Tales From the Woods #13

While I was constructing an e-lite assault team, CAP and Cassanee were tied up in Guyamo's kitchen. His exact words had been, 'If you will not serve your king, you will be served to him - as stew!' Then he barged off to prepare for his repast, leaving CAP to badger Cass with questions. Anything to blot out the drone of the Darkle kitchen staffs singing (it resembles an old diesel engine with a bad fanbelt. All screeches, rattles, and clanks).

"So you weren't trying to get anyone to follow you?"

"No."

"Had you been leaving Calvin presents?"

"I tried to give him a flower that day. He looked depressed."

"He always looks that way." (Thanks a lot, squirt.)

"Oh." A pause, then Cassanee calmly said, "Are you ready to escape?"

"Absolutely. I can't take any more of this singing."

At that, the Darkles looked up from their vegetable cutting and spice selecting, though I don't know why they bothered. With only three of them, no chainsaws, no Guyamo and his staff, they had no chance. After Cassanee booting the cauldron in their direction sent them scattering, CAP had plenty of time to chew through the ropes around her wrists so she could drop them. Once they were both freed, it was time for the next step.

"We have to get his staff before he can use it on us," CAP declared. Cassanee's look said this was obvious. The castle wasn't large, which was good, but its hallways were sparsely furnished, which meant no cover. They exited the kitchen into a hallway that ran both left and right. The panda sniffed the air, and without a word they went left, each staying close to a wall. At the end were two doors on either side, both closed. Some water puddled on the floor. CAP paused, sniffed again, and pointed left. Cassanee waited beside the door as her furry partner smashed through it. No one was there. It was a simple bathroom, with a pool (or very large tub) that showed signs of recent use.

"The scent was fresher here," CAP sounded disraught, "I didn't think he'd bathe. . ."

A screech emanated from behind them, like trying to use a pencil eraser worn down to the metal. (I hate that scraping sound. It makes my teeth ache.) A Darkle had emerged from the opposite room and was raising the alarm. Before a second warning cry could be issues, Cassanee had silenced it with a sharp blow to the throat. CAP barreled into it, perhaps releasing some frustration over a plan gone awry.

"Now what?" CAP asked.

"Find Guyamo and his staff before Darkles overwhelm us." If Cass was bothered at the prospect of their escape being broadcast, she didn't show it. They moved into the room the Darkle had come from. Inside were two large mattresses side by side on the floor, and an old wooden bureau stood against one wall. Inside was a wide assortment of clothes: Hunting jackets, t-shirts, a button down shirt with ruffles, camo pants, straw hats, boots, ball caps, a mumu. None of it seemed large enough for Guyamo, except perhaps the orange vests, but the top coat hadn't been large enough, either. Finding clothes in an 80, extra fat, must be a real pain.

There was another door, opposite their point of entry. On the other side was a large dining hall. I'm told it was rather nice. Candle-lit, like the rest of the castle, but combined with the single, long table and the one massive chair, it had an impressive atmosphere, if a tad empty. Plates had been laid out in front of the chair, but the room was devoid of life. From outside came the screeches of Darkles, mingled with crashes, bellows, and a yell quite familiar to CAP.

While they'd been playing "Cribs: Rural Overlord Edition", I'd been storming the castle. The Darkles outside the front gate hadn't know what to make of the trucks barreling towards them. So they stood there dumbly as the first one drove between them and blasted through the gate. The other trucks couldn't afford to be so nice, traveling abreast of each other as they were, and that was it for the sentries. The initial impacts damaged them, subsequent thumps caused them to vanish in a flash of light. The light was accompanied by a wave of emotions, the residual despair they were made of, but there was also a sense of peace, of things being set to right.

I was riding in the bed of the lead truck. It had taken some work to convince the psychic impression of myself to use the truck. You would have thought my being there hale and hearty would have been sufficient proof everything turned out OK, but it took considerable cajoling beyond that. The specter of the truck made it through the gate before it sputtered and died, as the truck apparently didn't think it could go any further. We were able to coast out of the way as trucks came pouring into the courtyard from one direction, Guyamo and his Darkles from the other. The boss was hurriedly throwing on his top coat and scowling at the scene. He might have said something about it, but it was lost amidst the din of the truck engines and chainsaws starting up (Darkles drop start, not safe). I could see his growing frustration as his servants kept getting run over. Oh, they scored the occasional hit with a chainsaw, but they weren't nimble enough to do so without getting flattened. Disgusted, Guyamo raised that staff, and the remaining Darkles began to dissipate. I'd seen this episode before. I dove out of the bed, behind the truck as the wave surged outward. I'm not sure it had the desired effect or not. I was still standing, with only a slight nervous feeling (perfectly understandable considering the circumstances), but all but two of the trucks were gone, vanishing in their own explosions of light when they contacted the wave.

Guyamo roared, "What treachery is this?

I stepped forward as the remaining trucks circled in. "Even this place can't crush hope instantaneously. Lots of people were excited, hopeful, or just determined to do their jobs the first time they came here. Turns out Site 9 swallows that up as readily as their inevitable disillusionment."

"You cannot use a king's own realm to defy him!" What do you say to that? I opted to shrug, and one of the trucks took that as a signal to charge. I hoped the staff wouldn't have sufficient time to charge, but it made little difference. If these psychic impressions were solid enough to run Guyamo down, they were solid enough for him to grab the front bumper in one hand and fling one truck at the other. The second truck avoided the collision, but by then Guyamo had raised the staff and it opted to veer between the two of us. Again I was shielded from the worst of the attack, but I didn't care for my prospects against him alone. I still had the gas gun, but Guyamo had the staff, and an entire miserable land to draw power from.

Oh yeah, and he was nine feet tall and several hundred angry pounds.