by Nancy Osa
“Is this a social call?” Aswan asked hopefully.
“We’re here on business,” Kim said, nodding at Stormie. “She’d like some leather boots. And Frida needs some leggings.”
Aswan was clearly disappointed, but he was a professional. “Let me measure you, girls.”
As he was enjoying the perks of his job, Kim told him that their group had purchased a few horses from her and needed three saddles.
“I’ve got some top-of-the-line ones,” he said, “but they’re pricey. Ten emeralds apiece.” He put down his measuring tape and wrote down some figures.
Stormie reached into her satchel and produced the gemstone pendant that Lady Craven had dropped. “How about this for the whole lot?” she said.
Frida shot her a glance. “You’re trading with that?”
“There’s more where that came from,” Stormie said.
Aswan’s eyes sparkled. He wiped his hands on his apron and reached for the pendant.
“Not so fast!” Stormie pulled the necklace out of reach. “We need one more item if you want this as payment.”
Aswan narrowed his eyes. “And what would that be?”
“Information,” Stormie answered, knowing that any good village leather worker would be up on the local gossip.
“I think we can trade for that,” Aswan said with a knowing smile, taking the pendant from her.
Aswan invited the three women into the back of his studio, where the cutting and sewing took place. As he worked on their protective clothing, he told them what he had learned about Dr. Dirt’s recent movements.
“I keep my ears open, and I know a lot of folks,” he said. “Every single trader that’s come through from outside the plains has tussled with one or another of Dirt’s mobs. Jungle, forest, taiga boundaries,” he ticked off on his fingers. “Mountains, ocean . . .” He ran out of fingers. “He’s spreading his ranks like the plague.”
Once outside with their purchases, Kim turned to Stormie. “None of that sounded good, did it?”
“Any intel is good intel,” she countered. “We’re going to need a place to train, somewhere that’s at least semi-safe and defendable.” She pulled out her map and they gathered around to survey it.
“We should go where there’s plenty of room and fodder for the horses,” Kim said.
Frida pointed at a spot. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
“Bryce Mesa!” they all said at once.
“The mesa’s isolated enough to be overlooked—” Stormie began.
“—but fortified all around,” Frida finished. “It sits in this natural bowl of rock.”
“And there’s water for the horses,” Kim added, pointing out a blue zigzag. “And pockets of good, red sand. Jools will be happy. Red sand is great for growing sugarcane, so he can satisfy Beckett’s sweet tooth.”
Frida frowned. “My grass seed won’t take in that sand or hard clay, though.”
“Don’t worry,” Stormie said. “We can haul in grass from the savanna on the north side.” She held up two palms, and Kim slapped them. “Let’s go tell the boys!”
*
They all met at the butcher shop, where they stocked their inventories with cooked pork chops and chicken strips, intending to brine them and dry them in the sun so they’d keep for the time being. Rob picked up some new cowboy boots, custom-made by Aswan. Then they stopped in at the library, where Kim traded some emeralds for a compass to help them navigate unfamiliar lands.
They all agreed that Bryce would be the ideal hideout where they could hone their cavalry skills before taking on Dr. Dirt’s army. Its southern boundary adjoined the extreme hills, Rob’s ultimate destination.
“Too bad it’s so far out from the village, though,” Turner regretted. “I wouldn’t mind seeing more of Sundra.”
Jools called to mind the burly blacksmith. “She’s what you call . . . durable,” he said.
“I think it’s love,” Rob teased.
“Makes for cheap trade!” Turner flashed the chainmail leggings he’d wangled from her. “They match my helmet.”
“Real sentimental chap,” Jools observed.
Frida was not impressed. “Look, we’d better hit the trail. Sun’s sinking.”
The sky had reddened to the west, and they would have to make good time to build shelter on the trail before darkness. Soon after remounting and filing out the village gate, though, they saw a cloud of dust headed their way from the plains.
“What is that?” Rob said. Saber sensed Rob’s concern and raised his head, trying to figure out who—or what—was approaching. “Kim, climb aboard.” The cowboy pulled Kim up behind his new saddle, just to be safe.
“Griefers!” came a cry from atop the village wall. “And their mob! Shut the gate!”
The six friends looked at one another, realizing they were about to be locked out in the open to face the oncoming trouble. Rob wheeled Saber around and yelled, “Let’s make a run for it. . . . Hang on, Turner!” Saber galloped back toward the wall, and the rest of the horses followed. Rob needn’t have worried, though. As they retreated through the gate, Turner’s horse, Duff, took the lead, rebalancing his unsettled rider so he wouldn’t tumble off and land underfoot.
“Take a left and head for Aswan’s!” Kim directed. “He’s got a stone shelter big enough for the horses.”
It wouldn’t do for griefers to know about the horses any sooner than was necessary. They were the gang’s edge, an advantage soon to become its own weapon.
Aswan saw them coming and waved them into his sanctuary—already lit by torches.
“Expecting visitors?” Kim asked him pointedly.
“Right about this time every night,” he replied.
Turner yelped, “We’re just gonna hide?”
“Lay low,” Kim corrected.
“Sound advice,” Jools agreed.
“Not in my book!” Turner made for the door on foot.
Frida watched him pull his sword, and then she glanced at Rob. No way could she leave Turner to go it alone. “I’ve got his back,” she said, and ran after him.
Aswan swung the iron door shut behind her, and they all settled in the bunker, waiting for the worst.
A roar of thunder rose, nearly drowning out the clacking of bones and the ping of arrows bouncing off the village gate. Periodically, they could hear a villager shriek and a thud as he or she fell from the parapet.
“This is awful!” Rob groaned. “Isn’t there something we can do to help them?”
“There is.” Stormie set her chin. “Live to fight another day.”
Rob knew she was right. They were unprepared, and their ranks had been split. He couldn’t help but worry for Turner and Frida. They were some of the toughest fighters he knew, but they were outnumbered.
“They’ll be all right,” Kim murmured, reading Rob’s mind.
After what seemed like an eon, but was probably only a few short minutes, they heard banging on Aswan’s door.
“Open up!” came Turner’s gruff voice.
Aswan eyed Kim, who nodded. He cracked open the door, and Turner pushed Frida into the structure ahead of him. They collapsed to the floor, panting, as Aswan sealed them all in safely.
“What’s going on out there?” Stormie demanded.
“Griefers,” gasped Turner.
Frida got to her hands and knees. “Griefers on skeleton horses!”
The group received this news with horror.
“Them things’re hard to kill,” Turner puffed.
Frida recovered her breath. “All you’ll get is one clear shot. But at least skelehorses can’t be armored.”
“But I thought they stuck to the biome boundaries. Why are they attacking the village?” Kim asked.
Just then, an amplified voice rang through the streets, high-pitched and deliberate.
“People . . . of . . . this . . . village! I, Dr. Dirt, claim your resources . . . for my army. Toss everything out through the gate, and I might not burn
you all alive!”
“He’s not getting my inventory,” Turner vowed.
“Ssh!” Stormie put a hand on his shoulder. “He doesn’t know we’re here.”
Misery washed over Rob as they heard the clanging and thudding of hurled goods that the villagers had no choice but to surrender. Aswan wisely sat silently by his guests, but showed signs of distress as he hid while his countrymen suffered.
When, at last, the clatter abated and they heard the town gate slam shut once more, Aswan pushed his door ajar and peeked outside.
Now they could hear even more clearly the high-pitched calls that filled the night: “You . . . have . . . complied, villagers. As . . . you . . . must!” Then they heard a volley of arrows hit the streets and a crackling sound in their wake. Dr. Dirt’s cruel laughter shot out like fireworks. “I . . . shall . . . burn you anyway . . . sorry, losers!”
The glow that followed was no harmless light show. Every wooden structure within the village walls had been set ablaze!
Now the six friends and their host poured from the stone enclosure, leaving the horses milling safely inside. Even Jools lent a hand. They joined in with the villagers to battle the fire, punching blocks, smothering them, and forming a human bucket brigade to douse the flames. Men and women shouted and ran to save their few remaining belongings. Smoke filled the streets. Little by little, the fire was contained, then extinguished.
The survivors roamed about in a daze, picking up debris and asking folks if they were all right. A pile of iron ingots and dead poppies indicated that the town’s iron golem had been neutralized at the gate.
“You’d better stay here for the night,” Aswan suggested, with only a hint of flirtation. Kim gratefully accepted for the group.
As they sat on the floor among their horses, Rob tried to find a silver lining to their situation. “There couldn’t be a better time to form a cavalry unit,” he said, and Stormie nodded.
Turner growled, “If you must know, I’m having second thoughts. Skeleton jockeys are way out of my league.”
Frida furrowed her brow. “It does up the ante, doesn’t it?”
Jools wiped his soot-darkened face with a fist. “Maybe we should quit while we’re ahead. . . .”
“Snap out of it, you wussies!” Kim scolded. “Skeleton horses or no, they’re still horses. With the right strategy, we can handle them. Maybe even harness their power.”
“Humph!” Turner remained unconvinced.
“I’ve got Beckett to think of. . . .” Jools said, moving over to his horse and stroking his neck.
“Guys!” Stormie got up to stand behind Rob. “I’m sure our captain will find a way to overcome their ranks.”
Rob appreciated her confidence in him, but even he was near despair. Griefers on skeleton horses? Villages burning, boundaries taken . . . He had read nothing about all this in the old cavalry manuals he’d studied. They would need more than his know-how to bring down Dr. Dirt. If only Rob had a mentor. Someone who had been through something similar.
“Jools,” Kim said quietly. “In your line of work, you must have come across somebody who survived the First War. . . . Haven’t you?”
At one time, when the Overworld was young, all of the opposing forces had clashed at once, battling for control—or freedom. The forces of good had won out: Farmers were free to work their land. Villagers were free to ply their trades. The hostile mobs that survived had retreated to the Nether and far lands, never really dying out, but relegated to their ugly pursuits under cover of darkness. The fringe types—like Frida and Stormie and Turner—had chosen to live on the edge, doing what it took to stay a step ahead of hostiles. All of the passives and neutrals owed their very lives to one man, the man who had led the victorious charge against evil.
Jools stopped rubbing Beckett’s neck abruptly. “There is one fellow. . . .”
A ray of hope glimmered in Rob’s eyes. “Who?”
“His name is Colonel M.”
CHAPTER 7
“COLONEL M!” FRIDA EXCLAIMED. “THE MAN’S a legend. He’s the one who single-handedly fought off the zombie Infinity Brigade!”
“And sent the Ender Dragon to the Void!” Kim added reverently.
“But that was ages ago,” Aswan pointed out. “I heard the colonel had retired to the Nether.”
“I heard he’d turned explorer and was looking for a way out of the Overworld,” said Turner.
“I met him once,” Jools said. “But only virtually. I’m not even certain he still has a body.”
“It doesn’t sound like he needs one,” Rob said, admiration in his voice.
“So, how would we find him?” Kim asked.
Only Stormie—Overworld traveler, boundary hopper, and all-around tough girl—had been awed into silence at the mention of the great First War commander. Now she spoke up. “No one locates Colonel M.” She paused. “He locates you.”
Aswan grinned impishly. “But a . . . friend with an extensive social network might be able to uncover his whereabouts.”
Rob felt a surge of hope. Could this epic warrior be found to help with their dilemma? Or was he just a myth made of memories and wishful thinking?
“Tell me more about the First War,” he said. “It would be better if history didn’t repeat itself.”
“Amen, brother,” Turner said and launched into tales of betrayal, mayhem, and destruction.
Rob put two and two together. “So, there was once a unified people, but then, one day, some splinter groups tried to take over? Like a civil war? Neighbor against neighbor, brother against brother.”
“And sister against sister,” Frida said. “It started a long history of warrior women in my family. The boys were sent away young, but survival skills were handed down, mother to daughter, for generations.”
That explained Frida’s loner status, Rob thought. No wonder she’s so defensive. In a good way.
“If there’s a chance of all that coming back around again,” Frida said, “I’m all for fighting back.”
“Me, too,” Stormie and Kim agreed.
Rob eyed the guys.
“Oh, I’m all for that,” Jools said, spreading his hands. “As long as I don’t have to get killed and respawned over and over. That gets so tedious.”
“Hear, hear,” Turner chimed in. “It’s not the dying I’m so worried about. I just don’t want to end up with an empty war chest.”
Rob tightened his lips. “In other words, what’s in it for you?”
“Hey. A guy’s gotta make a living. Especially if he wants to stay living. . . .”
Kim stood up. “I think we can all agree on one thing: the only acceptable Overworld is a free Overworld. Right?”
Her remark was met with nods or grunts.
Kim clapped her pink hands. “Then let’s get busy defending it!”
*
They set off at dawn the next morning, bidding a woeful Aswan good-bye. “I’ll see what I can do about finding your mystery man!” he called to Kim as she teleported off through the burnt crust of the village streets.
Turner stopped by the fletcher’s shop on the way out of town to trade for any flints or feathers that had escaped Dr. Dirt’s sweep. “We’re gonna need ’em,” he said, returning with a small stack for everyone’s inventory. Jools tried to wave them away, but the others assured him he should be safe rather than sorry.
“I’m not certain that’s a possibility,” he argued, accepting the crafting ingredients anyway.
Rob could see that he was going to have his work cut out for him to cultivate the mind-set and work ethic needed to get a decent cavalry unit off the ground. At least they’d have a good place to train out on the mesa, with no distractions.
The group rode off toward the other end of the plains, itemizing their supplies and deciding what to conserve and where they might look to find more of what they’d need in the days ahead.
“Jools,” Rob said, riding Saber alongside him and Beckett who, in turn, were following Stormi
e on Armor. “I’m making you quartermaster. You’ll be responsible for the supply chain.”
Turner heard this and urged Duff to their side, leaving Frida to bring up the rear. “Now wait just a—”
“Give it up, Meat,” Frida broke in. “Too many cooks spoil the war.” She and Ocelot passed Turner and joined Stormie up front.
Rob grinned. “Key to any army’s success: chain of command. We might as well iron it out now, if I’m going to be your captain.”
There was silence from the others.
“Doesn’t have to be me. . . .” Rob added, deflated.
“Yes, it does!” Stormie said, coming to his defense. “Frida’s right, Meat. You put one man in charge, and the rest follow him, no questions asked. Otherwise, we’re toast.” Armor snorted as if in agreement.
“Besides,” Kim said, “Rob here knows more about horses—and probably more about cavalry—than any of the rest of us.”
“Even you, O bronc whisperer?” Jools teased.
Kim sank in mid-teleport and slid onto Beckett’s back behind him. “Even me. I’m self-taught. Rob’s a professional.”
Rob ducked his chin and studied Saber’s withers.
“Yeah, professional moron,” Turner said under his breath and trotted on ahead to catch up with the girls.
“Come on, now,” Kim said. “All for one, and one for all, and all that jazz.”
“I think we need a name!” Stormie said. “Something that will strike fear into the hearts of our enemies.”
Jools watched Turner listing in his saddle before him like a dinghy caught in a current. “How about ‘Rob’s Green Riders’?” he joked.
“Only one of us is green,” Turner said, pointing at Frida, clearly missing the slight.
She glared at him, misinterpreting his misinterpretation. “What about ‘Big, Fat Jerks’?”
Rob ignored the bickering. “No, it’s got to be ‘Battalion something’. . . .”
“Yeah, ‘Battalion Zero,’” Turner cracked.
“Hey. Actually, I like it!” Rob said.
“It does have the ring of doom,” Jools remarked.
“Battalion Zero to the rescue!” cried Stormie, steering Armor behind Rob and Saber.
The others, all except Turner, fell in with the game and guided their horses into file.