“How far is it to Elmsville fort?” said the tired voice of a sandy haired youth wearing tightly fitted rawhide armaments covered in overlapping steel disks with a massive Carthaginian style shield hanging off his shoulder as he glared out at the pitch darkness all around, lit only by intermittent torches held by a good double handful of the hundreds of chanting orc musketeers marching in what only a very drunk and forgiving commander would ever call a tight formation.

“Still a good few hours out, at the rate these lazy fucks like to march,” snorted a rough-shaven man of about thirty by his side, kitted out exactly the same as the youth beside him, a handful of pilum held in a lazy grip, the same number as held by the youth grumbling and cursing beside him.

“Yeah but why the fuck are we marching back into already claimed territory anyway? We’re just a couple days away from utterly crushing the fucking Sylvan alliance, and only classers who can prove they got an actual kill are going to get dibs on some of those elven bitches.”

The young man shook his head in obvious frustration, glaring at the orc humming an off-key tune in front of him while picking his nose with the intent focus one normally reserved for the most scholarly of pursuits, before giving a delighted grunt, the youth wincing at the sound of massive orcish lips smacking at whatever he was now chewing with obvious relish.

“Fucking disgusting,” he muttered.

The rough-shaven man walking beside him laughed “Yeah, but who gives a fuck? We’re on the winning team, we can get drunk and high every fucking day we’re not on duty, and we each got bitches begging to service our every need, so fucked up and desperate they’ll do anything we ask.” He took a quick swig from a silver hip flask before scratching an ugly-looking sore on his arm. “Too bad the needles we have here are shit, but its not like we can get sick, getting as high as a motherfucking kite. You really should try it sometime, Steve.”

The young Javelineer gave a short sharp bark of laughter. “Yeah, I think I’ll pass, Sim. The one time we get the call for battle while you’re nodding off like the whores you shoot up with is the last fight you’ll never finish.”

“Watch your mouth you little shit,” Sim hissed with a glare. “I can still gut you before you can blink, no matter how fucked up I get.”

Steve flashed the hotly glaring Sim a mocking smile. “You so sure about that, hoss? At least your skanky bitches can suck off their new masters while tripping balls, then call it a fucking night. An ugly mug like yours? Our enemies will just slice your throat and be done with it.”

Sim blanched, actually drawing his gladius before stopping halfway, as if frozen by Steve’s cold gaze, both of them ignoring the grumbling classless orcs glaring at the pair of humans but wise enough to say nothing, just passing them by.

“Try it, fuckwad,” Steve snapped, lips twisting in a nasty sneer. “Cindy still looks pretty hot, even as your strung out ho. I wouldn’t mind giving her a spin, once I do you in.”

“Knock it off, you assholes. We’re here to take out whatever force thinks they can take advantage of our employers before they take out the Sylvan faction. We know for sure that they already took out two territories in just the past two days. Which means we need you two idiots sharp and focused, and ready to throw your javelins at whoever’s heading our way.”

Sim turned to glare at the smooth-cheeked man with perfectly combed hair, wearing a leather bomber jacket and actual aviator glasses, even in the dead of an overcast night, walking beside the pair of orcs leading a half dozen mules dragging along the well-sprung cart presently carrying a bronze cannon that any civil war buff could tell had been based off the Model 1857, though extensively modified with pivoting axis and sliding mount and what looked like a surprisingly sleek breach-loading chamber. A skilled scout carefully catching a glimpse of the barrel might even deduce that it had been rifled with exquisite precision, quite unlike the muzzle-loading smooth-boars used by the orc regulars, much like their muskets. And if that wasn’t a tell-tale enough indication that the sleek bronze cannon was used by a Classer, the shiny brass shells complete with primers carefully padded and stacked in reinforced crates in the wagon beside it made it clear enough.

“So says Frankie, our second-string gunner,” Sim sneered.

“Yeah, I can’t help but notice how you’re mule-carting your precious little toy in the fucking AM while Ricky got the red carpet treatment when the sun was still high in the sky,” Steve laughed, lips twisting in an ugly sneer. “And that’s a cute fucking jacket. Lined with fucking lamb’s wool, of all things. Won’t do you a lick of good against a spear in the gut.”

Frankie, cool eyes and imperious features all but immune to their goading, just dipped his head. “You’re right. That’s what you boys are here for. And if I end up kicking the bucket because you idiots couldn’t do your fucking jobs, well, let’s just say you two won’t be far behind.”

Steve cracked a yawn, shaking his head. “And now I’m your fucking babysitter. This detail just keeps getting better.” His tired smirk turned to a faint look of alarm when Sim’s eyes abruptly widened, gazing all around him with a wild animal’s intensity, the air of ex-con jaded excess gone in the blink of an eye.

“Sim, what the fuck?”

Sim shook his head. “Shut up. Something’s wrong!” he hissed, ignoring the grumbling orcs nearby, though at least a few of them were wise enough to stop as well and look all around, taking a cue from the Classers in their midst.

“Why you slow down? Lazy human fucks, get moving!” Roared one of the orc Classers in back.

“Shut the fuck up! Sim’s picking up something!” Steven shouted back, earning alarmed grumbles from the orcs marching beside them, hundreds of musketeers in loose formation.

Steve peered hard in the direction Sim was focusing on. “What are we looking at.”

Sim just rubbed his eyes. “I’m not sure. Reinforcements? Hard to tell in the fucking dark, and they’re heading back this way. What the fuck, was this bullshit detail called off?”

Steve smirked, before he blanched at the sight of their gunner turning chalk white, frightened grey eyes revealed when he tore off his stupid aviator shades, pointing at the vague contingent of soldiers heading their way. “Those aren’t… those aren’t our men. Fuck! I think...” Frankie swallowed, desperately smacking the clumsy orcs lumbering forward. “Set up the gun. Set up my fucking gun!” he screamed, formerly calm voice now cracking under strain.

“Frankie, what the hell do you see?” Steve demanded, holding a javelin in a tight-knuckled grip, now sounding as panicked as their gunner.

Sim stumbled back on his ass. “Those fuckers aren’t alive…” He turned back to yell in the direction of the orc Classer who had had roared at them just seconds ago. “Something’s wrong, boss! We got trouble coming our way!”

“Trouble? What trouble!?”

“Orcs… but um, not!”

“What? What are you talking about, human? Make sense!”

“Zombies, sir!” Frankie said with a tremble in his voice, as the front row of uncertain orc conscripts just following orders, heading to their location, were caught off guard when near a hundred orcs abruptly slammed their bayonetted muskets forward, surprised screams making it clear that they had managed to take at least the closest orcs by surprise as the night rang with the crack of musket shots, the air suddenly rich with the stench of blood, panic, and gunpowder.

“The orc platoon heading back this way aren’t actually among the living, sir!”

“What?” The chieftain seemed genuinely confused before turning to the dozen or so alpha orc specimens, all of them oozing bulging muscle and levels well into the twenties. “Custos, investigate and report.”

“Sir!” they said, slamming fists to steel breastplates, wearing nothing else save half helms and mail hauberks, vicious looking battle axes all held in high guard in anticipation of brutal killing blows.

Only for the screams up front to grow in pitch and intensity. “Our bullets do nothing! Our bayonets just get stuck in their—“

The panicked report was cut off in a startled shriek.

“Soldier, report!” The orc commander roared, before stomping along the path his custos had taken up to the front ranks, hardly able to make out anything more than shadowy figures locked in desperate struggle ahead.

“Men, form up into your ranks! Tight formatrions! Double row bayonets! All other musketeers, take attacks of opportunity, but don’t shoot your fucking neighbors! Humans, to me!”

Sim caught Steven’s eyes as he nervously scratched his arm. “Fuck, we better check it out.”

Steve jerked a nod. “We’ll lope around. Use the darkness to maneuver around those fuckers and take them out from behind.”

“You’ll do no such thing! Your job is to guard my ass while I shoot, even more here than on the fortress battlements!” Snapped a panicked looking Frankie, former ice-man demeanor cracking to reveal real terror. “Now come on, help me finish setting up my gun. Those fucking orcs can’t do shit!”

He then turned toward the roaring chieftain. “Commander, please have your men clear a path so I can have a clear line of fire!”

But the commander was clearly beyond dispassionately directing his troops, instead embracing the role of a front-line berserker,roaring and lashing out with furious abandon, laughing with relief when he finally managed to bring one down, after completely cleaving free a mangled skull of the smallest revenant before him.

“These fuckers are killable! Bring them down, Custos! Use your battleaxes! Your—“

Words cut off by the vibrating rumble of an earthquake, it seemed at first.

Till classers like Sim, Steve, and Frankie just behind them cursed in surprised disbelief when the billowing blackness parted just long enough to reveal trumpeting death in the form of a full score of monstrosities absolutely towering over every orc, human, and Classer present.

They were size and mass of a mastodon, with a skulls so massive, tusks so sharp and powerful that it was nothing for them to toss back their heads and send clusters of shrieking orcs they had slammed into cartwheeling through the air, dozens of orcs filling the night with despairing howls until they plummeted with sickening cracks and moved no more.

Steve froze in mortal terror as Sim, against all expectation, actually roared challenge and managed to throw not one but three javelins in less than two seconds, hooting with sheer rebellious pride, and even Steve couldn’t help cracking a smile, right before his partner’s face was torn completely off his skull with a massive Tusker’s glancing blow.

Steve gave a helpless cry, lurching back as Sim’s shrieks rang through the air while the massive bestial terrors that seemed utterly impervious even to his panicked throws happily tore a shrieking Sim’s entrails open before flipping the dying man in the air and snapping a massive maw shut with a single bite, before turning Steve’s way.

“In my fucking sights! Let me show you how it’s done!” Frankie shouted with triumph, effortlessly pivoting his gun to face the largest of the charging monster boars scattering disorganized orcs like bowling pins, and Steve hollered for sheer joy as their gunner prepared to put the fear of god into their foes with heavy artillery fire and actual exploding shells.

Steve’s eyes widened in disbelief when he saw a surprised-looking gunner gaze down at the hole spurting blood in his chest in utter confusion, before collapsing to the ground in a boneless heap.

“Frankie? Frankie! Fuck!”

Everything was now screams and panic, their chieftain focused only on trying to handle the contingent of undead orcs forming a neat row to meet their advance… utterly ignoring, or too lost in battle-frenzy and the confusion of near pitch blackness to even register the devastating company of massive boars absolutely shredding their flanks.

Steve cried out, falling on his butt when the features of a too handsome youth with flawless skin, sapphire blue eyes and golden locks slipping free of his helm making him look like the lead to either a Hollywood movie or a steamy teen romance, preferably with vampires, suddenly appeared before him.

“You wanna live, kid? Then get the fuck out of here.” Said the youth clearly no older than Steve, just a heartbeat before his palm smacked a former Franky’s customized cannon and massive ammo cart. Then both disappeared, in the blink of an eye.

And that, somehow, was the final straw.

Or maybe it was the blaster rifle the eerily calm Classer held so casually held in his hand.

Either way, the panicked spear-chucker dropped both javelins and shield and ran for all he was worth westwards, roughly in the direction of Freetown, and Eric was more than happy to let him go.