TBB Christmas 05

~In 2004 I wrote a really, really bad Christmas story for the Bridge Burners gaming community. I mean it was awful. I wrote this for Christmas '05 to make up for it, I went down a slightly different route and it's only vaguely related to the concept of Christmas. The story was never named and the setting became part of my larger fantasy world, Hyldrassil, that I still occasionally work on stories for (Mana: The Rising; Mana: The Shadows Of Destiny etc)~

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The first flakes of snow drifted gently to the ground in the land of Kardiak, the Great Overseer Maff smiled upon the kingdoms of Auracksis from his palaces among the stars. He looked to each of the three kingdoms of the land, the haughty Republic of Terra, proud warriors of great and noble birth; the merchant nation of Nu Combine, wily men of great wit; and lastly the mysterious Dominion of Vanutia, a monarchy of wizards and druidic artisans.
Nestled in a secluded valley at the intersecting point of the three kingdoms was the land of Kardiak, home to a race of men known as the Black Guard, or more commonly The Bridge Burners. Maff looked from his place on the astral plane upon these men with fondness in his heart for the Bridge Burners were favoured by all but subject to none.
As the first breath of winter sighed upon the village of For Humm the great chieftain Staceh the Blonde rose from his cottage and inhaled the crisp air of a December morning. His first among men stood at the communal well with his top advisor, Dekov the Terrible (also known as Dekov of the Unjust Infamy) beckoned Staceh to join himself and Painted the Big and Intimidating (aka Painted the Quiet and Reflective).
“By Maff, it truly is a marvellous morning,” Painted bowed to his chief, “‘tis a fine day for the First of Feasts.”
“Aye, the great hall is near prepared,” Dekov reported with cheer, “and HoaX of the Rapier Cult returned with word that we would indeed be joined by guests from the far land of Pandion, the Lady Ehlana and her entourage.”
“That is good news,” Staceh smiled, “have we heard word from any of the Auraxian Dynasties?”
“Sky Marshal Bazon has returned from the lands of Nu with glad tidings and many gifts,” The-Big-and-Intimidating-though-actually-Quiet-and-Reflective said, “we expect Vastian of the Amethyst Order to return from the Dominions of Vanu before the sun crosses the peaks of High Ban’twif.”
“What about the party of Archmage Chutney, surely they should have returned from Terra by now?”
After a moment’s silence that really should have been uncomfortable but wasn’t due to a nearby horse having exceptionally bad gas, Dekov finally spoke, “His party should have returned on the eve of the day past. I’ve sent Sir Michael of the Rapier Cult along with Chronicler Avengerius to scout the way to Terra’s halls and speak with the Magistrate. Grand Divina Zaya is accompanying them.”
“Do you suspect foul play?”
“Not from one of the Dynasties, there has been peace among the lands for ten generations. I’m concerned only in finding if the Archmage made it as far as Terra, the Mage Patriarch Sultan has sensed a pervasive magical factor in the air of late and he fears for the safety of our hallowed guests.”
*****
Chronicler Shinya of the Order of Scribes rode alongside Magus Vastian of the Amethyst Order through a forest of blossoming dwindlepine trees, the winter blooms a wash of colour in the rising sun. The morning dew had made the ground soft under their horses’ feet and thus they passed by at a leisurely pace. The day was young and they carried with them joyous news that the Monarch and his Regent would be joining them for the Feast of Rebirth, an ancient feast known to many as Christmas Lunch, but with more ale and the occasional suckling pig/punch up.
“‘Tis a fine morning,” Shinya enthused, “but it seems rather quiet. Don’t you feel that the birds are holding back?”
A horrid screech of face melting intensity split the air, the first morning cry of the Unfortunately Spotted Spamhawk.
“Be careful what you wish for,” Vastian said as he attempted to stuff his morning breakfast rolls into his ears.
The screech was met by a sound that resembled a backed up toilet overflowing, the caw of the evolutionary reject that was the Spi Bird, an angry little creature that bore a special grudge against the world that had moved on whilst it was having a nap. For a few moments it seemed like gangs of these birds were competing to see which could cause the greater level of noise pollution when finally a clap of thunder silenced the creatures and heralded the rebirth of the first Phoenix of the day. A beautiful cry sang out as the Phoenix summoned it’s brethren from the ashes, to hear such a sound brought hope to men’s hearts and tears to their eyes.
“Definitely a good day,” Shinya smiled, and then he was knocked unconscious.
*****
The vaulted halls of the Magister’s palace in the heart of the city of Forrs Ceral are ranked as one of the greatest architectural achievements in the Auraxian Dynasties. At their peaks they reach one hundred and twenty feet, spreading out in great gilded spans to colonnaded reception areas that more often than not were the sites of spirited debates on philosophy, religion, and good dental practice.
Chronicler Avengerius was a frequent in these halls and had many detailed, if boring, notes on its design and construction. Today though he had not the time to participate in debate, he spoke hurriedly with the Magister about the party of Archmage Chutney. It seemed that the Archmage had indeed been present and had departed in the early afternoon of the day previous with news of acceptance and gifts from Terra.
Sir Michael watched the conversation with a mild disinterest, his attentions were not obviously though entirely focused on a hooded individual who was trying to look nonchalant as he watched Aven.
Grand Divina Zaya had noticed him too, along with the six crossbow men trying to look inconspicuous as they took aim from the same rooftop.
“The local assassins guild leaves a lot to be desired,” she commented.
“Well, you pay peanuts you get primates,” Michael replied, “should we take them?”
“It would be rude not to,” Zaya shrugged before limbering up her fingers for some heavy-duty magical razzle-dazzle.
*****
Shinya awoke to a rather unpleasant charred smell, black towers of smoke drifted lazily into the air. Propping himself up he saw Vastian sitting against a tree trunk, much of the grass and trees around him were blackened, along with several lumps that might once have been people, if you used your imagination.
“What happened?”
“Slight massive magical discharge,” Vastian replied, “you got jumped by that lump over there, which in turn spooked my horse and I kinda got carried away.”
“Who were they?”
“Tax Collectors, I think.”
It was a little known fact that centuries of creative accounting on the part of businesses trying to keep the money they’d earned had in turn bred a ruthless breed of civil servant, one keen to do his duty and get his gold sundial after fifty years. This new breed of Tax Collector even admitted happily about his job, rather than the previous generation who would mumble something about cleaning latrines then shy away in self-disgust.
“Can you rez one?” Shinya looked at the nearest smouldering lump, it had to be a tax collector, even in death it had the texture of a bad curry, “Maybe we can find out what they wanted.”
Vastian looked at the lump/puddle. The Amethyst Order, if you were to ask a member, was an order of Arcanists. If you were to be a member you would see that they say this due to the socially abhorrent nature of their true schooling, the Shadow magics and the art of necromancy. Shadow magic is frowned upon unfairly as the magic of sorcerers and demons, whilst necromancy is treated as a thing of abject evil, yet all spells of healing and rejuvenation fall into it’s teachings. The arcane arts are a minor schooling that all mages learn before choosing their path. An arcanist is basically a mage dropout, like one of those guys you get round to your kid’s birthday to pull rabbits out of hats and get booed because the ungrateful little brat wanted the Power Rangers instead. Next time you’ll wear a condom.
*****
One of the most valued professions in the village of For Humm is that of herbalist, a position that has been finely perfected by Endorfi, or the Red Yama (so nicknamed for the mythical being he speaks to during his herbal experimentation). He can often be found in the smoky haze of the herbal labs, and during these times he’s normally about as productive and coherent as a bewildered gerbil.
Guide Mashed was seeking an alchemical tracking potion as to scout the valleys of Lahg to the north, whilst Staceh sought out the herb of sight. Vastian’s party was running late now too, and with only days to go to the Feast of Rebirth Staceh was getting anxious.
Its already been noted that the Feast of Rebirth was essentially Christmas with a punch up, but its actual origins lie somewhere deeper in the annals, or at least bowels, of time. The Feast celebrates the event of one of the Old Gods being born man as to better understand the human condition, the Gods don’t talk much to man anymore.
A few Demigods happened to be surfing at the time the Gods burned the Stardust Bridge as they fled the realm and so were left trapped in the lands of the mortals, though given the various pleasures of the flesh not many of them complained.
Those Demigods that remained with the world passed the time performing lesser miracles, appearing in visions to mental patients, and carrying out the occasional haunting. One or two had opted to become patron deities to various tribes and insurance companies, but this proved to be more bother than its worth and they soon found themselves retiring to the mountains to herd goats.
The Black Guard had their own Temple to the Demigods, not for the purposes of religion as more a misguided sense of loyalty and respect, presided over by the Matriarch Morgan, the Keeper of the Lore.
Staceh and Mashed met with Morgan in the Corridor of Shrines, the Guide Paladin was talking of leading an expedition through the Bandit’s Pass, a forbidding and convoluted passage that divided Terra from Nu before opening out to the Badlands in the far north. Both Dynasties had found policing the region to be nigh on impossible and it had long since fallen into the hands of outlaws, about as well as can be expected when you give a place a name like Bandit’s Pass.
There was a foul essence in the morning air, a corrupt magic from beyond the Auraxian lands, it pervaded Morgan’s senses and sent a chill to her bones. This was truly a dark portent for the festivities, a danger was upon the village lurking in the shadows, that or Banelle was trying his hand at cooking again.
A sound like coconut husks being clipped together began to filter through the room, they knew that it was coconut husks for an African Swallow had carried a coconut to the village the year previous. Stepping into the morning sun from the Temple’s dark confines they were met by a glowing vibration in the earth.
Vastian and Shinya charged into the Village Square at full gallop, stopping only when Vastian was thrown from his horse to land quite inconveniently at the bottom of the well. After much cursing and an unfortunately aimed levitation spell Staceh got him out the old fashioned way; a length of rope, some elbow grease and a small school of piranhas.
Shinya maintaining some of the heroic decorum explained the morning’s encounter.
“Something dark is stirring in Mordor??”
“Hush!” Shinya hissed through gritted teeth, “You want to get sued?
“No, it’s the Mystery land of Muldor beyond the Badlands, their Gerent has sent a force down through the Pass to disrupt the order in the Auraxian lands.”
Muldor was the other kingdom on this continent, a dark and mysterious land that few from the lush Auraxian kingdoms had visited due to the inconvenience of a barren wasteland filled with vicious predators lying between the two regions. Little was known about the policies of the nation other than that it appeared to be a militocracy, and that it appeared to favour technological development to the more natural magical development. Also their leader appeared to believe that he was the voice of God.
“So, they’ve kidnapped Chutney and were going to frame Terra,” Staceh reiterated the facts, “they attempt to kidnap yourselves to frame Nu so that we would go to the Vanu and the politics of the region would begin to break down.”
“Leaving Nu ripe for invasion,” Mashed concluded, “it probably would have worked too, but…”
“But what?”
Mashed thought about this for a second, “There must be an army already crossing the Badlands, maybe even camped beyond the Nu borders.”
*****
A general council of the Black Guard was called in the square, the defence of the entire Auraxian land was at risk and it was time for The Bridge Burners to act. Hunt Master Banelle was dispatched immediately to scout the lands beyond Nu, first and foremost they had to find the army of Muldor, Auraxis had the initiative at the moment and they needed to make the best of the afforded time.
Dekov of the Unjust Infamy and Painted of the Big Description prepared the troops for action whilst Morgan brought forth the most sacred of Holy Relics.
“It is time for the ritual summoning,” she spoke to the Heavens, “Oh Great Demigod of War and Lesser Floral Afflictions we call upon your service once more. Pretty please.”
It took years of study and great skill to capitalise the first letters in speech, and was an art practised only by the most learned of High Priests.
With the final invocation of the magical words there was a puff of smoke and some cheap flashing effects that wouldn’t have looked out of place in an under-budgeted ‘B’ movie. A tuxedoed man was standing in the spot that the relic had previously occupied, he had a martini glass in his hand and didn’t appear to be overly pleased at having been summoned from what was obviously the party to be seen at.
“What?”
“Oh Great Damius, Demigod of War, Lord of-“
“Yes, yes, I know all that,” he sighed, “what can I do for you?”
“My Lord,” Staceh stood tall, “an army of darkness marches upon these lands, we ask for your blessing, guidance and your aid if possible. There should be plenty to kill.”
“Ok, where’s this army at?”
“Umm, we don’t know that yet,” Sleepless replied, “Banelle’s working on it.”
Damius shrugged, “Ok, I’m in. Call me when you know where they’re at. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a date.”
There was another puff of smoke, cheap lighting and Damius was gone.
Staceh turned to address the Black Guard when another flash and a puff of smoke interrupted him.
“Ok, she was gone.”
“Uh, sorry,” Morgan quickly said.
“It’s no problem. I was there with Lady Luck, and one thing that I have learned in my years is that luck can vanish in a heartbeat.”
*****
Sir Michael spurred his horse forward, his party had concluded their dealings in Terra and it was time to make all haste back to Kardiak, and to that end they were riding like the clappers through the Twisted Wold.
In the earlier years, back when the Gods walked among men (for no reason other than to show off) the use of the intrinsic magical forces was a far more common practice, meaning those who could, did. And of course the constant one-upmanship of magic users eventually led to a drawn out and not altogether healthy magic war. The pyrotechnics were quite spectacular and were a thoroughly enjoyable sight to behold, right up until the magical backwash caused the beholders to leap several genii to the left on the evolutionary chart.
The Gods could probably have intervened but they had a 2pm tee-off at St Andrews and by Maff they were not going to miss it. And so, as wars inevitably do, it ended. Quite unspectacularly too, it involved some shaking of hands and possibly a list of signatures.
What this has to do with the Twisted Wold is nothing at all. The Wold is the geographical equivalent of a copper rod up the side of a church spire, a natural earthing point for the magical static that builds up in the valleys among the mountains of High Ban’twif.
As such, nothing in the region is quite normal.
Michael called back to Zaya and Aven, “You ever get the feeling that the trees are watching you?”
“In here they probably are,” Zaya replied.
“I resent that implication,” a deep and unnatural a voice as nature’s voice could possibly be spoke.
The trio reined up their horses and scanned the surrounding area for the source of that otherworldly voice.
“Reveal yourself,” Michael commanded.
There was a slight rustling as if all the crisp packets in the universe had suddenly and inexplicably found themselves lining the forest floor to be jumped on by a hyperactive child at the peak of a sugar rush.
And then it spoke, “I am here, I am everywhere, and I am nowhere. I cannot reveal my form to those who do not have the capacity to see it for I am the spirit of nature, the life of the forest. I am Bagdh Dearg.”
A passing dung beetle curtsied to Avengerius, “He loves his grand speeches but if you tell him to take the stick out of his bum you'll be all right.”
The beetle winked and continued rolling its ball of manure towards what could only be described as the natural equivalent of Marble Madness, complete with levers operated by a very bored looking sprite.
“Hang on a second,” Aven said aloud to the forest, feeling slightly sheepish for chatting to trees, an organism that last time he checked definitely didn’t have vocal chords, “Bagdh Dearg was a druid of the Third Age, he died due to an accident involving an escaped vole.”
A nearby thing that if we use a bit of artistic license could be called a tree cast some leaves that fell neatly into a Royal Flush, “A druid I was, the guardian of nature I now am. The Wold is my home; the World is my charge. From the heartland of Auraxis to the distant shores of Minaarkand, from the peak of Samath Spire to the very depths of Kerrauduun, I govern all.”
“So,” Zaya began, “you are the essence of nature?”
“Correct.”
“And you see everything?”
“I see all.”
“So, if I was to ask you what happened to the party of Black Guard Archmage Chutney, you’d be able to tell me?”
“Umm.”
“Given that you are the essence of nature.”
“Well…”
“And that you see all.”
“…”
“So?”
There was a sudden curse in Vanutian and an elven figure fell from a nearby tree. The creature dusted itself down and looked guiltily into the expectant faces of the Black Guard party, “Ok, you got me. The spell didn’t work quite right, instead of becoming the guardian spirit I became a Wood Elf.”
“So you can’t really see everything?”
The elf shifted weight uneasily from one foot to the other, “Well, I tried voyeurism for a while.”
“So you didn’t see anyone passing through the woods, at all.”
“Look, I’m just a gardener, ok,” the little elf stamped around angrily, “trapped in this form for the rest of my existence I needed to do something, and Night Blossoms require a lot of care you know, and who else is going to look after them, the Dryads? Drunkards! The Nymphs? Perverts!”
The rant continued for some time as the Guardian worked through a plethora of mystical beings of the forest, the need to pause for breath was obviously a secondary consideration for the gradually bluing elf.
When he came too he agreed to lend assistance to the party, so long as he got to keep the shoes of those slain. Aven didn’t ask.
“But you are going to need more than just my help.” Bagdh clasped his hands together and whispered a few incantations; the words seemed to drift from his tongue and glide through the air.
The ground began to shake and a deep rumble pervaded the very air they breathed as if the world was trying to cough up a particularly nasty glob of phlegm. Animals darted from the clearing, even a huge sloth thought it prudent to at least adjust its grip, and then it went back to sleep. Clouds seemed to wash over the area until the sun was blotted out and they were standing in darkness, a red glow rose from cracks that split across the earth and chunks of land slowly began to rise.
The broken land exploded into the sky in a column of flame and suddenly everything was normal again, except that where there once was shattered land there now stood a little horned figure about 6 inches tall.
“Hey, what’s up?”
“I’ve summoned you to aid us in a rescue mission,” Bagdh proclaimed.
Zaya looked long and hard at the creature before carefully choosing her words, “What’s a little itty bitty naked man going to be able to do?”
“Demon,” Bags said quickly.
“An Imp to be exact,” the Demon said.
Zaya reconsidered her question, “I always though imps to be huge slavering spawns of the pit, darkness absolute and evil incarnate. What’s a little itty bitty naked demon going to be able to do?”
“I’ll poke them in the ankle with my pitch fork,” the imp replied.
Sir Michael suppressed a chuckle, “Do you have a name, little demon?”
“Multhazzarlandruckullzae’draennodailldontrovandzadaar, Oppressor of the Ninth Pit and Destroyer of Worlds.”
“I usually just call him Imp,” Bagdh helped, “doesn’t have the same ring to it, but very fearsome nonetheless.”
“Oh yes, very fearsome,” Sir Michael agreed quickly before introducing Imp the imp to the rest of the party.
They set off once more for For Humm, Bagdh Dearg travelled in the mind of an eagle whilst Imp rode on Sir Michael’s shoulder.
“Actually, I know of someone who may be able to help,” Imp offered.
“Who?”
“Well, you’re a big strapping knight, how are you at rescuing ladies from towers?”
*****
Darkness coiled around Vastian’s hut and drifted in great misty waves from the cauldron bubbling in the centre of the room, a twinkling stardust hung in the air as great ethereal energies swirled around the Magus. A form seemed to appear within the dark fluid, an indistinct image that required a lot of imagination and a bit of artistic interpretation to actually see. Vastian plunged a chalice into the fluid and drew forth some of the brew.
Staceh entered the room with a slight fit of coughing.
“Staceh,” Vast offered him the chalice, “want some coffee?”
“Mmm, please,” The chief accepted the cup and grimaced at the first sip, “needs sugar.”
The Magus passed a china sugar bowl and drew himself another chalice of the brew, “How go the preparations?”
“Damius is away to kill something, the warriors will be ready to march within the hour, and Mashed is summoning forth the Legion.”
Vastian allowed himself a single laugh, “The schools of light would have a field day if they ever found out about the Necromancer Paladin.”
Staceh agreed, even though he too knew that necromantic power drew from the Holy energies rather than the forces of shadow, but the old orders still maintained their quaint, if obsolete superstitions. The terramancers, for example, still maintained that the world was round even though only two years previous a Nu merchant vessel sailed over the edge of the world and drifted until the laws of physics and/or probability took over and it somehow ended up on the Hudson river. This was to prove to be quite a surprise of the commercial supertanker that it collided with.
*****
“So,” Michael surveyed the scene, “what you are saying is that all I will have to do is fight my way to the top if this tower, through a couple of dozen armed guards, then beat open a 6 pound forged lock and we’ll have us another party member?”
“That’s the gist of it, more or less,” Imp waved his hand nonchalantly, “all you have to do is rescue the damsel in distress.”
Michael puffed up his chest and strode purposefully towards the tower, this was what being a knight was all about, drinking and rescuing women from towers to engage in meaningless one night stands. He drew his sword and charged. This came as quite a shock to the soon to be stabbed guards who couldn’t really care less about the comings and goings about the tower, it was a decent wage and didn’t involve much in the line of rape and pillage (except on Tuesdays when the local brothel ran it’s two for one rape special).
Two guards stood chatting about local community work around the tower when a raving loon charged in and sworded them, his bloodshot eyes a sight to inspire terror. Proper terror.
The door to the lady’s chamber was heavy and well marked with ‘Do Not Disturb’ signs, the lock was large and forbidding and probably would have been difficult to bypass had the key not been hanging from a nail in the door frame.
Sir Michael dramatically kicked the door open and strode valiantly forward, “Fear not fair maiden, for I, Sir Michael of Kardiak, am here to rescue you.”
An enormous amount of muscle shifted in one corner of the room and a great hairy warrior stood from a pile of dresses that obviously served as a bed, “Arrnud the Barbarian at your service. I’m afraid that the lady was rescued quite some time ago but the tourist board has neglected to update their literature. Thank you kindly for opening the- Hey! What are you doing?!”
The Barbarian struggled as Michael hefted him onto his shoulders, “I came here to rescue a damsel and god damn it I’m going to do exactly that. So congratulations, Damsel.”
*****
Staceh strolled the Corridor of Shrines within the Temple, he was accompanied by the Rogue and Master Thief Deano, a man who would appear to be in shadow even in the middle of an arctic plain at high noon.
They passed shrines to such esteemed psuedodeities as The Thunderhawk, Kimber, Enrico the Pointy Stick Holder, and Batman. Quick as a flash Deano swatted a fly that had landed on the statue of The Brad Pitt (the most disturbingly popular statue in the Temple), if anyone asked he’d say that it was a sacrifice.
They were putting plans in motion because there were times when it just seems right to be putting something in motion, regardless of what the rules of Thermodynamics might have to say on the matter. Rules were made to be broken anyway.
“When you reach Banelle I want you to infiltrate the camp and try to find out the exact hierarchy of their command echelon,” Staceh ordered the nearest shadow, at best a guess to Deano’s location.
“Want me to upset things for them?”
The voice had came from somewhere on the opposite side of the room.
“Not at this time,” Staceh said to the air, “I just need to know the best place to hit.”
There was an unnecessary puff of flash powder and Deano was gone, for all his subtlety he never had figured on a discreet way to exit a room. The man went through kilos of the stuff every week.
*****
“If I was trapped on a desert island?” Aven mused Zaya’s question as he adjusted his position against the tree trunk, “If I were trapped on a desert island I suppose the one thing that I would want would be a raft.”
Zaya laughed, “That’s not allowed in this game.”
“The blood of the innocent,” Imp piped in with his answer.
“You know,” Aven turned to the hellspawn, “the amazing thing about the blood of the innocent isn’t the taste, or the occult power that it gives, but just how little of it there actually is.”
“Some people would consider that to be terribly cynical,” a voice said from behind the lounging group.
“Markeh,” Aven turned to see the assembled population of For Humm decked out in full fighty regalia, right down to Sultan’s Hurty Death Robes and Staff of Instant Win.
Markeh, warrior and part-time hairdresser stood before the assembled mass, his gilded battle scissors glinting in the afternoon sunlight.
The Black Guard force had set out for the Bandit’s Pass and through sheer luck and laziness they had happened upon the open plain before the Tower of Fairy Tale Imprisonment, and the group returning from Terra.
Aven filled Staceh in on the parts of the story Shinya had been unable to provide- how Chutney had made it as far as Forrs Ceral and that the Magister had accepted the invitation to Kardiak; how he’d been snatched on his return home; and how they’d come to receive assistance from the ‘spirit of the forest’ and a demon.
“So, the armies of Muldor have stolen our Rebirth presents.”
Vastian wasn’t listening to Aven, his eyes were fixed on a point over Staceh’s shoulder.
“Vast. What?”
The Magus pointed towards the Tower and, he wasn’t quite able to manage coherent speech so much as he could gargle.
Staggering towards them was Sir Michael with what appeared to be an enormous bearded man in a dress over his shoulders. Silence fell about the Black Guard army as he approached; all eyes were upon the man in furry underwear and the sweating knight.
Eventually Aven spoke his mind, “I don’t know how exactly I’m going to explain this one in the scrolls.”
“Mikey? Umm, what’s with the guy in the dress?”
“Damsel.” Mikey panted, “This is the Damsel in distress, in a dress. From. Tower.”
“Arrnud the Barbarian,” Damsel waved with a jovial smile, “a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
“Staceh the Blonde.”
“Ah, your legend precedes you, sir,” the Barbarian bowed his head, “might I ask a small boon if it isn’t an imposition? Could you please ask this dear chap to put me down? It’s just, he doesn’t seem to be listening to me.”
And so it was that the swelling numbers of the Black Guard set forth for the dangerous land that lay beyond the Bandit’s Pass, and on towards an enemy of unknown size and strength. The Safety of Auraxis and the celebration of the most hallowed of days lay at stake, not just for the people of Kardiak, but for all the lands.
It would be nice to say that much adventure awaited the brave souls of the Black Guard, but all the bandits had went home for the holidays and the trip was rather uneventful, apart from the bar brawl.
*****
Banelle knelt down and scooped up a handful of dry dirt, it felt harsh against his fingers, far drier than dirt from these parts. It was dust of the Badlands, completely arid and lifeless, probably carried here on the hooves of the Muldorian cavalry as they made their way towards Kardiak.
There was a slight hint of dried sweat, the horses were tired, the kidnappers must have pressed on from the main force for days, yet there was no sign that they’d ever returned.
Tiddles, Banelle’s cougar, muzzled at the patches of orange dust, working its way deeper back into the Pass, it could find no returning tracks either.
“So, that means that either they returned to their main force via another route, or they have yet to return with Chutney,” Banelle looked straight through the shadows to Deano.
“How did you know that I was here?”
The hunter wiped the dust from his hands, “I’m good at what I do.”
*****
So, as far as bar brawls go this one was well underway for top marks, it moved with a fluidity achieved only through consumption and an overabundance of testosterone.
The Black Guard force drew up outside the King’s Testicle Tavern, so named because a passing Monarch had called in to the then Sleepy Meadows Inn to witness the common folk at play (from behind a retinue of trained killers). Whilst enjoying the hushed reverie the Monarch leaned back and due to the loose clothing as was the fashion in those days he inadvertently exposed his country’s Crown Jewels, and the rest is history.
Staceh listened to the merry sound of breaking limbs and smashing steins in harmony to an old honky tonk piano.
“Good old country pub if I ever saw one,” he mused, “Dek, Painted, Vast and Endorfi, come with me. Mashed, have the Legion ready in case we need backup.”
There is one unique trait shared by the denizens of all local bars, when the door opens and a party of strangers enters a hush will fall across the revellers, regardless of what level of dismemberment they were currently trying to achieve, and all eyes will fall on the foreigners. It’s the only thing that can halt a brawl in five seconds, riot breakers wouldn’t have a look-in.
Staceh made his way through the sea of eyes and gestured to the bartender, “Barkeep, I wish to purchase refreshments for my companions and a map of the local area.”
The bartender was one of those men who looked not like he avoided washing as more the water avoided him, there are some taints that even an exorcism can’t remove.
Vastian was listening to the chat around them, his shadoweave robes appeared to be providing much amusement to the table behind him. He was about to point out the numerous differences between a dress and robes infused with the dark magic of the nether realms when a hand like a side of gammon landed on his shoulder.
“You ain’t from around ‘ere, are ye boy?” The creature that we’ll call human for lack of a more appropriate word said, “What you forners wan’?”
Vast scowled at the hand on his shoulder, “It’s pronounced ‘want’, there’s a ‘t’ in it.”
“Ah hate men who flaunts thar educatedness,” the manthing said, “an’ ah hate fairies in dresses.”
He swung a fist that would have had a similar effect on Vastian as a stampeding herd of wildebeest had it not collided with the immovable object that was Painted’s open palm.
“I think that maybe you should go and rejoin your friends,” Painted said without looking, he gave the fist a squeeze to emphasise the point.
The manbeast held his ground, and Vast’s shoulder, this looked like it was going to get nasty. Vastian’s eyes glazed over and one of the hulk’s friends suddenly rose and smashed a chair over the creature’s head, that ended it pretty quickly.
Staceh removed a couple of gold coins from his purse, given the location of the tavern he could have bought the premises for that much, and he slipped them to the barkeep in exchange for some choice titbits of information.
That’s the other common trait among taverns, you want to know anything you just ask the barman, he could give you everything down to the best before dates on the weapons of mass destruction whilst the secret agents were still trying to inconspicuously slip into the palace compound.
Somewhere at the back of the bar the brawl was starting up again, a good fight waits for no man and pretty soon they were tearing the place up again.
“Well, the atmosphere is back,” Endorfi commented to Dekov as he rolled another ‘medicinal’ inhalant.
“Keep a watch on that big guy by the hearth, he’s trying very hard to hide the fact that he’s watching us.”
Endorfi lit up and with a nod he sent Yama to keep an eye on the observer, then he started to giggle.
“Okay guys,” Staceh turned to the party, “I’ve got what we need.”
He looked across the tide of aggression between them and the door, “Vast, clear a path.”
The blue of Vastian’s eyes turned a deep purple, a mist drifted from his eye sockets and beneath his finger nails, he seemed to darken into the rising haze and his features seemed to take on a sharper edge. He let the force of shadow flow through him as he turned to the brawl.
“Okay you rabble,” the shade didn’t so much speak as insinuate the words, “move aside or be moved.”
Some of the nearby mob broke off and advanced on the party, which really was probably not the most sensible thing that they could have done at that point. With a force like a falling building a projected shield parted the brawl like Moses in the Red Sea, glowing arcs of residual shadow energy sparked between its walls.
Staceh led the party between the stunned fighters and they exited the tavern. The man by the hearth led four companions towards the exit after them, but upon opening the door they found themselves staring at a thousand misty green shades, with obvious malevolent intent.
The men turned and ordered another round, a ghostly legion was a bit beyond their ability.
*****
The Legion of Lost Souls, led by the Guide Paladin Mashed, was one of the more mysterious organisations within the Black Guard, if only because of the green mist.
Gaining membership to the Legion isn’t a spectacularly difficult affair; the only prerequisites are that you are a serving member of the Black Guard, and that you are dead. Note that the prerequisite is dead, not undead. This is an important difference, dead folk tend to remember how they were in life, undead folk generally eat flesh and smell bad.
The Legion has been in existence since the ancient magic wars that rocked the Auraxian lands, when the first Guide Paladin Agustkri fell at the hands of the pyromancer Fipbeebee beneath the walls of the Vanu capital Ameer Hesh. The Paladin’s spirit became infused with the mysterious ethereal forces that twist about that city and he didn’t actually realise that he’d died until sometime well after he’d called forth his brethren to reap the whirlwind against the dark mage.
*****
In preparation for the coming battle Imp had transformed from the little naked demon to a giant slavering pit beast spewed forth from the darkest levels of the void in a hail of ash and brimstone, he was still naked though.
Was a shame then that when they caught up with Banelle and Deano to see Chutney sitting by himself in the dusty plains below.
“Awwww,” Damius moaned.
Staceh shuffled up beside Banelle, “Is it a trap, have the Muldorians found a way to conceal themselves?”
“I’m not sure, there are no signs that the army ever left this place.”
Staceh hefted his longsword and led the force towards the plain, no point in trying to hide, if the Muldorians were in concealment then they were obviously anticipating the arrival of the Black Guard, and Staceh would hate to disappoint. He could see that Chutney was bound to a chair, and that he was unconscious, the only question was how long had he been exposed in the open desert like this?
As they neared the area they saw signs that there had been an encampment here, a fairly large one too, but aside from a few pieces of broken wood it had all but vanished.
Zaya halted at a strange configuration in the ground, a series of concentric circles like ripples in a pond frozen in time, it was as if the stone had became like water and then petrified after something had passed through.
“Staceh,” Zaya called out, “hold up.”
Banelle knelt next to her and he ran his fingers around one jagged ripple in the earth.
“There’s another one over here,” Painted shouted across, “and I think that I see another over that way.”
Aven stopped next to Staceh, “Rift Wyrms.”
“Back,” Staceh turned and immediately ordered the force off the plain, almost all of them would die if they lingered here.
On the hill Dekov and Staceh looked back at the plain, “So they marched for hundreds of miles across a barren wasteland only to set up camp above a nest of rift wyrms. Idiots.”
“That’s the problem with a technologically minded culture,” Staceh mused, “you get so wrapped up in your own paltry developments that you fail to notice the natural magics of the world, and their warnings.”
“Zaya,” Staceh turned, “you, Sultan and Vast head down there and get Chutney, we’ll keep an eye out for any Muldorian stragglers.”
Rift wyrms don’t attack magic users for the same reason that people don’t eat raw sewage, the taste is bad and it wouldn’t be great for the constitution.
As the three crossed the plain a shrill cry went through the air and a translucent, glowing creature rose to the air like a winged serpent, it cried again and another rose from the ground.
“By Maff,” Shinya exclaimed, have you ever seen anything like that?”
“Not in all my travels across this world,” Damsel replied, awe-struck.
The wyrms swam gracefully through the air coiling in great arcs around the party, they snarled and snapped but never came close, another cried and rose from beneath the earth. They twisted in a magnificent display of orange light and circled overhead as Sultan knelt to untie Chutney’s bounds. The air was electric with the rift energy of the otherworldly beasts, it shimmered as if something fluid and unreal.
With a snarl a wyrm dived over their heads as Sultan and Vastian carried the unconscious archmage from the plain, the wyrms screeched and harried but never came close.
*****
It was dark, but there was noise, an awful lot of noise. The Muldorians were probably celebrating their victory, the ambush and defeat of the legendary Black Guard, the Bridge Burners, the race of men who reputedly aided the Gods in burning the Stardust Bridge in the early age of the world.
He wasn’t tied. A cell, probably. He opened his eyes, it was dark but a candle flickered gently in a corner, the shadows it cast seemed familiar yet belonging to a place that felt like it belonged far in the past. Another appraisal of his surroundings showed that he was lying in a bed, his bed. This was his hut back in For Humm, he was home.
Chutney sat bolt upright in his bed as Matriarch Morgan entered with a chalice of brew.
“Hey there,” Morgan said softly, “we were worried that you were going to sleep through the Feast of Rebirth.”
“Is it that time already?” Chutney sighed and lay back, it felt so good to feel a comfortable mattress beneath him, “It’s good to be home.”
“Well, don’t be long,” Morgan placed the chalice on his bedside cabinet, “our guests are all here and we don’t want to start the feast without you.”
Chutney smiled, “It’s good to be home.”
*****
Standing at the bar Vastian felt a sudden deep foreboding of an old joke about to be repeated, and turning he saw Staceh approach, wet fish in hand and held ready. Then suddenly the story ended and they realised that they’d have to wait until next year.