Silas Trip did not go by Silas. He’d considered changing his name when he escaped, but in the end, he simply chose a surname that he wanted to be known as. There were reasons for the name, but they were no one else’s business, not even for the other members of the 54th. At least the sergeant was smart enough to put him and Sharts our front. They were by far the quietest. It was embarrassing that it was the idiot Sharts who was blazing the trail markers for the others, but, to be fair, he clearly had the best idea of where an idiot would look for markers.
The two of them moved well together. It was...nice to have someone to watch his back, though the boxes were troubling him. He tried to put it to one side, but the label stung him in places the lash hadn’t.
Name: Silas Trip
Hit Points: 16
Species: Human
Strength: 18
Class: Barbarian
Dexterity: 14
Background: Ex-Slave
Constitution: 18
EXP: 0
Intelligence: 11
Level: 1
Wisdom: 9
Deity: Christian God
Charisma: 12
Age: 23
AC: 16
Skills: Athletics, Stealth, Intimidation, Survival, Martial Weapons, Firearms
Background Feature: Ex-Slave: Other slaves, or ex-slaves recognize a fellow spirit and are more likely to cooperate with you.
Species Feature: Human: You gain EXP faster and level faster than more long lived species.
Rage: Twice per long rest you may enter a rage, which increases your damage with melee weapons and makes you more resistant to enemy attacks.
Unarmored Defense: When not wearing armor, your AC uses your constitution bonus as well as your dexterity bonus.
Barbarian. Ex-Slave. And those numbers, summing up his entire being in six numbers. It reminded him of ugly history and cruel men, for he would call no man master, ever again, except in mockery.
Even Sharts got called a Ranger and a Farmer, when Idiot and Fool were more accurate. Though the boy could shoot…
Despite himself he gasped as the reached the edge of the treeline, moving into some of the brush and looking out. It was not the river that startled him. It was a mighty thing, yes, far wider than the ones he had swum on his way north, but it was just a river. What startled and even awed him, though he would never admit it, was the massive fist of rock, thrusting up out of the ground not a quarter mile from the river in the scrubland that bordered the river and offered little cover for their patrol. He had never seen it’s like. It punched up into the sky a distance he couldn’t be sure of. As his eyes rose further...he saw smoke. And his eyes picked out a winding path that circled around the edge of the massive outcropping. It didn’t seem to make it all the way to the ground, instead, breaking off most of the way down. Someone had started slowly piling up dirt and rocks at the base to rebuild the walkway. More proof, if such was needed that there were people here.
Indeed, he thought there was movement at the base, but it was further over, they’d need to either emerge, or sneak along the treeline to make it out, but one thing was obvious.
It was inhabited. They’d found people.
Schooling his features to the unconcerned sneer which usually came naturally, he nudged Sharts, “Whadda ya think, farmboy?”
Sharts knelt and scrapped up some soil. “G-g-g-good soil...but this close to the river? F-f-f-floods are no joke.”
“I meant about the folks up there?” Trip rolled his eyes at his friend, feeling more confident as their natural dynamic reasserted itself.
“Dunno.”
Trip reported back and then got the whole patrol moving along the treeline to where they’d spotted movement. It was hard to make out details at this distance, but figures were piling up rocks and using simple tools to dig up the soft dirt underneath, piling it up. More were seated around a fire, cooking something. It was hard to get a sense of scale, until one of the seated ones rose, revealing itself to be twice the height of the others.
Parent and children maybe.
Oh, and they were all green.
It was a mark of something that that wasn’t the first thing he noticed. They wore ragged clothing and the big one had a massive axe slung over its back, while the smaller ones seemed unarmed and almost naked, which supported his theory.
The way the big one held a joint of meat in one hand easily out of reach of the smaller figures...might have been teasing? But it did not feel that way. The smaller figures jumped, or several jumped, one fell to its knees, begging shamelessly and crawling forward, only to be kicked onto his back. The bigger creature laughed, loud enough to be heard despite the distance in the silence which was rippling through the group. Then he casually took a bite of the meat. The smaller figures stopped jumping and the one on the ground tried to rise, but seemed to be moving badly.
Trip recognized this. His hand fell to the bayonet still strapped to his thigh, while his other tightened on the butt of his rifle.
“Sharts, you still got the wrap for your uniform?” the sergeant asked, his voice low and ugly, but controlled. Trip had been so focused on the scene in front of him that he'd missed the others catching up.
“Yes, sarge?”
“Give it to me. Adams, get back to the field. Tell the colonel what we found and ask for reinforcements.”
The big creature kept eating until all that was left was a bone, then he flicked it to the smaller creatures, who started to fight over it, except the one who’d been kicked, which glared hatefully at the bigger creature. The distance was so great he couldn’t make out those details...but he knew.
The big creature lunged forward as the sergeant stabbed the paper with his own bayonet, creating an improvised white flag. Sharts raised his rifle, but the smaller creature fell back and the larger one laughed again, pulling back and turning around. It made it one step, then turned back as the smaller one must have said something and Trip knew he was about to witness a murder.
“With me Trip. No one fire unless we’re attacked,” the sergeant whispered and rose out of the bushes, waving his improvised white flag.
“Excuse me, we would like to peacefully negotiate an exchange of information,” he yelled as he walked out of the woods.
Trip swore silently. What were even the odds that any of these creatures spoke English? Oh, right, the ‘boon of translation…’ Well, he put that to one side as he hastily followed. He kept his rifle on his shoulder, though he did fix the bayonet as the pair of them advanced about fifty feet into the open. That still left another couple hundred, but the big creature which had been mocking the smaller ones was already approaching. A second leapt from the fire and moved with the first, a massive axe also on...her back. He was surprised to see an armed woman, but put it to one side.
Three more rose, drawing weapons, more axes but did not rush in. The two creatures which approached towered over the humans, even Trip, and he was a big man, but they were both taller than he. Closer to seven feet than six. Neither actually drew their axe, and in turn, Trip kept his weapon to his shoulder. The male growled something as he approached.
They definitely didn’t speak English, but the sergeant must have understood them. “I see. I am Sergeant Merriman, of the 54th Massachusetts. And who are your smaller compatriots?”
More growls and sneers, and hands were on the hafts of their massive axes.
“I see. So you’ve conquered this area and enslaved the locals...then you must have information regarding the region. We are newcomers here and—” the sergeant was interrupted by more growls. Though it was obvious he was mostly repeating what they’d said for the benefits of the audience.
“We are not attempting to—” more growls.
Merriman did not look merry. “Those aren’t spears. We are speaking under flag of truce, if you don’t—”
A growl and the axe spun free, chopping towards the sergeant. Trip was faster. He shot the creature, but its axe still smashed into Merriman and dropped him with that single blow and a sharp, cut off scream. A second shot rang out, Sharts, as the creature took it in the throat, toppling to his knees and then onto his stomach, without ripping its axe free, which meant the sergeant had a chance. Not a good one, but more of one than the massive creature dying on the ground in front of him. The muskets’ minie balls ripped small holes through his guts and throat, but had blown a massive hole in his back and almost taken his head off.
The woman screamed and lunged at Trip, her own axe free. He felt a scream rip past his own lips as rage bubbled up, speeding his movements. He ducked under her swing and smashed his bayonet into her stomach, twisting. He wanted to keep pushing. He wanted to go for the grapple, slam her to the ground and stomp her to death. He wanted—That Irish ass Mulcahy’s voice echoed in his ears from training En Garde. A meaty fist tried to grab him and he managed evade, as he pulled the blade back out. Thrust. The blade slipped into her chest with all the power his legs and back could deliver. Develop. It twisted easily in his hands, this was the work of his arms, the steel breaking bone as it carved a bloody cavity in her chest, sliding through the hide armor she wore easily. En Garde. The blade slid out. Despite the two gaping wounds, she wasn’t dead, still trying to attack, a foot rose in a frantic kick, which hit nothing but air and sent her sprawling onto her black, blood leaking from her wounds.
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He wanted to finish her. He wanted to stomp her throat, or stab down with his blade, but Sergeant Merriman was lying on the ground, clutching his wound, whimpering like a kicked dog, and there were three more massive figures, all staring and already beginning their charge. Part of him thought he could take them, but not without leaving the sergeant exposed. Instead, he cursed to himself and grabbed the other man’s collar, glad they’d both dumped their packs before coming out here and ran for the treeline. Besides Sharts, they wouldn’t dare fire with the two of them in the way, so they needed to get out of the way.
He hauled the other man straight back, moving quickly. They were fast, faster than he, even if he hadn't been burdened by Merriman, but their distance was greater. The sound of their howling war cries behind him itched at his back, made him want to turn and fight. It wasn’t the famous rebel yell that had broken and fled from them a few days earlier, but it was a war cry and it was his turn to flee and that burned him.
Until a command snapped from the woods, Corporal Stilles’ order was sharp. “Ready.”
Eighteen rifles rose, bayonets gleaming and visible. They had split around his path, none closer than fifteen feet. He kept running, though the warcry behind him heightened in pitch and the enemy accelerated further, howling their strange growling words that he could not understand.
“Aim.”
Trip kept running, almost to the treeline.
“Fire.”
The noise was deafening, smoke filled the air and Trip spun, lifting his own, still empty rifle, only to find three corpses on the ground. The slaves had fled and there was no way to communicate with them, even if they were here, what with Sergeant Merriman still having an ax in him. Say this for the other man, he’d held onto his gun, even if the makeshift white flag was stained with dirt and blood.
Trip bent over him, doing his best to bind the sergeant’s wound. He didn’t dare remove the ax. In his youth, he’d seen a man half-crushed by a wagon. He’d lived until they moved the wagon and all the blood in his body had raced out faster than a good piss could empty a bladder.
At least he owed it to the man to see if he could keep him alive until someone who knew the right prayers for the dying arrived. The Colonel surely would. He was learned like that. Dumb as a stump and ignorant as a stone in other ways. But he was learned like that. Trip had no fear working on the man at the edge of the treeline, for the soldiers of the 54th moved past him, weapons reloaded and ready for any attack. Except Sharts, who was still in the treeline, waiting for any movement. That must have been ordered, because he knew it to be true, but he had no recollection of it, he’d been too focused on his own part of the battle.
It was an annoyingly long time before the second party showed up. The corporal had put his original group to work. There were sentries posted, a group had checked the base camp, finding only a fire, a spit and the source of the joint of meat, a giant rat of all things. One of their number had vomited at the mere sight of the thing. Trip had laughed to himself when he heard that. He’d eaten rat before. Though never a giant one.
Another group pulled all the bodies together and had searched them. There were some jokes and some discomfort about the fact that two of them proved to be women. Trip didn’t see the concern himself, if someone was coming at you with an axe, they were coming at you with an axe. Weapons were the great equalizer...if you had them and the great oppressor if you didn’t. It takes more than a weapon to make a soldier, boy, Mulcahy’s brogue echoed in his ears, but he pushed the voice aside.
They made a pile of axes, four massive things which it would take two hands to wield lay, to one side. And another lay in Merriman's side. Heh. But besides those weapons all they found was some badly preserved meat, a few hunting trophies, claws and teeth and the like, a handful of silver, or copper coins with no symbols anyone recognized. The only thing each of them had was some strange amulet of carved bone, each different but showing the same symbol. An eye.
The men who’d done the searching grumbled about that, calling it a heathen or heretic symbol, but no one actually knew anything. It was all piled up for the Colonel and the men who’d touched them made sure to volunteer for the trip to the nearby river, and washed their hands thoroughly before returning.
The others were talking about other things as well...mainly how fast they’d reloaded their guns. They’d been well drilled and well practiced, they could fire three volleys a minute, which was the expected rate for good troops. But their hands had flown through reloading so fast that men were boasting that they could put five, or even ten shots in a target in a minute. The corporal didn’t let them waste the ammunition, though he didn’t mention it, running out was obviously a concern. No one wanted to try to fight more giant, green, ax wielding monsters with a bayonet. Except Trip.
The whole time Trip had to sit there with the sergeant, holding his hand and letting the other man blather on about his life, his dreams, his girl and how much getting a giant ax smashed into you by an equally giant monster hurt.
Trip hated this. Yes, yes, he’d want someone to do it for him, if he were in the other man’s...extremely fine shoes, shoes which matched his own. The finest he’d ever had. Though he'd paid for his more than this soft sergeant had. Well, that wasn't true, they'd both paid with everything they had, in the end, that's how they ended up here. He tried to remember what the man said as he asked for reassurances and for messages to be passed, but even as he tried, he could not suppress his irritation fully. He wanted to be finding his way up onto that fist of stone, where he was sure there would be more slavers. There were ropes leading down from where the stone path broke...but the corporal simply set guards and kept Sharts watching, he didn’t try to climb them.
Even Trip had to admit there was sense in that. None of their weapons would help if someone dropped a rock on their head as they climbed, or wormed their way on their belly down the path and cut the ropes. Indeed, three times rocks were hurled from the top of the outcrop, down towards the sentries and scouts. There would have been many more, but Sharts finally caught one of them and a single shot had taken the monster cleanly through the head, sending him plummeting over the side to, well, burst on the riverbank. After that, they tried chucking rocks, but only blindly from behind the lip of the outcrop, which accomplished little other than making everyone keep a close eye on the sky.
Finally, the Colonel arrived with reinforcements, almost three full squads, including the old man, with the bookworm right behind him. He moved directly towards them and grabbed the sergeant’s unwounded side. Light glowed from his hand and the ax slid out of the wound of its own accord as the wound sealed itself. The sergeant wasn’t fully healed, but he had gone from 'definitely going to die' to an ugly, but mostly sealed wound across his torso. Both of them stared at the Colonel in shock. He shrugged, uncomfortable with their stares and Trip forced the awe out of his eyes. “Neat trick.”
“Gift from the boxes. I can only do it once a day. What happened, sergeant?” he asked.
Did he see how the man straightened at that? At being treated like a soldier? Like a man? Not an invalid, or a beast—a tiny whisper in the back of his mind said ‘or a monster’ and tugged his attention towards the corpses which now numbered six, though one was in rather worse shape than the rest. The Colonel was a learned man, surely he could learn and had learned. Was this a trick? Manipulation? A plan? Hard to know...but he’d seen the man charge the slaver lines and die for it...if it was a trick, it was the best one Trip had ever heard of.
“Saw two groups at the ramp. One doing all the work, one tormenting the other. There was...an incident. The big ones, called themselves ‘the Stormclaw Orcs’ said they’d conquered this place and enslaved the ‘goblins’. They were littler and doing all the work.”
“And taking the kickings,” Trip muttered.
The sergeant belatedly realized he was still holding Trip’s hand and released it, a little guiltily. He started trying to rise, but winced as the wound tensed. “You aren’t fully healed, stay down. We’ve got others with healing abilities, but they’re still figuring them out, or lack some required component.”
“Yes, sir. I tried to negotiate with them, but they thought my questions were an attempt to scout for some other group and decided to attack.”
The Colonel’s face was carved from that fancy white stone he’d seen on statues, “Despite the flag?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Did they know what it meant?”
“I said truce, they came to us.”
“I see. Continue.”
“They attacked. I got hit. Trip saved my life, killed ‘em brought me back here. The boys took out the rest when they charged.”
“The goblins?”
“Scarpered in the confusion,” Trip cut in, as the sergeant didn’t know.
The Colonel nodded. “More up there?”
“We think so, sir,” the sergeant said.
The Colonel looked at the bookworm. “Still think your trick’ll do it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then get to work. Trip, watch his back.”
“Yes, sir!” they both snapped off salutes, which were returned in kind.
“Sir,” Trip heard the sergeant say quietly. “They recognized us as humans—” Thomas moved away before he could hear the rest, but he didn’t need to. It was one of the things Trip had been going to report to the Colonel after the sergeant died. Phrased almost the same way too, he did remember what the rest of it would be “….though it took a while...they spoke of us like I might speak of demons. Something I knew existed but have never seen, or sought to see. I don’t think there’s any actual humans anywhere near us.”
He wanted to know how the Colonel would react to that, but he kept his eyes forward, watching the bookworm’s back. What he was going to do about a mountain was something he was curious about. He frankly doubted the man would even be able to climb the ropes. Especially with his injured shoulder—though the man had fought on, despite the injury, killing a slaver who’d got the drop on Trip himself. So, he’d watch the bookworm's back. He owed him at least that much.
So, he was watching carefully when the bookworm just pointed at an area near the ramp the slaves had slowly been constructing and a square of dirt simply rose out of the ground and slid forward, following his finger. The man turned to face him and Trip felt his jaw going slack. He tried to force it into his usual knowing smirk, but he’d only barely kept himself from flinching back at the blatant display of...magic? Witchcraft? This wasn’t like what the Colonel had done. Healing hands were something he’d heard about, even if he thought them the realm of charlatans or madmen. But this…
This wasn’t witchcraft. Witchcraft was a sneaking poisonous thing by all accounts. This was something else. Something new. Just like the ‘orcs’ and ‘goblins’…the bookworm’s smile was so broad that Trip had to do something about it. He managed a sneer. “Only that much? Here I thought your brain was stronger than my back! I could lift that much dirt, no problem!”
That...was a lie. And he knew it. But he was holding onto his cynicism and certainty with his fingernails, even after seeing the reward for trying to be what they wanted him to be was getting ripped in half by a goddamn cannon, his stupid heart wanted him to still be that man.
The bookworm laughed and moved his finger, sending the earth he’d lifted gliding over the ground until it got to the base of the ramp and dumped it, then back to the start. Another chunk of earth rose and moved smoothly to its new destination forming the bottom layer of the end of the ramp. Well, that explained the Colonel’s plan. He wasn’t going to climb the ropes, it was going to be a march after all. The boxes of dirt didn’t remain in that shape once dumped, instead slumping to the side, without support, but that was fine, it should mean they marched up a slope not clambering up repeated neck high steps, like the whole thing was stairs built for a giant.
More rocks were occasionally tossed over the side, but whatever the bookworm was doing was quiet enough and the enemy wasn’t willing to stick their head over the side of the outcrop and risk the wrath of Sharts. That thought almost made Trip chuckle, the wrath of a stammering field hand kept those big, bad slavers hiding in their homes, blindly throwing rocks in a hopeless bid to hurt an enemy they were too scared to even look at.
“Woulda been damn useful to have this talent when we were diggin’ back in Carolina. You coulda done all the diggin’ for the whole regiment.”
“And deny you the chance to show off those big muscles of yours to those white boys marching past? Who else would give you an excuse to show them how much bigger you are?”
Trip chuckled. The bookworm had learned to bite back. Sharts hadn’t, but Sharts’ problem was that he was nice, the bookworm’s problem—Thomas’s problem was that he was soft. And that was fixing itself right nicely.
Finally, he asked the obvious question. “Why are you pulling dirt from so far away?”
“If I pull it from right next to where we’re dumping it, the whole thing may collapse.”
“Fine, pull it from twenty feet out, not a hundred! You like walking that much?”
“Look at where I’m pulling from,” Thomas said, making it a puzzle, which he hated, or a challenge, which he hated even more.
It took a few minutes, but then it was obvious. They weren’t just building a ramp, they were also making a trench! It would surround the bottom of the ramp, leaving room for walls, then it was cutting along the side, heading for the river. That was a long way to go, but not if you could just point at the dirt and it would move for you! The implication was clear, they were taking this place over and fortifying it into a base.
He sneered, “And what if the locals don’t want us sticking around?”
“Then they’ll have a better fortified home when we leave. But they obviously need help and protection and we need a base and someone who knows what’s safe to eat in these woods. Sounds like a match made in heaven to me.”
“We’ll see.” Trip looked up as the dirt pile continued to grow. The outcrop was shorter than he’d thought, only about 2-300 yards, but he’d have still thought it would take the entire regiment days to rebuild the broken path.
Instead, it was done in hours, all by one person.
The Colonel gave his orders. The three best sharpshooters were going to be escorted by the rest of a squad led by some dickhead corporal and circle around the ‘mesa’ as he called it, picking off any orcs who tried to rain rocks down on them from above, or set up ambushes on the path. A second, under the old man’s command would hold the ditch that was now carved at the base, in case of any attempted ambush and guarding the still injured sergeant. The bookworm would stay with them, continuing to construct his ditch.
The rest of them would be heading up. With the men he’d brought, that was almost thirty soldiers, marching two abreast. The first would be the Colonel...and Trip. With the color sergeants a few ranks back. The orders were simple, if the enemy allowed them to the top, whether to talk or to prepare an ambush, they would form a firing line and await further orders. If they tried to block the top of the mesa, then first squad would engage the blockers, second squad would clamber up the side of the path to the top, while third covered them, then third would follow. They’d clear the enemy out and let first advance.
They advanced in...well, not silence, thirty men marching is not quiet endeavor. And the path was hardly perfect. Once it turned to rock, things were straightforward, but the piled up loose earth compacted slowly under their feet and every so often men had to pause to pull themselves free. But it did not take long to climb and they managed not to lose anyone over the edge.
Trip carefully took the position on the inside, not next to the sheer fall, unprotected by even a fence. He was not afraid. He was not afraid of anything. And certainly not something as simple as heights. It was just...not something he had experience with. Like this ‘spell’ business. It was entirely sensible to be cautious about new experiences.
It was even more sensible to keep your eyes firmly on the road ahead, which men might come from.
It was only natural that he jumped at the sound of a gunshot down below. Many people flinched and looked around, which only stopped with the welter of blood and brain rained down on the path in front of them and they looked up to see the corpse of the orc who’d poked his head over the edge to see what was coming and gotten shot for it. He didn’t fall, obviously, as only his head was sticking over the edge. Then he did, as a growl came from above and someone clearly pushed the corpse from behind, causing it to fall across the narrow path.
Trip and the Colonel pushed it to one side, but not off the edge altogether. Trip wanted to, but a sharp look from the Colonel stopped him and they continued the last few steps to right below the lip of the mesa. They bent slightly, advanced and poked their heads up above the edge to see what awaited them. Trip didn’t wince from it, or from the Colonel’s grip on his shoulder. He doubted the other man even thought Trip might be afraid, instead he was clearly seeking to comfort himself in the face of this by reminding him of the caliber of man he had under his command.