Tales of the Roman Chicauga Part II

Schmidt had dropped from the rooftops in nearly complete silence.  His dark grey cloak fell around him as he landed on the ground and he held a naked blade in his hands.  He kept it positioned in front of his face as he slowly approached the two mercenaries.
“Leave.”
“I think not.  You’re good.  Very good.  But Matt and I were the best fighters in the hall.  I’ve been watching you for days.  We have the advantage here. Though I do wonder how you got down from the roof.  There is truth to the tales that you’re from Muertada, hmm?”  Schmidt just stood there for a moment, and he seemed to relax.  His sword arm fell to his side.  And then he moved.  It was fast, faster than the two mercenaries had ever seen before.  Schmidt lifted his sword and swung, and only an uncanny turn of speed on Matt’s part kept him from being disemboweled.  The sword scraped across his chest, leaving a long, shallow wound.  Matt’s eyes narrowed and he swung his mace in quick, short arcs, relying on his natural strength to disable or slow his opponent if the mace hit.  But Schmidt backed up, easily dodging the swings, until he brought up his sword and parried one of the blows with one hand.  Matt seized his mace with both arms and pushed, trying to push Schmidt off balance.  Schmidt simply brought his sword to a better position and held firm, both hands on the handle of his sword.

That almost doomed him as Anje struck from the side, her two weapons weaving a deadly pattern in the air.  Schmidt leapt back and brought up his sword.  For several moments, the two traded blows back and forth, and it was obvious Anje was hard-pressed to parry them.  She increased her efforts, driving him back a step, and then Matt struck.  He swung his mace downwards, using his terrific strength to strike a blow that would have crushed a normal opponent.  But Schmidt flung himself backwards, bracing his feet against the wall and kicking off, launching himself at the space Anje had been in a moment before.  He faced them, his back to one end of the alley, and raised his sword again.  Then, all three fighters paused as a person appeared at each end of the alleyway.  In the dim torch-light it looked like the masqued nobleman, now un-masqued, and one of the barmaids.  They held light crossbows and did not approach the fighters.

“Vell, vell bloodsucker.  Ve meet again.  I’m surprized you did not recognize us.”

“Karl and Katherine Ruprecht.  I knew I recognized the voice.  Why do you hound me so?”

“Because it is necessary.  Die blood-sucker.”  During the conversation the two newcomers had positioned themselves so that Anje and Matt were clear of the line of fire.  Then their crossbows clicked and bolts whizzed towards Schmidt.  He laughed as he dodged one, then grabbed another, crushing it.  That was his mistake.  The bolt exploded, sending Schmidt flying into a wall.  He let out an unholy shriek and cradled the remnants of his right arm. It had been blown off almost entirely to the elbow.  The hunters came closer, and Matt and Anje held their weapons in front of them as they approached.  Schmidt simply rolled on the ground, seemingly incoherent with pain, until Anje and Matt got close.  He jumped to his feet and struck her with a mighty blow that she barely parried.  He then began sprinting down the alley towards the female hunter.  She swore and reached into her pocket.  Schmidt brought up his cloak just in time as a small object in the woman’s hand lit up, filling the entire alleyway with what looked to be brilliant sunlight.  Schmidt’s other arm sizzled and he slammed past the huntress and into the night, moving with inhuman speed.  The others chased after him, but he used his one good arm to scuttle up the side of a building and vanished.  The nobleman let out a shout of rage and fell to his knees.

“Damn it!  He escaped again!  How Katherine?  How does he keep eluding us!?”

“Call yourself Karl.  Ve will find him again.  He is vounded, veak. Hunting him down vill be easy.”

“No.  No it von’t.  He’ll go to ground.  If ve don’t find him vithin the next few hours, ve’ll never find him.”  The man looked up and stared intently at Matt and Anje.  “You, mercenaries.  You fought vell. I can pay. Help us find and kill zat monster, “Schmidt”. Help us find him or he vill escape again!”  Anje and Matt stepped away and conferred for a moment before coming back.

“We will help you. For one hundred crowns each. But you must tell us what that man was, that he could shrug off wounds like that, and why you hunt him.”

“Good, good. We must move quickly. Come vith us. There is another man who may be able to help us. Karl got to his feet and began walking quickly down the alleyway. He spoke as the others caught up to him. Our names are Karl and Katherine Ruprecht. Our family is vun of the oldest and most respected in all of Vurtzburg. Until he came. His name is Otto Ruprecht, and he is our distant ancestor. He said he had been living in Muertada, and had received treatments that had prolonged his life. He said that he simply vanted to rejoin the family. But Katherine and I vanted nothing to do with him. So he took it to court. Vurtzburg law is very egalitarian, but he stood no chance. Until he used his sorcery on the judge. It vus decided that he should take his place as a member of the family. Imagine, having a monster like him as a distant grandfather!”

“Ve decided to drive him out. It vas only right. But the law vuld not help us. We tried to undercut him at family gatherings, destroy his fledging powerbase. And it vurked. But he vuld not leave! So ve hired killers. They all failed.”

“Finally ve hired a dozen of the finest mercenaries in all the city and stormed his house. Ve led the mercenaries ourselves. Between us ve have fought in tventy duels. Ve know how to fight. In the conflict the house caught on fire and finally Otto fled. But he vas not dead. Ve had decided that the black mark on our family name that he represented had to be erased.”

“So ve pursued him. Ve researched what sort of monster his vas. Ve even met a man who agreed to train us in the hunting of such beasts, and equip us vith proper weaponry. Under his tutelage, ve grew strong. Finally vun of our agents brought us vurd he vas here. Ve came to the Soothed Snake to recruit help. But ven ve saw him there I thought to disguise myself and get close, to hit him vith vun of our special weapons.”

“But he killed the man ve hoped to recruit to help hunt him down and then fled. And now ve have him. He is hurt, and if ve can find him he vill die.”  In the alchemical street-lamps Karl and Katherine appeared to be twins. They both possessed dark hair and pale, hawkish features. They spoke quickly and one picked up right after the other left off. Katherine had shed part of her disguise to reveal a leather jerkin, greaves and vambraces, with a short dagger stuck into a sheath hidden in her boot. while Karl had revealed that his belt pouches held more than just money as he reloaded his crossbow. Finally they reached a squat stone building. Karl stepped up to the door and rapped on it in a quick pattern. The door opened and a large bearded man in a robe opened it.

“Karl? Katherine? You aren’t to be back for some time. And only two mercenaries?”

“Ve found him Roman! Ve found him. He escaped us, but he is vounded. Ve just need to find him and rearm.”

“I can have two more top-ranked fighters and another two dozen sell-swords in town within the week.”

“Too long.  Ve don’t have much time before he goes to ground again.”

Roman’s eyes widened and he beckoned for them to come in. The first room was fairly normal but he led them past it into a large, central area. One corner of the room was taken up with two tables covered in tools, bits of weapons and a bubbling alchemical laboratory. Anje’s eyes swept the room, taking it all in and Matt followed after her, glancing behind them as he shut the door to the outside. Roman grabbed what looked like a heavy crossbow covered in mechanical bits, with a large drum strapped to the underside. Despite its size he carried it effortlessly over to Matt.

“How are you at shooting?”

“Awful.  I can’t hit the broadside of a barn door with one of those.”

Too bad.  I’ll hold on to it.  He strapped on a longsword and hit a switch on the crossbow.  It clicked and cocked itself. Karl had changed into similar armor to his sister, and grabbed a sword of his own. He also wore a bandoleer of pouches.  Roman grabbed another large bandoleer and handed it to Matt.

Bombs.  Light, then throw.  You look like you’ve got an arm on you.  Red is explosive, blue is flash, green is smoke.   Everyone take a crossbow with the bolts marked with a red tab.  Those are the exploding ones. Normal ones won’t do much damage.”   Karl spoke as he finished buckling on a greave.

“Ve hit him vith vun of the exploding bolts. He’ll be vise to them.”

“Bring them anyway.”  Roman walked over to a small cabinet and opened it. He took out three small glass contraptions, strange-looking things rigged with mirrors and tiny coils.  “These are solar tokens. They’ll give you a moment of the closest thing to blessed light you’re likely to find outside of a temple.  Hurts draugr like Schmidt something awful.  Now we just have to find the bastard.”  Anje had been watching all the preparation from the corner, leaning quietly, and a smile danced across her face.

“I know where he is. I can find him.”  Katherine looked at her in shock, eyes wide. She leveled her crossbow at Anje and spoke.

“Vhat do you know? Are you vurking vith him?” Anje laughed mockingly and stepped forward, her arms held apart.

“Of course not. But everyone at the Snake knew he never slept at night. He wandered. And he never used the room he rented. I make it my business to know my opponent’s weaknesses and habits. So one night I followed him. He visited the bell tower of the old abandoned Hagean church almost every night. I think it is where he keeps the necessary ingredients to keep himself alive.”  Roman looked at her frankly, and a curious look crossed his eyes.

“You followed a hundred year-old draugr for more than one night without him seeing you?”
“Trust my skills. I swear he didn’t see me. I’m…well-trained.”

“Fine. To the Hagean church then.  Katherine, bring the coach around.”  They hunters piled into the coach and sped off into the night towards the cathedral.  Hagea was an old goddess of law and order that was worshiped heavily many years earlier, but worship for her had waned in Chicauga as the devotees of the gods of trade grew in strength.  Eventually her priests were forced out after they tried to regulate the shipping.  They stopped the coach several blocks away and disembarked, checking their weapons and equipment one last time.  Matt and Karl circled around the back, while Katherine and Anje went in the front, and Roman slipped in through a side door, crossbow held in front of him.  As they entered the church, they heard faint chanting coming from above.  It was interspersed with moans of pain, and the hunters converged on the stairway.  They made their way up slowly, taking care to step lightly and move quietly.  Finally, they made there way to the door at the top of the tower.

The chanting was coming from behind it, and Roman stepped back, leveling his crossbow at it.  He made a hand signal and Karl took a blue bomb from his bandoleer.  He struck a match and kicked the door in, hurling the bomb into the room and ducking back.  There was a tremendous blinding flash and the hunters squeezed their eyes shut.  Roman rushed into the room and began firing his massive crossbow, which reloaded itself within a moment. Otto Ruprecht looked a mess as he sprinted towards the back of the cavernous bell chamber.  His hair was gone, his skin had gone grey and there were burns along his left arm.  The stump of his right had scabbed over and the hardened blood was pure reflective black.   He drew his sword with a scream of rage, and struck each of the bells as he ran by.  The room was filled with the sound of ringing bells, and Otto vanished into the darkness at the back of the chamber.  Roman shouted and pointed towards the back of the room.

“Fan out. Find him quickly!”  There was a flash of daylight from one corner of the room and the hunters converged on the spot.  Otto had been driven back again by one of the solar tokens.  He’d only saved himself from worst injury by rolling under one of the bells.  Roman fired his repeating bow, driving the Ruprecht towards Matt and Karl.  Karl stepped backwards, taking aim with his crossbow.

“Buy me a moment to aim.  I can’t get a bead on him!”  Matt nodded and unlimbered his mace.  He had a huge, sinister grin on his face that didn’t quite reach his eyes.  He swung experimentally at Otto, who danced to the side and lunged towards Karl, sword outstretched.  Karl fired his crossbow, but the draugr dodged the bolt yet again and kept coming.   He tackled Karl, knocking him to the ground.  Otto lifted his sword up to strike the killing blow and had it knocked from his hand as Matt slapped it away with his mace.  With his free hand Matt seized the back of Otto’s cloak and pulled him off Karl.  Then he hurled him into the center of the area, surrounded by hunters.  Roman and Anje discharged their solar tokens, burning Otto Ruprecht beyond recognition.  He twitched for a moment, and then died as Katherine stepped up and fired a bolt into his brain, which promptly exploded.  All the hunters began to catch their breath and Katherine walked over to check on her brother.  He was badly bruised from Otto’s tackle, but otherwise unharmed.  Anje lowered her crossbow and withdrew her cudgel from her belt.  She flipped in the air for a few moments, then stopped and looked at her employers.

Why’d you kill him? Renardier, I mean.”  Katherine’s eyes widened for a moment, and she angrily got to her feet.

“I don’t know vhat you are talking about.  Otto killed him.”

“Hmm.  I doubt it.  I told you, I study my opponents.  Stabbing him the side with a poison blade just isn’t his style.  But you have a blade don’t you?  Let’s see the one in your boot.  I doubt you’ve had the mind to clean it in all the excitement.”

“But, but, I didn’t do it. Vhy would I? Vhy?”

“Because for all you hatred of him, Otto followed the law, didn’t he?  He pursued his case in courts, worshipped the goddess Hagea.  He didn’t even drink the blood of humans.  He lived off the murdered flesh and blood of animals to satiate his kind’s hungers.  You needed a reason to turn the law against him.  So you made one.”  Katherine’s eyes narrowed as Anje laid out her case.  Finally, she looked down and whispered something.

“I’m sorry teacher.”  Then she drew the knife from her boot with one fluid motion and hurled it at Anje.  At the same moment Karl lit a match and hurled down a bomb.  There was a bright flash, and the sound of footsteps, and when the light cleared, the twins were gone and Anje had a blood-encrusted knife trapped between her two flat palms inches from her face. Roman blinked several times, clearing the spots from his eyes. He looked over the two mercenaries.

“Very impressive. Are you two looking for a job? I have a few projects I could use some help on, and right now I only have two reliable agents recruiting muscle up the coast.”  Anje answered after a moment’s thought.

“Why not? As long as there won’t be many more draugr. Dreadful beasts, here and in my homeland. You do pay well, don’t you?”

“I’m in.  I like the sort of fights you seem to bring.”  The three of them walked back towards the carriage, and Matt began twisting his mace handle in his hands. “Hey, uh, Anje. I’ve been watching you for a bit, and I wonder. Um, would you care to dine with me?” Anje just smiled her strange, enigmatic smile again.

“Sorry Matt. You’re not my type.”

New Tales of the Roman

Night Stalkers

It was in the great city of Chicauga that they first met.  Chicauga was one of the great lake cities in the south.  The city of high, steepled red rooftops and dozens of terraces and arcades where the people took their ease in the warm weather.  There is a tavern, in this great city, called the Soothed Snake where the low of the city gather.  Beggars and thieves, street merchants mercenaries and low traders, all are welcome within the doors of the Snake.  Its sprawling great-room has hosted many of personages of great significance.  Baldrin Spall, the Three-Penny tyrant stayed there once, and slept on the floor and raised an army.  Regis Renois, who for a week was the richest man in the city and still continues to be a grey eminence in the world of business, still drinks at the Snake.  And the soldiers of fortune.  They flocked to the Soothed Snake like vultures to a vergog corpse.  For it was known that twice a month, all those who desired strong sword arms to protect their homes, merchandise or who needed fighters for a street war, would gather up their cloaks, don their masques and put pomegranates to their noses and venture to the Soothed Snake.  There the strongest and fiercest of the mercenaries would demonstrate their art, and find patrons to hire them on. 

 

It was on the third day of the sixth week of Drenma (author’s note: not quite sure what to do about naming the months yet.  I don’t want to just use ours, but I’m not quite sure where I want to go with them.  Subject to change) and it was Blade Night.  Night of sell-swords and bully-boys.  Night of killers and bodyguards.  And so the great central room of the Soothed Snake had been cleared of tables and chairs, and a great number of chairs and tables set up in the various balconies of the establishment. There were dozens of masqued men and women fluttering about, whispering to each other and pointing out the different fighters that they saw below.  There were at least as many fighters that night as there were prospective clients, and while most were the usual sort of duelists and muscle-men found in Chicauga, there were a few that stood out.

 

The first was a huge, a squat and muscular man as broad as he was tall.  He had only about six feet, but his musculature was far beyond that of a normal man.  He wielded a great spiked mace that he hung at his side, and a simple, easy-going grin was plastered over his face.  His easy-going demeanor and willingness to buy drinks had won him many friends.  Matt was his name, and he had come from the barren hills to make his name.  There was a tall and cadaverous individual.  His name was unknown, and he told all to simply call him Schmidt.  He had never been seen to eat, and while he did rent a room, he made little use of it, instead roaming the streets at night.  It was whispered that he was from Muertada, the land of the living dead.  He stood aside from the rest of the mercenaries, and polished his long blade.  There was also Remy Renardier, who was formerly the greatest professional duelist of the city-state of Zilea.  He had been banished, it was said, for sleeping with the Governor’s daughter, killing the Governor’s captain of the guard and robbing the Governor of all his diamond signets.  On the same night.  Within the same hour.  He was surrounded by other sell-swords, young bucks and does who he had won over with his charisma.  And there was Anje.  Nobody knew where she came from.  To look at her, you wouldn’t think her a fighter.  She was a short woman (author’s note:  You only have Andrew to blame for this, you know.  He drew her short).  Her hair was kept short, and her clothing utilitarian.  She moved with grace, and wore a short blade and an iron-wrapped club at her waist.  She, like Schmidt, had no admirers or cronies.  Some had approached her when she had first arrived, but Anje had rebuked them all.  Meister Brumm, master of ceremonies, called the evening of events to order.  His booming voices echoed around the room as the masqued nobles and merchants took their seats and ordered their food, and the mercenaries finished preparing their weapons and stretching for battle.  The evening would consist of a series of events, many happening concurrently.  Their would be demonstrations of blade-skill, contests of strength and speed, archery contests and the most dangerous of all, duels between the best, using padded weaponry.  It was still deadly, at times, but the city guard was well paid to leave it the Soothed Snake alone, and it was accepted that death was around the corner for every soldier.

 

Remy Renardier dominated the contests, not by being the finest fighter, though he was quite good with his blade, but by being the flashiest.  He demonstrated fantastic sword-tricks and dexterity and defeated his opponents with fancy tricks and flourishes.  Schmidt demonstrated his quiet competence and precision without showmanship, without flair.  He put his full strength behind every technically perfect blow and never seemed to tire.  Matt easily dominated the feats of strength, crushing a wooden training dummy with his bare hands and showing off his great power and endurance.  And then there was Anje.  She was the quickest, to be sure.  The most acrobatic and she fought intelligently.  All that time spent quietly sitting in the corner had paid off, and she knew who was slow to block left and who struck quickly but tired easily.  She exploited their weaknesses and once even seemed to compel an opponent to freeze using only her eyes.  He hesitated, and she struck him with her wooden blade. 

 

After some hours, the demonstrations were over.  Each mercenary retreated to a different numbered table at the edge of the great-room, and the masqued folk began to mingle, or if they cared not to go among commoners, sent some of the inn’s messengers.  A dozen nobles and servants swarmed around Remy Renardier, who had two of the serving wenches hanging off of his arms.  Even here, is reputation was well-known, and despite the circumstances of the termination of his former employment, many wished to hire such a well-known killer.  Matt generated nearly as much attention.  His size and strength attracted many eyes that did not know what else to look for.  Schmidt walked across the room, and, with a distracted look in his eye, bumped into Remy as he put aside one of the girls to speak to a client.  Remy Renardier, scourge of the wine-halls and dueling greens of Zilea, fell dead a moment after.  The people around him began to scream and the serving wench, a swarthy woman with black hair, cried out.

 

“It vas heem!  It vas de pale vun.  He killed Remy!”  Schmidt glanced quickly at the body and his eyes went completely black.  With a howl he rushed towards the door, bowling over fighters and servants alike.  The crowd was panicking now, as the nobles began desperately backing away and ordering their newly hired mercenaries to protect them while the mercenaries drew weaponry and began to advance.

 

“Vun hundred gold for ze head of the murder!”  One of the masqued nobles shouted, and a good score of mercenaries spilled into the street after Schmidt.  They rushed down the streets in groups and pairs, baying for his blood.  But Anje held back.  She thought for a moment.  Then she calmly walked to the side of the building, down the alleyway and into the courtyards that backed the tavern.  She noticed a huge figure following her.

 

“Why are you going this way, eh little one?  The killer, he must have run away by now.”  It was Matt, following on Anje’s heels like some gigantic puppy.

 

“Because I am using my head to hunt him, not my heart.  All the others think that he will flee into the streets, like a common murder running from the scene of the crime.  But I think not.  Schmidt is cool.  He doesn’t panic, doesn’t let his emotions get the best of him.  And he is clever.  I think that he hasn’t really left the area.  I think he is waiting to flee.  Waiting until all the shouting men with their blades have left.”

 

“You are wagering your chance to catch him on how well you have observed him.  I have seen you.  You watch.  But how well have you watched him?”

“Either I am right, and I have earned my chance at one hundred crowns, or I am wrong, and lose my chance to fight a man who I classed as the most dangerous fighter at the contest.  No matter what the outcome, I win.”  Suddenly, as they spoke, their was a flurry of motion behind them as something dropped from the roof.

 

“guten Abend Kinder.”

The Red Times

More old stuff that I found on my hard drive.  I like it.  Probably won’t get back to it soon, as I’ve got more Tales of the Roman and Heroes of Yesterday stuff to do.

The Red Times

 

And lo, it came to pass that the Mad King did pass off this mortal coil

 

And though his harem large and his wives many, no heir of right mind and body did he leave

 

The many houses and leaders of his empire did quarrel greatly over his fallen ebony crown

 

But no Great House and no Merchant Fleet and no lord or baron could take the vacated throne

For all the other leaders swore to rise up if ever an Imperator was made who was not of their ranks.

 

And so to war went the Powers of the galaxy

 

House Vile and its slave-armies and scum legions.  From all their dark vassals and twisted servants did they call up an army of gross and puissant power

 

The Grand Dukes of Norwood lit the beacon of the Grail, calling to them all their knights and squires.  Long did the armorers of these great men strive on powered suits and swords that would strike through the hardest carapace.  The serfs did goad themselves for war and pick up their force-pikes.

 

From the Black Reaches of space came the foul ships of the Revenant Court, crewed by pale men plucked from the grave and powered by the lost dreams and souls of a multitude.  Banshees screeched their anthem as they swept, like a deadly wave, across the planets.

 

The Autochthonian Guild scuttled from its squat hives on a dozen planets.  Machines that walked like men and men who were more machine than flesh all surged forth in the name of the great computer gods.

 

The Sidereal Legion spoke of how their art foretold their victory.  Sleek and elegant ships powered by the hearts of dead stars and navigated through mystical astrology swam the spaceways in the name of prophecy

 

And last and greatest of them all was the great Warlord Trennian, who served the Mad King, though his wife was killed and his son tormented, and who was finally ready to take what was his.  Those forces of the Mad King who did not forswear any allegiance or slay themselves upon his death swore allegiance to the man Trennian, and one hundred of the great champions of the realm bowed to his banner. 

 

There was doughty Fellman, who did once lift a starship and crushed rocks with his bare hands.  His name was given upon the day when he felled twenty brigands of the Screed Nebula

 

There stood tall Rikekrek, who hailed from the hives of Drz-hm, and wielded a half-dozen swords in as many mandibles.  Slow was his speech, but what he uttered was taken with greatest importance.

 

Dark Legunya from Hell-Hall, where a thousand thousand beings did fight and die for the entertainment of the Mad King.  She of the dark skin was one of the few who could claim to have survived.

These and many more, quick Rover, fair Elyara, the beast Regler, but of all of these the bravest was Mandrigal.

 

He hailed from fallen Terra, whose ivory towers had crumbled and whose people had scattered across the lands. 

 

He was of those brave few who had stayed upon the birthing place of Man, and had suffered the radiation and mutants and starvation for their pride. 

 

His parents were caught in a sentient storm, and only by giving up their son did they leave unharmed. 

 

For three years the babe Mandrigal did live within the thing, and how he did not die of exposure no man knows.   

 

Finally some brave folk from the League of Explorators did stumble upon the babe Mandrigal, and though they braved the wrath of the storm, did take him from his erstwhile home

 

No normal man was Mandrigal, even as a child.  The energies and radiation of his former lair had changed him, twisted him into a monster of a man, hairless, with yellow skin and sharpened teeth.

 

Full twenty-four hands he stood when he had his full growth, and broader than any human known.  His eyes were pale and colorless, and when his face twisted in mirth weak men were known to shrink in terror

 

Despite these changes Mandrigal was no monster.  Raised by those good souls that seek the deep places not to plunder, but to know, he knew no fear and accompanied them on all journeys.

 

Then came that sad day when the press-ships of the Mad King did board the vessel of Mandrigal, and demand from them the tithe of flesh the King demanded for his futile wars

 

The captain of the press-ship did look upon young Mandrigal and swear that he would accept no other, and with much tears and swearing was Mandrigal, still young, led away in chains to join the levies in the hold of the ship, who numbered in the hundreds.

 

The cruel trainers with their drugs and electro-whips did scourge these conscripts, and most quailed in terror and swore to do as was told.  But Mandrigal knew no fear, and struck down the fiercest of all the foul men who called themselves “trainers”.

 

Ten of the mightiest crewmen it took to restrain young Mandrigal, as he raged through the hold and into the quarters of the crew.  The captain swore he would slay the boy, but a quiet man who bore the seal of the great Imperial army, and in these days it was before the purge by the Mad King and the rout at the walls of the Sidereal fortress Balinor, which lay in the heart of a sun.

 

The quiet man spoke, and said that the young Mandrigal would serve with a true unit of the forces of the King, and though the captain fumed, he had no authority against the seal

 

And so it came to pass the young Mandrigal entered the service of the grand Imperial Army, not as a conscript but as a proud legionnaire

 

{//Recording finished//: The Primus verses of the Lay of Mandrigal now completed.  Please insert next info-scroll into the reader.}   

 

 

Heroes of Yesterday Part I

New story idea.  Pulp noir. 

Heroes of Yesterday

 

          It was somewhere in Germany where I caught up to him.  Couldn’t tell you where.  I lost track of the location since we left the station, ever since I snuck onto this train of death.  The first three cars had been rough.  Waxman had packed them full of his goons, unlettered thugs and fanatics he’d picked up somewhere in the slums and back-alleys of the continent.  How a psychotic madman like “Doctor” Gregor Waxman attracted people I’ll never understand.  Some sort of fatal attraction?  The bizarre, twisted charisma he oozed from every pore?  I hoped, in the tiny part of me that was still an optimist, that the passengers of the train were still alive.  That Waxman hadn’t had a chance to practice his “art”.  But I’d gotten there too late before. 

 

But back to the matter at hand.  The pastoral German countryside whizzed by us as a stocky blonde thug with a carving knife and a lot of attitude came at me.  I stepped to the side as he swung, and grabbed his arm, slamming my other hand into his chest and pushing him off the top of the train.  I ducked just in time as the second thug swung a lead pipe at me.  I caught him with an uppercut that nearly knocked him off his feet.  I took the pipe from his hands with a disarm and cracked him over the head with it, stepping over his comatose body.  It was a lucky that I’d taken the pipe.  I brought it up just as the man wielding the fire-ax swung.  The pipe caught the haft of the axe, right below the blade, and the man pushed downwards.  I held the pipe in both hands, and tried to push up.  It wasn’t any good.  He was strong, and had the advantage in height and leverage.  If he forced me down he’d have the advantage, and his weapon was far greater than mine.  Waxman just looked on, a smug smile on his face as the wind whipped the coat he had draped over his shoulders.  He was nonchalantly leaning on his cane, seemingly unbothered by the speed and turbulence of the train. 

 

I lashed my foot out, raking it against the axe-wielder’s thigh and bringing my foot down hard on his.  He shouted in agony and the pressure let up for a moment, I shifted the pipe and the axe sideways, and kneed him in the gut.  It wasn’t a solid strike, but he staggered back and I hit him in the leg with the lead pipe, then again as he dropped from the first blow.  Now for Waxman.  But even as his last guard fell, Doctor Gregor Waxman just smiled, and shot me.  It wasn’t a powerful gun.  Just a small, precise revolver.  But it was enough.  The bullet slammed into my arm, and I felt the pipe fall from my fingers.  He shifted the gun towards my head, and I jumped sideways.  I heard the bullet whiz past my head, and watched in horror as my jump carried me past the edge of the train roof.

 

I don’t know what it was that gave me the strength to grab the rail on the side of the train.  Was it my sense of justice, outraged that I wouldn’t be able to stop Waxman?  My years of training and experience?  The ghost of my father?  Rage?  Fear?  I just don’t know.  But as my hand closed around the metal pole, I felt my heart lift, just for a moment.  Then I heard footsteps, as Waxman casually strolled over to the edge of the train.

“Is this how it ends?  Years of cat-and-mouse, of beautiful violence and artistry across the world?  I’m sad, old friend.  But this has to end!  It is not healthy, and you know how I am in favor of health, eh?  Goodbye, sweet prince.  Goodbye, and good luck, in the afterworld.”  Waxman’s voice echoed in my ears as he smiled, and rose to feet.  He’d bent down to talk to me.  His last chance, I suppose.  But then I was lucky.  The train came to a turn, and jolted, hard, just as Waxman began to rise.  He fell, and tumbled over the edge.  If I had been especially lucky, he would have fallen and died.  But he caught the same rail that saved my life with his cane, and there was a murderous look in his eye.  He grabbed the rail with his hand and swung the cane at me.  It hit me painfully across the back, and he drew it back for another strike.  I tried to kick him, but he seemed to ignore my blows.  He had always showed a near super-human resistance to pain.  Much like myself, actually.  Something I was glad for as I felt his cane descend again and the bullet hole in my shoulder spasm.  I gathered my strength and seized the rail with both hands, ignoring my shoulder’s protests, and drove both feet into the window in front of me.  It cracked.  I brought my feet back again and kicked, and I was elated to hear the sound of glass shattering.  I ducked into the train-car just as Waxman swung at me again. 

 

I dropped into the lushly furnished car and caught my breath for a moment.  My shoulder ached, and I wondered if I would be able to bandage it before I bled out.  My coat was ripped and dirty, and I had long since lost my hat.  The mask was still on, though I don’t know why I still wore it.  It didn’t really serve much purpose these days except to remind me of old times.

 

Maybe it was the pain, or the fatigue, but I didn’t quite catch the faint noises or the smell of unwashed humanity until it was too late.  The bearded man slammed into me just as I was turning around, knocking me to the ground.  It was Yimry, Waxman’s chief henchman.  He was a powerful individual of few words and devastating.  He was completely loyal to Waxman, and had the unusual ability to defy death.  I’d stabbed, strangled, defenestrated and otherwise completely incapacitated the man several times over the years, but he always seemed to come back, completely unharmed.  I got a good look at him as he locked his hands around my throat.  His face was emotionless, as usual, and his eyes indicated that he was elsewhere.  I chopped his neck and struck him in the chest, but my blows lacked their usual strength, and he shrugged them off.  I began to see spots as hands clamped tighter around my throat, and I began striking faster, ripping away at his shirt in a desperate attempt to get him to relinquish his grasp.  I glimpsed a tattoo on his shoulder.  Vi?  What did it mean?  I didn’t think about it for long.  Finally I took my thumbs and drove them into his eyes.  I was grateful for my gloves now as I finally got a reaction from him, and his grip loosened.  It was enough.  I wiggled and got my foot up and upon his chest.  I pushed up with all my strength while digging my hands into the soft flesh between his thumb and fingers.  He was hurled from me, and I scrambled back, getting to my feet. 

 

It was just in the nick of time, too.  Waxman rushed me with his cane held out like a fencer.  He must have climbed around to the gap between the train-cars and come in through the door.  I slapped the cane away and stepped backwards, stomping on Yimry once more to make sure he wouldn’t interfere.  Waxman kept pushing me back, his reach and deftness keeping me from advancing.  I’d usually be able to beat him in hand-to-hand combat, but not in my current condition and him with the weapon advantage.  But as he drove me towards the back of the car, I saw what I needed.  I grabbed the fire extinguisher at the rear of the car and parried an overhand cane strike with it.  Then, still holding across my chest, jabbed it at Waxman, and it was his turn to step back.  We sparred like this for a while, the quickness of his weapon compensating for the power of mine, until I managed to jab the head of the extinguisher into his gut, doubling him over.  I dropped the fire extinguisher and grabbed his cane hand, slamming it against one of the seat backs again and again until he dropped it.  He let out a sort of primal sound, and brought his head up, quickly, catching me under the chin with the top of his head.  My head flew backwards and Waxman turned and ran.  I shook my head to clear away the spots and gave chase.  He ran towards the front of the train, and we rushed through the smoking car and the dinner car.  In the kitchen he hurled a carving knife at me, and I caught it with a cutting board and inch from my face.  He continued to run, and I continued to chase him.

 

My arch-nemesis quickly climbed up the ladder to the top of the coal car, and, though every muscle in my body cried out for me to stop, I followed.  He was waiting, and brought down a lump of coal the size of my head down on my hand.  I barely managed to get it out of the way in time and surged up the ladder.  He dropped the coal and continued to run.  He was panicking now, I hoped, and I would finish him this time.  He jumped down into the engine car.  I hadn’t been thinking about who was running the train, or I wouldn’t have leapt carelessly after him.  It was only the years of reflex training that gave me the time to react and duck as a coal shovel flew over my head.  Of course Waxman’s men were driving the train.  I snapped a kick at the skinny goon with the shovel that missed and grabbed the stocky engineer’s arm as he came at me, swinging him around and into the wall.  I spun him around to catch the next shovel blow, then pushed him at the skinny, wild-eyed kid with the weapon.  They both fell and I kicked the still-conscious shovel-man in the head.  They hadn’t hurt me, but I was on my last legs.  Waxman had led me across America and Europe on this case, and I hadn’t slept in over two days.  The fights in the train and on top of it hadn’t helped, and I didn’t know how long.  I’d taken out these men, but where was Waxman?  I saw the knife too late.

 

He slammed into me.  I don’t know where he got the knife, or why he didn’t use it earlier.  It was a small thing, barely more than a scalpel, but I knew how devastating Gregor Waxman could be with even the smallest thing.  I felt it stab into me, once, twice, and I felt my blood trickling out of me.  Waxman’s eyes were wide and he wore a death’s-head grin.  I realized I probably wasn’t going to make it this time.  But I couldn’t let it end now.  No.  I had unfinished business.  I wrapped my arms around Waxman and drew him close.  He continued to stab, even as our closeness robbed him of the ability to make more than shallow wounds.  I glanced over to the gap in the car wall, where the engineers got in and out and twisted sideways, over to that hole.  I felt my feet leave solid ground as we both tumbled out.  I’d chosen well, and we had been just over the high bridge crossing the Rhine.  Nobody could survive this fall.  We’d hit the water like it was stone at this height.  Waxman was finally done.  But so was I.

 

My name is Rupert Dare, and I think I am going to die.         

My First Post

So I have this blog.  Right, now, I’m going to use it as a repository for all the short stories and things that I come up with.  I don’t know how it will work out, but hopefully people like it.  To start with, I’ll put up some of my existing work.

Oh, and this first story is blatant self-insertion.  I wrote this for kicks, and all the characters are based on my gaming group.

Yes, I rode with the Roman.  I was there from the beginning of his hordes.  We were still mighty in those days, when he had just set out his banner, calling forth those disenfranchised and banished from society.  For he was no tribal warlord or clannish chief.  He built his forces out of any who would swear on their gods to serve him in battle and in peace.  His charisma was legendary, and by the winter of our first year he had gathered thousands.  We moved then, from our camp on the moors, heading north.  Many settlements fell to our blades, and what was once naught but a collection of banished and exiled scum became a howling machine of death. 

 

What was the Roman, you ask?  Some forgotten prince of a barbarian land, a nobleman thrown from power, a general who lost his bars and rank?  Hah.  He was a Librarian from the great repository at Kalb.  Don’t look so shocked.  They teach the keepers of the books there fell arts and train them in deadly combat skills.  It is necessary to preserve those books that are dangerous or precious.  I do not know why he left the library, only that once, when I asked him if he, too, was like his horde, banished from his home, he just laughed and told me that when his time came to return to Kalb, he would.

 

We were his champions, his slayers of men.  There was brawny Daved, who towered over all but our leader, and wielded two great axes in combat.  He was a warrior-skald, and sang songs of his enemies’ doom.  There was Jare.   He wielded a spear of burnished steel, and was a leader of men.  He inspired our armies to great heights, and had the energy of three, always needing to be doing some project or plan.  Matt, who smiled as he slew, and who we were sure bore the blood of some ogre or other great beast.  We lost him in the frozen wastes of Kiev, and for seven days and seven nights our forces mourned.  We burned Kiev to the ground by the dusk of the eighth.  Fell Andre, who we all only trusted by halves, joined us with his poisons and blades.  He walked like a cat, and many men have underestimated him before dying on his cruel swords.  There was his lover Anje, she who brought Andre into our ranks.  A most mysterious woman, who was reputed to have strange powers.  I know not if this is true, but she was a fine strategist and warrior, slaying with wrought-iron club and a delicate sword.

 

Together we were the lords and captains of his forces.  True, as we swelled in ranks more great fighters flocked to our banners and we were the captains of men who commanded thousands.  Sym came to our ranks, a swarthy, sinister killer who hailed from the tundras of Minesk and many others. We had representatives from the Fuzzys, Twinks, Munchkins, Ninj, and a dozen other races of the world. 

Let me tell you of how we took the city of Fuzzyopolis.  This was in our early days, before even the great halls of Cherrivole and the spires of Dece trembled at our name.  The Roman marched us through the winter, and we subsided only on the supplies we could carry and that which we took from the dozens of villages and hamlets along the way.  He ordered us not to kill the serfs and landsmen if they gave us a fourth of their food, but to show no mercy if they refused us.  Many gave.  Few decided to test our patience and good will.  Finally we left the valleys and dales of Mare and were faced with the vast plain surrounding the great city of Fuzzyopolis.  The Fuzzys were a curious race, always with a smile on their face and a dagger behind their back.  Before we began the assault the Roman ordered many trees felled from the surrounding forest, and began overseeing the construction of several engines.  On the Roman’s orders fell Andre launched an attack on the gates, hoping to take them by storm with a hundred of his best men before they were closed.  He told me later that he was an arm’s length away as they shut, and he had hurled one of his blades in before it sealed, killing one of the sentries.  Those brave watchmen on the walls took up bows and made to shoot at his retreating men, but Andre but on a foul countenance and snarled, and the shots went wide.  For a man known to be a charmer, he was quite good at unnerving his opponents.  The Roman spent a day and a night in the construction of many ladders and scaling devices, and finally called us to his tent before dawn.  He swore to personally lead the assault on the palace of the Fuzzy King, and that he would need us to clear his path.  That night we all were united in one goal, with one purpose.  He assigned three of us to storm the walls at first light, to use what he had built.  As the sun rose above the horizon, and light stretched across our camp we struck.  Do you know what it is like, assault a twenty-foot wall with fifty thousand howling killers at your back?  There is nothing like it in the world, I can guarantee it.  We reached the walls under fire from the Fuzzy archers, but we’d caught them off guard.  Dozens of ladders and hundreds of scaling hooks went up, and while many were pushed or cut the Roman had put cunning hooks on the end of the ladder, to make it harder to remove, and had the fibers of the ropes woven out of durable reeds.  I was first up my ladder, and I ducked the swing of a Fuzzy militiaman and struck up with my blade.  He fell back and I took the battlement, standing on bastion of the great city.  Two of the defenders died in twice as many seconds as the Fuzzies looked on in shock and the third managed to bring his shield up.  He staggered, though, and I jumped down onto the defenders’ platform.  To my left I heard the inspirational chant of Jare’s men, and to my right the baleful singing of Daved.  More men pushed up the ladders and while the fighting was fierce, we had claimed the outer walls by storm.

 

The Roman called forth the people and told them that if they gave him their treasures and four fifths of their food they would be spared.  Many cried of his heartlessness and brutality, but the Roman just laughed and ordered them to comply.  Meanwhile the Fuzzy defenders looked on from the inner walls, unable to intervene.  Those that gave up their treasures were spared.  Those that did not were put to the sword.  We waited, then, and let our men take the pick of the houses in the various city districts.  For four days it persisted like this.  The Roman knew he had to reward the men after the brutal storming of the walls that had cost so many lives.  Then, one night, I awoke with a start, rolling to the side quickly as a blade struck down where I had once been.  I pulled a dagger from under the pillow and leapt to my feet.  I peered into the darkness and was shocked to see three dark-clad Fuzzies, blades and bucklers on their arms.  I glanced at my dagger and felt a deathly smile cross my face.  If they wanted to kill me, it would cost.

The first made a mistake.  He rushed ahead and I ducked to the side, kicking the back of his knee as he passed.  The Fuzzy was quick, but not quick enough, and he died as he fell.  The remainder were more clever, and rushed as one.  I hurled the blanket from the bed over the head of one and kicked him down, then barely parried the short-blade of the third.  He cut me the with the second strike, across the chest.  I would make him pay for that.  The last thing he expected was a headbutt.  The Fuzzy stumbled back, and I seized his arm.  As I held his blade away, I stabbed him several times.  The one I had disposed of with a kick was getting up.  I am no expert knife-man, but Andre had given us all some small training, just as we had shared our own unique skills.  The blade took him in the chest.  I grabbed my sword from the wall and rushed outside, to the sounds of fighting.  Men were rushing all around me, and I gathered the nearby ones and rushed to the tent of The Roman.  I found him, clad only in a night-robe, surrounded by eight dead Fuzzy, he great blade stained with their dark blood.  His booming voice carried well over the chaos, and we gathered the men, part by part, and wiped out those few Fuzzies who still lived outside the walls.  It seemed that a good four hundred had attacked us in the night, hoping to take advantage of our dispersed defenses.  They had sent teams to kill each of us, his champions.  None succeeded.  In the morning we found that the Roman had slain the Captain of the Fuzzies Royal Guard.  We catapulted his body over the walls.  The Roman stood a step outside of arrow range and swore to personally kill the King and take his family as hostages.  And so the attacks began.  Fell Andre, Great Matt, Cunning Anje, all prepared to strike.  Jare, Daved and I had taken the walls by storm.  They would take these walls by dark cunning and brute force.

For eight days and eight nights Anje and Andre had their troops bang on loud, resonant drums, sounds that echoed and denied sleep.  The defenders looked particularly haggard after the first few days, and the insults Andre and his captains shouted did nothing to help the situation.  On the morning of the eighth day Anje went to the Fuzzie’s great Inner Gate under the flag of truce.  With a smile she asked politely to speak to the Fuzzy Leader.  He shouted from the walls, and she spoke, her voice ringing out, and said that the siege would be lifted.  If only the Fuzzy Champion could beat ours.  She expounded, flattering and cajoling, saying that they could not take the Wall by arms, and wished the situation finished.  The Fuzzy leader seemed reluctant, but by in all of her speech she seemed to say that she was the Champion. 

Now Anje could have slain any man in the Fuzzy camp.  But that was not the purpose of the challenge.  As the Fuzzy champion lumbered forth, our men stepped back.  He was massive, encased in armor and wielding a great axe and shield.  Anje grinned, and I saw no sign of Andre.  Then Great Matt unfolded himself from where he had hidden, and announced that he was the champion.  The Fuzzy Commander seemed to practically explode, but he kept silent.  All eyes were now on this match.  It was truly a clash of Titans.  Matt had a full head on the Fuzzy Champion, but wore no armor and carried a simple warhammer.  It was like watching a smith hammer a piece of metal into shape.  Every blow had the force of five men, and soon the Champion was flagging.  His armor was badly rent and his shield was covered in dents.  Matt bore a single light cut.  Then, the Champion rallied, and drove large Matt back, towards the gate.  Then, with a single, almost casual blow, Matt struck the Champion square on the head.  It was not unlike a watermelon being crushed by a millstone.  Then, he turned and rushed towards the gate.  The Portcullis began to drop, and then stopped.  I looked around for Andre, and did not see him, nor his so called “Lurkers”, the specialists he gathered and trained on dark, moonless nights.  Matt’s men rose and followed their leader, and I sprang to my feet, ordering my troops forward.  The Roman himself leapt up and seized his blade, and I heard the melodious warsongs of Daved behind me.  We stormed into the courtyard, and saw a score of mottled-cloak figures, the Lurkers, and one huge one, Great Matt, who had already slain the front-running defenders of the gate.  The Roman shouted for Matt, Jare and Andre to secure the wall, and the rest of us assaulted the palace.  With the Fuzzie’s very own coronation statue did we batter down the doors, and though a good score of our men fell against the barricades we kept on going, right over them and to the defenders.  Daved’s twin axes whirled and flashed and the club and blade of Anje took many lives.  I myself pushed on with the Roman, determined to take the throne room.  Their sat the king, resplendent in his armor and surrounded by his knights.  His son, a young Fuzzy, stood alongside him.  We ragtag barbarians, with our piece-meal armor and hodge-podge weapons faced the shining glory of the Fuzzy Knights.  Long was our battle.  I slew two Knights, men who thought my lanky frame held no strength and my curious blade a novelty.  Then I faced the Prince.  He was good.  His skill with a blade was that of a warrior far beyond his years.  He was properly armored and fresh.  His heart was in the fight and this was one that would decide the future of all his people.  And he died.  I killed him, took off his hand and drove my blade through a chink in his armor.  It was the closest thing to guilt I’ve felt in all my years as a warrior for the Roman.  No man could have stopped our leader.  He cut a swath through the knights to the King himself.  I was actually disappointed.  I should have left the Prince to my lord, for he was the far superior fighter.  The King survived the first clash only because a Knight threw himself in front of the Roman’s blade.  And another.  And another.  It was really rather disturbing.  Finally the Roman struck the head from the King and took it around the city, to show the few beleaguered defenders.  They threw down their arms after that.  And so the great hodge-podge horde of the Roman, an army of exiles and criminals and scum threw down the great city of Fuzzyopolis.  We left the city in ruins, and I hear tell that some few Fuzzies have braved the place in hopes of reclaiming it.  I care not.  It is still remembered now how we took their walls by cunning and blood and slew their royalty in combat.  And so began the Legend of the Roman.  We, his champions, featured in the songs as well, and tales of our exploits began to spread. 

          An amusing anecdote.  I, along with Jare and Matt, went to a tavern one day.  We did not wear our badges, and the horde was far behind us.  As we walked in the minstrel was singing our Lay.  Matt grew sullen as it appeared that the place did not have his drink of choice, and we others both knew that this could very well be a precursor to a violent fit.  The bartender, too, saw it.  He also saw the size of Matt, and hit upon a cunning plan. 

          The bartender swore that his tavern was under the protection of the Roman.  With a look of great pomp and due authority he announced that any destruction of his property by us would be punished by no less than one of the great Champions of the Roman.  Jare and I just stared as he lectured on how I would cut off my own hands, or how Jare would pierce the vitals of himself with his long spear.  When he got to how the great Ogre Matt would crush the skull of the interlopers we had had enough.  Jare, always a man with a way with words, walked up to the man and told him, ever so politely, that if he wanted us dead he would do best to have me kill him and then have Matt slay me.  The idea of us turning our weapons on ourselves was a bit distasteful, even for such an establishment under our “protection”.  It was in that moment that the bartender realized all he had done.  I had not known that his species could turn such an unusual variety of colours.  He gave us almost his entire stock that day, but Jare left him with most of his small beers and ales, taking only enough for the daily rations among our troops.  I have been in many taverns, and many places of meeting, but only twice have I seen a place go so quiet, so quickly.  It was like a spell.

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