Wasteland Warlords Episode 4: Chapter 1 - Come Out, Little Pigs

Quick note - so these last three episodes aren't quite as far along in the process. They are written, but they haven't all been to copy editing or formatting, so I don't have bookfunnel links generated yet. I'm going With that said, I'm going to resume chapter posting for the series, and because I feel behind, I'm going to do several today, starting with this one! 

One - Come Out, Little Pigs

“Either the Sooq sends out the stupid mofo who started a dungeon war in my backyard, or I wipe this whole damn city block off the map,” the Warlord of the West said. “You’ve got five minutes, starting”—there was an electronic beep in the background of whatever megaphone-style device he was using to broadcast his voice over the nomadic market—“now.”

The elderly monsters of the Sooq all swiveled to look in Clay’s direction. He caught Joe’s eye through the crowd, his brother’s overblown story about their latest escapade interrupted mid-sentence. Joe’s look said it all—PwnrBwner, the Warlord of the West, the legend who’d held LA in his ironclad fist for twenty years, who had survived at the epicenter of the Merge where no other human dared to go—that Warlord of the West was threatening Clay?

Alex was the first one to react.

“You are not going out there.” Her hand clamped down on his like a bear trap. A bear trap with the strength of a massive three-headed Ettin behind it. Without his newly enhanced Incant strength, she probably would’ve pulverized the bones in his hand. “It’s a death sentence,” she said, doing her best to hide the fear that thrummed beneath the words.

Clay winced at the creaking in his finger bones. To think, ten seconds ago, their celebration of freeing Bacon Bits and gaining Incant powers for him had been in full swing.

“Doesn’t sound like I have much of a choice,” he said, lowering his voice. It had gotten so quiet you could hear a gold piece drop. “I started the fight between Priscilla’s Pineapple Palace and Nat King Kong. If I don’t go out there, everyone in this caravan is going to pay the price for it. I can’t let that happen—”

“Time’s ticking, buttmunch.” The Warlord of the West’s voice echoed through the Sooq.

Clay scratched the back of his neck. “Maybe I can explain why we were in his territory in the first place. You know, talk him out of doing anything rash. If I can offer him some sort of recompense, maybe he’ll let it go.”

“I doubt that, lad,” Griff said. The old weed sidled up beside them, setting his dusty wide-brimmed hat on his grizzled head. “The Warlord’s never been known for making reasonable or thoughtful choices. If you’re set on going out there, I’d better come with ya.”

“Why, so you can both die?” Alex snapped.

“Rest easy, lass,” Griff said, giving her a reassuring smile. “I don’t like to make promises I can’t keep, but I may have a bit more pull in this situation than you tumbleweeds realize.”

“If Clay goes, we all go.” Joe pushed his way through the crowd, his heavy work boots clomping on the dusty ground. Chonk followed on his heels, and Bacon Bits in her enormous Greater Blue Wyrm form undulated through the air just above the mechacoon. “The Jaeger squad is all for one, one for all, just like those Three Musketeers bars.”

Clay snorted. Leave it to Joe to break the tension. “You’re telling me you know Proust and Heller, but not that the Three Musketeers was a book before it was a candy bar?”

“Oh, I know it was,” Joe said. “I just prefer the gooey, chocolatey version.”

Alex scowled. “My husband’s life is on the line—your brother’s—and all you can talk about is the worst candy bar in existence?”

“Blasphemy!” Joe crossed his arms. “Three Musketeers bars are the perfect balance of deliciousness and delicacy. They don’t fill you up like a Butterfinger or a Snickers.” He patted his stomach. “I once ate twelve of those puppies in one sitting and still had room for a balanced breakfast. That’s like thirty-something musketeers.”

“Thirty-six,” Clay said.

“Stick to being the big fish in the little grammar pool, bro.” Joe patted him on the shoulder condescendingly. “Let the expert handle the maths.”

Alex pinched the bridge of her nose. “How are you idiots still alive?”

The Warlord’s warning boomed through the Sooq. “Three minutes and ticking, asswipes. And don’t even think you can slip out of here without me noticing. I’ve got scouts watching every exit point. I’ll smoke your asses at the drop of a Mountain Dew can.”

Griff cast his one good eye dubiously over the Jaegers, then in the direction of the Warlord’s voice.

“Ya best let me do the talking.”

***

By the time Clay and the others got to the eastern edge of the Sooq, the RVs, teardrops, and jury-rigged school buses on that side had been converted to battle stations. A thick wall of armor plates had been extended from each camper and fitted together like shields in an ancient phalanx. On the rooves, trebuchets, ballistae, and sniper slots were manned by the sentries who usually patrolled the perimeter of the nomadic market. They watched the Jaeger squad pass with grim expressions etched onto their furry, spiky, and feathered faces. Though they were monsters, they wore very human expressions of concern.

None of the vehicles in the Sooq even came close to what the Warlord of the West was driving. Parked just outside the Sooq was a looming abomination of metal and magic, so kitted out with monstrous armor and artillery that it took a second for Clay to realize the thing had once been a tow truck.

The nose of the beast was two gigantic metal scooping blades that knifed together in the center like a snowplow from some frozen-over hell. A short, fat cannon barrel with a rotating eight-shot drum sat on top of the blade, aimed into the center of the Sooq.

All down the truck’s face and back, solid steel plates had been welded to nearly every inch, leaving only an eye-level cutout that spanned the windshield. Its wheels didn’t have any rubber. They were scoop-lined steam engine wheels, fitted with a foot-long spike sticking out of the centers and serrated spinners. Flamethrowers jutted out of the truck’s sides from what used to be toolboxes.

Square on top of this manslaughter on wheels was a turret-mounted .50 cal machine gun—an older version of the one Clay had manned during his deployments. This one, however, was covered in sun-faded magical flash art. If the truck had belonged to anybody else, Clay would’ve assumed the art was a reproduction made to look like the Griefer’s handiwork, but the Warlord of the West had actually run with the Griefer before the Merge. More than likely the .50 cal’s tattoos were legit.

The fading words Winch Witch were just barely visible on the abomination’s swing arm.

A cohort of half-dragon, half-humanoid creatures manned the tow truck’s armaments.

Next to the front fender, out in the open where anybody could gun him down, with a look on his face like he’d just chew the bullets up and spit them back at you, stood the only human in the group. He had salt-and-pepper hair—about three parts salt to one part pepper—and sunbaked leathery skin. Clay had never seen sneer lines before, but an expression that was half arrogance, half contempt had been permanently etched onto the old man’s face.

Unlike most wasteland inhabitants, the Warlord wasn’t sporting a hodgepodge of levels and bonuses thrown together from whatever tactical gear and magical armor he’d been able to loot. He had a full set of Obsidian Glass armor, pauldron spikes gleaming a wicked black in the afternoon light, helmet hooked on a side mirror. A matching bow and mace hung from his shoulder and hip, respectively. Everything he wore or wielded glowed with magic.

Clay got the feeling that reading the bonuses on this guy’s kit would be an all-day affair, but he had to know what they were up against in case this meeting went sideways. Well, more sideways than it had started out, anyway.

He quickly and discreetly slipped the Monocle of True Seeing into place, allowing him to get a glance at the man’s personal stats.

╠═╦╬╧╪

Scott "Warlord of the West" Bayani

Level: 75

Race: Dungeon Bound

Class: Soulguard Warpriest (Arch Overseer)

Alignment: Light/Divine

Exp: 20,172; Exp to next level: 255,000

Available Characteristic Points: 0

Health: 2,114/2,114

H-Regen/5 Sec: 162

Magick: 2,870/2,870

Magick-Regen/5 Sec: 140.25

Stats:

· Strength: 277 (240 + 37 item bonus)

· Constitution: 231 (208 + 23 item bonus)

· Dexterity: 252 (152 + 100 item bonus)

· Intelligence: 213 (185 + 28 item bonus)

Characteristics:

· Armor Rating: 1,507

· Melee Attack Damage: 1,379

· Ranged Attack Damage: 1,439

· Spell Damage: 179

· Movement Rate: +52.9%

· Critical Hit Chance: 45%

· Critical Hit Damage: +1260%

Active Effects:

· Rapid-Regen

· Soulguard Purity: Disease and Poison Immunity (Permanent)

· +50% Resistance against normal weapons

· +50% Resistance against cursed weapons

· +75% Resistance against Undead

· +33% Elemental Resistance

· Blunt Force Barrage; 22% Chance/Hit

Soulguard Warpriest Skills:

· Shield Ward – Lv. 16

· Fast-Healing Blast – Lv. 12

· Elemental Fury – Lv. 18

· Solar Glory – Lv. 11

· Imbue Arrow – Lv. 19

· Expand Skills List…

Player Special Skills:

· Spellcraft (Class Skill) – Lv. 20

· Blunt Weapons (Melee Skill) – Lv. 20

· Weapon Specialty (Mace) – Lv. 20

· Ranged Weapons (Weapon Handling) – Lv. 20

· Heavy Armor (Armor Skill) – Lv. 20

· Mining (Trade Skill) – Lv. 20

· Command (Guild Bonus) – Lv. 20

· Expand Special Skills List…

╠═╦╬╧╪

Holy hell. The Warlord was Level 75. He had more Health than Clay, Alex, and Joe combined, and dealt enough damage with a single blow to wipe them out of existence without even breaking a sweat. He seemed Resistant to damn near everything, and had so many Class and Player Skills that they wouldn’t even all display at once. He was a one-man army. If he wanted them dead, nothing short of an act of God would stop him.

Clay closed out of the info. If he wanted to survive the next two minutes, he had to find a way to de-escalate the situation.

But before he could open his mouth, the Warlord of the West spoke up.

“Griff?” He blinked and squinted into the midst of the Jaeger squad. “Holy shit, dude, you’re still alive?”

“And kickin’,” Griff said. He extended a scar-covered hand. The Warlord of the West grabbed it and slapped him on the back like an old war buddy.

Clay had to fight the urge to do a double take. This day just kept getting weirder. Griff, the old weed who had been barely scraping by in Camp Liberty, was buddies with the Warlord of the West? On either side of him, Joe and Alex looked equally flabbergasted.

“Hey man, thanks for rounding up these dickweeds for me,” the Warlord said. He hooked a gauntleted thumb at the campground. “I could’ve turned this place into scorched earth with the Witch’s cannon, but my Dragonkin buy a lot of crap from the Sooq’s Palmdale store, so you know”—he shrugged—“diplomacy and shit.”

“Happy to lend a hand, lad,” Griff said, although the Warlord had to be pushing fifty. “Though, truth be told, I wasn’t really bringing ’em out for the slaughter.”

“Hold on just a second.” Clay pointed from Griff to the Warlord. “You two know each other?”

The Warlord rolled his eyes. “Oh, figured that out, did ya? Swear to God, these tumbleweeds get dumber every fucking year. Ten years from now, I’ll be lucky if they understand English.”

Alex scowled and started to take a step, but Clay put a hand on her arm. She wouldn’t put up with anybody insulting him, Warlord or not, but they couldn’t afford for her hair-trigger temper to start something when they were this hopelessly outclassed. Without the Monocle, she couldn’t see how powerful he was, but Clay knew she didn’t stand a chance. The Warlord could kill her with an open hand slap if he wanted to. Ettin regen or not, there wouldn’t be enough of her left to pour into a mason jar.

Griff cleared his throat. “It was something of a small world back during the Merge. Pwnr and I fought alongside the Griefer for most of it—and for him when we weren’t alongside him.”

The Warlord scoffed. “Griff makes it sound like we were gofers, which is total bullshit. We were at the top of the totem pole. Griff here trained the Griefer’s mobs, and I kicked ass and took names Earth-side. I was basically the only thing standing between the invading Heralds and humanity.” He jerked his chin at the Jaeger squad. “So you’re welcome that I saved the world long enough for you to get out here and wreck up my shit. Speaking of…”

The Warlord of the West reached both arms out in front of him, and a massive two-handed sword made of blue light appeared in his grip.

“Which one of you dickbrains attacked Empire Records?”

Clay put up his hands. “It was me, but there were extenuating circumstances.”

“The fuck do I care?” The Warlord cocked back the light blade.