Welcome to the Round Table of Bretonnia!

As night fell, the column had not marched far enough. Safety was nowhere close and the mercenaries were on edge as they circled their wagons for another night. They all expected another attack and they were not to be disappointed. As soon as the sun fell and the moons rose into the sky, the attacks began again, much the same as the last night. A rain of arrows flitted into the campsite and at least one of the twenty remaining mercenaries cried out in pain as three arrows pierced his back and pitched him into the fire. He screamed as the flames lapped around his body, and continuing shrieking until Ferdonio fired a bullet through his skull.

“You will holda my proud men! You will holda or we willa die!” The Tilean mercenary captain was every bit the dashing leader, leaping amongst his remaining men as the arrows fell, shouting words of encouragement or sharing a joke in between volleys. He stayed far from Sir Simon and Brynn, who hunkered down behind a wagon on the far side of the campsite drinking water, next to the rifleman Oster. The Hochlander seemed much steadier than he had been the previous night. A belch in between shots revealed that he was also considerably drunker. Sir Simon growled in disgust and Brynn spat.

“Bastard’s been holding out on me,” he complained to Sir Simon, who rolled his eyes at the dwarf’s discontent.

The arrow storm stopped slowly and Sir Simon mounted Marcelles again. The skeletons would not be far behind he knew. Indeed, a man on the opposite side of the camp shouted in alarm as a group of skeletons began advancing in imposing ranks once more, driving forward with the creak of bone much as they had done the night before. Sir Simon tried to ride Marcelles to the other side of the encampment but he struggled to navigate the treacherous ground throughout the corpses and detritus of the camp. This time however, it was the hedge wizard Paulus who broke the skeletal regiment’s momentum. Standing tall atop the water supply cart, his robes flickering about him like a nest of snakes, the wizard a massive bolt of seething multi-colored energy from his outstretched hand, blasting a massive hole in the ranks of the undead. He followed up with a second blast that annihilated yet another column of skeletal soldiers.

“Colleges of Magic be damned!” The sorcerer roared in a voice that was not quite his own and the remaining mercenaries cheered as he blasted more skeletons to dust under the baleful light of the twin moons. Their cheering was cut short however, when the ground beneath Paulus shuddered and cracked, pitching the grinning wizard onto the ground with an undignified cry. A massive form, made of wood, bone, stone, and bronze crashed up from the ground beneath the water cart, shattering the wagon and the barrels of precious liquid. The monster resembled one of the many scorpions that plagued the desert, but it was a hundred times larger and bulkier. Its bronze claws cracked the barrels and its tail whipped out to crush a keg of water into the sand. A dessicated corpse, dressed in fine silks and wearing a golden headdress, lay in repose at the center of the monster’s writhing chitinous body.

The mercenaries, including Ferdonio, stood stunned at the horrendous creature that had emerged in the middle of their camp. It was Paullus, the closest man to the scorpion, who reacted first. He raised his hands and began to utter another spell. He was not fast enough. The creature lashed out, gripping the screaming hedge wizard in its claws, lifting him up into the air, and ripping him apart in a welter of gore. Blood sprayed the mercenaries and men cried out in terror, backing away as the scorpion hurled the chunks of the sorcerer’s body at them. It was Brynn who turned the tide. The dwarf roared a war cry and hurled a throwing axe at the monstrosity, embedding it in the side of the monster, before charging forward to engage the beast.

“The water you fools,” Ferdonio shouted, the spell of the creature’s hideous appearance broken by the courageous dwarf, “protecta the damned water!” The Tilean fired a pair of pistols into the thrashing scorpion as the rest of the mercenary band hurled themselves forward with their weapons raised. Brynn ducked the creature’s piercing sting and chopped down on a joint near its claw. He avoided its next stab by rolling to the right, but the Empire man behind him was not so lucky. The scorpion’s bronze-tipped sting ripped the Stirlander in half before he could even scream. A claw lashed out and tore the head off an Estalian spearman with a sickening squelch. The other claw stabbed at the dwarf, who once more rolled aside and slashed at the creature with his axe. There was a crack as Oster the Hochlander blew out the one of the creature’s bejeweled eyes with a keen shot from his rifle. Thrashing, the scorpion responded by driving its sting through the chest of an Arabyan mercenary in an explosion of blood.

Laughing madly, Ferdonio emptied another pair of pistols into the front of the creature, but he did not leave his perch atop the chest wagon. With another crack of its tail, the creature disemboweled two mercenaries with one stroke, dropping both to the ground. Suddenly, the charging form of Marcelles slammed into the side of the scorpion. With dexterity that seemed surprising for a man in a suit of plate armor, Sir Simon leapt from the back of his steed to balance precariously atop the thrashing scorpion construct. He grunted as he caught the creature’s striking sting on the Montforte family blade, the tip of the bronze spike barely piercing his side. With a cry, he pushed the stinger away and swung his blade in a mighty arc, severing the creature’s tale. Deftly, he spun the sword around and, gripping it firmly with both hands, drove it straight down into the corpse at the center of its thorax. There was a welter of sickly-smelling black blood and a burst of magical energy. Sir Simon was thrown clear, though his sword remained pierced into the body of the monster, as it thrashed about before crashing into the chest wagon, sending Ferdonio and his beloved box hurtling onto the desert sands. With a final shudder, the scorpion collapsed to the ground in a cloud of sand.

Sir Simon staggered to his feet, feeling fell poison coursing through his veins from where the monster’s stinger had clipped him. He stumbled forward until he gripped his sword, pulling it from the corpse of the scorpion construct before stumbling slightly. He put his weight on the blade and felt the warmth of the pommel stone as it glowed with soft golden light once more. Though the poison was still in his body, Sir Simon felt less of its effect, as warmth crept from the blade down his arm. The knight hacked up some black bile and pushed himself to his feet. He would not die here, the Lady would not allow it. With a grunt, he shook his head to clear the haze that had fallen over his eyes. Distantly, he heard Brynn calling his name.

Gripping his wounded side, the knight half walked, half stumbled over to the dwarf, who stood next to the box and Ferdonio. The mercenary captain steadied himself against the side of the fallen chest, the finely carved lid of which had slid into the desert sand. There was no treasure inside. Instead, there was the mummified corpse of woman, dressed in the finest of regal robes and jewelry, wearing an elaborate golden funerary mask. The mercenaries gathered around, the anger in their muttering clear. It was Oster’s gravelly voice that cut the air.

“What the hell is that Ferdonio? That’s not bloody treasure you lying Tilean bastard.” The Hochlander’s rage was echoed by the rumbling growls of assent from the mercenaries around him. “Where’s the damn treasure you promised us? Where’s our bloody money? What the hell is that?”

Ferdonio just laughed maniacally, the fires of madness gleaming in his eyes. He raised a pistol and fired, throwing the Hochlander’s body back into the remaining mercenaries. No one moved as he whipped out his next pistol.

“No mutiny you bastards!” The Tilean exclaimed, drawing his magical blade in his other hand, “And for those of you who are wondering, that is the body of Queen Sekmat, the wifea of the King Anharasphut. There’s a collector who wants this and is willing to paya damn good money. Money to be shared!”

Brynn growled, “You stole the corpse of this king’s wife? Dinnae you think maybe he wants her back? Dinnae you think you called these damn skeletons down upon us? You bastard!” Ferdonio snarled and swung his pistol to point at the dwarf.

“Do you thinka the great Francesco Ferdonio was a fool? Do you not think I’d knowa that this would happen? Paulus and I planned for this. We must simply keepa fighting, their magic will fade soon!”

It was Sir Simon’s turn to snarl, “Keep fighting mercenary? Look around you! There are nine of us left and you just killed our marksman dead. We could not overcome the limitless hordes of the undead!”

“SILENCE!” shouted Ferdonio, swinging his pistol to face the questing knight, “I said no mutiny damn it or I sweara I will…”

A staggering roar, a scream, and a squelch cut off Ferdonio’s threat. The mercenaries turned as one to see a massive skeleton, twice the height of a man, with the skull of a jackal perched atop its armored shoulders, swing a massive blade through an Estalian crossbowman standing near the back of the group. Another mercenary already lay in two neatly severed pieces at the monster’s skeletal feet. Five more of the creatures emerged from the haze of the desert, but despite their terrifying presence, it was the figure they formed around that made the breath catch in Sir Simon’s parched throat.

Even in the moonlight, the Tomb King cut a striking figure. His mummified face was filled with contempt and his glowing eyes seemed to pierce the knight to his very soul. Intricate and perfectly crafted bronze armored covered his tall, thin figure, giving it an extra bulk. Upon his brow sent a jewel-encrusted crown, as if anyone could have mistaken the creature for the horrendously majestic lord it was. Sir Simon had met few men who exuded such an aura of power. The King hefted a mighty curved sword, the khopesh of the desert people, above his head and roared, signaling the monsters around him to attack. They charged forward and the panicked mercenaries met them with the desperation of men who knew their lives were at a close.

Madness gripped Ferdonio as he jumped to defend the chest and its contents from a bull-headed monster as it barreled forward. He fired his second-to-last pistol straight into its face and slashing at it with his rapier. Three quick strikes to the creature shattered its knee, its elbow, and finally, its broken skull, the potent magic of his rapier smashing the bones with deadly energy. Paulus was dead! The chest was opened! The dead, the dead he had so scoffed at, were upon him! The damn mercenaries were rebelling! He was assailed on all sides! He would not be defeated, not by the dead, not by the men he had commanded! The Tilean whirled his blade around, slashing into the back of an Estalian, blowing the man’s ribcage out the front of his chest.

“Monsters! Mutineers! You shall not have it! It is mine and mine alone!” He raged at the men and the creatures assaulting them. His rapier flashed around him as he stepped forward to bring his blade down on the back of the unwary Brynn. A voice, as cold and as firm as sharp steel, stopped him dead in his tracks.

“Mercenary!” The mercenary captain was quick and he span around, drawing his last pistol almost faster than the eye could follow. It was not fast enough. Sir Simon, weakened by poison and the battle against the tomb scorpion, still whipped his glittering blade around, ripping the pistol out Ferdonio’s hand before he could fire. Ferdonio grimaced and hefted his deadly rapier, the runes on the thin blade glowing with power. Sir Simon lunged forward, hammering his giant blade in to try and overwhelm the mercenary’s guard. With a rapid flick of his rapier, Ferdonio turned the mighty blade aside and lunged to attack, striking like a viper at the knight’s already wounded side.

It was all Sir Simon could do to bring the edge of his blade around and block the blow before another rapid strike of the rapier slammed into his shoulder plate. The pommel stone of Sir Simon’s sword flash a brilliant gold as it absorbed much of the magical energy of the blow, yet he still stumbled backwards. It felt like an ogre’s fist had slammed down into his shoulder. Ferdonio leapt forward, the thin blade snaking out towards another vital area of the reeling knight. Sir Simon caught the rapier on his guard and launched his own quick counter-attack, jabbing the tip of his long blade forward towards the Tilean’s exposed throat. Again, Ferdonio cracked the blade with his rapier and drove it back despite its size. He lunged again, slashing into Sir Simon’s other shoulder. Once more, the questing knight staggered under the magical energy of the strike.

Already wounded, the Bretonnian was struggling to handle this opponent. Ferdonio’s speed made him deadly, and when combined with the magical blade that increased its hitting power, he was a formidable foe in any conditions. Desperate, the knight tried to think of a way to overcome his enemy as he desperately parried yet another rapid series of sweeping strokes. The foppish mercenary’s blade struck just as the knight’s moment of realization did, crashing into Sir Simon’s unwounded side. The armor crumpled, and again it felt as if an ogre had punched him in the kidney, yet this time Sir Simon did not reel. Instead, he clamped his armored arm to his side, catching the rapier firmly in the elbow joint of his armor. His arm extended, Ferdonio tugged at the blade trying to free it, a look of panic in his maddened eyes. With a mighty cry, Sir Simon swung the Montforte blade downwards with his free hand, severing Ferdonio’s sword-arm at the elbow.

Francesco Ferdonio stared at the stump of where his forearm had once been, a look of shock emblazoned upon his ruddy face. The look remained on his face as his head went spinning across the battlefield, knocked clear across the campsite by Sir Simon’s powerful upwards reverse stroke. The questing knight staggered to his knees as the effort of the fight and the wounds that the Tilean had dealt him crashed down upon him. Doubtless, his struggle with the mercenary had started the fell poison from the scorpion thing pumping through his veins again as well. He stumbled up to face a roaring monstrosity with the head of a lion, painfully raising his sword to the guard position and whispering his last prayer to the Lady.

With a cry, Brynn Borgnisson slammed into the side of the construct with a mighty leap, slamming his axed down again and again into the thing’s skull. Sir Simon powered forward with the last of his strength, swinging his blade up and around, smashing through the constructs spine and collapsing it to the ground. He breathed a sigh of relief.

“I owe you my life, Brynn Borgnisson,” the knight said, hefting his blade again.

“Tis nothin’ laddie. Twas quite a nice move ye pulled on that fool of a Tilean there. The least I could do was make sure ye didn’t get chopped down right away, though I really only delayed the inevitable I think.” The dwarf and the knight turned two face the remaining three constructs, just in time to see an alligator-headed warrior cleave the last mercenary, a duelist named Paolo, in twain, even as he tried to flutter his cloak in front of the thing’s face. Brynn and Sir Simon stood alone, facing the three monsters. The creak and tramp of old bones revealed another regiment of skeletons approaching behind the creatures. Unlike the previous skeletal warriors the column had faced, these were dressed in impressive armor and carried fine weapons and shields.  They stopped suddenly just behind the constructs and the Tomb King emerged from the group, strolling past his bodyguards to stand before the knight and dwarf.

“I hope your Lady appreciates a fine death laddie,” said the dwarf as he hefted his axe, “for I dinnae see any other way out of this.” Sir Simon hefted the sword of the Montforte family.

“The Lady is always watching, master Brynn. I am glad to have fought by your side.”

“And I you laddie.”