The A-Team Sets Off

Captain Biggles Crispin leapt upon the back of his battle charger, Buttercup. Buttercup was a huge horse that stood 20 hands high and had a chest that would embarrass a Member of the Swendish Bikini Team. Those girls were busty. He was clad in gleaming silver armor and was covered in the blue and red caparison of the Attackian army. His shaffron bore the insignia of the House of Crispin, A dragon forcibly mounting a griffin from behind, with the looking none too happy for the union. An inscription written on a banner below the beasts read: Nos irrumabo nostris mortuus hostes. Some things are better left untranslated.

Biggles himself was a huge man. Blonde-haired and blue-eyed, with classic aquiline features. His skin was a toned bronze from years in the sun, but bore no wrinkles and showed no sign of aging. His muscles rippled like ocean water under a slight breeze, all on their own accord when he was stationary, and there was no doubt that he was a man not to be trifled with in the slightest way. He was a steely-eyed magic missile man.

His reputation was such that it not only preceded him it literally hired someone to ride ahead and announce his coming wherever he went. He didn’t crush his enemies; he pulped them into mush and served them to the few prisoners he took. His foes weren’t driven before him, they all caught rides and left the country before he arrived, and their women didn’t lament their departure or demise as he made sure that they never cried for the absence of their men. He was really nice about it too, because he paid attention to the skanks as much as he did the hotties. He saw no reason to make more lives miserable by ignoring ladies who had a hard time finding a man.

Behind the captain, on the back of a long-legged camel, rode the head of the Wizard's Council, Melmac the Alfish. He was clad in golden robes that were embroidered with silver threads depicting various sigils of power. He held in one hand a riding crop, and on his head was a towering pointed hat whose brim was so large it practically shaded his entire body from the sun. The top of the hat had bent slightly downwards as if it was slowly losing a battle with gravity. He had bent it to give his hat some flair, but it just made it look as if he’d ridden under a low hanging branch and hadn’t been able to duck his head down far enough. His beard was black and long, as was the mustache that overtook both sides of his lips. His eyes were shrouded in darkness.

Then came Cognac the barbarian, another brutish giant of a man who was covered in scars, most of them faded, indicating that they were earned a long time ago at a time he was younger and less experienced. The fact that he had no new ones spoke volumes for his prowess in both bed and battle, as he wore no shirt, nor armor of any kind. Save for some deerskin pantaloons, he wore nothing but weapons, not even boots or shoes of any kind. His head was shaven, as was his face. This was odd for a barbarian, but Cognac had learned long ago that an enemy could grab him by a handful of hair and leave him at a disadvantage. It was a trick he himself employed periodically. He rode on the back of a great dire wolf; that was the size of a large horse, and like him, it too bore many faded scars you just couldn’t see them under the fur. He was gray and black and slavered as he walked, just like his master, and snapped at anyone foolish or stupid enough to get too close. It was rumored that the creature’s name was Stark since you would have to be stark raving mad to get close to it, but that was unknown since Cognac never called to the beast. They seemed to share some sort of primal bond that allowed them to communicate without words.

The rear was brought up by a slight figure, the man known as the Albino Rodent. He was said to be so quiet he had snuck up on death himself and stabbed him in the back. Shadows, in defiance of the sun shining directly overhead, seemed to drape themselves around him. He wore an off-white cloak and cowl combo and yet was still hard to see in the direct sunlight. It was said that he wore two bandoleers which carried ten daggers each, that he had a dagger in each boot, one-up each sleeve, and four in the backside of his belt. He could pick any lock with barely a glance, and was believed to have killed the great Ogre general, Joxur the mighty, in his bed by slitting his throat while surrounded by five hundred bloodthirsty warriors. It should be noted that the warriors were not in the general’s bed. They were asleep on the floor.

Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.

The rodent rode a small gray mount, that was a quarter the size of Captain Crispin's steed, but this one seemed sly and fast; just like its owner. Beyond the shape of his cloak and a barely visible outline in the sun no other features of his could be determined. One would be hard-pressed to say with one hundred percent certainty that he was human, let alone a male. The rodent was an enigma that had been forgotten about and then when he was finally remembered it was too late to stop him.

As they moved out a rider came from the direction of the sun. He rode a black quarter horse. He was clad in green and brown clothing, had a quiver over his back, and carried an elvish bow in one hand. He was the elven ranger that men called Bugbear Bale, he was from the Elvish line Ko-dee, and so was known as Bugbear Bale, Bale, or Bale Kodine to his friends. And friends he had aplenty. The ranger knew every blade of grass, every tree, and every man, woman, or child in a one-hundred mile radius. He was a ranger, and so he ranged. He had gotten the nickname Bugbear because whenever something was killing a farmer's flock, or even farmers themselves, he would go out to hunt the bugbear, a term often used for an unknown monster, and he never failed to find his quarry.

It was said that he could track in the pitchest black, across barren rock, and through the thickest brush. Once he had your trail you would never escape him. On occasion, the army would hire him as a scout, and his reputation for bravery had soared thereafter. He had volunteered his services for this mission without needing to be asked. He was lean and wiry but carried the look of a hawk seeking its prey. His features were angular, high cheekbones pointed chin and ears. His hair was flaxen gold and his eyes a chestnut brown.

"Hail, Captain. Fair morn, to thee!" He shouted as he approached.

Crispin greeted him with a smile, "Captain," he said taken aback, "After all these years are we not friends enough for you to call me Biggles?"

The elf laughed liltingly, and it reminded Crispin of birdsong. "Indeed we are," the elf said as he drew up next to him, "but in the camp, I prefer to keep things disciplined."

"Bale, that is my concern. And I'll be damned if the men I am going to fight beside and possibly die with will call me captain." He smiled ruefully, "Besides, none of the rest of them are military anyway. I doubt I could get Cognac to call me captain, let alone sir." The elf nodded in understanding.

"How are things up ahead?"

The elf slid from his horse like water rolling down a log. He led the animal over to a trough for it to water. "I rode out early this morning. I looked things over for a number of miles in either direction. Our way is clear for now, but still treacherous nonetheless. I could smell orc and troll but never laid eyes on them and found neither spore nor tracks. Still, I know they were nearby."

How far away, the captain wondered. How long until we stumble into an ambush or find ourselves in an area that we a forced to traverse not knowing where we will end up. "Do you still have the map?"

The elf nodded and handed him a scroll case. "Take it. I've memorized it. You should have it in case anything happens to me." Crispin took it and slipped it into his left saddlebag, "We should start now. We still have the morning before us, and time demands a pace we cannot in good conscience deny."

The elf grimaced, "Aye, that' s the truth of it. And yes, in answer to your question, we need to leave now. As soon as my horse is watered, we must go. Our time frame demands no accounting for leisure. I fear our meals will come and go without notice. We shall have to eat in the saddle, and camp without fire. Sleeping," he said with a somber voice, “May be done in the saddle.

Without hesitation, the captain spun around and looked at his team. "Ready yourselves, we leave here in five minutes, we cannot spare a moment more. Every second we waste is a life that is lost, and that I will not have." He drew his golden sword, a magic blade that was rumored to whisper to him in battle, and held it before him, raising it to the sky. "I swear fealty you, you goodly gods of light. I know that you are abstaining from this battle, but in your names, I, and my fine and noble team, shall see Malus struck down for the final time." He put the sword away slowly and deliberately. Once he heard the guard clink against the scabbard he smiled. He loved to hear sword’s being sheathed in the morning.

Exactly five minutes later the company rode off into the morning sun. They carried on their shoulders the hopes, prayers, and dreams of every person in the realms of light, and they were emboldened by their responsibilities. They would not fail, no matter what fate said otherwise.