An Unfriendly Manor - Kate & Beastie Adventure #2

Chapter 3

After our close call in the goblin cave, I had very little reserve for more combat. A lot of my timers were down, I was entirely out of energy for spells, and I was suffering from some long-lasting negative effects. As much as I'd like to let Beastie stay and be worshiped, I knew the goblins would quickly start eyeing us less as conquering heroes and more as potential sustenance if we stayed much longer.

So we moved on, pausing only find a cave stream and clean up a bit so Beastie would be more presentable. A small lizard also wandered its way down to the same stream, but was on the far side, and couldn't cross. None of the goblins would go near him, and he seemed lonely. Hope things work out for you, Mr. Lizard.

Although we just stopped for a moment in order to wash up, the goblins began to surround us again, hooting and jeering, no longer in a worshipful manner. My concern about a negative change in their attitude appeared to be well-founded. Luckily, a tunnel exiting the back of the cave transitioned into the patterned tile floor of a normal dungeon, and a few such hallways led us to a new area. Only one goblin, braver than the rest, had followed us all the way here, but ran away in a panic when the new room was presented.

It was a spectacular example of a torture chamber, complete with cages, and medieval devices, and all its past victims, most of them still moving.

I began pulling several items out of inventory, and placing them on the floor. "This is the place," I said, eyeing Beastie. "Could you be a lamb and set everything up, while I sort out the food situation?"

The bovosaur looked around the room distrustfully, probably worried about the rows of glowering undead that lined the walls.

"It's fine," I assured him. The sandwiches I had brought were either chicken salad or tuna salad. I hadn't labeled them, couldn't see any visible difference, and decided I didn't really care. I sat down, cross-legged, and began making a stack of sandwich halves on a plate. Beastie had yet to put down the picnic blanket, so I had the plate balanced carefully on one knee.

"Let's go, sweetie," I prompted him. "We can't eat until we have a proper picnic. I didn't come all this way and find the perfect spot to end up gulping down food while leaning against a wall, or something just as preposterous." He began spreading the blanket into a perfect rectangle on the ground with his teeth, still focused on the surrounding glow of zombie eyes that provided all of our lighting.

I had something that might generously count as potato chips; being thin-cut dried yams. They would serve, assuming I spent as little effort looking them over as I would deciding whether the subtle twang of the sandwich was the fish, or a potential case of salmonella from mishandled chicken meat.

Beastie pushed a plate over to my side of the blanket. "Thank you, dear," I replied, and began arranging my meal. The tallest, meanest zombie apparently had had enough, and took one step forward.

"No, no," I corrected him. "Stay right where you are." He stopped, confused, and gave a glance to the regular zombies at what remained of his shoulder. I couldn't be sure, but I think they shrugged.

I almost had everything arranged for a lovely picnic, and patted a spot for Beastie to sit down. He had no interest in human foods, like sandwiches and chips, so I had brought some fresh grass and a bowl of sweetwater. It seemed more appropriate to focus on feeding the cow, and ignore the raptor, especially considering that I really liked this picnic blanket, and didn't want bloodstains on it. For the first time, he seemed more interested in our little garden party than the slavering gallery of monsters around us.

"Excuse me," the lead zombie said. I ignored him.

He gathered his nerve, and said again, "Excuse me. Miss? I don't think.."

"Be quiet," I scolded him. "We're busy, and you're being very rude." I pointed at the picnic, expecting him to take the hint.

He squared his shoulders and summoned whatever bravery he could, not wanting to look bad in front of his friends, I guess. Boys will be boys. "I don't think we have to do what you say," he finished, shrinking a bit at my responding glare.

I didn't answer, and took a bite of my sandwich. It was chicken. I think.

"We're monsters, you see." He looked around, looking for confirmation from his legion of zombies, and seeing enough to reassure him that his opinion of the situation was valid. He turned back to me. "We're monsters, and we can just kill you anytime we want."

I still didn't answer, unless removing a stray piece of celery from my teeth counted as a response.

He put one foot haltingly forward, as if crossing a red line that I had verbally drawn in front of him, and at least partially convinced that he was going to pull back a stump. Not that having a stump was any great handicap for a zombie. From the looks of his compatriots, most of them would give their left arm for a stump. And, perhaps, had.

Beastie burped. The air smelled like sweetwater, and the ring of undead jumped backward almost as one. The few who remained where they were appeared to lack whatever sensory organs the undead needed to be able to perceive an action that occurred among the living. I felt sorry for them, honestly. Perhaps I should start a charity that resurrects dead guide dogs for otherly-abled zombies.

"I get it. You've got a schedule to keep," I said gently, letting them know I understood their concerns, and was here for them if they wanted to talk. "There are lots of other avatars to kill, and.."

"Actually," he interrupted, as only a male zombie would. "We don't really have anyone else on today's schedule."

I feigned surprise. "It's just us, for the whole day?"

"Yes, just you two, then we're done."

"Well then," I concluded, "it appears that there's really no rush. Beastie and I can finish our picnic, and then settle the rest of our business with a nice meal in our tummy."

The lead zombie looked around again, mostly at partial nods of agreement from his soldiers, who could not argue against the reasonableness of my proposal. "Yeah, I guess so."

With our issues resolved, I returned to my sandwich, Beastie had a few more nips of grass, and the row of zombies stood uncomfortably where they were. Those who had makeshift weapons adjusted them, and a few flexed whatever partial joints they were using to stand to make sure they didn't lock up or fall over.

Finally, our picnic concluded. A few of the undead thought this meant they could begin fighting, and came forward, stopping only after I held up a hand. "We need to put away the plates and blanket. Won't be a minute more," I reassured them. Beastie hurried to clean up. We were both fed, no longer tired or thirsty, and were at last prepared for battle.

"Are you ready?" I asked the lead zombie. He looked around, got agreement, and nodded.

Not coincidentally, I was also now back at full energy, which was the only requirement for the Holy Hand Grenade of Theopolis, a cheap knock-off of the one from Antioch. Its main effect, which I had activated a half-second before tossing it into the air, was to disintegrate the undead in a 15 foot radius around the caster.

The piercing white light left only Beastie, myself, and a number of piles of dust.

"When building a zone," I began, using this as a teaching moment, "you really don't want your monsters to be too smart. It gets in the way of their natural instincts. Remember that, Beastie."

We moved on.