Roadside Killing

Nearly sixteen years ago, the reception had been quite different…

Skott had spent his first day at High King Auron’s tree-manse amidst a fine banquet of local delicacies. It was not so different than what you’d see in the mead hall at a Hollywood movie. Starving from his long, humid jaunt through the woods, Skott wolfed down some scaly local bird-equivalent. It tasted like chicken. There was sweet mead that tasted a bit like a certain brown and carbonated soda. Drinks were brought in massive barrel larders by porters wearing face- and body-concealing robes, colored to blend in perfectly with the surrounding bark of the tree-mansion.

“A thousand hails to our guest from the other side,” proclaimed High King Auron.

The elvan all clinked their glasses together and daintily stomped the floor, as was local custom.

Skott stayed quiet, for the most part. He stopped and observed, learning much about this strange new world. Elvan were mostly human in anatomy but averaged two and a half heads taller. Their primary differentiating features were two long and knife-like ears jutting out and backward.

Vivian, the elf noblewoman who brought him up into the treehouse, fluttered her eyes at Skott. She paid rapt attention to the new guest’s every move. He noticed. He was nineteen, of course he’d noticed! But again, he was nineteen, so he awkwardly deflected.

One of these porters refilled the guest of honor’s glass.

“Thank you,” Skott said.

The porter slunk away even as Skott thanked them. He duly noted that none of the elvan took time to thank the help.

So surprised was the porter at this act of kindness that they nearly fumbled the sweet wine larder. The tiniest two drops escaped, landing on both a varnished table placemat and Skott’s fancy elvan-provided dress.

“No matter,” Skott said in a whisper. “These guys have

He was careful with his body language. He did not grant the porter a knowing wink or even a smirk. Who knew how the denizens of this strange land would interpret that? But thanks to the wonders of the active translation magic, the fellow appeared to understand. They slinked away, seamlessly blending into the background. To be as nonobtrusive as possible was their purpose.

Vivian the elvan princess cleared her throat in a polite and rehearsed manner. “Say, brave traveler from afar. Whatever client species do you have in your world?”

“Huh?” Skott downed his sweet mead before continuing. “We, ah, don’t really have servants? There are maid and lawn mowing services, but where I’m from, that’s hardly a live-in situation.”

“Oh my, well, not self-sufficient enough to afford vassals?” Vivian frowned.

“Well, nobody is,” Skott said.

High King Auron stood tall, waving his glass about. The rumor, previously lively with the soft murmur of conversation, went deathly silent.

“Tomorrow we shall depart on the seasonal goblin hunt,” Auron said. “May our honorable guest witness this long and storied tradition. A cornerstone of elvan culture.”

“Best get to sleep,” Vivian suggested. “Goblin hunts are quite strenuous.”

Skott retired to his fancy treetop suite. Try as he might, he couldn’t find the porter from before. Indeed, they retreated into back rooms when not actively serving meals or sweet mead.

That night, Skott swore he could hear the distant, rapid lightning-crack of a whip out in the tree manse’s ornate lot.

+++

Back in the present, Skott stared down a group of thirty masked figures with sharp ears exposed.

How the mighty have fallen, Skott thought.

“These veils,” Skott began. “Blends in with the brush well enough. I’ll admit, I figured you lot were too proud to stoop to servant garb.”

“This one is human. What’s the other, a goblin?” asked a muffled voice behind the veil.

“Half-orc, actually,” Lucy-Kignora said. “Tase my steel, fiendish guerrillas!”

Lucy brandished her sword.

So, they haven’t figured out who I am, Skott thought.

“This land is elvan land,” said another one of the masked assailants.

The mob wielded pitchforks, shears, and the odd machete. Modified farming tools. The mark of a guerrilla force. Skott knew this because his own party had started out wielding similar implements.

“Elvan land?” he scoffed. “I don’ see any treehouses around.”

“Only because her kind.” An elvan pointed their pitchfork at the girl. “Burned our ancestral homes.”

There hadn’t been an elvan tree manse in a hundred miles of Crossroad’s Ford. The mob, these ‘redeemers’ had a questionable definition of what constituted elvan land.

“Are you aware of what this is?” Skott brandished his bat.

The veiled figures looked amongst themselves.

“They’re too young,” Lucy whispered. “Would have been five when the rebellion ended. Maybe try something more direct?”

“Bah, take them hostage, men,” said some leader type from the the back row.

“Do you know who this is?” Lucy asked. “You face Skott of Omaha.”

That sent a ripple through the mob.

“The otherworlder?!”

“It is I!” Skott puffed his chest out. “Surely you know that name!”

“Get them!” Yelled the gruff tone of that leader figure.

Lucy and Skott stood back-to-back. An elvan thrust a pitchfork at Skott, who parried with his bat.

Aeirun didn’t seem to have much experience with blunt weapons. It wasn’t part of the world’s tech tree, and they just didn’t know how to react to a bonk on the head.

“Have at thee!” Lucy yelled, slicing and dicing at anyone who dared come near.

Skott’s boast had indeed succeeded in intimidating the mob. A few kept back. While they didn’t recognize his infamous baseball bat, they did know the name Skott of Omaha. It kept enough at bay that they fight was suddenly an even one.

“Aha!” Skott said, ignoring a pain in his back. He wasn’t a spring chicken any longer! “So, Lucy, who are these guys?”

“The Redeemers?” Lucy asked. “Elvan guerrillas who never accepted defeat in your famed rebellion, noble hero!”

“The Redeeming Ghosts of Auron shall get revenge for our betrayed king!” yelled a Redeemer. “Men, slay the traitor human. Take the girl prisoner for ransom.”

I appear to have made them angry! Skott thought, bonking another elvan on the head.

Another pitchfork-wielding elvan charged at Skott from behind. Lucy-Kignora sliced the pitchfork in half with her sword and delivered a flying kick to the attacker’s torso.

“Your mother had my back like that too,” Skott said.

“Hehe. She talks about saving you quite often!”

Again, the pair went back-to-back and took on all the attackers.

Lucy jumped back to avoid a lunge and grab. “We appear to be outnumbered, Skott. If you have fearsome Earth magic, now’s the time!”

“Well, on Earth we have a fearsome magic called a .45,” Skott said offhandedly. “Think I left it in the attic, though. Pity, would’ve been a showstopper.”

No sooner had Skott said this than a familiar blast of gunpowder sounded over the jungle canopy. Two rear Redeemer scouts came running up to the group from up the road.

“Regulars!” said the lead scout. “A whole regiment! Fall back.”

“Aha!” Lucy slammed her sword into the brick road pavement. “Flee, you fools!”

Skott smiled. They made a good team.

“The coalition army comes to relieve us,” Lucy said. “You can meet the regulars. Worry not, they know me by name.”

“I’m familiar with them.”

Troops in single file marched down the road from the north. They wore a dark blue uniform. Skott knew this ahead of time, as it was he who gave Lamora the rough draft of their uniform design before heading back to Earth…