby or I did was going to save us. Freed from my other obligations, I opened up on the creature. One might assume that this was some kind of a warchief for this otherwise mindless band of undead. I palmed what I needed from my pouch. The beetle guts melted in my fingers and formed the Acid Bolts that sailed across the battlefield and into the creature’s chest. They melted through armor and into bone, causing the creature to open its jaw in a silent, enraged scream.

  I had its attention.

  The drain was very real this time. My higher reasoning was melting away. It was being replaced with rage. Rage at the uncertain fate of my friends. Rage at the pointlessness of fighting an army that died over a century ago. I found that it was easier to be angry when I was dumber. Sometimes logic was overrated anyway.

  I dropped down from the wagon and stalked across the bleak plain. First, I conjured my Invisible Shield as the distance closed between me and my foe. The burnt stick was in my right hand a moment later, and with my final spell I summoned a fiery cutlass.

  I was blind to the desperate melee taking place behind me and to my right. I was deaf to the whizzing of sling stone as they peppered skeletons in the distance. I was a primitive once more, drained of all that useless mental capacity.

  Now, I wasn’t the best swordsma
n in the world. It was fair to say that even though it was dead, the warchief had an advantage. We spent the better part of twenty seconds circling, probing for weakness. The skeleton committed first, and I barely raised my Invisible Shield in time to keep my head attached to my shoulders. The strength this thing had was unreal. That single impact had numbed my forearm.

  It followed up the first attack with a series of chops that might not have impressed a warrior, but would make any woodcutter proud. It had opted to power its way through me, and so far it was working. I staggered backwards to avoid a wild slash, shield-blocked a thrust with the axe’s spiked tip, then half-parried the next blow, allowing most of the force to travel past me. My riposte just bounced off of its armor and sent cinders flying every which way.

  The undead warchief seemed to have learned what it needed to know. The next swing was parallel to the ground, and I misjudged how low it was sailing. Some of the force was absorbed by the very bottom of my shield, but the remaining momentum carried the edge of the blade into my left hip. There was a spray of blood, a sickening thud of steel on bone, and a flash of white hot pain from the tips of my toes to the base of my skull.

  My return blow was already in motion as the skeleton’s attack connected. I had been aiming for its exposed femur, but as I screamed and fell the arc of my blade caught the creature’s tibia. There was a flash of flame as the full weight of my falling body got behind the counter-strike.

  We fell in a heap. I was screaming, it was thrashing. The gash on my hip was bleeding profusely, and the left side of my lower body was not responding. The undead warchief was missing its left leg below the knee, and the axe had clattered away upon impact with the ground. My left hand had unclenched when I grasped at my wounded hip, causing the Invisible Shield to melt away. But I maintained the death-grip on my conjured cutlass, despite the pain and shock… or perhaps because of it.