by RW Krpoun
The medic role was a new one to him, and he was hanging back more than Shad had done in the Prison, but in the Prison they had started out at level one, and couldn’t afford to waste a single blade. Besides, Shad was very aggressive, more so than even Fred.
“I cleaned your guns, except for the Colt on your chest,” he advised Shad when the groggy Shootist relieved him.
“OK,” Shad mumbled. “Its there any coffee?”
“Yeah. Nothing to report.”
“OK, thanks. Good work back there, Jeff. You’re a better medic than I was.”
“That wouldn’t be hard.”
Shad grinned and flipped Jeff off.
Fred had last watch, and the remaining Talons woke to the smell of frying bacon. Fred was the best cook of the four, a very good cook by any standards so long as one did not look too closely at the hygiene level of his kitchen at home.
“Everyone else level up last night?” Shad asked when they gathered for a breakfast of bacon and fried bread.
“Yeah, I found myself back in the library, although I’m pretty sure I was alone,” Jeff nodded.
“I didn’t see anyone else,” Derek helped himself to another slice of fried bread.
“All right, I stayed with Shootist, and picked up a point in Knife Fighting and one in Humanoid Lore,” Shad announced. “I’m a little more deft in handling revolvers and accurate close in.” He drew the Colt on his right hip with his right hand, flipped it to a shooting grip, flipped it back, and holstered it in the cross-draw holster for emphasis.
“Went to third level in Scout, got another point in Knife Fighting and one in small axes, so now I can use the Bowie/tomahawk fighting style,” Fred didn’t look up from the sandwich he was making. “Better tracking, point man skills, that sort of things.”
“I went to Jinxman fourth which decreases the time it takes to make charms, and I put one point into Saber and another into Creature Lore,” Jeff said.
“Saber?” Derek looked surprised.
“Much more elegant than a clumsy knife.”
“Sure,” Derek rolled his eyes. “I went to Alienist third level, and took Identify and Knife Fighting.”
“How’s that affect your firepower potential?” Shad asked.
“Magic here isn’t combat heavy, but it gives me more options. What I’ve learned on this gig is that I need a more advanced approach to preparation of hex sheets, and a better deployment system, some sort of bandolier. Having a couple of Light spells prepped would be a good idea.”
“Yeah, it would,” Shad agreed. “After we finish eating we’ll go over the loot, and then let’s beat feet back to Bloodseep. We’ll collect our pay, sell the loot, rest up, and decide on our next move.”
“Sounds good.” Jeff belched for emphasis.
“OK, we have a total of fifteen long guns and seventeen handguns,” Shad reported. “Most or all from the fourteen men we know died up here. Plus one really big Bowie.” He held up an impressive weapon with a brass snarling panther’s head pommel. “”Mostly muzzle-loaders and percussion revolvers, but there’s two nice Colt Peacemakers with five and a half inch barrels and a Winchester Model 1873, the famous ‘Yellowboy’ with the brass receiver.”
“We picked up some Elf weapons and decorations that ought to sell easily,” Derek checked his list. “Plus one hundred and fifteen duro in cash, and another placet.”
“Good trip,” Fred commented. “And all it took was multiple wounds and several close brushes with death.”
“If it were easy liberals would do it,” Shad grinned. “When we get back to Bloodseep we’ll sell everything off and divide the proceeds into five shares: one for each of us, and one for the group kitty. Now, the three good firearms: who is up?”
“I’ll take the Yellowboy,” Fred offered. “The Sharps isn’t much for tactical handling, and my Remington uses the same ammo.”
“Anyone object? OK, the Colts?” There were no takers. “Fine, I’ll take them. These longer-barreled revolvers keep catching on everything. Derek, you and I can dice for the Bowie, and all of us can dice for the hex-stone. Is there any other business? OK, lets roll the bones and get the flock out of here.”
On the second day of their return trip the Black Talons were following the road and debating the relative merits of Dark Matter.
“While its clearly a poor man’s Firefly, it has its own plot,” Jeff pointed out. “There’s less emphasis on the ship and more upon the crew.”
“The quality of the casting isn’t as strong as Firefly, but its pretty good,” Derek agreed.
“Five’s rack is clearly superior to any girl’s on Firefly,” Shad observed thoughtfully. “Other than Zoe the Firefly girls tended to be on the small side of the spectrum.”
“That is a vital consideration,” Derek agreed. “And there was more swordplay on Dark Matter, with a better explanation for it.”
“Still, Firefly’s ability to mix drama and humor can’t be topped,” Jeff pointed out.
“Company,” Fred suddenly stood in his stirrups.
“Where?” Shad looked around.
“South-southeast,” the Scout pointed. “Just dust, but they’re moving easterly, across the road rather than on it.”
“Its been a while since we passed any traffic,” Jeff observed.
“That rise to the south, about three hundred yards, is about the only thing close to dominant terrain,” Shad pointed. “Lets get there quick and wait for developments. Nice use of class skills, Fred.”
At the crest Fred climbed off his horse and thrust three iron-tipped wood rods into the ground so they formed a tripod upon which he rested the barrel of his Sharps. The others remained on their horses watching the dust cloud.
“Hobgoblins,” Jeff reported after a while.
“Great,” Shad dismounted, pulling his shotgun from its saddle scabbard. “We’re low on healing and hexes. Our ammo count could be better, too.”
“What are you thinking?” Jeff asked.
“Let them come to us. We’ve got the range and a slight incline,” Shad frowned at the riders. “How many are we looking at, Fred?”
“Twenty, twenty-five horses.”
“Figure at least a couple pack animals. Coming at us will cost them, so they may just pass us by.”
The Black Talons picketed their horses and watched the Hobgoblin force. They counted two dozen ponies, four heavily loaded with plunder and three bearing long bundles slung across their saddles.
“Seventeen warriors,” Derek mused. “Too few to rush us unless they’re willing to pay a terrible price.”
“Raiders,” Shad pointed. “See those three ponies? Those are dead Hobs across those saddles; the Hobgoblins place great emphasis on recovering their fallen. There’s a butchered caravan or burnt-out farm house on that’s group’s back trail.”
“With loot they’re not likely to mess with us,” Jeff sighted at one of the riders.
The Hobgoblins made obscure but certainly not complimentary gestures at the Black Talons as they moved past.
“Fred, take a shot as they cross the road.”
“That’s five hundred yards, minimum,” Derek pointed out.
“This is a Sharps,” Fred countered, pushing wax plugs into his ears. Sitting cross-legged, he adjusted the leaf sight and cocked the big hammer. Pulling the forward trigger to arm the set trigger, he carefully tracked his breathing before squeezing.
The rifle bellowed, and a split-second later a Hobgoblin’s bedroll was ripped off its saddle.
“Whoa!” Derrek whooped as the Hobgoblins exploded into an undignified gallop. “That was close!”
“You had the range and drop perfect,” Shad nodded approvingly as Fred removed his ear plugs. “About a foot off on the lead.”
“I meant to shoot the bedroll,” Fred observed calmly, reloading the rifle.
They reached Bloodseep late in the afternoon of the third day of their travels. “OK, tomorrow Fred and I will collect our reward and sell off the loot. Jeff, Derek, how m
uch time will you need to load up on charms and hex sheets?”
“Four days counting tomorrow,” Jeff said. “Five would be better.”
“Same-same, GI,” Derek agreed. “By the way, guys, get nice grips for your revolvers if you’re planning on getting a hex attached; the imbued disk works a lot better with very hard woods or ivory.”
“OK, plan for four days, but we’ll remain flexible. Tomorrow night after supper we’ll sit down and hash out our next move. While I like getting wounded as much as the next guy I’m ready to look seriously into getting home. Jeff, you talk to the gate guard, Fred, keep your mouth shut.”
“Hookers and beer, Derek is not a Scav,” Fred grinned.
The Black Talons gathered in Shad’s and Derek’s room the next evening. “OK”, Shad called the meeting to order. “We’re at the next level, we’re back into the groove as far as our classes go, and we’ve tested our load-outs and made some adjustments. We’re also seventeen days into this armpit, which means back home it’s close to a half-hour since we left. Its time to take a hard look at getting home.”
“Cecil’s quest for his beloved, by proxy,” Fred shook his head.
“Yeah,” Shad nodded. “I don’t like it, either. We got rushed into a return, rushed here, rushed there. I feel like we’re getting suckered, but I can’t figure out for what. What we do know is that we’re drawing XP every day we survive, so its fair to say that we’ve got hostiles inbound.”
“There’s another thing,” Jeff said slowly. “Cecil’s story is that his babe was part of an effort to close the invasion force’s road, and is overdue. But here in Bloodseep everyone is aware of the Death Lords, but you never hear the term ‘invasion’ in connection with the necromancers. Nobody likes them, but its not like the Nazis just invaded Poland or the Chinese crossed the Yalu in force.”
Derek frowned. “We figured Cecil was blowing some smoke, but if there’s no invasion, there’s no anti-road mission, and if that’s fiction, why are we here?”
The four mulled this over. “We’re out-classed,” Jeff said gloomily.
“Maybe. We’re definitely behind the curve on what is going on,” Shad scowled at the wall. “I think we should go with Jeff’s plan to pick the central point of the anti-road’s mission and check it out. The sooner we put Cecil’s story to the test the sooner we’ll have a shot at figuring out the score.”
“You think any part of his story is true?” Derek asked.
“I don’t know-the mission could be real but he could be lying about his actual interest. He’s definitely lying about something.”
“Or it could be basically true,” Fred shrugged. “People do weird things for love. Maybe he just hyped the invasion for reasons of his own.”
“Exactly,” Shad nodded. “We need to put the information he gave us to the test.”
“But that’s exactly what Cecil wants us to do,” Derek pointed out. “We still haven’t figured out what use the four of us are to warrant his efforts. There’s got to be guys with our levels for hire.”
“No doubt,” Shad shrugged. “But before we jump off Cecil’s itinerary for good we need to be sure.”
“And have a way home,” Jeff reminded them.
“True. So what’s our most likely candidate, Derek?”
“It’s a ruins called Wellring, about two hundred fifty miles as the crow flies.” Derek held up a map they had purchased.
“Great, a couple weeks on horseback,” Shad sighed.
“Hey,” Fred looked up from tracing a route on the map. “There’s an expedition heading to the Pellin Run, it’s the terminus of the Pellin Swan River, about a hundred miles east of Wellring. They take the route we would likely use.”
“What’s the advantage of going with another group?”
“Its not a group, it’s a military force, mostly. There’s gold in the Run, and they’re going to establish a trade fort there to protect gold-seekers. They’ve got a couple hundred men.”
“Won’t they have a big wagon train?” Jeff asked.
“No, the first step is for the expedition to choose and fortify a site. Next comes the wagon train with supplies and goods, and so forth.”
“Sounds like it might work-let’s take a look at that option,” Shad conceded. “When do they plan to leave?”
Fred thought. “I think in five days. Might be six.”
“Perfect.” Shad examined the map. “The extra time will let Jeff and Derek prep even more.”
“I’ve got Jeff’s and Fred’s tokens imbued,” Derek volunteered. Those two had won the die rolls for the placets.
“Good, I’ll inset them tomorrow. Anything more to discuss?” Shad looked at the others.
Jeff sighed. “Nope. We need to get our feet wet, find out what is going on.”
“What we really need is to find out where Cecil is,” Fred said darkly.
Fred and Shad strolled through Bloodseep the next morning checking on the various custom items the Black Talons had commissioned and generally taking the air before heading out to the pasture where the Wentworth Expedition was preparing for its jump into the wild lands.
“This is a nice town,” Shad observed as the waited for a wagon to pass so they could cross the street. “The dress code is a little unusual but the people are friendly.”
“Its nice,” the Scout nodded. “Sort of an Old World-ish feel.”
“Yeah.” They crossed the street in the wagon’s wake, nodded to the guards at the guard house and struck out for the Expedition’s temporary home. “From the map this outing is a pretty long leap from civilized lands. You’re the scout, how wise is the undertaking?”
Fred shrugged. “The Celts are like the Plains Indians: they’re not going to take down a fort. I don’t think they ever actually attacked a fort in the Old West, all those movies to the contrary. If the Expedition can get dug in quick enough they’ll have a chance. Its how the Tek respond that I would worry about if I was invested in the scheme. But their passing will stir up everybody in the region, so either we get a long ways in front, or go with it.”
“Well, there it is.”
The Expedition was laid out in a neat square, with tidy rows of tents, a wagon yard, horse line, and a parade field where a hundred or so men were drilling. The uniform was a black kepi, khaki tunic, and black trousers with a colored stripe that the Talons guessed indicated assignment. The troops were neat in appearance and drilled well.
“Looks like they’re armed with Springfield Model 1861 rifles and socket bayonets,” Shad observed as they approached the sentry on duty. “Might be the 1863 Model, I’m not clear on the differences.”
“How does it stack up against the regular military’s Enfields?”
“In our world, slightly cheaper to make. In the hands of an expert marksman the Enfield has a sizeable range advantage, but in the hands of the average grunt both weapons perform about the same.”
The sentry called for the Corporal of the Guard, who sent for the Duty Officer, who eventually took them to the Quartermaster, a stocky, ruddy-faced Captain of indeterminate years who looked as if he spent a lot of time studying the bottom of a bottle.
“We have no need for assistance,” the Quartermaster, whose name was Patek, waved a hand dismissively.
“Four men armed with repeaters certainly could be an asset,” Shad persisted. “You’re heading into pretty hostile territory, both Celts and the Tek will not appreciate your passage.”
Captain Patek smirked. “Colonel Wentworth commands three companies of infantry with sixty men each. We have an artillery section with fifteen men and two mountain howitzers, a sapper detachment of ten armed men, and twenty mule skinners and wagon drivers who can fight in a pinch. Furthermore we shall meet up with twenty Celt mercenary scouts seven days’ march out of Bloodseep. So I assure you this Expedition has a sufficiency of firepower. Good day.”
“Anyone who thinks he has enough firepower is an idiot,” Shad fumed when they were past the sentry. “Custer turne
d down Gatlings and a hundred extra men from another regiment before the Little Big Horn because he said that the Seventh could handle anything it might encounter.”
“So now what?” Fred asked.
The Shootist rubbed his face. “They have their bases covered,” he admitted, looking back at the Expedition. “No so much that they can afford to turn away help, but there is no obvious role we could fill within the Expedition.” He frowned at the ground as they walked. “You know, the Expedition looks military, but at its core it is a commercial operation. Lets go back into Bloodseep and ask around-I bet there are investors or other straphangers who are going to be coming along. Maybe one of them needs a team of bodyguards.”
The Black Talons habitually took their evening meal together, but otherwise were diverse in their use of downtime. Shad spent his mornings listening in bars and coffee houses, and the rest of the day reading local histories he had purchased. Fred slept late and spent his afternoons and evenings drinking in a grog shop patronized by hunters and prospectors. Jeff and Derek were primarily caught up in preparing the materials of their trade, but Jeff found time to gamble and frequent a brothel while Derek sought out opportunities for research.
At the evening meal on the third night in Bloodseep Shad announced that they had a patron. “We’ll be traveling with the Expedition as the bodyguards of Count Louis de Bois, late of the Kingdom of Fathme. He is an investor in the undertaking and has exercised his prerogative to accompany the force into the howling wilds. Yes, he talks like that.”
“Great,” Jeff shook his head. “Babysitting a VIP.”
“Not all that much, I think,” Shad demurred. “Unless I’m badly mistaken de Bois is a lush of the first order and we’re more a status symbol than anything else. But it gets us a place with the Expedition, plus rations, some expense money, and ten duro a day.”
“Ten a day?” Derek was startled.
“As a group, yeah.”
“We only got two hundred for two pretty bad firefights,” the Alienist fumed.
“What else is new?” Jeff grinned. “We weren’t earning NFL wages while in Iraq. Grunts are a cheap commodity.”
