Strength Based Wizard-Chapter 41. Grain & Flesh

Chapter 41

Grain & Flesh

We begin to round the outer edge of the wheat field, keen on not approaching the strange scarecrow. I can’t shake the feeling that I’m being watched. I take a peak in the armored scarecrow’s direction and it’s still there: standing guard on its perch, above its golden domain.

Wait a second…

It’s turned now. Only slightly. Facing us straight on, despite the fact that it’s not possible. Well, it shouldn’t be possible. It’s creepy, sure, and there’s a strong modern day muscle-man part of my pride that says it’s just a trick of the eye. My inner pride attempts to smother the primal alarms sounding in my brain.

Did I see its head tilt just now? Or was that the wind?

“Er… Guys,” I choke out.

Clyde slows his pace and angles left, toward a narrow strip of packed dirt winding around the field. Veronica follows without a word, her Warhammer firmly in her grip, at the ready. I guess they didn’t hear me.

I start to follow, but something in me—something primal, something dumb and filled with bad decisions—makes me glance back again. And just in time too.

Fwoosh!

The scarecrow lets go of its post, stepping down and falling into the sea of wheat. Its metal boots hit the dirt in the wheat field and vanish beneath the golden stalks like a shark slipping into the ocean.

The others freeze and spin towards the wheat field. Apparently that was enough to get their attention.

The wheat rustles. The scarecrow is moving towards us, and fast.

“Oh shit,” Clyde says. His pistol is in his hand almost faster than I can register.

“That’s not good,” I add helpfully.

“Definitely not good,” Veronica agrees.

Jelly Boy emits a low, warbling blorp like he’s trying to become invisible through the power of wishful thinking.

The wheat parts in a V-shape behind us as the armored scarecrow—or whatever the fuck it actually is—zeroes in, slicing a path through the crop with surgical precision. Each rustle grows louder, angrier. Closer.

“I hate wheat,” I say, and then I drop into my stance. I grit my teeth, throw my arms in front of me, and flex my biceps like my high school yearbook photo depends on it. I’m surprised when the Wizard’s Hand cantrip in my hotlist dimly lights up, like it’s online and ready to fire. That’s a new feature, I note, before mentally slamming on the trigger twice.

A hum starts low in my belly and climbs, buzzing through my bones. My entire body thrums like a tuning fork. I feel it in my molars. My eyes water. Something deep within me clicks. My Stamina bar appears, upper right corner of my HUD. A solid green line. It dips—just a bit—as power pours out of me.

The air pops. Two clouds of silvery mist burst to either side of me with the urgency of soda cans shaken to hell and cracked open. Lefty and Righty materialize, my bicep bros from beyond the veil, floating hands made of shimmering mana-forged muscle and chaos.

“Let’s get to work, boys,” I whisper.

Lefty and Righty assist each other in cracking their phantom knuckles before taking a ready fighting stance. I take a few cautious steps back, trying to create some more distance between myself and the nightmare surging towards us.

“Okay,” Veronica mutters, voice tightening. “What the hell’s the plan here?”

“Step one,” Clyde says. “Don’t die.”

“Step two?” I ask.

“Hit it ‘til it stops moving,” he says.

I’m assuming there’s no step three.

The wall of wheat explodes as the armored figure emerges. It’s close enough to trigger a System message.

New Monster Identified: Grain and Flesh Golem, Level 12

Classification: Simple Golem

The thing is worse up close. It’s stitched together like Frankenstein was working overtime and drunk… and a hillbilly. Its bulk. Its skin has the waxy, too-tight look of a rotisserie chicken that’s been resurrected and placed in one of those gas station hot dog rollers to preserve its life. Patches of that disgusting sun-baked skin interlock with what appears to be pieces of burlap. Black stitches hold it all together. Its eyes burn with a radioactive green energy.

Clyde doesn’t wait.

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Bang! Bang!

One bullet pings off the thing’s shoulder armor, denting the rusting armor. The other buries itself in the Golem’s neck with a wet chunk, sending bits of thread and cartilage flying like zombie party confetti.

It doesn’t flinch. Its glowing green eyes remain trained on us… on me.

It just slowly, awkwardly lifts one hand and points a gnarled finger at the ground. The finger is unnervingly human, dirt beneath its yellowed fingernails.

The earth at its feet cracks. A spiral of green lightning zips through the dirt.

Fwoomp!

A pitchfork rises up from the earth. It’s big. Longer than any practical farm tool should be. Blackened wood shaft, three long, gleaming tines, each hooked like a claw. The golem grabs it and spins it like a seasoned martial artist. It levels the weapon at us, and I swear to god the thing’s eyes twinkle with the hint of a smile.

Unfortunately for it, it’s all a little too theatrical. Too slow, mother fucker!

“GET HIM, BOYS!” I roar.

Lefty and Righty detonate forward in twin bursts of silvery vapor trails. They hit the golem like twin rockets.

SMACK.

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Righty goes for the jaw—there’s a satisfying crack when its knuckles slam into the thing’s helmt and the Golem’s head snaps sideways.

WHUMP.

Lefty uppercuts straight into the ribcage. There's an audible splorch, like someone punching a jack-o-lantern full of cold oatmeal. Bits of hay, corn kernels and something that looks suspiciously like a lung slurp out of the wound.

The Golem stumbles.

I don’t know if it can feel pain. But it sure as hell at registers the damage.

It lets out this low, gurgling moan that sounds like a dying tractor on its last leg. It tries to spin the pitchfork again but Righty grabs its wrist while Lefty just goes to town on its face with tiny, meaty slaps.

Clyde reloads. Veronica charges with her hammer, boots thudding against the dry dirt like war drums.

My spectral hands are still too quick on the jump. Righty lets go of the golem’s wrist and punches it in the gut for good measure.

The golem drops to one knee, leaking hay and corn meal.

Just as Clyde’s about to pull the trigger and send Mr. Haybale Nightmare into permanent early retirement, I hear something behind me.

It sounds like Spanish, if it had been rinsed through a meat grinder, and then yelled by someone who’s never seen punctuation. It’s got rhythm, though. I'll give it that.

A pulse hits my mind, rippling through my brain and my very crore.

. . .

And the System is fucking buffering?! You’ve got to be kidding me.

Ding!

[Language Integrtion to complete.]

“WHAT IN TARNATION ARE YA DOIN’ TO MY GOLEM?”

I freeze.

The voice is old, pissed, and seasoned like a cast iron skillet that’s been frying sins since the first epoch.

I turn, careful to do so as slowly as I can. Like molasses trying not to get murdered. I include carefully raising my hands, palms open towards the elf-like man.

My eyes lock on the muzzle of a blunderbuss. This thing is massive. Two-handed, golden inlaid trim. It’s got teeth. Literal ones. The barrel’s jagged at the end like someone smashed it open on a bear’s skull and thought, "yeah, that looks right." A tongue stretches from the open mouth of the weapon and licks it chomps, eager to fire at us.

The man holding it looks like he sleeps in dirt and wrestles wild pigs for fun. He’s taller than me, broad-shouldered and thick in that rough-and-tumble, sneaky sort-of strength kind of way. His arms are more ropey than chiseled.

He’s got tawny skin, and his hair—blond, maybe sun-bleached—is receding like a tide that gave up. But it’s long in the back, tied in a frizzy ponytail. His ears are pointed. Like... really pointed. Elven. But wrong. Like someone stretched an elf sideways and forgot to stop. His eyes are almond-shaped, glassy, and spaced just a little too far apart. He looks at me like he’s trying to decide whether to shoot me or marry me off to his cousin-sister-wife.

I raise my hands like a good citizen of Don’t-Get-Yourself-Shot-Land.

“What the hell are humans doing this far North?... Don’t look like savages either,” says the man, though it’s clearly to himself, as though he couldn’t understand him.

I gingerly clear my throat, then say, “Uh… We come in peace—”

“We mean you no harm sir,” interrupts Clyde, taking a gentle bow at the hips. “We’ve traveled from a very far land, and are simply looking for directions and perhaps some assistance in reaching any nearby town or city… Is that something you’d be able to assist with? If so, we can be on our way.”

Watching the man’s face, I’d swear he’d just witnessed a dog walking on its hind legs preparing an espresso. He physically stopped his jaw from dropping to the ground in utter shock at Clyde’s words.

The man squints. He’s still got the gun pointed straight at my chest. “Can these savages really understand me?” he mutters.

Well, that’s fucking rude…

“You ain’t speakin’ gibberish,” he mutters. His eyes narrow, shifting between the three of us and Jelly Boy like he's doing mental calculus. And I hope we’re on the right side of the equation.

The farmhouse looms in the near distance, a sagging two-story relic. A slight breeze passes between us. It smells like a combination of wet hay and mildew. Probably from the golem here…

“Nope,” I say, slow and careful. I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding that entire time. I focus on the man with the elongated and angular features, which produces a basic System message.

Identified: Farmer Baptiste, Level 15 Farmer

Level 15?... Really?!

“You're talkin’… talkin’.” The man steps closer, gun still loose in his hands, but not exactly not pointed at us. “You’re humans. And you talk?” His eyes scan us all, stopping on me to take in the jorts and the Fleetwood Mac tee. It’s like watching someone witness a little gray alien step out from an airship in the middle of no where.

“We do… We are,” says Clyde.

Farmer Baptiste ignores Clyde, re-leveling his blunderbuss at me. Which is really not cool!

“You're from the south, then?” he asks. “How’d you get this far north without gettin’ eaten, flayed, or turned into a song for the fungus choirs? Ain't never seen no savage this far north that didn't have a collar on it."

Clyde's eye twitches, but it's barely noticeable. He lets out a breath like he’s been holding it since last Tuesday. “Long story.”

“And a weird one,” Veronica adds. Both of them are so smooth with the lie. I just want to ask this Farmer Baptiste what the hell he's even talking about, because it makes no sense to me.

“We’d be willing to compensate you for your troubles,” says Clyde. There’s the smallest flash of pixelated light near his fingers, which could easily be taken as a trick of the sunlight. But a small piece of gold, a coin the size of the old one dollar U.S. coins that used to be in circulation, appears in his hands out of now where.

I’d honestly forgotten I also had gold on me. I had obtained several pieces during my first Gate and they had spent the entire time since in my Inventory menu (though not a part of my actual Inventory).

At the sight of the coin, I see Farmer Baptiste’s eyes light up. The mouth-end of his blunderbuss lowers slightly, twisted into a frown.

I suppose money talks. Even in other Realms.

Okay, it looks like we’re finally getting somewhere.