The Dark Heir (SHORTLIST - Open Novella Contest 2019)

A Reckoning - Part 2

The small band of "heroes," less one, regrouped on the steps of the castle ruins after fleeing over a very rickety bridge - the only easy way over the castle's moat.  Gerald, for the first time in his life, was giving orders. His first order of business was getting rid of that bridge.  He was about to use his magic when he had second thoughts, pulled a knife out of his cloak and cut the already frayed ropes tying it to their side.  It fell with an underwhelming splat, sending bits of mud and algae all over his cloak. 

"Oh, that was nicely done, Gerald," a familiar voice called from behind.  Gerald jumped, the werewolves yipped, and Arien stood there with his mouth agape.  The Wizard was slowly climbing over the ruins behind them (a route they thought was safe from intruders) and several other people were climbing down after him.

"What are you doing here?" Gerald demanded.

"I've always wanted to tour these ruins, and these architects," he waived to the men and women behind him, "were getting together a group to come and take one of the tours advertised by the cult who lives on these lands, so I thought now would be as good a time as any.  Unfortunately the cult seems to have gone off somewhere."

"Was now really the best time for this thing?" Gerald said dryly. 

"Mmm, yes, well, no time like the present if we're all going to be annihilated on the 'morrow.  Am I right?" Said the Wizard.

"What's this about annihilation?" One of the architects called.

"It's what happened to the castle..."

"I thought that was seven hundred years ago..."

"Did someone say tomorrow?"

"I say, the craftsmanship on these stones is magnificent, nothing like we get today.  Everyone wants their building done yesterday, with no account for the time it takes to produce real...oh, am I interrupting something?"

The last architect was making his way down from above completely unaware of everything else going on.  He pushed his red glasses up onto his nose and looked around, getting the feeling things weren't quite the same as they'd been when they went up. 

He was right. 

There was now a small army of rabid salespeople ascending the low hill that led up to the castle ruins, carrying whatever kind of weapon they could find, and all wearing their OMEGA SHAVE outfits. The werewolves spread out against the edge of the moat as the first line of defense, and Gerald and the Wizard were readying balls of fire to throw. Arien's pants had randomly turned up and he was making them into a sling to throw rocks.

"At least there's a moat*," Arien said, ready to find the silver-lining in any situation. 

The others looked at the moat, looked at Arien, and then all the architects save one began scrambling back up the ruins as quickly as they could go. 

"I've always wanted to be in a fight," said the one who stayed.

This is exactly what idiots who have never been in fights usually say.  He was actually quite tall, and muscular (which is saying something given his chosen profession, whose members don't often see the light of day), and dabbled in martial arts as a form of exercise.

"Arien, look out!" Gerald shouted, and Arien ducked just in time to avoid having his head cut off by an axe. 

"Hey!" yelled the architect, "Why don't you pick on someone your own size?" He was, in fact, exactly the same size as the elf who had just tried to take off Arien's head. 

The architect deftly avoided an axe chop and with unexpected speed for a man of his size, shot in close for an upper cut to the elf's chin.  The elf, who hadn't ever fought anyone before, and who'd never been punched in the face, collapsed and began sobbing about something called "premiums."  The architect momentarily felt bad, but then grabbed the discarded axe and sped off to help the werewolves who were being overwhelmed by mad salesmen -and saleswomen.