CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE

While the dwarf wasn’t certain he’d solve the spectral skeletons, there did seem a few ways forward. In a cell with Caltraz of which the sound of banged bars carried fully, the dwarf swapped an idea. The bandit was convinced.

“You’re the priest.”

Caltraz’ insistence on his being called such confused the dwarf. Doctor Mallow helped bloom his ‘FAITH’ :: Captain Doetrieve taught a trick. If he’d demonstrated the latter first, would the bandit have called him an elf? But the dwarf’s heart went to his flock, the creatures, he hoped, kept safe by Funguayou. How the dwarfen mushroom would accomplish this among his own flock and chores, the dwarf did not know. His wandering mind went to the depleting store of supplies the hogs ate from. He attempted to take comfort in at least the spiders’ contentment; his ‘FAITH’ failed to materialize.

“What’s wrong?” said Caltraz.

The dwarf gestured him away and turned--especially from the reanimated. At bare brick the dwarf focused his thoughts. He remembered the construction of the church’s new door, flap courtesy of his work. Waspig and those like it were merely tamed; the wild in them surely allowed hunt whatever desired. But, realized the dwarf, hadn’t he only first seen Waspig? Despite his sights of the immediate area, the dwarf never did gaze on a fusion of boar and bug not his own. Had he introduced too many into the immediate area? The dwarf remembered keenly the effects of the rise in pond snakes back home, their abundance devastating to the frogs he yet saw again till he would set one over fire. Were they terrorizing the locale he’d broken sweat over to protect? If they were, no boar-based insect carried blame, the dwarf accepted. It was his fault, and there was no ‘LOADING’ back so far.

“Are you with us? What...”

Despite the unrelenting bouncing of bones off bars, a distinct rattling echoed from the other side of the prison. Most skeletons accepted the distraction; one remained. The dwarf cleared his mind and thought only of the abomination he came to love most in this brutal world. A spear of gold drew from his hands and the dwarf forced it through the cell’s gate and through a quickly lifeless cranium. It shattered and exploded, spirit rising in disappointment to the great chandelier above. The dwarf’s tool faded, and his attempt to recall it amounted to nothing more than his whip. All the same the sight dazzled the short bandit, and he drew his blade kicking the gate open, bones ricocheting. As he and the dwarf hurriedly exited the cell, the skeleton’s anatomy snapped together and began its assault alone in earnest. Its thin hands rescued a fallen scimitar, and it sliced the rusted sight through the air between the alive. Caltraz brought his sword against his opponent’s, dwarf ducking and dashing around the same. The bandit blocking several more blows, the skeleton of green fumes bent back--the dwarf had wrapped his projection of ‘FAITH’ around where bones denoted a neck, or lack there of. Yanking it backward made a garrote of the whip, and the dwarf’s own relentless determination saw the action through to the undead’s death, spirit snapping and shooting up into a candle.

The dwarf dropped to his knees. Producing the spear exhausted him, he found, but his action against the skeleton sapped energy greatly. Caltraz helped the dwarf up but the dwarf could not walk for long. He was thrust suddenly into a cell, door shutting, Caltraz fighting off another advancing set of bones. While the dwarf sat and rested on the spartan floor, he thought of the anger that once burned against Funguayou. Anger then towards the doctor, it was merely internal. There was more to learn, and though the dwarf despised the advantage taken of his animals, he could not overvalue a means to fight back against a violent world. But this didn’t make sense to the dwarf. If he hadn’t displayed ‘FAITH’ beneath limestone, he would have never been carted to the ruin of undead. The doctor would be proud of the souls brought to light, but what did that matter now? The dwarf tired deeply. But he stood up.

The bandit continued to clash with the undead. By now the distraction at the end--obvious perpetrator Patches by torch light--no less than seven skeletons descended upon Caltraz. He rebounded several hits and took several himself to armor, one to flesh. The metal in his hands ceased no dance while he caught sight of the dwarf, dwarf running with a long glittering trail behind him. The stout handed light to the stout--the hand which was not occupied in swordplay. He ran away continuing his arc abandoning Caltraz. By the time the dwarf came around the second time, the bandit realized what had happened: the skeletons all clung together in one long coil. The dwarf went to finish the arc further squeezing the undead, and their occupant spirits cried. At a breaking point they burst, all rising to the chandelier above. Every candle relit, what personality the green wickering flames offered dissipated, their brightness remaining.

The two greeted one another in silent regard. The dwarf jumped at the sudden opening of the prison’s gate; Patches and the chieftain entered.

“Well done, priest,” she said...

Blinking rapidly, the dwarf realized his lay in a prison cot. No one attended the bedside. It was dark save for a torch the dwarf made out thrust in a pile of bones. The dwarf thought of straightening himself to strain his eyes towards other cells. He resumed sleeping...

“DDDDWWWAAARRRR...”

The dwarf awoke three more times in the span of the night--if night it was. The torch did not shift. No cells stirred in any moment of consciousness. And no matter the inclination to investigate, the dwarf could not command his physical form. It was not arrested from him but convincing--the dwarf hardly needed it, exhausted and sore, face stinging even still with the fresh wrath of the chieftain. The dwarf eventually did open his eyes to flickering shadows and could not be certain he were not dreaming. But voices were overheard.

“He needs to keep resting,” argued Caltraz.

“We can stay here and piss about,” returned Patches, “Or we get him up and moving and get this over with.”

“He’s drained. He won’t be of use to use like this.”

“You’ve gone soft, Caltraz.”

“Then,” said the chieftain, “He can stay here.” And the dwarf felt her particular tread across concrete. “If we need him, we’ll get him. But I have my doubts. There cannot be much left beyond these cells. Caltraz, pick this.”...

The next time the dwarf woke, he did so to complete darkness. The final time, deep within old mountain cut ruins, a blood caked Caltraz shook him so. A deep wound ran from along his nose to the base of his chin, and his torch bearing arm sagged.

“Up, priest,” he ordered. “Trouble.”