The A-Team Learns a Hard Lesson

Biggles crested the hill and found Bugbear waiting for him. Or rather he found his corpse waiting for him. The man had been propped up on a stump and made to look like was waiting to have tea served to him. There was not a mark on his body, but his eyes bulged from his head and his tongue protruded from his mouth. The Captain immediately turned to his party and called for a halt. Each of them dismounted and came to look at the body silently.

The wizard, Melmac, scrutinized the deceased with practiced eyes. “He was killed by magic. His air supply was cut off leading to his immediate asphyxiation. I would guess by the look of it,” he traced a hand through the air in several arcane signs, “That a twentieth order spell was used.”

Cognac spat. “Magic! The tool of weaklings and cowards. They could not face him like real men, but they will face me. We will find who did them and I will rip their bowels from their bellies with my bare hands.”

Biggles noticed that their resident acquisition expert was missing now as well. He had been but forty paces away when last he’d seen him. Scanning the area he saw no trace of the man nor his mount. “Something is wrong,” he said with a hiss, drawing his sword, “Two arms everyone. Make ready. We are besieged and beset on all sides.”

Melmac prepared a spell, softly chanting, “Aday duey Damballa, Sallyguhdoola, Klatuu Verata . . .” his spell ending as a black arrow the size of a broom handle pierced the wizened wizard’s throat. A torrent of blood poured from the open wound and covered the mage’s robes crimson before he fell onto the dusty road. As he dropped a sparkle of small lights like fireflies trailed behind his head, the remnants of his spell fading into a useless light show.

Gognac roared and charge the area that the arrows had come from when five more of similar size flew from the trees and struck him in his sword arm’s shoulder, his belly, and his left leg just above the knee. The other two sailed by him harmlessly, and Biggles was glad that the deadly shaft had not struck the barbarian’s knee. He’d seen too many adventurers like him be forced to retire after taking a wound like that, and he didn’t think that the brutish man could handle a nine to five job in the king’s guards.

To his unsurprise the big man shrugged off the arrows as if they were nothing, and snapped them in half as he ran, never missing a beat. Cognac was a true barbarian. He would never let a thing like death stop him from killing an enemy. Biggles followed. He was not going to be outdone by an uncouth and unclean backward northlander that could barely read. He also ran towards the direction that the arrows had flown from, screaming a war cry that made the clouds dissipate and every small animal flee from the sound as fast as it could.

Cognac reached the edge of the wooded area and stopped dead in his tracks. Three half-giants rose up from a squatting position behind the pines. He knew they were half-giants because full giants would never have been able to hide within the thirty-foot-tall trees no matter how low they crouched. One of the three Brobdingnagian humanoids reached down and grabbed the northerner by his head and hefted him as effortlessly as one might raise a tissue from the ground.

The gigantic man holding Cognac said, “Did this feller say he wuz gonna rip out me guts wid’is bare hands?” The others beside him gleefully nodded, drool falling from their slack jaws, and Biggles knew that he would never reach his man in time. Cognac struggled and kicked but even his great strength proved to be feeble in comparison to the mountainous man-thing holding him. The half-giants empty hand came up and pinched Cognac’s stomach. The barbarian roared in pain, and Biggles watched as intestines tumbled from his companion’s belly like yarn falling from a spool. It took a handful of seconds for the barefooted barbarian to die. Once his body went limp the half-giant chortled and tossed the corpse over his shoulder. Biggles tracked the body as it flew out of sight, and concluded that his best option would be to perform a hasty and tactical withdrawal. Only one man was needed to submerge the icon, and by the gods, he was that man.

Slipping his sword into his sheath he turned and ran to where he had left his horse, but even his faithful steed had seen the intelligent course of action and fled the minute that Melmac had been killed. Biggles knew that his only hope of escape was to make it into the other side of the forest and scramble through the trees for shelter. He had just vaulted the wizard’s body when he was caught mid-air by the throat.

His eyes swiveled to see a decayed skeletal head, with a solitary eye still in its socket and a rictus grin spread across its boney face. He had been captured by a lich, an undead and evil wizard that had sacrificed true existence for an eternal half-life by feeding on the souls of their victims. He recognized him at once. “Atticus Angelheart,” he gasped out through a barely viable windpipe.

The lich gave a slight bow, “So nice to be recognized by one’s peers. I wish I could say the same of you, but alas I am not one to keep up with the fodder my enemies send my way.” The undead’s touch was icy, and Biggles could already feel his soul being drained away. He brought his hands up and grasped the thing’s boney wrist but his fingers lacked the strength to grip it. He made a futile gesture to kick at the unliving abomination, but they just swung limply in the air. Atticus laughed, “Yes, dance for me! I do appreciate it when my meal struggles. Your soul is strong and vibrant, and will feed me for many cycles to come.”

The lich watched the light drain from Biggles eyes. He felt the last scraps of his life force rip free of his body and flow into Atticus’s hand. The man’s soul would now roil in his stomach for centuries suffering worse torments than if he had been sent to hell. This one was so noble and pure, and narcissistic, egotistical, and self-aggrandizing that he carried a flavor that he’d never tasted before. It was quite intoxicating.

He dropped the shriveled husk that had been Biggles a minute before without a second thought. The lich then draped itself over the body of the Alfish wizard in a very inappropriate fashion. “Pedicabo enim inimicos nostros, indeed,” he said. He then turned to the half-giants that were waiting on his orders.

“You three know where the other party is going to be. Go there and kill them, you don’t need me. These were their finest warriors,” he scoffed, “You’ll have no trouble with the others.” A moon-faced giant leaned down intending to pick up the body of Captain Biggles Crispin, but Atticus stopped him. “Leave everything as it is. I want whoever finds them to realize that there was nothing they had that could harm us; let alone stop us. Touch nothing,” he emphasized, “Or his will not be the only soul I dine on tonight.” The massive man’s hand retreated and he nodded his head in understanding.

“Don’tcha want his doohickey thing? That thing that is meant to stop our laird and master?” It was the one that had killed the barbarian that asked that question. Atticus acknowledge that it was a valid concern.

“Trust me, it is better to leave it here than to take it with us. There is nothing they can do with it now, and even if they could it would not make a difference anyway.” Malus melted into the shadow of a tree and was gone. The giants, wise enough to know to listen to the lich, turned away from all of the loot they could have taken and gone off to find the other batch of commandos the Attackians had put together.

From the Z-Team to the A-Team

At the moment that Biggles and his team met their grisly end Brambly’s ears were burning and it was driving him mad. He had the feeling that something was wrong, but he couldn’t think of what it would be. It was just this overwhelming sense of doom that was hanging over his head. Ah, yes, he realized; it was the fact that he was currently riding to his doom. They had ridden all night, much to Larch’s annoyance. They were all tired, but two things kept him moving after they had encountered Larch. The first was that he wanted to put as much distance between him and the dead body of the scout’s attacker. Brambly had a fear, well, he had a lot of fears but this particular one manifest in blinding terror of the undead.

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He knew the odds of that corpse getting up and seeking revenge, flesh, or both were slim but it did not quell his terror in the slightest. Secondly, he was afraid of the dark, and spending the night in the woods in the dark made his knees knock so hard he cracked one of his horse’s ribs. Never let your knees knock when they are separated by a horse he had learned. So, he had kept them on straight on till morning heading for the second star to the right. That was because he didn’t know where the Southern star was that he would be able to use to keep a steady course. He was breathing easier now that the sun had risen and decided to make camp.

The others exhausted and hungry agreed without question that it was the perfect time to stop riding. They tied up their mounts and went into the woods to attend to calls of nature before tending the horses and tossing down bedrolls. Flower returned from the woods looking fresh as a daisy and began to build a fire.

Rogahs noticed what she was doing and said, “Uh oh.”

Brambly turned and looked at the muscle-packed elf, “What’s wrong?” He asked with a slightly trembling voice, not knowing what would cause such a deadly fellow as Mistah Rogahs to say the words Uh Oh, but certain that he did not want to see the cause of such an expletive from the man.

“She’s making breakfast,” was all he said.

Flower looked up confused, “Why, is that a bad thing?”

“Because I always do my killing before breakfast. It helps me to build up a healthy appetite. Plus,” he added ruefully, I am cursed to only bathe in the blood of my enemies.” He unslotted both of his axes and listened intently, his eyes dancing back in forth in search of some unseen foe. There was the snap of a twig off to his left and Rogahs tossed his ax in the direction of the sound. Mistah Rogahs grabbed a bar of soap from his pack and ran towards the noise. He was greeted by a cry of pain and a gurgling sound as he drove the other of his Knock axes into the chest of what looked to be a very surprised orc. Brambly watched the scene unfold, and had observed everything as it happened, but he had to turn his head when the barbarian stepped into the fountain of blood that was spraying from the body of an orc and began lathering soap all over his body.

“Crikey! He weren’t lying about that bathing in the blood of his enemies bit. I don’t know how, but he’s getting cleaner but in a really revolting way,” cried Larch in shock and awe of what he saw. Brambly could hear the barbarian singing a little ditty as he showered;

What is good in life? To hold a beer in one hand and a blade in the other!

What is better in life? To hold a babe in one hand and drive a blade in a traitor!

What is best in life? To hold a blade in each hand and bathe in the blood of your

enemy’s mother!

How should I live my life? To be known as a great and powerful Slayer!

The song rose through the air, and Lemmy was shocked into the waking world as he found that his lute had made its way unbidden into his hand. He listened to Rogahs for a beat or two and then set to playing. His chords, while harsh and sharp, accentuated the barbarian's voice nicely, and moments later Lemmy had joined in on the chorus following after each of Rogah’s lines.

What is good in life? To hold a beer in one hand and a blade in the other!

(A beer brings you joy and a blade keeps you safe)

What is better in life? To hold a babe in one hand and drive a blade in a traitor!

(a babe keeps you warm and a blade saves your face)

What is best in life? To hold a blade in each hand and bathe in the blood of your enemy’s mother!

(Two blades are better than one and to hell with an enemy’s mum)

Encouraged, a sparkling and shockingly clean Mistah Rogahs stepped away from his foe’s body. He and Lemmy concluded their song with the line,

How should I die? Drunken, satisfied, and on a pile of corpses!

Let everyone fear, Rogahs the remorseless!

The two of them burst out laughing and Lemmy said, “Rightthatwasbloodywellrighteous!” Brambly was astounded that the man could sing so clearly, but could not speak without sounding like he was sucking on marbles. Rogahs shrugged at the musician and nodded, agreeing with whatever he’d just said. He eyed Flower’s skillet and saw a pile of vegetables sizzling away.

Brambly couldn’t believe his eyes. He had watched the huge man scrubbing himself in orc blood, and yet he was as clean as freshly powdered baby’s bottom. There was not a speck of blood on the man. That was one hell of a curse. Then he wondered what kind of soap the man used, if it could get out blood stains.

“What are you making lass?” The elven barbarian asked as his mouth watered.

“A lightly sautéed grouping of herbs, roots, and vegetables zat I scrounged up whilst you were washing; zat was a lovely song, by zee way.” She turned back and stirred her pan with gusto, the smell making her hungrier than she already was.

“Ya mean there ain’t no meat innit?” Rogahs face was crestfallen. “No meat,” he muttered. Even Enaht lowered his book at those words. “Pardon,” he said solemnly, “But did you say that there was no meat in our meal?”

Flower’s head bobbed happily, “I’m a druid. I don’t believe in the consumption of other living things.”

The mage squinted one eye and stared at her with the other, “My dear,” he said flatly, “I might be civilized, but I am still an orc. I need meat to survive. It doesn’t need to be raw, but it does need to have been flesh that had formerly been attached to a bone. A diet of plants, roots, and vegetables will cause me to starve, no matter how much I eat.”

“Zat,” she replied, “Sounds like a perzonal problem. I am not your maid nor your cook, mon cher. I was being nice by making breakfast thees morning, but I am not going to be ‘elpful if you are going to complain. I can easily sustain myself in any kind of terrain, you boys are all on your own from now on.”

Brambly, his stomach growling looked to the dwarf, “I like vegetables,” he said.

“You would,” replied Rogahs, Lemmy, Enaht, and Larch all at once.

Flower patted the ground beside her, “You are always welcome to join me, Bram.” She looked to Enaht, “You can magic up your own food, and you three can go,” she spat the next word out like it was poison in her mouth, “’unt for whatever you want.”

“I’m a theoretical mage. I do not cast spells.” Flower shrugged with indifference and fed Brambly a mouthful of roots.

“I’ll go get us a brace of rabbits,” Larch said, seeing his opportunity to escape the band of lunatics around him. Rogahs stepped up and slapped the thief on the back, “Ha! Can’t ‘ave you going off inna woods alone. Looked what happened ter ya before we found ya.” His massive pecs twitched in the man’s face. “Don’t let me catch ya goin’ in the woods alone again, The Larch. We canna lose our scout right after we finded him.” He placed a hand on Larch’s shoulder and gave him a gentle shove, gentle enough that it drove him to the ground and made him want to stay there.

“Hey, Lemmy,” what was that music you played, I’ve never heard it before,” Brambly asked through a mouthful of veggies.

“Whatever it is called it is pretty funky,” Larch commented, “As in it stinks. I’ve heard better music come out of a cow’s arse.”

Lemmy, whose current breakfast consisted of a bottle of brandy and some white pills he’s just tossed into his mouth chuckled. “Point me at them musical cows. I’d love to jam wif ‘em.”

Brambly stopped chewing. Lemmy, it seemed, could speak clearly, but only when he was drunk. “Sorry, what’d you say it was called?”

Lemmy chugged a quarter of the bottle and inhaled through puckered lips when he swallowed the last gulp. “I plays me a variety of music. One type is Rock. We call it that since it makes you wanner bang yer head on a rock while you listen. I also play Boogie music, and I learnt that straight from the Boogeyman himself. What I love to play is orcish death metal, but no one ever lets me play that?”

“Why not,” asked Flower as she munched an onion.

“Because,” Enaht offered, “It makes non-orcs want to slit their throats when they hear it.” Lemmy nodded at the wizard’s explanation, and extended the index and little fingers of his right hand outward while holding his middle and ring fingers down with his thumb as he waggled his tongue up and down at Enaht. Enaht returned the gesture before returning to his book.

Her mouth made a small O in understanding, even though she had no idea of what the two of them just did. She continued eating and feeding Brambly who greedily gulped down the food. Larch sat there stewing, trying to figure out a way to get away from these crazy people. He decided that he would offer to take first watch, and slip away while they were sleeping.

“If you don’t mind, I’ll take first watch,” he let that fall from his lips as nonchalantly as he could.

“No need for a watch rotation,” Brambly said. I read the files, Enaht doesn’t sleep and has senses five times better than any of us. He can read and still look out for us. Plus, Flower can ward the parameter of our camp so that even if Enaht fails to notice something coming we’ll get plenty of advance warning.”

Larch slumped back to the ground, his one hope shattered before it even had time to get placed on a pedestal. “So good to know that we are well protected,” The Larch grumped sarcastically.