Rocks Fall Everyone Dies

by Eddie Skelson

‘Yes. A Quest. A bloody nuisance, but at least I’ll be able to let of some steam. All I need now is a pompous Cleric, a morally flexible Rogue, a tree-hugging Ranger and a Warrior with a quarter inch of brain.’

  And where he was headed was exactly the place to find them. The Town. The Town.

  The Rogue &The Warrior

  High up, on the side of the largest of three hills overlooking the burning city of Trestfall, Donalt Dryden sits watching the flames of the great fire blooming and flickering in the distance. Only the very extremes of the city are free of the fires. This area, creeping toward the River Murr and the so-called Diamond District, is home to the city’s most wealthy and illustrious citizens and where fire marshals presently work with highly paid zeal.

  The wealthy homes are safe from the inferno for now and this is due to their walls being spaced away from the poorer buildings, those that are huddled aside narrow streets and connected by precarious wooden walkways. The peasant inhabitants are not as lucky as those with an army of fire marshals on retainer. They cannot hope for the men with large buckets and access to barrels of sand and water, instead they first make sure their children and what valuables they have are rushed away from the city walls, away from the terrible flames, and then, with grim determination they hurry back with their own rusted buckets and weary pigskin sacks filled with water from the river to try and salvage what they can of their streets and homes.

  Donalt picked at his nostril. A congealed wad of snot, black with soot was prised free and he sniffed to see if he was able to breathe through his nose a little better now. It was easier, but the air that passed into his lungs carried the heady aroma of burning timber and he decided to leave off clearing his nose for a while longer. Seeing the fire was enough. Smelling it only added to his anger. He slapped at his shoulders and chest, forcing ash to explode from him. He was covered head to foot in the stuff. His clothing was singed, and his skin mottled with the same soot which had painted his snot the colour of obsidian.

  He looked down again at the city. He could see people running for their lives towards the River Murr or, if they were on the east side of the city, towards one of the other hills that lay to his right. Very few came his way, to this hill, because the hill he was on was difficult to climb, especially if you were carrying children or what belongings you had grabbed before you ran. And also, because even panicked people could be lazy bastards. This was why they had agreed to meet here in the event of an 'incident'.

  It was an impossible climb for horses, quite difficult for armoured soldiers, and also a nice view if the weather was right. But of all things Donalt had not expected to have to scramble up here because his partner had set fire to the city. Although, with hindsight…

  His eyes tightened as he thought of Andreton and his lips, already firmly pressed together dropped at the corners, becoming a razor thin line of dissatisfaction.

  ‘What a prick.’ He thought, and growled ‘idiot’ at the same time as both his subconscious and consciousness rallied together to unite in slagging off his so-called business partner.

  ‘Andreton Fieldsman… son of a lowly Voridian farmer, brawler, adventurer, giant and absolute total moron.’

  A carousel of insults whirred in his mind.

  Agitated, Donalt picked at little stones which lay about him and began to cast them from the hill as though he were trying to catch Andreton with one were he to be down there in amongst the flames.

  ‘No. Of course he won’t be. The huge oaf is both the stupidest man alive and the luckiest.’

  He threw the little rocks harder at the thought of Andreton’s almost supernatural ability to escape the just rewards of hare-brained activity and decisions.

  ‘Andreton the Warrior, and his ridiculously oversized double-headed axe, too big even for a mountain of a man like him. Andreton, and his biceps that look like rutting buffalo. Andreton, fists like anvils and a gormless empty-headed smile.’

  He also had that strange Voridian insistence on referring to themselves in the third person.

  Donalt suddenly stood and bawled towards the city. ‘ARSHOLE!’

  ‘I was so close this time.’ His mind danced through the last two months in the city, ‘So close to finally being something more than a wandering adventurer with that walking mountain of violence. Finally, I could have…’

  He saw him.

  Andreton’s bulk was unmistakable even as a shadow in the distance. Tree trunk thighs, a torso rippling with muscle, a bicep like a six-month old calf, bulging as it carried the two-headed axe the Warrior called Dennis jauntily resting across his shoulder, as though he was returning from an afternoon of hockey.

  Donalt stayed stood, silently seething.

  Andreton shouted up to him. His accent was thick, with shaved consonants and rounded vowels, familiar to anyone who lived within the wilds of the Voridian Steppes.

  ‘Don! Is pretty up here, yes?’

  ‘Pretty.’ Donalt replied flatly, as the mountain of a man neared.

  ‘Ya. Pretty. Donalt made good choice of ze meeting place.’

  The mountain smiled. His teeth were perfect and white and arrayed in his mouth like a charming wall of close-packed marble headstones.

  ‘Are you winding me up?’ Donalt spluttered. ‘Are you having a laugh?’

  Andreton stopped. His large eyebrows furrowed like two caterpillars in a head-on collision. Donalt was familiar with this expression on Andreton. It was confusion.

  ‘You think Andreton make a joke?’ The warrior asked.

  ‘NO!’ Donalt stepped up to Andreton, his nose only inches away from the big man’s upper-right abdominal muscle, which looked like a tanned cushion. ‘I don’t think you made a joke, you tit. You ARE a joke!

  The caterpillars briefly parted, then clashed again.

  ‘Vas? Andreton asked.

  ‘You set fire to the fucking city!’ Donalt said, holding back his fury just enough to make sure he didn’t stutter or stumble over his words.

  ‘Na!’ Andreton protested. ‘Na. Vas not Andreton who set fire to ze city.’ He shook his head. ‘Vas guard man. Vas him.’

  ‘YOU set fire to the Guard!’ Donalt shouted.

  Regulating his fury was clearly not working out.

  ‘Ya, but Guard man vas, you know, rude to Andreton. And Don, he says, don’t hit anyone vis Dennis. So, I don’t hit him vis Dennis.’

  ‘Andy, you don’t set a man on fire because there’s a district law prohibiting assault. That law covers ALL assaults. Not just swords and fists and including setting people on fire.’

  ‘You said not to hit anyone vis Dennis. Andreton hit no one vis Dennis.’

  ‘Fuck me.’ Donalt said.

  ‘Guard man went crying like baby into courtyard and zen ran into cart of hay, zen...’

  ‘No no no.’ Donalt wagged his finger in Andreton’s eyeline. ‘He didn’t run into the hay cart, you threw him into the hay cart.’ Donalt placed his hands on his hips. ‘Then you threw the fucking hay cart at his mates while it was on fire!’

  Andreton shrugged.

  ‘By the god’s light and dark.’ Donalt said.

  Exasperation had flooded into his anger and weakened his resolve to bawl Andreton out. Which was a shame as he had hoped to do it for at least ten more minutes.

  ‘Why’s it taken you so long to get here anyway?’ Donalt asked, as trying to convince Andreton that he was in the wrong was going to prove fruitless.

  ‘There vas poor kiddie’s home vis the fire. Andreton had to help get them outside the valls.’

  ‘Kiddies outside the walls.’ Donalt repeated.

  ‘Ya. Took a while. Andreton could only carry seven or eight at a time.’

  Donalt shook his head. Andreton was all of the things in the world that made someone a walking danger to anyone’s sanity, but he did have his own sense of honour and of duty to the

  world. He wasn’t entirely sure what world it was that Andreton’s small brain inhabited, but it did at least have a conscience where
kids were concerned.

  ‘Right. Ok. Super.’ Donalt said. ‘We need to get the Hell out of here. Like right now. Because all of the guards you didn’t manage to barbecue are going to be coming after us.’

  ‘Zat’s OK.’ Andreton said, bringing his axe down into his hands. ‘Outside of city I use Dennis.’

  ‘No Andy. Outside of city, Dennis have to fight entire army, and Andy and Don can’t fight entire army. Andy and Don have to sling their sodding collective hooks.’

  Andreton said nothing for a moment. His brain was working furiously to calculate the odds of the two of them defeating an army. It took a while for the maths, worked out largely through mental pictures, to produce a probable outcome. He nodded.

  ‘Ya.’

  ‘Ya?’ Donalt echoed.

  ‘Ya. Ve go.’

  ‘Right. Let’s do that now. You have any money?’

  ‘Na.’ Andreton pointed towards the glowing city. ‘Gave to kiddies, dere homes are burned up so…’

  ‘Right. Right. And naturally that includes the gems you were supposed to keep safe for me. You know, what we call ‘your purpose’.

  ‘Ya.’ Andreton acknowledged, as though Donalt had asked if he had brushed his teeth that morning. Which he had.

  ‘Terrific.’

  Donalt took a deep breath. Ignoring the smell and the smoke. So now they were broke, again. And they also had to get far away from this realm. They were going to have to start at the bottom, again, and this meant traveling to somewhere far away from fun, riches and bountiful opportunities for consensual sex without the need for payment.

  ‘Vere we go Don?’ Andreton asked. He began to flex his muscles and the ripples moved across his body as though his skin was a waterbed.

  ‘We’ll have to go on a Quest. By the will of Daive, what a pain. We’re going to need a bell-end Cleric, a pansy Ranger and one of those miserable bastard Wizards.’

  ‘Ve find them close?’

  ‘No. Not close. But I know where they gather when they’re skint. We’ll head there. I have a friend who might be able to help us.’

  Donalt looked to the north. Towards the mountains, there was a town that lay at the foot of those cyclopean peaks that was a traditional meeting place for adventurers, but it was a fair distance to travel.

  ‘You had better get Dennis fired up. We need to acquire some horses.’

  ‘Ya.’ Andreton said and smiled. ‘Andreton hungry too.’

  Donalt frowned.

  ‘Ha Ha.’ Andreton said, a huge grin stretched across his face. ‘Andreton make joke.’

  Donalt turned and began to move up the hill, shaking his head.

  ‘Dickhead.’ He muttered.

  The Ranger

  Dorian watched the men from high up amongst the canopy of the trees as they moved through the forest. The uneven blanket of shifting green peaks reached for miles around him and he couldn’t be happier than when perched inside it. But, the eight men below him moved quickly, and relatively quietly, which meant they were professionals, and this concerned him.

  These were not mere grunts from the Duke's retinue, they were skilled in the tracking and hunting of both beasts and men, and as they had begun to reduce their spread through the trees, they had clearly discovered the tracks of their prey. And soon they would find what they sought. Dorian had already spotted the couple as they ran as fast as they could through the forest, their speed hampered by brambles, tightly packed trunks of younger trees, still slowly fighting for their space, and the confusion brought about by the low light from a sun that could only peep through the swaying branches and leaves.

  He didn't know what the two might have done. They were young, she certainly, probably only seventeen or eighteen, he a strapping young man in his early twenties perhaps. From his garb Dorian thought the lad might be a solider. He was not in uniform but he was wearing the cream undershirt of a man-at-arms, and his boots were thick soled and sturdy at the heel. The girl was less obvious as to her place in the world, in fact she looked to be wearing clothes more suited to a man. They were black, hugging her figure, leather he thought, or some very pliant but strong cloth that followed her shape and… He shook away a distracting thought that licked at the warm fuzzy regions of his brain. Had that been a disguise? Her hair was thick and long and spilled about her shoulders.

  Dorian thought it looked just a little too finely trimmed to be that of a peasant. Her skin was clean and ruddy at the cheek, perhaps she was of birth higher than that of her companion. Was this a love-affair-that-could-not-be maybe? Had a common soldier won the heart of a high-born maiden?

  He felt a gentle padding upon his shoulder and glanced to his left. Spyra had climbed the tree to join him as he watched the scene unfold. The Blink Dog was small, no larger than a rabbit and its fur soft and thick, a honeyed brown with white underbelly, more like a fox. It rubbed its snout along Dorian's jaw and in return Dorian reached under its chest and gently rubbed his knuckle up and down it. Spyra let out a low, friendly growl of pleasure. And then it was gone. As though it had winked out of existence.

  Dorian never stopped marvelling at the animal’s ability to move with such speed. So fast that it appeared to have become invisible, but he had to return his to the pursuit, as a shout of 'Hai! Ahead' floated up to him.

  The men who scurried beneath were armed with swords, a couple of them with crossbows which they carried presented in gloved hands. They clearly knew they were nearing the fleeing pair and a young man armed only with his love and care for a lady didn't seem to be fair odds against eight fully armed and armoured men whose profession was violence. It seemed to Dorian only right to even the odds a little.

  He leapt from his perch and dropped to the floor via a series of exact grips upon the great tree’s thicker branches to slow his fall. He landed, almost silently, onto the forest floor and then began to move. Now the hunters were being hunted.

  Eight was not an insignificant number for him to deal with. Especially if the pursuers were, as he suspected, professionals and dedicated in their endeavour, and now he was upon the floor and gaining on them Dorian could hear the low whistles and sounds the men made as they pressed on.

  He knew these signals were made to give each other an idea of where their fellow hunters were situated without having to look about them and thereby force them to slow down for fear of colliding with a tree or falling into a ditch. If one of them was taken down, they would pick up on his lack of whistle or call, and their awareness would immediately rise. Only men who have fought together for a long time would have this skill set.

  They worked their way forward in line, and with no greater than eight feet between them so there could be no chance of the renegade couple lying low, and them simply being walked past. The line was staggered a little too. Some men were a couple of strides ahead, acting as scouts in case the couple had left some trap or obstacle. Yes, Dorian accepted, they were in short, very, very good.

  He needed a distraction. Just something to give him enough time to deal with at least three or more of them in a single surprise action, after that it would be down to his prowess with blade and bow against theirs, and he fancied his chances.

  He ducked low and picked up his speed, being careful to match the sound of their footfall to his.

  ‘They're ahead.’ A hunter said.

  Upon the man’s left arm a red length of cloth was worn, tied around his bicep. He was Vin the Hunt Boss and he led the way. To his right was the group’s most adept tracker. His name was Boro, and he could detect the trail of anything that moved upon foot or paw for days after it had passed by. A flurry of whistles and calls sounded around Vin and Boro. The men were informed, and they were ready.

  The instructions they had been given were simple. Which was how Vin liked them. Find the couple. Kill the boy. Return the girl. If they both had to die, then fair enough, but there was a bonus for the safe return, unmolested, of the wench. Some degree of butchery upon the boy would be welcome, with a further bonus fo
r particular parts returned to their employer. Vin had sharpened his blades well to earn this additional payment.

  ‘The land is reaching upwards here Vin, there’s likely to be rock formations ahead. Most likely they will have taken shelter there if so.’ Boro said.

  ‘And the lad will try to ambush us in some way.’ Vin replied. ‘He’s canny. He'll have come up with something.’

  Vin lifted his hand into the air, whistled and spun two raised fingers. As one, the men crouched low and began to move into a pre-determined position. They moved a few hundred yards forward, the swell in the forest floor becoming more obvious, and then saw the clump of rocks ahead, mostly obscured by trees.

  ‘Well, there’s your rocks Boro.’ Vin said.

  ‘Aye.’ His comrade replied, pulling out his sword.

  Whistles and calls came again. All of the men were accounted for, all in position. The couple could move forward, Boro thought, but they could not come back. They would be very tired now. Even the young soldier would be feeling the pressure of the chase. The lass would be pudding. He believed that this could be the end of the pursuit, and if so, the fun could begin.

  He stood.

  ‘Hai now lad.’ Vin shouted. 'Come on out now. There’s no harm for you if you come out from there quiet and sensible.’

  There were sniggers along the line but a short, sharp whistle from Boro silenced them.

  ‘Come on now. There’s nowhere for you to run to, we’re right behind. At least let the lass come down and we’ll take her home to her dad.’

  Vin’s requests were answered with silence.

  ‘Well, it’s always worth a shot.’ Vin said and unhooked a flask from the thick bearskin belt at his side. He removed the stopper and sniffed at the top of the flask. ‘Mmm... nothing smells quite like liquid fire.’

  He reached around to the rear of his belt and unbuttoned a small pack there. From it he withdrew a flint and stone. He looked to each side of the line and nodded.

  The men all performed the same operation. Once thrown, the liquid would splash and burn upon the rocks, creating incredibly hot flames and a vast cloud of choking smoke. In these crowded woods there was a very significant chance the trees and undergrowth would catch alight. Their aim would need to be exacting.