by Brad C Baker
“No, we stormed a beach together,” Crallick corrected.
“Alone, I mean,” adjusted Kittalae.
“They’re here.” Crallick nodded at the eight sleeping forms lying in little groups on the mound.
“They’re asleep, and we’re under the moonlight.” Damn, her master was making this hard.
“So?” Crallick asked.
Kittalae leaned in and sweetly kissed him. “I’m sorry, my dear Crallick, but you are quite dense.” Leaning back to relish the disjointed look she had plastered on the older half-elf’s face, she added, “Why are we doing this anyway?”
“Two reasons. First, it dulls the glinting of my armor. Second, it muffles the sound of the metal.” Crallick finished the rest of his work in silence.
Kittalae never pressed him further.
***
That morning, the camp arose to howls and screams of agony. Every one to a man, froggles and lizardmen included, leapt up slapping, pinching and holoring at the hundreds of stinging irons that were piercing their flesh. Bright red-orange ants were swarming over everything. This sent the lot diving into the river. The two froggles’ tongues were quickly washing over everything, turning red-orange as they accumulated ants by the score off themselves and everything their sticky appendages could reach.
“This land just keeps getting better and better,” growled Crallick as he pulled a drowned ant out from the front of his loincloth.
With a twinkle in her yellow eyes, Kittalae whispered playfully, “Need anything kissed better, my dear Crallick?”
He simply glared at her, “Let’s move out.”
Pouting at his lack of humour, or sense of flirting, Kittalae threw on her own clothes that she had doffed in the water to shake out the dead ants.
Miserably, full of bites and grumbles, the group resumed their trudge through the cypress swamp. Away from the mounds, a new bother that was easily recognized came to annoy them. The thrum and whine of tiny wings, followed by itchy nips at their exposed flesh, identified their tormentors. Mosquitoes. By the time midday rolled around, the land had started to rise and the clouds of mosquitoes had begun to thicken. Heat was scorching their bodies dry of sweat and they had no real shelter from the sun. They were hiking through meadows of a long-bladed grass that was a ruddy purple in colour. The fields were punctuated with trees that had thorny spikes running the length of their branches and trunks. Wide leaves drank in the sunlight. Skull sized bobs of white fleece dotted the ends of several branches. The red grasses under several of these silk floss trees looked to be capped with snow.
As they climbed longer into the day, the fields gave way to massive banyan forests. They were mixed with strange baobab trees. Massive trunks the size of small cottages grew from between the taller, but twisted and gnarled root and trunk systems of the banyans.
Evening fell as the music of the evening birds and hidden animals rang through the forest.
Ahead, up the side of the root of the mountain they were slowly gaining on, Crallick could see several glowing points of light, betraying campfires. ‘Sloppy,’ he thought, then he grinned evilly. Crallick sat and drank some rum. Thinking back, he could barely recount the last time he was part of an expedition like this one. He had been twelve years younger. He shook his head. He was getting too old for this shite.
He offered to take first watch. The rest of the group slumbered. Erik and the others, wiser now, had picked the campsite after making damn sure there were no ant burrows hidden in the grass.
Crallick touched his fellow watchman, Kittalae, on the arm. “Stay here. Stay silent,” he ordered in a no-nonsense tone of voice.
She nodded her obeyance. Suddenly he was strangely glad she was his slave, and couldn’t argue or disobey. There was something to be said for unquestioning loyalty, even though it was questionable in the manner in which he had acquired it. Nevertheless, he stole away into the night to scout out the route to the enemy camp.
Moving faster and more silently than he could do if encumbered by the others, he made the fringes of the enemies’ camp in a few hours. His keen sight told him everything he needed to know.
The first thing that met his eyes were the number of plant-based dwellings in the clearing. The marauders had obviously taken over a local tribe’s village and hadn’t had time to construct permanent buildings. There was a path leading from the far side of the village into the darkness. A conical mound in the distance belied some plinth, or ziggurat, or pyramid. Some religious temple; the site of Eli’s intended sacrifice, Crallick mused.
There were sounds of laughing, crying, and rutting coming from the village. Crallick’s blood curdled in his veins when he saw what he thought to be children, being bent over rails, tables, and lain on the ground to be raped by their marauding captors.
So galled by this barbaric behavior, Crallick found his bow in his hand. He hadn’t even been aware he had called it to him. His eyes hardened. He had some time to kill.
Deftly scrambling up a banyan tree, Crallick laid out upon one of its tremendous branches. Aiming his great bow, he nocked an arrow, drew taut the string, slowly inhaled, and loosed the arrow with his exhale. Silent, the dark shaft shot through the night. A wet thud told of it finding its mark. Through and through, the arrow entered and exited the chest of a mailed figure with a bastard sword and shield who was pointlessly standing watch. His body flopped lifelessly to the ground.
Sighting again, Crallick marked a Vitani, with a bow of his own. This target was scanning the trees. The almond eyes widened in fear and realization when they fixed upon Crallick, who let fly another arrow. This arrow took the Vitani in the throat, choking off his cry of alarm.
A scream, followed by raucous laughter, caught his attention. A goblin-blooded man was stretching a naked and diminutive woman under his corded mass. Onlookers pretended to ignore, or jeered the mongrelman’s sport. With a feral growl, Crallick let fly an arrow that tore through the man’s spine, heart, and sternum. This stopped the man’s thrusts dead with an epileptic spasm.
The victim began screaming anew, terror seizing her wits, as blood bathed her in a crimson wash. This inevitably drew attention. One of the first responders was taken off his feet as a missile drove through his ribs, to collapse his lung.
At this juncture, Crallick thought it best to make his escape. As he fled, unseen, through the forested slope, he managed to bloody his foes twice more. One he shot through the liver, leaving him consigned to a long and agonizing death. Who knew, if the human victim was unlucky, he may find him again tomorrow. The other died from the arrow destroying his brachial artery. The arrow caught him in the right arm, tearing it clean away. This left the exposed artery to spray the surroundings with his vital lifeblood. The man staggered all the way back to the village, only to collapse in the warm embrace of Chessintra.
Crallick got back to camp to find a small but irate contingent of his friends waiting for him. It was five hours past midnight.
“Just where have you been?” Erik bluntly asked. His burly arms were folded across his chest.
“I went to reconnoiter the village ahead,” Crallick cooly stated, unslinging his bow from his shoulder.
“What village?” Hullaboo asked.
“The one that Eli’s marauders took over for themselves.” Crallick handed his bow to Kittalae.
“No one knew where you had gone,” rumbled the massive Komodoman, Bargress. “We were concerned.”
“My sla… Kittalae knew where I went,” Crallick unshouldered his quiver of arrows.
“She didn’t say where you had gone,” said Erik.
“Good,” Crallick smiled. “I told her not to. The last thing I needed was to have a half dozen of you crashing after me in the bush and getting me killed.”
Erik’s jaw tightened. “Come now, Crallick, I don’t think we’re that incompetent.”
Shaking his head, Crallick conceded the point. “Fine, you might not be. But I just wanted to do some careful scouting, and get back. That i
s all.”
Erik glanced at Bargress. Bargress shrugged. “So be it,” Erik said. “What’s done is done. Well, tell us what you found.”
“There is a village of humans, I think. Jaragua sized. Eli’s host was harassing them. I noted ten of them. One of the Komodomen, the Nekomin, and Eli were nowhere to be seen. I killed four and wounded one while I made my escape. There are six left, plus the three. Nine in total. We’ll press on to the village at first light. It will take about an hour to get there. Once there, we’ll kill them all, save the village, and save the girls, though they must be sequestered in a hut, because I couldn’t see them. There was a distant shape that looked temple-like beyond the village. I’m guessing that is where the sacrifices are to take place. Any questions?”
“Nope.” Erik smiled grimly at the news of the upcoming task.
“Go share the information with everyone. I want everyone thinking smartly. We’ll leave in an hour,” Crallick concluded.
“Your pride is your downfall, my fleshy friend,” said Bargress after Erik had headed off.
“Excuse me?” Crallick asked.
“You are easily one of our best warriors and you could have denied us that asset while you satisfied your personal curiosity. Had you been compromised, we may not have had the martial strength to rescue the maids. Consider your end objective the next time you choose to heedlessly risk yourself.” Bargress paused, then politely added, “Ser.”
Stunned at the rebuke of his rashness from such an unlikely source, Crallick mutely nodded.
Kittalae spoke for him. “He’s sorry, you are right of course, and it surely won’t happen again.”
Pulling his lips away from his teeth, Bargress nodded. “Rest well, good hunter,” he said, then pounded away to Glip-Glip and Menshirre.
Crallick looked up at Hullaboo, “Nothing from you?”
“Nope, nope,” Hullaboo licked his eyes to moisten them. “You’ll be fine, if not, I rescue your daughter. I owe you.” Then he limped off to join the other non-mammalian members of Crallicks group.
Crallick took a swig of rum from his flask. He leaned his head back against a bole of a banyan tree. He watched Kittalae fuss about, making him a breakfast. She was squeezing ripe looking red berries into boiling water. He lost consciousness.
He awoke to a gentle prodding. “Sweet Crallick,” Kittalae cooed.
He hocked phlegm through his nose and throat to spit it into the dirt. “Huh?” he grunted.
Wiping away a strand that clung to his mouth, Kittalae flicked the mucous away with her fingers. “Drink.” She gave him a hot beverage.
Crallick swilled it down with three long draughts. This was when he noticed the gathered company, all waiting and watching him.
Erik spoke for them. “We’re all ready. We’ve collected weapons, armor, and we’re leaving supplies here. We’ve bound and reinforced all injuries as best as we can. We’re ready to go ser.”
Crallick got to his feet and nodded. “Excellent,” he said. He glanced around at his assembled group. He had to remind himself not to call them troops, as they weren’t trained soldiers and assuming them to be so would get him killed, as suredly as it would see them perish. He took stock of them.
Glip-Glip wore no armor, had a harness and belt, and at some point during their trek through the swamp, had collected a hollow reed, which he had fashioned a blowgun out of. For ammunition, he had a pouch full of thorns harvested from those strange silk-floss trees. He had a dagger as his only forged weapon.
Gregor Titus was wearing a leather jack. He had fashioned a wooden shield. His cutlass was hanging from his hip.
Jarrod Pajmahr likewise wore a leather jack and had a cutlass. He still had his pistol, and had a brace of hatchets slung to his belt.
Izzy Nunez had only two cutlasses.
Hullaboo had his longspear and his harness. He too, chose agility over being fettered by heavy armor.
Armon Faulk had been outfitted to defend the beach. He had a cuir bouilli jack, leather greaves, and vambraces. He also had a pistol and a cutlass.
Bargress Trothe held a brace of pistols in his belt. In addition to his naturally gifted weapons and armor, the Komodoman held a wooden shield and cutlass.
Menshirre Orran wore leather over his scaled hide. He wielded a cutlass and a crossbow. There were only a dozen bolts for it though.
Erik wore a leather jack, but he had vambraces and grieves. He had a cutlass, a hatchet, and a pair of pistols.
His sweet Kittalae was the only other member to be wearing anything resembling heavier armor. She had used her magic to cajole pieces of wood to form to her lithe figure. She still had a spear and Crallick knew she also had her spells.
Sighing heavily, he felt obligated to give some sort of speech. They all looked so damned eager to get themselves killed. Had he ever looked that fucking naïve? Ah well, Jyslin save them all.
“All right you sorry sons of bitches. Some of you may know that I served in the elite Bannathyr order of knight-rangers. Just because you are fighting alongside me now doesn’t make you warriors. I want each one of you thinking for yourselves out there. If you don’t, you’ll die and there won’t be a damned thing I can do for you, except piss on your grave after I’ve toasted your passing.”
There was scattered and slightly nervous laughter.
“I’m not kidding. No heroism. If you think you’ve got into a bad situation it’ll be because you have. Get the bloody way out of it as soon as you can. There is no excuse. If you make a mistake there will be no need to apologise, you’ll be dead. If you find better gear, take it and use it. This is the real shite. That play at the beach was a dress rehearsal. This is the performance.” Taking a deep breath at the stunned faces, Crallick idly wondered if he had overdone it. Bugger it all. “Okay, let’s go!”
With those final words, he turned and headed towards the village at a brisk pace. Fast enough to cover ground effectively, but not so fast as to tire himself or the others out. His ten companions fanned out on their own volition, creating a skirmish line that ate up the distance swiftly.
Two hours into their march, Crallick found the man whose liver he had perforated. Thick, blackish slobber ran down his chin and his wide eyes darted to and fro, panic-struck at facing the final moments of his life.
Crallick paused briefly. He lowered himself to a knee. Then, lifting the man’s chin with a gauntleted hand, he softly asked, “Where are the girls? You aren’t long for this world. You may as well leave with some dignity, and a good deed to barter Chessintra with.”
“Bugger you,” came the feeble spat reply.
Crallick wasted no more time with him. Snapping his neck, he glanced over to Gregor. “Here’s some mail, and a bastard sword. Take them.”
Gregor doffed his jack in favour of the chain mail shirt. He then hefted the bastard sword. He felt the blade’s heavier weight. “Ok, I’m ready,” he said to Crallick who was patiently waiting for him.
The next ten to twenty minutes passed swiftly as Crallick took the opportunity to advise Gregor what to expect when wielding a heavier blade.
As the sun crept higher in the sky, Crallick’s skirmish line got into position to where he had left the village the night before. As he had predicted, the forces left behind were far more vigilant than when he had literally caught them with their pants down last night. Crallick could see five guards, as well as the injured warrior who was propped up with a crossbow.
Much to his disgust, Crallick also saw that the tiny women of the village had all been stripped naked and lashed to a series of posts in the center of the village. There was a pile of lumber that was fashioned to form the base of a bonfire. Tinier children were tied to fences, behind which stood four of the guards. The men of the village were nowhere to be seen.
“Shite,” mumbled Erik as he moved up beside Crallick. “What do we do now?”
“I’m thinking,” Crallick muttered. He drew his flask. Shaking his head, he tried to resolve what he was about to pro
pose to a group of untrained amateurs with a snort of rum. He was off his rocker.
“Who had ranged weapons?” he asked.
Erik said, “Well, Bargress, Jarrod, Armon, and myself all have pistols. Menshirre has his crossbow, and Glip-Glip has that blowgun. Why?”
Crallick sighed heavily. “So with my bow, we only have three silent ranged options. And all of the shots can’t miss their targets.”
“Obviously. Or you’ll kill a child,” Erik agreed.
Mocking Erik, Crallick said, “Obviously, or they’ll kill the women by fire as well.”
Erik paled at the admonishing of his oversight of that major factor in the upcoming fight. All of those women tied to the structure in the middle of the village. “Sorry,” he mumbled.
“Shit, don’t be,” Crallick said. “You aren’t trained for this. I’m sorry I laid that on you, my friend.” Crallick then turned to Glip-Glip. “Psst. Glip-Glip! Come here. But not too close.”
Glip-Glip obliged. In a soft high pitched voice, he asked, “Kree?”
“Can you get to the south flank really quietly and take out those two guards without alerting anyone?” Crallick asked.
“Kree!” came the confident reply. And before Crallick could advise Glip-Glip on what the signal was to be, Glip-Glip had stealthily hopped away into the branches of the surrounding trees.
Cralick rubbed his now quite rough stubble on his chin. Sea-faring hadn’t helped with his hygiene. He motioned Menshirre over.
The monitorman came to him swiftly, “Yesss?”
“Take out the northmost guard. If you can,” Crallick said.
“What will be the signal?” Menshirre asked.
Snorting, Crallick said, “Either on my mark, or at the commotion to the south. Savvy?”
Flaring his nostrils, Menshirre said, “Your mark means what?”
“My target will drop. I have the two in the middle. When one drops, you fire.” Crallick would have killed for just one man from his old unit.
