Death After Death 167-168

Ch. 167 - Down on Their Luck

Simon crawled into a chest, and as he crawled out of the other side, he realized that was exactly what he’d crawled out of as well. That was weird enough, but he was somewhat reassured to see that it wasn’t the same chest. That might have meant that there was some other magic at play.

Going down the wrong path like that would be kind of funny, he thought as he slowly got to his feet and stretched his aching back. Even if it would kill the run.

The chest in the dragon’s lair had been a weighty, ancient thing with rusted steel banding. It had been built to hold something valuable, like golden jewelry or religious artifacts. The one he climbed out of, on the other hand, was a flimsier thing, made for books or bolts of cloth; it didn’t even have a lock on it. 

Simon looked down to the unfamiliar blade in his hand and studied the red leather scabbard. The thing was crisscrossed in gilt lines, and though most of the gems that decorated it were missing, it was easy to see that this saber had belonged to someone very rich or important. The thing was fancy enough that he almost pulled the slightly curving blade from its sheath to see if it was magical. It was only then that he realized he wasn’t alone.

The light fall of rain had dulled all other sounds, but a word cut through the gloomy afternoon when someone yelled, “Heave!”

Simon whirled around and understood a lot more about the scene. He’d noticed the chest and a few of the crates next to it, but now that he’d turned fully around, he could see that they weren’t alone. Someone had emptied an entire wagon, and now the people who had done so were trying to push it out of where its wheels had gotten in the thick mud. 

I was summoned to this level to help people get their wagon unstuck? Simon thought, smirking as he studied the group. It seemed pretty ingenious, but he supposed that history turned on such things. He’d been hoping for a beast, but this, at least, was straightforward. 

The group didn’t seem dangerous. On the contrary, they seemed almost helpless. Two wagons drawn by oxen had been pulled forward quite a ways, and everyone from those wagons was trying to get this one unstuck. The only people still inside the thing were the driver and a woman with her child. 

Simon wondered if they were merchants, but as he looked past them, he decided that they were probably refugees. The surrounding countryside was in rough shape. The fields had been planted but never harvested, and the village passed, which had mostly been burned down.

For a moment, Simon had second thoughts as to whether this group, or whatever villagers remained over there, were his priority, but he decided that didn’t matter. First, I can help these people get moving, and then I can check out over there. There’s no hurry. He’d long since learned that rushing new levels wasn’t a very good idea. 

He almost moved to join them, but when he looked down at himself, he realized. He realized he was still half covered in blood and quickly ducked. When no one screamed, after he waited for a few seconds, he started scrubbing himself in mud to cover the bloodstains that reached his knees. He’d been slaughtering a dragon for the best part of a day, and he certainly looked the part. 

“Put you’re back into men!” the same voice called out again. “We’ve got miles to go before dark. This is the last place should be spenden’ the night!”

Simon ignored their efforts and focused on getting himself as dirty as possible. A few moments later, he no longer looked like a blood-soaked maniac. Instead, he merely looked homeless and downtrodden, which he saw as a serious improvement. Then he belted on the sword and walked over to help them out.  

When he approached the group, no one noticed him right away. But when he got close enough, it raised sudden shouts of alarm, and several men put their hands on their hilts. Simon made no sudden moves. He didn’t need to. No one in this group was a trained warrior. They were out-of-work tradesmen and men too young to grow beards. He could take all of them at once without a single spell. 

“Who are you?” the man who had been calling time for those who were pushing and pulling on the stuck wagon. He was the most imposing of the lot, with a barrel chest and a loud voice that was used to being obeyed. He was also unarmed. 

“Just a traveler on the road, same as you,” he said calmly. “It looked like you could use some help.”

“We can’t pay,” the man snapped, even as other people in the group looked at him with more gratitude. 

“Who can in these times,” Simon answered with a shrug. Normally, he would have left it there, but he could see these people were still unreasonably paranoid. He couldn’t say why, but if he wanted them to trust him even a little, being selfless wasn’t the way to go. “I’d take a ride to the next town, though, assuming we get it unstuck. How's that?”

A few of the men conferred for a moment, and after a little yelling, they decided to let Simon help them, though several people grumbled about what good he could possibly do. Simon ignored those. He knew he couldn’t push this thing out of the mud. He did know they were doing it wrong, though. 

This group was pushing it as hard as they could and then giving up, each time, it would slide forward slightly and then slide back again into the same ruts. It was a complete waste of time, and after doing that two more times, they let him try it his way. So, one small push at a time, he got them synched up until they were rocking the thing back and forth. After that, it was just a matter of seconds before the whole thing gave, and the wagon moved forward once more.

It got stuck twice more in the broad puddle before it escaped immediately, but a few minutes later, it was stopped on dry ground and the top of the small hill, and everyone else was busy loading it back up with all the goods that had been removed. The more Simon studied those goods, the more he decided they were refugees, and the less he thought they were traders. 

He struck up a conversation with some of them, and slowly, the picture started to come together. As expected, he was back in Brin, not so far from the capital, as it turned out. He was unsurprised to find out that there was another war for succession taking place, though this time at least it wasn’t between the prince and a duke, but between the prince and confederation of southern barons and counts that thought they were being mistreated. 

“Sounds complicated,” Simon remarked, not completely feigning his disinterest. 

It was important stuff, and he should know it, but in this rain, it was all he could do to cope with the idea that no matter how many times he tried to make peace rein in Brin, war returned. It was a constant problem.

That made him reflect on what it was Helades had planned with her elaborate path. He had no idea how anything could lead to peace in a land like this. 

Gradually, the topic turned from the broader conflict and who was usurping the rights of whom into the more specific horrors of where they were at currently. “You keep gabbin’ about who’s owed what instead of getting a move on, and the bandits are sure to settle that question for you come nightfall,” the presumptive leader growled. “The sooner we cross the river and head north, the better I’m liable to feel.”

Simon understood his point. In hard times, the only things that proliferated were rats and bandits, which weren’t much more than rats in human form, according to some. He’d tried to show them mercy in the past because he knew most of them would become decent human beings again when whatever troubles had caused their situation were past. He’d even paid a few for expediency. These days, he felt more inclined to end them on sight, but flashbacks of that awful version of himself he’d seen so recently kept him on his best behavior.

When it was all said and done, Simon took a spot on the damp buckboard near the driver. It didn’t shield him from the rain, but there was no more room in the back with everyone else. That suited him fine. 

I still have some gold, he thought to himself.  When we get where we’re going, I’ll get some hot wine and a warm bath and chase the chill away. Where they were going - that was an open question, as it turned out.

“It ain’t been decided,” ultimately, the gray-bearded driver confessed. “Away, that’s all we know for now. To somewhere in Duke Brin’s lands. The late King’s nephews have stayed entirely out of this war, and they’re strong enough to maintain the peace in at least that small corner of the world.”

“Well, if things fall apart, we can always go west and keep on going until we get to Schwarzenbruck,” Simon answered with a laugh, suddenly grateful that he hadn’t killed the Duke in the final version of that conflict so long ago. The man was a scumbag, but had he done so, it was likely he would have made this level that much worse. 

That sparked an idea in Simon’s mind, and he started to go down the rabbit hole of exactly what might be influencing what when the driver next to him shot him a dark look. “Don’t even joke about that place. Its very name is cursed.”

That’s a bit of a strong reaction, Simon thought, taken aback. He let the topic shift back to the roads and the weather, which seemed to be the driver’s favorite things to complain about, but he definitely planned to revisit that topic later if he got the chance. 

He never did, though. As the sun started to set, not long after that, one of the members of the wagon ahead of them whistled and gestured to the right. He and the driver turned to look but initially saw nothing. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, though, he saw motion in the ruined village, armed motion. There were almost a dozen of them that Simon could see spreading out near the edge of the village; some had swords, and others had bows, but all were armed.  

The road that they were on was a windy one, and the bridge was only just visible in the distance, but with overloaded wagons and tired oxen, it wasn’t like they could just drop the hammer and outrun whoever was approaching them. No, they had to follow the road, which meant they’d get even closer to these assholes before they got further away. 

“Guess I didn’t get you guys unstuck fast enough,” Simon thought with a sigh.

“What do you mean?” the driver asked, looking at him nervously. 

“I’m saying, this is my stop,” Simon said, hopping off the side of the wagon and walking out into the field. “Drive safe. I’ll do what I can.

Ch. 168 - Not so Tough

“What are you doing,” the driver hissed. “They’ll kill you.”

“They’ll certainly try,” Simon said, too quietly for the other man to hear, as he trudged off the muddy roads and into the wilted fields. 

Simon noted that despite the concern in his voice, he didn’t stop the wagon. That was smart. Risking getting stuck a second time at this moment would be the dumbest thing anyone could do. He wasn’t worried about that, though; the men in that wagon didn’t seem especially inclined toward selfless acts. 

When he walked through the field, his traction got much better immediately as he stomped across the grains that should have long since been locked away in the granary. The strangers didn’t come out to meet him, though, until he was almost to the village. Instead, they moved away from him and toward the road. 

Simon shook his head at that. “Fight me, not them,” he growled to himself. 

He knew he’d have to use magic in this fight, but he was trying to hold off as long as he could. He wasn’t as young as he used to be. 

When one of the ragged looking men stepped out to meet him, Simon’s appraisal of the situation changed. These weren’t bandits, they were deserters. That made them an order of magnitude more dangerous. Still, he kept his hand off his sword for now, but only because it would invite trouble that much faster.

“Where are your friends off to, old man?” the soldier nearest to him called out as he approached them. No one was afraid of Simon, and no bows were pointed in his direction. Most of those were with the group that had set up a ways off to deal with the caravan. They were waiting for some order, though, and for now, they just stood there. 

“Those poor bastards?” Simon asked, trying diplomacy. “They were just giving me a ride. I wouldn’t worry too much about them. They’re just skin and bone like the rest of us.”

“I dunno,” the man said with a scowl, “Even a skinny ox will still feed us for days. We’re the King's men and at liberty to scavenge whatever supplies we need to continue the fight. Now, hand over your coin purse, and we’ll let you off with a warning.”

“If I give you my purse while you spare the caravan, Simon asked?” He didn’t care too much about his gold at this point, but it was probably worth more than anything that group had. It would have been a good deal for everyone. The caravan would go free, the deserters would get paid, and Simon wouldn’t have to waste any more magic. Sadly, he didn’t think this guy was smart enough to go for it. 

“Why would I do that when I have archers?” the deserter asked. With a whistle, he pointed at them, and they started to draw arrows. “See - men like us, we can do two things at once. Now, hand it over before I take it.”

“Yes, but what if you don’t have archers?” Simon asked. 

The man’s face twisted into a look of confusion, and he took a moment to enjoy it before he pointed and said, “Dnarth Vrazig.”

Distant lightning wasn’t a spell he used a lot anymore, but it never disappointed and came down from the sky like a bolt from the blue, killing one man immediately before jumping to one or two others. Simon didn’t know if they would live or not, but the damage was done, and their shot was spoiled as suddenly everything came into chaos. 

“Shit, he’s a warlock,” the deserter said, taking several steps backward as he fumbled with his sword. “He’s a—”

Simon didn’t let him get away, though, and matched him step for step, drawing his blade. There was no fear in him to slow him down, though, and he beat the other man for a draw, stabbing his sword through the other man’s chest before he could draw his own sword and parry. 

No, that wasn’t quite right, Simon realized as the man stumbled backward and onto the ground. He had brought his sword up in time, but Simon’s blade had cut right through it so easily that he hadn’t even noticed the resistance. That surprise was matched when he realized that he’d gone right through the man’s chain mail just as easily. 

“Woah,” Simon gasped in surprise, “What in the hell is this?”

He looked down at the blade for a moment. He had no time to study it in any detail now that the alarm had been sounded and people were moving on him, but he felt an overwhelming desire to do so just the same.

The blade’s scabbard had seen better days, but the weapon itself gleamed. He wasn’t even sure it was steel. There wasn’t a spot of rust on it, and the lines and runes that had been carved on it were clear and bright. No, they’re more than bright, he realized. There’s no light to reflect in this gloom. They’re glowing. 

At a glance, Simon didn’t recognize any new words of power. There was no word of vorpal or laser sword, but there was definitely more to learn once the fighting was done. Now, he had to turn to fight the other men who were running at him, and Simon turned to face them as the gleaming blue-gray lines shone across his magic sword. 

The first parry he made with the blade was almost his last, as it turned out. That wasn’t overconfidence or anything, not really. Instead, as he raised his blade to parry the overhand chop, he sliced right through the blade again, and the solider that he was fighting thrust the blade further in, taking advantage of the unexpected opening and striking a glancing blow that deflected painfully off of several ribs. 

Simon grunted in pain as he took the man’s head. If that warrior had been much better, he would certainly be dead by now. He considered using a healing spell, but he could still move well enough and didn’t want to be distracted while two more men drove toward him. 

This time, he didn’t parry with the edge. He used the side of the blade to block the blow of the first man’s broadsword before he cleaved off the arm that was wielding it with the counterstrike. While he tried to process what had just happened, the man behind him with a spear thrust forward. Rather than trying to dodge in his current state, he lopped the point of the spear and the foot of wood that followed it off directly. He still took a quarterstaff-like blow to the gut from the spear that doubled him over for a moment, but even as he grimaced in pain, he decided it had been the best choice. 

The spearman was looking at him warily now, but the swordsman was busy screaming in shock. “My hand, he took my fucking hand!” the man bellowed. 

Simon feinted at the spearman, grimacing himself from the sudden movement, but the man was smart, and even as he drew a dagger, he jumped behind his maimed companion. Simon took the opportunity to finish off the injured man with a quick thrust that ignored the pot helmet he was wearing. 

“There’s still time to run,” Simon said calmly. It wasn’t because he cared about his opponent's life, of course. It was because he could feel himself starting to run on empty. He was more tired than any spell warranted, and for a moment, he thought to blame the sword, but it didn’t feel like a magical drain. It was deeper than that. Bloodloss, he thought to himself. That only further increased his sense of urgency. 

“Why run when I could kill you and take your fancy sword, you devil,” the spearman answered, flashing him a smile that was missing a few teeth. “You might have some neat tricks, but you can barely reach me, can you?” As he spoke, Simon gave a few half-hearted slashes, but the man danced back out of reach. He might only be armed with a dagger now, but he also had a pretty good eye. 

“You think a Warlock can’t hit you for ten feet away?” Simon smirked, trying to decide if he wanted to waste on the spell. 

“Doesn’t matter,” the warrior spat. “I know my friends can reach you from there…”

Simon only had the barest urge to turn, but he resisted the oldest trick in the book, and he paid for it with an arrow in the back. “Fuck,” he growled, staggering back a couple steps as two others landed close by. He wasn’t alone, Simon remembered. He’d know his lightning probably hadn’t gotten all of them, but…

His opponent took that moment to strike, but Simon was ready for that one at least. Though he’d been looking intentionally weak, he had more than enough strength left to carve this guy up. He brought the sword up in a swing that took the warrior's arm at the elbow before he brought it down in a vicious strike that cut him in two from clavicle to groin. 

That was his last gasp, though, and he fell to one knee as he tried to survey his surroundings. There were still three left that he could see and maybe more that he couldn’t. 

For the moment, Simon ignored hypotheticals and dragged himself against the closest building as best he could. Then, once he had some cover, he tore open his shirt so he could get a good look at that wound. He healed it with a word of healing after only the quickest of inspections, opting to skip a minor word so that he could try to ease the blood loss rather than just close it. 

It worked, and he instantly felt better. The thing resulted in a jagged scar, and he doubted he’d healed all the musculature correctly, but right now wasn’t the moment to worry about such things. Instead, he slowly got to his feet and peeked around the corner, sword in hand. He would have preferred to heal his arrow wound, but the arrowhead had a barb on it, and there was no way he was healing it until he’d removed it. 

He saw all three advancing toward him but decided they weren’t grouped up quite closely enough yet. So, he retreated deeper into the ruins of the village, making noise as he went to try to get them closer together. 

“Surely we can talk about this,” he yelled, feigning weakness. “I’ve got coin!”

“We want your head, old man!” one yelled.

“You’ll pay for what you did to Trenton!” another called out. 

Despite their anger and his best efforts to act like he was bleeding out, they were still being extra cautious. That made sense since they had some idea of what his powers were, but even so, he found it to be frustrating as he weaved between buildings slowly while the arrow in his back dug ever deeper into his kidney. 

“I’m going to be pissing blood for a damn week,” Simon cursed as he tried to find the right vantage to strike them down. 

He jumped when a red light suddenly appeared behind him, sending a long silhouette out ahead of him. Simon spun around with blade in hand and found the portal he hadn’t even been looking for yet. 

He shook his head and turned away again. If the group had been the goal, then he was sure that this or the bridge they were going to cross had the portal he was looking for, but he still had three assholes to deal with, So if he bounced, he’d pretty much be guaranteeing himself that he’d have to do all this again next time. 

Still, now that he knew where the finish line was, though, he could afford to burn a little hard. Simon leaned around the corner and spotted where two of them were positioning inside a house on the far side of the square from him for some ambush. “Meiren!” he shouted, enveloping the entire interior of the place in fire before the roof fell in on them. They died screaming, but Simon didn’t care. He was already looking for his next, and hopefully final, target. 

Simon found him attempting to flee near the edge of the village. He would have let him go, too, except for the fact that the idiot was heading in the one direction he couldn’t allow. He was running right back to the retreating caravan. 

Simon sighed and finished the fight with another word of distant lightning. It wasn’t such a strong spell, but it made him see stars as his vision greyed out for a moment. By the time he recovered, the fleeing man was dead. 

So, Simon started back toward the portal he’d seen earlier. It looked nicer on the next level, and if he was about to cause himself unspeakable pain to heal up, he at least wanted to get out of the rain and mud.