Dream II: The Realm

by RW Krpoun

  “From far away. Cecil, the man setting up the rite at the pyramid, tricked us into coming here. We have chosen to seek revenge before we return home, even though it will mean a delay.”

  “Revenge is important,” Sour Gut conceded. “We hear many things about you. The Sivlic tell us you dealt with Elves in the hills to the south, and fought in great battles against both the Tek and the Horde. We have learned from captives that the Death Lords are out on our plains to watch for four men who call themselves Black Talons.”

  “Stories become exaggerated in the telling,” Shad shrugged. “But we have survived where others have not.”

  “Survival is a telling point,” the Celt nodded. “The Wise Women say that the four men coming to us from the south are warriors who ride steel machines and travel between worlds.”

  “Women say a lot of things, wise or not,” the Shootist said carefully. “And frequently when they are angry they will not feel the need to explain their anger.”

  Sour Gut snorted. “This is truth. It is said that war was invented so that men would have a respite from their wives.”

  “I can only agree.”

  They made camp that evening in the mountains proper, at the foot of a scree-littered slope that Shad would have said was the start of a dead-end climb.

  “I am not looking forward to the next few days,” Derek sighed, eyeing the slopes. “I hope we aren’t going to be ascending with ropes and those spike things you pound into the rock.”

  “I asked Sour Gut and he said no, although the fact we’ve got mules along should have proven that,” Shad didn’t look up from oiling his revolvers. “The mountains are like cracked walls-there’s a hundred ways through if you know where to go.”

  “Was it the book version of World War Z that had the US using the Rockies as a defensive wall against the zombies because there are only a few passes through it?” Jeff grinned.

  “Yeah. But it was written by a guy from New York,” Fred shrugged. “A city boy.”

  “He’s not alone: the French High Command based their plan for Dien Bien Phu on the assumption that the Viet Minh couldn’t get heavy artillery through the mountains,” Shad pointed out. “I want to say that it was Mao who said that an army can be moved along any path wide enough for two mules, but I could be wrong. Somebody said it, though.”

  “The French,” Jeff shook his head. “Have they ever won a war without foreign leadership?”

  The Shootist frowned in thought. “I think they did in the Middle Ages. They fight like hell, but they can’t plan for shit.”

  “What happened to the Vikings, is what I want to know,” Derek wondered. “Scandinavia was the terror of the Dark Ages, and then they just went flat.”

  “Well, they rallied around the 1600s if I recall correctly. Fought the Russians and in central Europe,” Shad started on his shotgun.

  “But after that, zip. What happened?”

  “I blame IKEA,” Fred noted.

  “IKEA is a crime against Humanity,” Jeff agreed. “And their literature doesn’t help.”

  “No joke,” Shad shook his head. “Girl with a dragon tattoo was the slowest novel I’ve read in a long time. OK premise, but Good Lord it was slow. You could have ripped out two hundred pages without affecting the plot.”

  “Remember the murder expert who had assisted on a dozen murders?” Derek snickered. “How lame is that?”

  “I’ve been a peace officer not much more’n a year and I’ve rolled on two, assisting the Sherriff’s Office,” Shad grinned.

  “In Norway you can’t serve more than twenty-five years in prison no matter how bad you screw up,” Jeff shrugged. “Kind of defeats the purpose of prison.”

  “Heavy topic drift,” Fred commented. “I’m for bed. Tomorrow’s going to be rough.”

  “Yeah,” Shad agreed, patting his middle. “I expect not all of me will make it to the far side.”

  The next six days passed in a haze of exhaustion for the Black Talons; they had expected a rough trip, but it turned out that had been an optimistic assessment. The Bloody Sash led them up trails that seemed near-vertical even when moving across a slope. Worse, the air thinned with each step; by noon on the first day even Fred had put his long gun and bandolier on the mule.

  Pride kept them moving, pride and stubbornness. None would be the first to fall out, to endure the mocking of his comrades, to appear weak, and so each kept his feet moving when every fiber of their beings called out for rest.

  The route took them across breathtaking vistas of Nature’s beauty utterly untouched by the hand of Man, and without exception the Black Talons loathed every minute of the experience. They cursed the mountains, the scenery, the thin air, the cutting cold, and their own stupidity for deciding to go after Cecil. They sneered at beautiful vistas, cursed tumbling ice-feed streams for having to be crossed, loathed picturesque stands of evergreens for forcing detours, and would have cheerfully killed every example of mountain wildlife they encountered if it would have shortened their travels by a hundred feet.

  The clearest sign of the hardships of the trip was that the bickering stopped. The Talons grimly faced the demands of the day, offering a helping hand to each other as needed, and devoted their entire effort to the next step. They marched along the steep trails the same way they fought: focused, determined, and careless of their own pain while in the course of a goal.

  They reached the tipping point early on third day, the time when the trails were more commonly going down slope than up, but by then the Talons were so worn down that the change meant very little.

  Late in the fourth day they saw a puss-colored light burning in the distance, and just before sundown they saw that it surmounted the dark bulk of a distant stepped pyramid. Thereafter they caught distant glimpses of their destination as the terrain afforded. The sight of a goal lifted their spirits and eased some of the hardship even as their gradual zig-zag decent led them to denser air. On the sixth day they resumed carrying their long guns.

  Sour Gut did not lead them down to the plains, but instead on the morning of the seventh day led them on a northward trek through the foothills. The pyramid was not visible on this course, but the Talons were not complaining.

  That evening the visibly thinner Talons discussed their options around their smokeless campfire.

  “I’ll open this discussion with the observation that the plan sounded a whole lot easier in Bloodseep,” Shad said. “I’m pretty sure I lost a pound a day since we left the prairie.”

  “I hate mountains,” Derek sighed. “All of them, no matter where they are.”

  “That was rough,” Jeff agreed, and Fred nodded.

  “So I’ve talked with Sour Gut, and we’ll rest tomorrow and come up with a plan of attack. Derek, what does that light on top of the pyramid mean?’

  “I’m pretty sure that Cecil has begun opening the transfer gate to the Isle. Judging from the size I would say we have two to five days before it will be open. But I’m just guessing.”

  “Damn,” Jeff breathed. “We cut it close.”

  “Its ten miles from here to the pyramid,” Fred warned. “We might not be able to afford an entire day to rest.”

  “Good point,” Shad nodded tiredly. “We’ll sleep in a couple hours tomorrow and then eyeball the situation.”

  “If we had been coming by horseback we wouldn’t have made it in time,” Derek observed gloomily. “He’s close. He must have begun work about the time we left Bloodseep.”

  The Black Talons, Sour Gut, and a couple of Gut’s subordinate commanders were lying at the edge of a copse of scrub pine on a low hill a half mile southwest of the pyramid. The Black Talons had rested until not long before noon and then the combined force had carefully eased up on their target.

  “Why is he so worried about us?” Shad asked. “We’re four guys.”

  “It doesn’t make sense,” Fred agreed. “Its like we’re the main cast of the movie, the high-priced known-name actors. Fact is, we’re just not th
at good.”

  “Put that on the list of ‘stuff to ask after we start breaking his fingers’,” Jeff suggested.

  “Good point,” Shad grunted. “Although keep in mind the bounties on the stolen goods. We’re not the only guys hunting his toys. He told the Death Lords to watch for us to keep them interested, but doesn’t mean we’re the only people weighing on his mind.”

  The pyramid was impressive despite the dead trees and vegetation that had once softened its lower levels; Jeff had claimed it was half-again as tall as the pyramid near Mexico City, and no one had disputed him. It was built to the west of the Danel River, perhaps a quarter mile from the watercourse, and was surrounded by decaying structures that had once housed and served the site’s population. Hired guns and Long Sun mercenaries wandered the otherwise deserted streets.

  “Where will Cecil be in the Pyramid?” Shad asked.

  “Near the top. There’s a central staircase that leads straight to it. The structure is basically hollow.”

  “Hollow?” Jeff objected. “There’s no way it could stand if it were hollow.”

  “Magic enhancement to internal struts,” the Alienist explained. “Once Cecil drains the power it will start collapsing within a week.”

  “Looks like there’s only one entrance,” Fred pointed. “Plus a hatch on the top just behind the altar. Neither is a good choice.”

  “There should be a storm drain near the west side,” Derek addressed Sour Gut. “Used to channel run-off from the pyramid itself. Is it still there?”

  The Bloody Sash conferred with one of his officers. “Yes, but they collapsed the last third of it near the river. You can see the trench made by the collapse.”

  “Can we get into it closer to the pyramid?”

  “Yes, but that is of no use; the lines that carry the water to the storm drain are no more than a foot across.”

  “But the end of the drain goes into the actual foundation?”

  “Yes, so the channels cut through the stone can drain into the line.”

  “That’s our way in,” Derek grinned. “If we can get into there, I can burn a hole into the pyramid itself.”

  “Isn’t that going to take more mojo than a fifth-level can muster?” Shad looked skeptical.

  “Absolutely. But I don’t need my own mojo when I’ve got a pyramid’s worth of power right there. I put a fifth of my spell knowledge from every level-up I’ve made since we got here into stone magic.”

  “Because you figured out we would need to invade a pyramid?”

  “No, because of the Prison. If I had had that back there we would have had a much easier time of it.”

  “Well, hooray for retrograde planning,” Jeff scratched his cheek. “We’ll need a double-blind here.”

  “Yeah,” Shad nodded, and turned to Sour Gut. “What do you think of splitting your force into two and have half attack the entrance at the east. Once that fight gets going, the other half comes in from the south like they’re going for the hatch on the top of the pyramid. Don’t take any heavy risks, just convince ‘em you’re serious. We’ll make a run for the storm drain.”

  The Celt studied the scene before him. “We will not draw away all the enemy, even with two attacks.”

  “Yeah,” the Shootist nodded. “That can’t be helped. Still, they won’t expect us to go for the drain, and they won’t be able to pull everyone inside with the Bloody Sash on their doorstep.”

  Sour Gut thought about it. “I will give you a guide. This could work, if you are as good as you think you are.”

  “I wish we were as good as we think we are,” Shad grinned. “Let’s go, there’s only a couple of hours before sundown.”

  “Jeff, have you got a canteen? Good. Everyone make sure you’ve got enough ammo,” Shad reminded the others as he attached a sling to the swivels on his shotgun.

  “Gee, thanks, Sarge,” Jeff grinned.

  “OK, OK, old habits,” Shad held up a hand. He had had a second shoulder harness made in Bloodseep, one intended to carry the longer-barreled Cavalry model Colts. Carrying four revolvers was impractical so he was taking the longer-barreled weapons. He slid his sheathed Bowie in the small of his back between his cartridge and pants belts and filled his pockets with loose cartridges. Tucking a bandage wrapped in waxed paper into his shirt pocket, he set his hat atop his pack and the gear he was leaving behind. “I hope the Sashes leave our stuff alone.”

  Fred looked up at the overcast sky. “Might snow before sundown.”

  “All the running ought to keep us toasty warm,” Shad said absently as Jeff flipped armor charms and Derek pinned various hex sheets on the others.

  “Gonna suck getting back to Bloodseep,” the big Scout continued.

  “True, but maybe they’ll kill us and we won’t have to bother.”

  “OK, this one acts like a silencer: our guns will only make about one-quarter the noise,” Derek announced as he activated more hex sheets.

  “Will they affect the foot-pounds of energy per round?” Fred asked.

  “Nope, just keeps us from blowing out our eardrums when we get inside.”

  “That’s cool.”

  Shad drew, spun, and holstered each Colt in turn before picking up his shotgun. “You two done with the mojo?”

  “Yeah,” Jeff tucked away a partial deck of cards. “Give us an inspiring speech.”

  “After this we’re quits, no more moral or personal objectives. We’ll hunt Death Lords on the way back, and spend our winter and the reward money on hookers and beer. Come springtime we’ll clear out the rest of our wards and go home.”

  “Hookers and beer!” Derek grinned. “Our eternal battle cry.”

  The Black Talons low-crawled into position just as the first shots from the attack on the west side sounded.

  “Won’t be long now,” Shad whispered. “Two hundred yards to the first houses, another two hundred to the drain entrance.” He looked over at Bright Fire, the surly teenaged muleskinner whom Sour Gut had assigned as their guide. “Stay in the back-we need you alive.”

  The teen grunted.

  “There’s the second attack going in,” Fred muttered.

  “Time to go,” Shad levered himself upright. “Follow me.”

  “Good luck,” Jeff punched Fred’s shoulder.

  “Piece of cake,” the Scout nodded, slapping the Jinxman’s back in return. “C’mon, Derek, get your goat-lovin’ butt moving. Time to cue the theme from Game of Thrones and kick some ass.”

  Shad’s first destination was a crumbling, roofless brick shed on the very outskirts of the ‘town’ that surrounded the pyramid. Leaning against its mold-spotted side he took a second to catch his breath. The firing at both attacks was picking up and should be drawing both Cecil’s reserves and the more aggressive guards from the two unengaged sides.

  As the others joined him he peered around the shed’s corner, but saw no one.

  “Moving,” he said just loud enough for the others to hear and trotted towards the pyramid. His goal was a door-less wood hut, and as he slid into the doorway he found himself looking at a smiling Long Suns warrior seated with his back to the wall, three short-barreled trade muskets leaning in the corner next to him. A second Long Sun was stretched out on the floor, and a third was sitting cross-legged in the center of the hut. The smell of marihuana hit the Shootist like a slap across the face as the pipes the young men were holding registered.

  They were young, he realized in the strange, dream-like quality of combat, sixteen or so, young kids relegated to an unimportant guard post.

  The Celt sitting against the wall lifted his pipe, whether startled or offering it or just so stoned that he wasn’t tracking the passage of events Shad couldn’t say. He shot the young man square in the face, the structural integrity of the boy’s skull collapsing from the passage of the load of buckshot. The gunshot sounded like he was wearing earplugs, not much louder than a lightweight interior door slamming.

  He shot the other sitter, worked the lev
er, and shot the prone Celt, who had raised up on his elbows and was goggling at the Shootist in complete bewilderment.

  Reloading the three shells he checked outside in time to see Fred slide behind cover across the street. A rifle barked from the direction of the pyramid and Jeff and Derek fired back, their weapons sounding flat and dull. A moment later Jeff dove past him into the hut. “Watch the blood,” Shad warned him.

  “Damn-did you use a chainsaw?” the Jinxman swallowed hard.

  “They just sat there and watched me, apparently stoned out of their gourds.”

  “I can smell. They look like kids.”

  “They were supposed to be doing a man’s job. You play the game, you take your lumps.”

  “Feeling safe can be fatal,” Jeff sighed.

  “Moving.” Shad was out the door and running down the street, staying close to the building fronts on his left to make it tough for the guards on the stepped levels of the pyramid.

  Ten yards into his run a Long Sun warrior leaned out a doorway and shot the Shootist square in the chest. Shad felt a blow on his sternum like being hit by a baseball bat and his feet shot out from beneath him, his shotgun discharging impotently into the sky. Crashing onto the rutted street he struggled to remain conscious, to breathe, and to make sense out of the flood of sensations whirling through his head.

  Then someone had him under the arms and he was being dragged across the ground and into a building. He caught a glimpse of Derek backing through the door after him, blazing away with his Spencer.

  Then Jeff, red-faced and breathing hard, was kneeling over him. “Lay still,” the Jinxman commanded.

  “Keep going,” Shad gasped as Jeff unbuttoned his shirt. “Before they figure out what we’re doing.”

  “You’re going to live,” Jeff flipped three cards onto the Shootist’s chest. “You blew all your armor charms in one go; half of what you feel is from the backlash of the arcane overload. Let me get the bleeding stopped and all you’ll need is to catch your breath.”