his skull made sure of that. This was the fourth search since he’d entered the subterranean bunker, not counting the two above ground. At least these fellows were more professional than the bandits wielding AK-47s who’d escorted him through the barren terrain.
“He’s clean,” said the guard.
The other withdrew the pistol, flipped a switch and spoke through a primitive intercom. “The messenger is clean.”
A buzzer preceded a clacking as the steel door’s locks released. Yet another pair of bearded, burly guards emerged and signaled to Ivan. He followed them down the corridor lined with pictures and tapestries that did little to camouflage the hewn stone walls.
A bugle across the river called the defenders to stand ready. A sergeant urged the men on as they responded to the goblin chant with cries and jeers of their own.
“This is bad,” whispered Road Toad. Pops Weasel nodded in agreement.
“Why?” I asked, slipping a piece of stale bread into my mouth.
“The troops across the river aren’t organized,” said Road Toad. “More a patched-together rabble. Can’t even muster a unified rousing cheer.”
Pops Weasel motioned for my waterskin after I’d had a drink. He took a gulp and said, “They’ll fight.”
“They’ll fight alright.” Road Toad shook his head. “That siege wagon—panzer, and the number of zombies and ogres.” He rested a gauntleted hand on my shoulder. “Your cousin was correct. The Necromancer King intends more than annual crop disruption.”
Both sides continued to yell across the river, taunting each other.
Pops Weasel said, “Lord Hingroar knew more was in the works than stoppin’ planting. He hired us.”
Road Toad wasn’t listening. “They’ll want that bridge.” He began rummaging through his satchel.
“Why don’t they cross elsewhere?” I asked.
When Road Toad didn’t answer, Pops Weasel did. “Zombies don’t drown, but they’d get washed down river and spread out. Too scattered and zombies’re useless. Ogres might make it, but not goblins.” Pops scratched the base of his neck under his helmet. “Neither will we.”
“They need the bridge to get their panzers across.” As Road Toad spoke, a second panzer rumbled up behind the first. The mercenary sliced one of his doeskin pouches. With a bit of ash from his tinder box and a stick he proceeded to scribe words on the skin. The task was difficult with only the moon and torchlight filtering through the leaf-filled branches. “Hand me one of your quarrels,” Road Toad said after finishing.
“What’cha write?” asked Pops Weasel.
“That was Sergeant Hocks shouting there, so some fellow mercenaries are across the river. He took the quarrel and blunted the tip before securing the message with a thin strip of leather. “Wrote, destroy bridge, vast enemy ready to cross.”
“Why will they believe that?” I asked, readying my crossbow. “Even if I can get it across.”
“And they don’t spot us doin’ it,” warned Pops Weasel.
“I signed my name. Someone there might know me.” He gave me a wide, serious gaze. “If the enemy gets over that bridge now, Krish, they’ll run rampant across the countryside. Through Pine Ridge.”
“But you said there’re reinforcements on the way.”
“There are, but I doubt Pops spotted all the enemy massing.” He handed me the quarrel. “Not enough. And, I suspect the Necromancer King is pushing hard more places than the Gray Haunt Forest. Attacking on multiple fronts, or we’d have more reinforcements, and King Tobias of Keesee wouldn’t be sending help.”
I sat back, wondering if this would be as bad as the Great Corpse Incursion. Few elders still lived that had witnessed it, but stories of the three years of relentless attacks and devastation lived on. “The Necromancer King can’t be that strong. What about the Crusader invasion?”
“That was twelve years ago,” said Road Toad.
“And the Necromancer King sent them
“He’s clean,” said the guard.
The other withdrew the pistol, flipped a switch and spoke through a primitive intercom. “The messenger is clean.”
A buzzer preceded a clacking as the steel door’s locks released. Yet another pair of bearded, burly guards emerged and signaled to Ivan. He followed them down the corridor lined with pictures and tapestries that did little to camouflage the hewn stone walls.
A bugle across the river called the defenders to stand ready. A sergeant urged the men on as they responded to the goblin chant with cries and jeers of their own.
“This is bad,” whispered Road Toad. Pops Weasel nodded in agreement.
“Why?” I asked, slipping a piece of stale bread into my mouth.
“The troops across the river aren’t organized,” said Road Toad. “More a patched-together rabble. Can’t even muster a unified rousing cheer.”
Pops Weasel motioned for my waterskin after I’d had a drink. He took a gulp and said, “They’ll fight.”
“They’ll fight alright.” Road Toad shook his head. “That siege wagon—panzer, and the number of zombies and ogres.” He rested a gauntleted hand on my shoulder. “Your cousin was correct. The Necromancer King intends more than annual crop disruption.”
Both sides continued to yell across the river, taunting each other.
Pops Weasel said, “Lord Hingroar knew more was in the works than stoppin’ planting. He hired us.”
Road Toad wasn’t listening. “They’ll want that bridge.” He began rummaging through his satchel.
“Why don’t they cross elsewhere?” I asked.
When Road Toad didn’t answer, Pops Weasel did. “Zombies don’t drown, but they’d get washed down river and spread out. Too scattered and zombies’re useless. Ogres might make it, but not goblins.” Pops scratched the base of his neck under his helmet. “Neither will we.”
“They need the bridge to get their panzers across.” As Road Toad spoke, a second panzer rumbled up behind the first. The mercenary sliced one of his doeskin pouches. With a bit of ash from his tinder box and a stick he proceeded to scribe words on the skin. The task was difficult with only the moon and torchlight filtering through the leaf-filled branches. “Hand me one of your quarrels,” Road Toad said after finishing.
“What’cha write?” asked Pops Weasel.
“That was Sergeant Hocks shouting there, so some fellow mercenaries are across the river. He took the quarrel and blunted the tip before securing the message with a thin strip of leather. “Wrote, destroy bridge, vast enemy ready to cross.”
“Why will they believe that?” I asked, readying my crossbow. “Even if I can get it across.”
“And they don’t spot us doin’ it,” warned Pops Weasel.
“I signed my name. Someone there might know me.” He gave me a wide, serious gaze. “If the enemy gets over that bridge now, Krish, they’ll run rampant across the countryside. Through Pine Ridge.”
“But you said there’re reinforcements on the way.”
“There are, but I doubt Pops spotted all the enemy massing.” He handed me the quarrel. “Not enough. And, I suspect the Necromancer King is pushing hard more places than the Gray Haunt Forest. Attacking on multiple fronts, or we’d have more reinforcements, and King Tobias of Keesee wouldn’t be sending help.”
I sat back, wondering if this would be as bad as the Great Corpse Incursion. Few elders still lived that had witnessed it, but stories of the three years of relentless attacks and devastation lived on. “The Necromancer King can’t be that strong. What about the Crusader invasion?”
“That was twelve years ago,” said Road Toad.
“And the Necromancer King sent them
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