“My master’s land is vast and wide,

It spans horizons, East to West.

The miraculous countryside,

Among the Nobles, his is best.”

— The Ballad of Sir Joe, by “Golden-Voiced” Garbeaux.

In the bright light of day the travel was pleasant and went quickly. We stopped at the Roadside Tavern, a business whose name was also its description, taking in the stew. Like most taverns of its ilk the stew had been cooking for over a year and, so, was a delicious combination of every meat and vegetable that crossed the cook’s table in the kitchen. A lovely, fatty treat.

Though they eagerly encouraged us to partake of the rooms they had upstairs we had to refuse; what little coin we had after purchasing a murderous horse was now in their bellies. We didn’t admit this, of course, rather saying that we were on a tight timetable. They’d seen the well-stationed carriage and, so, would not understand why we were so destitute.

I attempted to keep my word to McGrue, taking my seat next to him but Aimee complained of how dark it was becoming beneath the carriage roof which was beneath the forest canopy and, soon, the sun would set. I knew better than to think she was afraid of the dark and, so, I sat facing the dead body I’d been serving these five long years; Sir Joseph Mulfinger.

So unpleasant was the silence after perhaps a half hour that I began to talk to him as if he were alive, but saying nothing I’d say if he were actually among us. “You’re a monster. You know that, right?”

“What?” I imagined Joe to ask, hurt by my words.

“I’m not a slave. We have a contract, one that you have violated both in letter and in spirit.” I growled, shaking my head. “Stand back for five years, halting my own progress as an adventurer. All my levels … all of them from listening to instructors in classrooms. You made me a joke.”

“Oh, you’re not a joke, Gabbo.” mind-Joe said. “Jokes are funny! You’re just sad.”

Whack! I slapped him. It hurt. I pulled his helmet up, made contact, eye to dead eye, and slapped his face. He wasn’t much softer than the enchanted steel he wore. “No employer should ever make his employee fear for his life. No goblin, no orc, no trog, nobody but you ever made me think I might die at any second. You had no right, Joseph.” I felt myself tearing up but, even dead, I felt I shouldn’t show weakness; not to him. “I’m glad you’re dead. Your song can’t be the whole truth, but one way or another, the people will come to know you for what you really were before you died.”

Abruptly the carriage came to a halt. The horse bucked, whinnied, and I heard both McGrue and Aimee mumbling hazily. I dove for the far bench, calling out. “McGrue! What’s happening?”

“Hm? What?” came his voice. “Oh shite, we fell asleep.”

Aimee spoke next, yawning. “It’s so cozy up here. Maybe the driver’s seat shouldn’t be padded like the passengers’ seats.”

I opened up the carriage door, standing tall to see what was out front. “How’d that get there?” It was a log, fully four feet in diameter, blocking the road and disappearing into the underbrush at each end.

“That’s a huge tree.” said Aimee. “We can probably move it though if we all get on one end.”

Rubbing sleep from his eyes, McGrue dropped down. “Naw, luv. We two will work on the log. How about you keep those elven eyes open for–”

Both gave a little startled shout and I heard a stranger’s voice call out “Stand and deliver!” I fully exited the door, taking two steps to come up alongside my compatriots. “Ah, well, that was easy.” He caught sight of me, “So you guard a foppish noble, do you? I trust then that your carriage rides low for it is laden with coin.” He stood upon a gigantic tree blocking the road.

Aimee and McGrue looked at each other and then to me and we shared a mumbling, cross-talking moment of spoken nonsense that did little more than worsen our confusion. Clearly we’d not planned for an event such as this.

“Cease your mutterings, fancy folk! You are surrounded. Hold position and my men will take your riches, leaving you your lives. Move an inch and be cut down! So sayeth Roderick the Rose!”

We couldn’t help but break up laughing. “Who?” asked McGrue.

“Don’t you know who we are?” I asked, projecting authority.

“No. Why would I? You wear no heraldry.” It was true; Joe didn’t want to be bothered on the road so the carriage was unmarked and it’s not like he’d ever bought us uniforms.

Aimee, however, was still amused, “And what level are you, dearie? I’m guessing, oh, three?” inquired Aimee. “Assuming you’re even certified.”

“How dare you!?” asked Roderick Rose.

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I looked to my companions. “This is it. Our chance for a little glory!” We exchanged looks, McGrue drew his ax, I my rapier and Aimee aimed the skull fetish, firing off a bolt of pure darkness.

“Suffer the wrath of my Despera–” the bolt struck Roderick it knocked him from atop the tree as he screamed in pain. That was glorious. The literal rain of arrows that followed was less so.

“Ow!” shouted McGrue, “Son of a whore! How many are there!?”

I grunted as an arrow jabbed me through my silk shirt, falling out rather than catching in my flesh. “At least twenty! But I think they’re just level one bandits!”

After the first volley we were swarmed. McGrue gleefully bisected two men in a cleave, Aimee hid under the carriage and blasted one to kingdom come and the horse actually bit one, picking him up by the head and shaking him until his body spun at the neck.

“I got one!” I cried as my rapier found his heart. He whimpered and clutched me piteously as he died. “Uh … well, that was uglier than I imagined. Ow!” a second arrow struck me. “My shirt’s going from off-white to red!”

A second round of bandits entered melee. They seemed fairly endless. Aimee called out as she continued to blast away, “we really should have talked tactics before going out in the world on our own! Don’t you think!?”

More bandits fell, with my thin rail of a blade finding their organs each time. “Nooo. We’re doing well, right?” An arrow entered my right butt cheek. “Oh boy!” I cried.

“Can’t you see!? They’re coming way faster than we’re dealin’ with ‘em, Gab! Shit!” He was getting the worst of it, about a dozen arrows coming out of everywhere. I could see movement in the undergrowth. How many were there, indeed?

The arrows stopped flying as steel clashed on steel. Somewhere Aimee could be heard to scream. “Oh no!” The road flooded, bodies everywhere, just a swarm of desperate men. It was ludicrous. Things seemed to move in slow motion as I turned, taking in the veritable army, dozens, perhaps a hundred bandits, “Seriously!? You’re all guarding one fucking road!?” I shouted.

All fell silent as a roar of “Brains!” thundered across the landscape. Turning, McGrue and I saw a bandit, already dead, fly backwards out of our carriage. Squeezing out, calling into question how we ever got him in there, the massive, hulking form of Sir Joe the Bold joined the fray. The swarm forgot that we existed, instead rushing in and flailing away with their rusty swords and rough-hewn clubs.

A liquid splattering was heard somewhere as the scent of lilacs suddenly threatened to overpower us. “Get back! Get away from them, dammit!” It was Aimee. We hadn’t even seen her exit the carriage, but she rushed us, pushing us away from the action as body parts started to fly. A torso struck the side of the carriage. Men screamed in pain and fear but, egged on from behind, sure of themselves just because of their numbers; the bandits kept on the attack.

“Are they?” I began, dumbfounded. “They can’t possibly press unto the last?”

McGrue worked on removing an arrow. “We have to be ready just in case.”

Aimee shook her head, “I don’t think we do. Joe may be limited in ability by his current state but all the magic he just wears, I don’t think there are enough first level bandits in the world to bring him down.

And so it was. Grand, sweeping gestures of Joe’s clublike limbs swept dozens of men to their deaths in massive cleaves. Their blades, however, spilled black blood, their clubs buckled the zombie Joe. “Shit. He’s not nearly so powerful as he was in life!” I uttered. What was easily fifty men pressed upon one temporary undead; immortality enchantment rendered worthless by his death.

“Okay, I didn’t want to do this. Stand back!” Aimee carefully conjured an obvious cantrip, or minor spell, barely a candle’s flame. It hovered momentarily as Joe’s body sank beneath the weight of bodies before shooting into her main target; a particularly wet bandit. He immolated and the flame quickly spread over them. The floral scent strengthened, then became more of a mixture of fruit and pork as the throng of men screamed in their death throes.

“Oh. Oh no…” Aimee whined. She waved the fetish madly and Joe emerged from beneath the pile, clearly burned with parts of his flesh melting out between the plates of armor. “Come here. Oh … dammit.”

“Brains?” asked Joe, reaching out towards Aimee as he approached and she struck his chestplate with both hands, ripping a black shadow wreathed in blood red energy. “The scroll!”

In a panic I cast about, leaping into the carriage, and found the scroll she’d used to animate Joe yet again. When I got to her with it the red energy had started to cling to her hands, making red rivulets of light on her skin. “Are you okay!?”

“Shut up!” she shouted, thrusting the energy into the parchment. “Go, damn you! It … it’s a backlash! Hurts!” With a loud pop the red energy became ink upon the page again and Aimee fell away, caught by McGrue, looking at her poor, burned hands. It was like she’d slapped both palms down on the cookstove.

“Oh, Aimee, that looks terrible!” said McGrue.

“No, it’s nothing. Backlash could’ve been much worse. Too bad … would’ve had to let it go. Told you Walking Dead was above my level…”

“It’s okay. You rest.” I said, sharing a look with McGrue.

“No, wait… The log. Push it into the pile of bodies. They’re … smoldering. Forest is wet but not that wet.

We both nodded then set about the grim work at hand. Joe’s body was lighter than before but he, luckily, was not smoldering, so straight in the carriage. We discovered that many of the bandits had been doused in some sort of fragrant oil. “I tried Fireball but I didn’t have the components.” explained Aimee. Instead of a ball of flame she’d splattered them with a pleasant-smelling accelerant.

Arranging the bodies into a pile on the roadside, we hoped that each would smother the one beneath it, preventing re-ignition. The log, massive though it was, was mostly dry rot. The rain hadn’t soaked in much so we were able to move it through an immense effort that drained both McGrue and I. It mostly blocked the many bodies from view. Others that were scattered about we rolled off the side of the road. In the sky vultures already circled, no doubt attracting other scavengers on the ground.

As we finished, we checked on Aimee, asleep. McGrue looked at me and shook his head. “Dammit, Gab, but this was nothin’, not compared to a fuckin’ Goblin King. What are we gonna do?”

I leaned there for a long moment before I had what I felt was a good answer. “McGrue, think about it; what we’ve seen of Joe, what’s bound to him in some sort of improved attunement, that’s just his traveling gear. He’s been adventuring since he was a teen, over twenty years. We may not be high enough level to take that King as we are but, once we loot Mulfinger Manor, we’ll have enough gear to take as many Goblin Kings as the Grain Monger has grains of wheat.

Rubbing his chin and smiling, McGrue nodded in assent. It seems I made my case; so well that even I started to believe…