Fairly Wicked Tales

by Hal Bodner

  “Grup!”

  “Man the Bridge. Protect the …” His mumbled words faded.

  “I’ve got you, little brother.”

  Mort tried to lift his hulking brother, but Grup was too heavy. He attempted to drag Grup by his one arm, then his legs, and finally by rolling Grup’s body over the bridge. Nothing Mort did to move his wounded brother worked. Instead, he tore strips from his own, mildly clean tunic and used them to form a tourniquet around Grup’s bloody stump. He struggled to remember what little he’d been taught of battlefield medicine. He quickly covered the cuts and gashes. Once he staunched the blood, Mort grabbed Grup’s sword and stood guard. The battle moved off the bridge and into the fields. More screams echoed into the night to replace the dwindling sounds of ringing metal. Soon only moans from wounded soldiers resonated under the grotesque crunching of the creature feeding on younglings. The world grew fuzzy and distorted. Mort’s vision swam as the sounds of the creature’s slurping greed continued to attack his psyche. The point of the sword fell to the ground as he tried to keep the images of the field being devoured out of his head. No matter how hard he tried, unconsciousness crept up on Mort until oblivion took him.

  Day 2:

  After what seemed only an instant, a booted foot gave Mort a stiff kick to the gut. Mort still held the hilt of the sword in an iron grip. A second kick brought all the terror of the night to the surface. Wild eyed, Mort growled as he arced the blade in the direction of the kicking boot.

  “Son of a—!”

  The momentum of his swing brought Mort to his feet. The weight of the sword pulled Mort to the left, uprooting what little footing he managed to establish. The wild attacks found nothing until something parried the weapon downward and into the dirt. The blinding light of morning hid whatever smashed into his face, bringing back oblivion.

  When Mort regained consciousness, his face felt swollen to the size of a small boulder. He tried to speak, but only a moan came out. The smell of burnt stew from the previous night coupled with a new batch of food on the stove reminded Mort he had not eaten for a long time. The wounded lined the barracks, filling only a tenth of the cots. A small group of reinforcements tended the survivors of the battle. Two shamans wandered the room, chanting healing spells.

  “He tied down?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  Mort tried to sit up, but found thick ropes restraining him.

  “Sorry, but after this morning, I didn’t want to have to put you down again,” said the troll towering over Mort. His polished, ornamental armor shone in the dim candlelight of the barracks. On any other day, Mort would be tripping over himself to impress the high-ranking troll. Not today.

  “Where is Grup?”

  “Your Captain is recovering.”

  “He’s my brother.”

  “Ah, so you’re the one … That explains the sword work. Word of advice, choose a different weapon. You nearly cut your own leg off. Try a club or something next time you wish to get yourself killed in battle.”

  Grup laughed from across the room. “I’m just proud he was able to lift my sword, General.”

  “Good to see you back with us, Captain.”

  “Thank you, Sir. How are the fields?”

  The General’s face darkened. “Not well. About a quarter of the field was devoured before dawn. My men and I rushed here after receiving reports that a deformed beast was heading this way, but we were too late. I’m surprised you held out for as long as you did.”

  “I’m sorry to report I fell early. My men were unable to hold the line.”

  “They tried.”

  “They fought until the very end, brother.” Mort interjected, “The thing just kept pressing forward. How did you chase it away, General?”

  Both of the officers turned to Mort. He swallowed under their scrutiny.

  The General replied, “We didn’t. The beast just evaporated when we arrived at dawn. In any case, this field is more important than ever. More reinforcements are on the way.”

  “We’ll be ready when the time comes, Sir.”

  “I know you will, Captain,” the General said. “But first, let’s get some food into you and have the shamans heal you up.”

  Grup nodded, closed his eyes, and drifted off to sleep. One of the soldiers unbound Mort from the cot. Before Mort stood and saluted, the General had moved on, talking to each wounded soldier in turn. He had tried to help in the defense of the fields, but his attempt changed nothing. In the end, the beast fought its way into the fields and gorged on the young.

  The kitchen, Mort’s sanctuary, convulsed with organized chaos. Though the stench remained, the stew from the prior night no longer remained. A number of different pots simmered and boiled.

  “Who are you? I’ve no time for children in here.”

  An enormous troll waddled out of the walk-in pantry hoisting a cured venison over his shoulder. His jowls shook in time with his jiggling belly as he waddled through the room.

  “I’m Mort, the cook and cleaner of this barracks.”

  “Cook!? Ha! More like purveyor of swill. Get out of my kitchen. I’m the cook here now and I won’t let the likes of you foul up the General’s meals.” The cook slammed down the venison for punctuation and withdrew a large cleaver, letting the metal glint in Mort’s eyes. Mort backed out of the room, not wanting to take the venison’s place on the slab.

  Cleaning the main room was not an option. Menservants and squires bustled about in their disciplined routine, attending to all of Mort’s usual duties. Polished armor hung along the wall. Sharpened and oiled blades glistened in the light before returning to their scabbards. Servants sat folding freshly washed laundry as others finished sweeping the floors. Mort stood in the middle of the spectacle, unable to contribute to their efforts. He soon found himself in front of one of the weapon’s stands. Maces, clubs, flails, and various other weapons loomed before him. The General said that his lack of skill with swords endangered himself and others, so he should try to use something much simpler. The clubs caught his eye.

  As he reached out to take one, a troll wielding a long stick with a tarnished steel knob attached to the top smacked his hands away.

  “What do you think you’re doing, runt?”

  “I have no duties right now. Everything is taken care of so I wished to go practice using the club.”

  “This battle is no place for a runt. Go along and play wet nurse to the injured.”

  “What is this about, Quartermaster?” asked the General noticing the odd exchange.

  “Sir, the runt wants a club so he can fight.”

  Mort turned to face the General. He saluted as best he could, but felt silly standing before the battle-hardened soldier.

  “I see … I’ll take care of this.”

  “But, Sir …”

  “That will be all, Quartermaster.”

  “Yes, Sir!”

  The Quartermaster marched off to tend to other supplies. The General looked down at Mort. “No need for saluting, son. You aren’t a soldier under my command.”

  Mort dropped his hand to the side, yet still attempted to stand at attention the way his brother had taught him to when addressing a senior officer. The General raised a hand to cover an amused chuckle. The sound made Mort’s insides quake with nervous energy.

  “You did a brave thing yesterday, Mort. Tonight, when the monster returns, it will face the might of this entire company reinforced by the division already en route. Best that you stay with the servants down here.” The General gave Mort a solid pat on the shoulder as he left to oversee the final preparations for the night.

  After the General strode away, Mort went back to his cot, sat down, and waited for the horror of the night to return.

  As twilight settled over the landscape, reinforcements arrived. The General positioned the army on both sides of the Bridge. He rode astride his mount, a hulking black rhino, watching from the edge of the field to oversee the impending battle. On his left stood Grup, fully recove
red and ready for battle. A large contingent of shamans surrounded the General’s position preparing their spells to both bolster and protect the force.

  Mort stood at the bank of the river watching the massive force prepare for the beast. Sounds of clicking armor and restless soldiers filled the air. A shrill braying rose out of the silence of the night. The wait was over. Mort itched to join the ranks. Grup shot Mort a piercing glare that left no doubt he expected Mort to report to the barracks and hide.

  Mort waited in the barracks, miserable among the other servants. Not only did the soldiers deem him useless, but the other outcasts shunned him as well. When the screams started, Mort resisted the urge to rush into battle. The servants sat in their circles, munching on food. Mort began to pace as the screams and frantic orders intensified. Mort heard the armies slow decent into chaos and knew the night would end badly.

  Without warning, the door of the barracks burst open. A bloodied soldier collapsed across the threshold.

  “Can’t stop it. Killing everyone.” A number of servants jumped to help him, but the troll was dead. As they dragged away the body, Mort replayed the soldier’s dying words in his head. Through the open door, the cacophony above traveled down into the barracks, echoing off the walls. Mort couldn’t take it anymore. He dashed out into the raging turmoil. Voices screamed for him to come back, to not get in the way of their masters. He didn’t care. Grup was in trouble.

  The creature had doubled in size since the previous night. Horns had grown from its ill-defined head. Each moment brought the monstrosity closer to the field of remaining youngling sprouts beyond the bridge. Tentacles whipped out in every direction. Black tendrils crushed soldiers to the ground and beat arrows out of the air. Piles of bodies lay in bloody mounds all around the thing’s gruesome path. Exhausted survivors tried to hold the line as the desperate shamans struggled to maintain their spells. The mounting casualties strained their abilities to keep up.

  Mort rushed forward, snatching up a club from the ground. He scanned the remaining fighters, looking for the General on his mount. Grup would be nearby. The chaos of battle cast a fog of war, hiding the General from sight. Mort waded into the fight, searching for Grup. Soldiers battling for their lives ignored Mort as he strode underfoot. Every face resembled Grup’s, yet not. Every scream, familiar, yet wrong. Mort pushed through the fray. His short stature protected him from the flailing tentacles that battered soldiers to the ground or snatched them into the air. Preoccupied with looking for Grup, Mort broke away from the main force, oblivious to the danger.

  A warm, moist gust pressed against the back of Mort’s neck. Time slowed to nothing. Sound faded to a muffled whisper. Mort found the monster staring at him with dim, red eyes. Swinging tendrils continued lashing out at the troll army while those glowing eyes remained locked on Mort. They stared at each other, lost in instance of unnatural understanding. Mort examined the writhing, endless darkness. He met the glare of those two angry, red eyes. Something shifted in the void just in front of Mort’s face. A screeching roar broke the stilted moment. The sudden explosion of noise forced Mort back. He tripped over the corpses littering the muddy ground, making it difficult for Mort to find his footing. He reached out, searching for stability. His hands found nothing except mounds of torn body parts. The dead stares of fallen men surrounded him. Every pair of eyes looked like his brother’s. Terrified, lost, and beaten, Mort clawed at the bodies, trying to break free. As the storm of metal raged around him, an unspeakable terror overwhelmed Mort. The last thing he remembered hearing was his own voice bellowing Grup’s name.

  Day 3:

  Mort woke face down in the dirt. Dried mud caked his eyes closed. Scraping the crust from his face, Mort pried open his eyes. Harsh sunlight blinded Mort. Sharp flashes of light glinted off the numerous bits of armor scattered across the torn battlefield. The moans of the severely wounded filled the putrid, morning air. Flies buzzed over the ocean of corpses, forming a black mist too thick to make out the faces of the few servants and soldiers searching the field for survivors.

  Fighting soreness and fatigue, Mort lifted his club and began to trudge through the landscape of bodies. Numb to the world, he needed to discover the damage caused to the youngling fields. Servants rushed past Mort, ignoring him as they crossed paths. Their apathy barely registered. He only needed to break free of the smoke, flies, and death to reach the fields promising a new generation. Mort remembered seeing Grup standing by the fields during the battle. A last line of defense to insure a future remained for the troll peoples.

  Less than a third of the younglings remained. As Mort gazed over the barren field, someone stepped up beside him.

  “We fought to the last man.”

  “My brother?”

  “I’m sorry, Mort. He fell defending me.”

  Mort looked up at the General. An old veteran, weary of death and war, replaced the confident, shining commander who arrived only a day ago. One of the General’s arms hung limp, the other rested in a sling against his chest. The empty scabbard at the commander’s side echoed the defeated look in his eyes. Mort returned his attention to the almost empty field.

  “So what now, Sir?”

  “You’re not a soldier, Mort. No need to call me sir.”

  “So what now, Sir?”

  The General gave a short snort. “I gather the few survivors we have and return to the kingdom.”

  Mort spun to face the General. “But the rest of the younglings?”

  “Mort, we can’t possibly stand against that monster. What little is left is not worth defending. It’s over, son. Time to go home.”

  “This is my home.”

  The General sighed. He turned to leave, but Mort interrupted his departure.

  “Where did my brother fall?”

  “Follow me.”

  The two trolls crossed the battleground. The lack of survivors shocked Mort. None of the shamans survived, so the servants built a number of litters to drag away the wounded. When the two stopped, Mort saw Grup’s broken corpse face down in the mud. He crouched down to roll Grup’s body out of the mud. The General knelt down to help. Mort tried to clean away the mud and filth, but left behind thick smears of blood instead. A large dent marked where the creature crushed Grup’s skull. Mort paid no attention when the General left or when the servants took the other corpses to the growing funeral pyre. When they came for Grup’s body, Mort refused to allow them to move it.

  “Go away,” growled Mort.

  As the remainder of the army prepared to leave the area, the General came over to Mort. “We are going, Mort. I’ve spoken to my cook. He has agreed to take you on as his apprentice.”

  “No, thank you. I’m going to stay here. Someone needs to defend the younglings.”

  “Mort, this battle is lost. You’ll die trying to stop that thing.”

  “Doesn’t matter. Leave if you want. But I’m staying.”

  “Why?”

  Mort looked up, his face a hardened mask. “Because it’s what Grup would do. He protected me all my life. I was the older brother. I should have protected him better.”

  The General snapped to attention and gave a brisk nod to Mort. “Good luck, then, soldier.”

  Standing up to his full height, Mort still had to crane his neck to look into the General’s eyes. For the first time in his life, Mort felt the honor his brother knew serving his kingdom. Mort stood at attention, hand locked in salute, grieving for Grup, yet prouder now than any other moment of his life. The General gave him a sad smile, nodded once more, and marched away.

  As the last of the bodies found a home on the pyre, a servant came back to Mort. “If you’re done here, I’ll take him away.”

  “No.”

  “I’m sorry, but we are leaving. My orders are to burn all the bodies.”

  “Leave everything here. I’ll take care of it.”

  “I’m—”

  “I’ll take care of it.”

  Something in Mort’s eyes must hav
e frightened the servant who stood twice his size. The servant ran back to the caravan and spoke to one troll who in turn spoke to the General. After some quick words, the servants rushed around unloading large barrels near the mountain of bodies and wood built up in the distance. The army disappeared beyond the horizon before Mort began preparing for the horror that came with the night.

  A quick examination of the sky told Mort that only a few more hours remained before sunset. He set to removing his brother’s armor, laying each piece to the side, careful none sank into the mud. Once finished, Mort grabbed his brother by the shoulders and struggled to drag him over to the mound of bodies. Without all the armor weighing Grup down, Mort began moving the body. After an hour of pulling, tugging, and dragging, Mort reached the mound. He arranged Grup’s body in the most respectful way he could manage. Mort returned to the now empty barracks. Every breath burned like fire in his lungs. Still, he couldn’t stop. The sun descended through the sky. Little time remained for Mort to prepare. He grabbed an axe not fit for battle and began chopping the furniture into kindling. Soon, most of the chairs, tables, cots, and drawers transformed into a pile large enough for his intentions. Making simple torches and retrieving the tinderbox kept by the stove took little time. The sun dipped lower in the sky, a celestial countdown heralding the destruction nightfall brought. Mort used cooking twine to secure his work into tight bundles. He hauled the bundles up into the open air and started building a small cairn around Grup’s remains.

  Just as the sun’s base touched the horizon, Mort finished building the wooden cairn over his brother. The sunset ticked away the seconds, changing the world, preparing the field for battle. Mort moved the first barrel, full of oil, to the edge of the mound. He punched a large hole into the top for the oil to escape and rolled the barrel around the mound so the liquid would seep into the pyre. He emptied one barrel after the next dousing the area until small puddles formed. Mort finished his preparations by making a line of oil from the mass pyre to his brother’s humble, wooden tomb. One final barrel of oil went to the bridge. He cracked the barrel open at the far end of the bridge and let the oil pour out. Once the creature crossed onto the bridge, there would be no escape for either of them.