Page 18 of Level Up for Love

Wesley’s laugh is dry. “Why don’t you actually play the game to find out?”

“Okay, fine. Sindra takes a moment to try to investigate the sword, to see if she can figure out what’s wrong with it, and—”

“Sindra doesn’t have time to investigate,” Wesley suddenly snaps impatiently. “Because at that moment, a skeletal hand shoots up from the ground and grabs her ankle.”

“Wow,” I say with a dry laugh, my tone dripping with sarcasm. “How convenient.”

Wesley’s eyes harden, and then he says the words that signal we’re about to fight—as if I didn’t already know. His voice is a low growl.

“Roll for initiative, Reagan.”

Sindra yells out a warning as a skeleton claws its way out of the dirt, its grime-crusted teeth snapping at her, the hand wrapped around her ankle jerking her to the ground. But before Moss can run to her aid, they’re both distracted by an unsettling clattering that echoes throughout the mountains.

To Sindra’s horror, an entire swarm of undead begins to surround them, crawling from under the brush, pushing their way out of the ground, or descending from the mountain’s many caves. They are in various states of decay—some recently passed and disgustingly fleshy; others nothing more than ivory bones—but they all have the same glowing, burning red eyes as the dragon.

Sindra shoves the first skeleton off of her and sends its jaw flying with a strike to its skull. It stumbles backward, giving her just enough room to push herself to her knees, swing Brightmorn in a wide arc, and shatter its rib cage. Sindra looks wildly around until she finds Moss battling an entire group of undead alone. The orc has them tangled up in a net of roots, slowing them down just enough to give her time to strike each skull with her staff when they get too close. Sindra races forward, cutting into them from behind and severing their spines.

But they keep coming, climbing out from between the rocks and running down the mountain’s steep incline. Moss is the first to voice what Sindra already knows.

“There’s too many of them.” Her voice is shrill. “Sindra, we can’t—”

“You don’t stop fighting, Moss,” Sindra says steadily as she breaks through the group encircling the druid. She moves so they’re standing back-to-back as skeletons continue to reach for them, broken hands grasping. “You don’t quit.”

Moss sets her jaw. “I don’t quit.”

In the chaos of the battle, Sindra relies on her training, on the many years spent practicing techniques and then putting them to work on the field. There’s a peace in knowing that she’s doing everything she can—that even if this is it, she’s giving it her best. So even as bones crowd her vision and unholy screeching fills her ears, the peace—

The screeching rises in pitch, and a sudden gust of air stirs her hair as the largest, ugliest bird she’s ever seen crashes into the swarm of undead. The vulture mows over half a dozen skeletons in one fell swoop, and Moss shrieks as an arrow explodes through the skull of the skeleton clawing at her neck. Bolts of arcane energy whistle overhead, and three skeletons shatter as the purple missiles land. Amid the chaos, Sindra sees a bulky hunk of wood in the distance, growing larger and larger until finally a man shoves his way through the horde, tall tower shield held out steadily before him.

“Behind me,” he barks, his gravelly voice deep and sharp with command.

Sindra bristles; it’s been a long time since she’s taken orders from anyone. But the dozens of cuts she’s sustained are beginning to sting, and her shoulders ache from holding Brightmorn before her. She nods and steps behind the man’s guard, she and Moss standing to either side of his shoulders.

Even with the aid of the newcomers, it feels like whole days pass before the tide turns. But Sindra recognizes a well-trained swordsman when she sees one, and she quickly falls in sync with the older human currently taking the brunt of the attack, defending his blind spots and taking advantage of the openings he gives her. She notes the way his own sword occasionally glows with holy energy as he deals devastating blows to the skeletons, his eyes momentarily shuttering as if in prayer. A paladin, Sindra thinks, impressed.

Moss is able to take a break from defending herself—fighting really isn’t her strong suit—and she focuses instead on knitting up the worst of Sindra’s and the stranger’s wounds. Her staff glitters with power, enhancing her spell, and green druidic magic glows in the cut on the back of Sindra’s hand. Tiny flowers burst forth from the wound, and when Sindra idly brushes them away, her skin is healed and whole again. As the undead’s numbers dwindle, Sindra searches for where the arrows and arcane bolts are coming from, but all she can see are two cloaked figures shrouded by a tree’s branches farther up the mountain. Her focus returns to the fight in front of her when the vulture squawks loudly again and pierces the skull of the nearest skeleton with its sharp black beak.

As soon as the last skeleton is cut down, Moss immediately—and predictably—rushes to kneel next to the bird. “Hello, darling,” she croons. “Really saved my butt back there, didn’t you, sweetie pie?”

As most animals tend to do in Moss’s presence, the vulture warms up to her quickly, slitting its eyes and pressing its wrinkly bald pink head into her palm. It makes a disconcerting hissing sound that Sindra thinks means it’s happy.

One of the figures from the tree—the one with the bow—drops to the ground, and as the woman’s hood falls to her shoulders, Sindra sees dark hair framing a young face made older by dark circles under her eyes. They crinkle with mild amusement upon seeing Moss. “Have you made a new friend, Lord Gullet?” she asks. At the sound of his name, the vulture flaps his wings twice before perching at the woman’s side. Sindra has met rangers like her. Their connection with nature might not be as intimate as Moss’s, but a few of them respect the wild world enough to bond with animal companions who will fight at their side and obey their commands.

“Hello!” Moss pants as she stands. “Thank you for your help, all of you. I don’t know what we would have done without…” She releases a shaky sigh. “I don’t know.”

The older human does not turn to face her, not immediately. Not until he completes a full survey of the land around them to ensure that every undead has been dispatched. Only then does he regard Moss silently. His features are like a rough-hewn rock face, weathered and ragged, framed by overgrown hair that reaches past his shoulders. His brow sits low over clear gray eyes.

After a beat of quiet, Moss tries again. She sticks out her hand. “I’m Aramoss. Moss, for short. This is Sindra.”

“You’re not supposed to be here,” he says flatly.

A beat of tense silence passes between them. The ranger is the first to break it.

“I’m Officer Vera Ward, and this is my father, Captain Antoni Ward. You caught us on patrol.” Her features are younger and more refined, but there are echoes of the older man in her own gray eyes and dark hair—though his has gone more salt than pepper. Her expression is tinged with curiosity, but wariness lingers in the way she holds her bow loosely at her side. “My father is right, though,” she says. “They should have stopped you at the border.”

“They tried,” Sindra says bluntly. “So we found another way around.”

“But why?” Vera asks, bewildered. “Moros is dangerous to outsiders, as you quickly discovered. Why come?”