The Z Team Assembles

Outfitted in the best armor that the supply sergeant felt that he could spare for a suicide mission, the team went to the livery to get their mounts. Brambly had been given a set of full plate armor that actually fit his thin frame. The supplier had told him it had been meant for boys between the ages of twelve to fourteen to train in, and that it was mostly there to prepare them to handle the weight of real armor later and that he shouldn’t count on it to stop a real blow. The others were similarly equipped, the exceptions being Enaht and Mistah Rogahs. Neither of them felt that there was anything they needed.

Rogahs didn’t wear armor, and already had weapons that he preferred and Nosnhoj was a mage that really had no need for martial items. Lemmy had taken a spiked spaulder for his right shoulder but that had only been because it gave him, as he explained, a bitchin’ look, and Gluten had taken a wooden staff that now seemed to be budding with green leaves. Brambly had his own sword and shield, the latter of which was strapped on his back, hidden beneath his blue cloak. Aside from Deflemmy, none of them looked like the hope of the world rested on their shoulders. Def was totally bitchin’ in his new spaulder. Rather than looking like the final hope of the world they looked like they were what gave the world constipation. It was something that they could each live with, as none of them particularly gave a shite what the world thought of them.

It was at the livery that Brambly saw his father, the General, waiting for him. There was a tent set up beside their mounts, which Brambly recognized as the briefing tent. The tent was a mobile entity that went where it was needed. On occasion the tent was told where to go, and the troops followed after it. It was enchanted to make it so the command tent didn’t have to constantly taken down and then reset whenever camp was struck; and was often seen walking from one destination to another on its own. It could be disconcerting to see a tent crawling about like a giant caterpillar at first, but the shock quickly wore off after the third or fourth time that you saw it. After that it was just as normal as seeing one of the men relieving themselves on the roadside, only not as disgusting.

Entering the tent, Brambly and his crew found themselves surrounded by a large oval table. They were all trapped on one side, while all of the top brass in the camp were on the other. Brambly’s father was in the center of the officers and his eyes were glued on the table before them. The tabletop was covered by different colored miniatures that Brambly recognized as being representatives of armed forces. He noted the counters that stood for their troops and the ones that signified those of the opposing army. The “other guys” side made his side look like a couple of bears that had opted to take on every bee in the world all at once. The general’s voice broke the silence that had filled their ears since they had entered the bivouac.

“There are,” he said gravely, “One hundred times more of them this afternoon than there were this very morning.” His head dropped in shame, mostly because when he had given this speech to Biggles and his squad things didn’t look so hopeless, and he realized that they were all involved on a fool’s errand. He saw no reason to lie to the Z team. As far as he was concerned, they were already dead. The most he could hope to do was to have them actually succeed at their task and distract the slavering hordes of Inhumans from Biggle’s squad. He felt that if there was even a one percent chance that they might actually manage to accomplish their mission was enough of a reason to carry on the charade. If his son’s team did their part then Biggles and his people were the ones that were going to make the rest of it happen. He might as well paint a bleak picture for the men and woman before him, so that they might, at the very least, feel like their sacrifices would count for something.

“The orcs, goblins, trolls, buggabears, hobs, and others of similar ilk have all rallied under the banner of the dark master Malus.” He gestured at the table, “As you can see, their numbers are nearly infinite. There is no way that we can stand against them.”

Enaht peeked over the top of his book, glanced at the table, shrugged, and raised his tome back up so that he could continue reading. Rogahs gave a toothy smile and subconsciously began stroking the axes hanging at his side. Lemmy just stared at the table blankly, a dull glazed look in his eye; while Flower kept hopping up trying to get an eyeful of what the table held. Brambly’s left eye began to twitch and his hands began to shake uncontrollably. To his credit, he clenched his hands which only made him take on an air of impatience.

“You,” the general practically shouted as he looked at his son’s squad, “Are our only hope.” His eyes, full of tears that were held back by an iron will bore into Brambly’s soul.

The quivering in his hands decided to relocate to his lips and Brambly managed to squeak out a high-pitched, “M-m-m-me?” His eyes bugged out and his hair became even frizzier than before moving from a Bob Ross style into looking like what could best be described as a long-haired cat that had been struck by ball lightning puffball.

The general grew red-faced, “Yes, you! You dunderhead. You and your cracked . . . ,” he paused and drew a breath to calm himself down, “. . . Er, crack squad of soldiers here are the only chance we have.”

Brambly’s face became pinched, but his eyes still struggled to escape their sockets. He sucked air in and out of his nose rapidly until he began to relax. His eyes slowly receded back into their sockets, his hair gradually began to curl back into a perm-like state, and his shaking reduced itself to a manageable level. He was always nervous and high-strung, so his body never really entered into a complete state of rest. Minor tremors were the best he would ever be able to achieve in an un-panicked state.

“Really?” Brambly gulped.

The general nodded. “Yes. Intelligence has learned of an item that will destroy Malus forever. It must be taken into Moredoom and placed into a pool of sacred water. The token, which we believe is actually Malus’s black soul made solid, will melt from the purity of the water. Its destruction will kill Malus.”

Lemmy broke out of his self-imposed glaze. His eyes wandered to the general’s face, drifted a little further left, and then ho9ned back in on their target. “So, wot’cher sayin’ is, izzat you expect us ta just walk into Moredoom, after sneakin’ past all them buggers there,” he said pointing to the myriad black tokens on the tabletop, “find us some magical pool and melt the soul of that guy there,” he asked as he pointed at the red skeletal figurine that represented Malus. “Like, ya know ya just don’t walk into Moredoom, right?” He took a deep breath to calm himself. No one noticed that he wasn’t mumbling anymore.

“Suh,” Bristol said with disdain as he eyed the roguish bard, “We expect yew to do your job.” That last b in the word job that Bristol exhaled bounced off of his lips and rebounded around the room like an angry . . . wasp. “It’s all in a day’s work.”

“Oh,” he said sarcastically, “I fought you just wanted us ta do sumfin impossible.” He reached around his back and whipped his lute around and began to strum its strings. His voice came out like a wolf howling with a throat full of broken glass and his leg caught in a snare. So guttural was his vocals that the first line of his song could not be deciphered by any who heard it.

*Raaaaaawwwwrrrrrcha Raaaaaaaawwwwwchhhaaararee*

Pressed into service of a general so callous

Who’d sent a buncha nobodies off to fight Malus,

A suicidal squad of some ill-repute,

whose survival was considered a point most moot.

RaaaaaaaaaCHhhhhhaaaaaaAAAAA!

Their goal was to just walk into Moredoom,

But they preferred instead to die of boredom,

So they opted to . . .

Bristol stepped forward and drove his knee into Lemmy’s crotch, but that only made him sing an octave higher.

I wuz told by a mustache

That I could kiss his ash,

I said I’m not the kinda guy,

To love ‘em, leave ‘em, and die!

Undeterred, the mustache that had joined the military, shot a fist into the bard’s solar plexus, knocking the man onto his rear end with the accompanying twang of a broken string.

The general didn’t even pause as the bard dropped to the floor. “We have found a secret route into Moredoom, and have the very token that I spoke about minutes ago. You are to follow the path we have laid out, and when you arrive at the sacred pool you are to melt that blaggard’s bloody soul.” He made a great show of hefting the aforementioned soul token into the air and waved it about for all to see. Then, without hesitation, he threw the icon onto the table and knocked down the black pieces as if he’d fired a cannonball at them. “With Malus dead, the remains of his army will scatter. They need an iron hand to control them.” He picked up one of the black pieces and held it before his eyes, “You cut off the head . . .,” he started to say but was interrupted by Mistah Rogahs.

The burly barbarian screamed, “Cut off his head! Bathe in his blood, then quarter the bastard, an’ eviscerate ‘is bowels! Crush the head between your hands like a ripe melon; pulp, pulp pulp!” Rogahs acted each gruesome action out in a very graphic way. “Then, you grab his privates an ya,” he was interrupted as the general yelled, “Stop! Enough! I’m glad you see my point.” He gulped as he looked at the hulking bearded barbarian who was frozen mid-pose in a gesture that looked similar to pulling a rather resistant carrot from the ground with both hands.

The dwarven girl, Gluten, eyed the big barbarian hungrily, Lemmy began to pull himself up off the ground, and Enaht continued to read yet another book that was so small it barely filled his hand, Brambly noted, the title being Codex Gigas in minima forma. Things were already spiraling out of control and they weren’t even out of the command tent. He was the person in charge of this mission, and it was high time he acted like it!

“C’mon, guys. Cut it out.” He said firmly.

His people looked at him. It was as if a magic spell had been cast on them; they stopped and paid attention to everything he said.

“First, Lemmy, that was a great song. Let’s save those vocal cords for when we need them. Rogahs, I like the attitude, save it for the hordes. Enaht, good to see you studying. Keep researching. Gluten, good energy! Right now, though, we need to focus on saving the world!” He said each of the last three words separately and with enough emphasis that it almost felt like he had control of the situation.

Rogahs farted.

“Sorry,” he said with a grin.

The command tent emptied as everyone inside evacuated as they gagged to get a breath of clean air. Everyone except for Def Lemmy, who had been too close and passed out when the gas overtook him.

“Corporal,” the general said with a huff, “Get your people on the road. The briefing is over.” He handed his son the fake token that represented Malus’s soul and told him where to meet their guide, a man named Larch, and then left; still gagging as he went.

Bristol took a few moments to fill Brambly in on the more important details as they were given mounts at the livery. Brambly was given a standard horse, while the others were all given mules to ride. Mistah Rogahs and Enaht had their own steeds. Rogah’s was an impressive black stallion that was battle-scarred, and Brambly swore had fangs; while the orc wizard unrolled a flying carpet, climbed to its center, and began reading once more. Occasionally the orc would trace mystic sigils in the air with a finger as he took notes, but otherwise, he was so quiet you wouldn’t even know he was there.

An hour later, Brambly and company arrived at the designated location that they were to meet their guide, Mr. Larch. He called a halt and attempted to dismount. His effort to lower himself in a smooth and dignified manner was thwarted by fate smacking him on the back of the head. He fell from the equine and landed in a heap beside it; his armor clanging and resounding noisily. Though the horse had only been with him for a matter of hours it had already been infected by Brambly’s nervousness and bolted into the woods while the din of the armor still hung in the air.

The armor, though slight and light of make, proved too heavy for him to recover from his prone position. The man rolled and rocked like a turtle stuck on its back until Mistah leaned over and set him upright as one might do to a small doll. He even went so far as to dust him off. Flower leaped from her horse, ran her tongue over the palm of her right hand, and flew into Brambly all in a single motion. She wrapped he legs around his chest, and threw her unslobbered hand over his shoulder, and proceeded to wipe her wet hand over his face in an effort to clean the dirt from him in the same manner a mother would her child.

Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation.

She stared into his eyes and said, “I don’t ‘ave to use my ‘and if you don’t want me to.” Brambly wondered what she would use if not her hand and his mind went to some places that it only went in the middle of the night during a thunderstorm.

Brambly could feel a small earthquake building up deep within his core. The fault line of his small intestine and large intestine moved opposite of one another, and he knew he wasn’t just going to start shaking; he was going to have a full-on spaz attack the likes of which he hadn’t seen since primary school when one of the bullies were going to beat him up for bringing in a soup sandwich for lunch. Reflexively, his hands pried the small girl from his body and held her away from him, in the same manner, you would a baby that had just wet itself.

“N-n-no, thanks.” He gently lowered her to the ground, and she gave him a seductive look, and said, “Ah, you wish for me to continue this later, when we are alone, no?”

The quake was an eight-point nine on the Brambly scale when it struck. The epicenter was located precisely at his belly button and radiated outward to his limbs at the unstoppable speed of fear. Fear, most people don’t often realize, is far faster than thought. People in dire situations, i.e., those who are in fear of their lives, often have no idea of what is going on but will find that their feet and body have already taken measures to move them away from the unknown danger. People who think too much don’t often survive surprise encounters. Those people whose fight or flight response has been limited to a singular option; specifically, that of flight might run away at the slightest noise but also tend to be the last person standing when things went down. Brambly was one of those latter people. His body never did what he told it to do.

In fact, he had learned that when he tried to face his fears his body would always do the opposite of what he wanted it to. If he wanted to charge ahead, he ran away. If he wanted to stab, then he parried or blocked. Just trying to walk towards an enemy would cause him to trip, slip, or suddenly suffer hysterical blindness. They don’t make corrective lenses that will cure that particular ocular ailment.

Brambly was self-aware enough of his situation that he knew that he was going to start kicking, spinning, and flailing about that it might demoralize his squad so he did the only thing he could think of; he started swearing.

“Sassafras! Mothersmucker! Kitty whiskers!” Flower gasped at that last one but he ignored her consternation and continued his stream of profanity, “Pediculous bescumbered coccydynia!” Mistah Rogahs began scratching his head in confusion at the bombastic verbal outburst but began to chortle at Brambly’s display of colorful words and phrases that were never used in polite conversation. Nosnhoj completely ignored the spectacle, and Def Lemmy was still quite passed out on his mule and snoring gently.

Then the shaking began and Brambly began to gyrate and spin like a man on a bucking bull that had stayed up all night and did nothing but drink coffee. To an unfamiliar eye, it looked like the spasming man was cursing the gods, fate, or his sore bum from the long ride. In actuality, his chicken dance had completely taken control of him. “Razzumfrazzum,” he roared and kicked a fist-sized rock from the ground into a set of bushes about thirty feet away.

The stone landed with a thump and a cry of pain issued from the shrubberies. The unexpected noise startled Brambly enough that it quelled his body quake, relieving him of several hours of back wrenching spasms. He stared wide-eyed as a dark figure rose from behind the plants rubbing its head.

“Oi, who the hell threw a bloody rock at my noggin?” It was a reedy voice with a guttural accent that drifted from the bushes; which told Brambly that the man, for it was a man who was speaking, had been raised in Gutterall. Gutterall was a filthy country that was in such as state of decline and disarray that no other adjoining countries would invade it. In fact, they tended to move their borders inward and away from Gutterall leaving it encompassed by a no-man’s land buffer of ground. It was said to be so filthy there that rats and cockroaches often entered the country as tourists and loved it so much they decided to say. Rumor had it that one city had made a garbage heap its mayor, and to their surprise, it had done exceedingly well in running the municipality. The deputy mayor was an insectoid, as in a humanoid insect of the dung beetle variety; that had drug problem. Only proving that one could sink lower than being a who lived in and upon filth.

Brambly called for the others to dismount, and they all obeyed with the exception of the mage, who remained upon his flying carpet, and Def, the death metal bard, who was still fast asleep on his ass. The beanpole figure of the newly minted corporal, armor sparkling in the sun, pointed in the direction of the dark figure and said, “Let’s go!”

The shadowy figure stood stock still as the trio approached. Brambly could make out a look of apprehension on the man’s face, as if he wanted to bolt but realized that their horses could run him down before he got very far. To his side, Rogahs was slowly slipping one of his axes from his belt, a toothy smile growing on his face as he did so. The top of Flower’s staff was sprouting giant thorns and roses. He noticed that she was slapping the staff against the palm of her hand in a manner that that yelled, “Bring it on, ya Bastich!” Brambly found her stance extremely disconcerting even though he didn’t know why it bothered him so much. Maybe, he considered, it was because he’d never seen her as threatening up until now. The contrast between her and Rogahs was obvious, one was huge and imposing, and the other was fookin’ scary.

They came upon the man and found him dressed in black robes and leather armor, complete with a hood, and several daggers hanging from his belt. His face was dirty and unshaven, but not in the beard stage. His facial hair was straggly and patchy in some places. His left eye was milky white and bore a long white long faded line that had once been a bloody scar. He flashed them a furtive smile, exposing a set of summer teeth. Some were here and some were there, but most were missing. To say he had more gap than he had teeth would have been an accurate statement.

Brambly’s eyes drifted away from the man’s smile defensively and instead fell upon the body lying at his feet. Technically, his eyes tripped over the body as they again tried to stop looking at it and turned his head towards the dwarf girl, Flower. She caught his peeking at her and took it to be interest, so she ran her tongue over her upper lip and stared at him hungrily. That action reset his eyes to fall upon the body on the ground. There was a dagger sticking out of one eye, a dagger that matched another dagger that dangled from the belt of the man with the colored challenged clothing.

The corpse, he noted, was dressed in the uniform of an Attackian scout. Brambly whispered, “Mister Larch,” and the man in black responded with a, “What?”

His “what” was not a response in the same way that you would respond to someone calling your name. That kind of a “what” has more of an “Mmmm” to it, as in what do you want or how can I help; the “what” that the man in dark clothes gave was more of a Huh? Are talking to me? The way in which he responded was irrelevant because Brambly took it to be the former and not the later kind of “what”.

Brambly looked to the man standing over the body, “You’re Mister Larch?”

The other man took a moment, was about to say something, stopped, began again, stopped once more, gave it some thought, and then firmly replied, “Yes, I am. Although I prefers ta be called The Larch.”

Rogahs stepped passed Brambly and pointed his ax in the self-proclaimed Larch and asked, “Ach, if yer Larch, and tha’ man isn’t then why is he in a uniform and yer not?”

The straggly bearded Larch gulped, took about thirty seconds to consider the question, and looked the barbarian in the eye and said. “I, uh, switched clothes.” His hand raised to his neck and his index finger pulled his collar from his neck.

“Changed yer clothes? Why inna hell wouldja do tha’?”

His eyes shifted back and forth as if he was scanning the area for something. “Well, I figured that there might be more of them ninja-like blokes roamin’ the area, and the best way ta avoid them would be if they thought I wuz one’s them.”

Flower spoke next, eying the man suspiciously, she added, “If you switched clothes then why does that uniform fit him? He’s clearly four inches taller than you.”

Again, the man in black retorted, only this time he was on a roll and did not hesitate, “Hey, you know the military. My bloody uniform never did fit me right. I always had to roll up me pant legs and sleeves. Honestly, I saw an opportunity to finally get some clothes that fit and took it. Surely you won’t begrudge a man that?”

Lips puckered, Brambly stepped up to the self-proclaimed Larch, “If you are Larch, what is your mission?”

The newly minted Larch smiled inwardly. He had already cleaned out the pockets of his victim and had read the orders. He kept a straight face and said, “My orders are to locate one Corporal Brambly Pipes and company, and escort them into a location behind enemy lines using all of my years of expertise as a scout and a tracker.”

Brambly nodded, that was exactly what they had told him in his briefing. He had no reason to believe that this man was saying anything but the truth, after all, who would claim to be that which they were not? Why would this man want to go into Moredoom? No rational person would, so he had to be under orders. Hell, Brambly was under orders and he didn’t want to go there. “So, you know the way there?”

Larch nodded. “I could find my way there in the dark and hanging upside down while on fire.”

A sigh of relief escaped Brambly’s lips knowing that they were able to continue their mission; then he stole a sharp intake of air when he realized that they were going to go into Moredoom after all. There was no reason to celebrate it all that much. He had been secretly hoping that Larch had been killed so they could have turned around and went back to the camp to relay the bad news. Now he was on a collision course with the dark lord Malus and his intestines rumbled at the thought. He was going to have to watch his diet, his bowels rolled on him a lot.

“Are you ready to go,” Brambly asked. Larch considered the question and responded, “I, uh, just have to finish loot . . . retrieving my belongings from my uniform and I’ll be all set.” Brambly grimaced, “You have five minutes, then nip it in the bud. We have a schedule to keep. Five and then nip it.”

“In the bud, yassir,” Larch nodded and set to work checking the dead man’s pockets for anything he could find. He smiled as he rifled through the clothes. Looting a corpse was more fun than opening gifts on Yule Morn. He never got gifts on Yule. Pockets and dead people tended to sprout up around him wherever he went so that everyday was like Yule for him.

Def Lemmy picked that moment to wake up. He tottered in the saddle but caught himself before he hit the ground. It did not escape Brambly that the man was more coordinated while intoxicated than he himself was while sober. “Mindiff’nwepausehereamo? I gotstapizlikadrunkinlizzardonhollerday.”

The man’s mumblings, which had returned, made no sense to the corporal. He looked to the others, but none of them seemed to understand him either. Brambly just shrugged and nodded and the musician slipped from the saddle like a professional equestrian, slip off into the woods, and released an ecstatic, “Ahhhhhhhh,” as what sounded like a torrent of water splattered into a tree.

Turning around Brambly saw Larch leading a large gray horse away from the team. He looked to be moving as stealthily as he could, and Brambly admired his dedication to being that unseen scout who no one ever saw or heard, but he didn’t need him trying to vanish when he was supposed to be leading them where they were supposed to go. “Oi, Larch,” he yelled at the not fleeing man, “Bring your map here so we can all see where we’re supposed to be going.”

He watched Larch’s shoulders slump and him shaking his head, and again could tell the man was disappointed that he couldn’t get back out into the field. That was some legendary dedication. He’d make a note of it for his files if they survived this whole mess. The man deserved a commendation for his dedication. He choked, as his body retaliated against the false hope is brain was force-feeding it. If he thought, I thought if, not when. Cut me some slack. His body reluctantly relented and his throat unclenched and allowed him to breathe a little.

Larch led his mount over to his commanding officer and supplied a firm, “Yessir!”

“I want to see the map so that we all have a general idea of where we’re heading.” Larch reached into a girdle bag at his waist. From it, he withdrew a scroll case. He removed a cap from one end and let the map slide into his hand. He handed the map over to the corporal and returned the cap onto the case. Brambly unrolled the parchments and studied its face intently. All the while he would mutter, “Mmmhmmm,” and “Ah,” once he even let a, “Through that pass,” slip out.

The fact that he could have been reading instructions in ancient High Dwarf made no difference to him. He had never passed his military orientation classes, and could not tell you which direction he was facing if the sun rose right in front of him, or the Eastern star was shining like a beacon in the night. All he wanted to do was make Larch think he knew what he was doing. The false Larch, however, was not fooled in the slightest.

“Well, sir, which way would you like us to go?” He kept a pleasant tone to his voice, making it clear that he wanted direction. Which he really did want; as he had no idea of which way to go. Larch, prior to becoming Larch, had never learned to read a map either, although he knew that moss always grew on the sides of trees and the sun rose in the west every day and sat in the north when it retired for the night. All he wanted to do was to take them some miles into the wilderness, get them utterly lost, and vanish before they found out that he was not who they thought he was. All he wanted from Pipes was a head nod in the direction he expected to go in.

Oddly, it was at that moment that Brambly felt the need to crack a kink out of his neck. His head drifted to his right shoulder and continued downward until the corporal heard a comforting crunch. He raised his head up with a slight smile and gave a knowing look to Larch. “You know the way, Larch. Lead us on.”

Brambly looked his crew over, Rogahs was doing squats, no he had just finished relieving himself. Flower was sitting on her mule and was engaged in a heated debate with a sparrow. Enaht was reading another text and Brambly was simply too tired to care what it was, but he was still fascinated by the flying carpet that he rode upon and stared at it longingly. He wished he could do magic; he also wished that he could just walk thirty feet without tripping over his own feet and he knew that neither of those things were going to happen anytime soon. Def Lemmy was back astride his steed and seemed to have passed out once more. There was an empty bottle of whiskey at the feet of his horse indicating that he had downed the whole bottle in the time it had taken Larch and he to look at the map. Brambly didn’t know whether to be impressed or shocked. Seeing that they were all ready to go he started to climb into his horse’s stirrup but could not manage to get his foot to stay in it. It took him eight tries before the pointed tip of his sabaton managed to finally catch the swinging equipment allowing him to pull himself onto his horse.

Brambly sputtered but managed to get out a solid, “L-l-lead on L-larch,” before his horse took the hint it was time to go and he nearly fell off the saddle as the animal started at his words. New Larch took the hint and begin to wander off in the direction the corporal had indicated, his intention was to take them as far in the opposite direction of their goal as possible before he left them behind. Unfortunately, he was as bad at directions as he was pretending that he was someone else. His unwitting new path took them straight towards Moredoom.

As they left Flower’s voice rose up in a high-pitched squeak, “Are we just going to leeve zee bodi out in zee o-pen?” Brambly winced, he’d totally forgotten about doing something with the corpse and they had no time to dawdle now. “Nip it. Nip it in the bud! We don't have time to worry about things like t hat.” He was certain that she had replied about nipping her buds anytime, but he pretended that he hadn’t heard her. He wasn’t entirely sure she had said bud in reply either. He looked at her, standing there with her bottom out in the air and he became certain that she had said butt.

"Oooh, I wuz 'oping you would say zat. Buzzard 'ave to eat, too." Flower the dwarf said, "You are very considerate!"

Suddenly, they couldn’t get to Moredoom fast enough.