Outworld Liberators-Chapter 188: Flags Found One After Another

The giant skeleton did not relent. Its free hand hammered its own ribs again and again, trying to crush whatever had crawled inside.

Tabulae did not hesitate. She grabbed the flag where it snagged inside the rib, fingers closing on dark gold fabric.

Then the whole ribcage gave way.

Bone cracked. The sound carried through the dark like dry wood snapping in a fire. Still it did not stop.

A shard of broken bone tore across her arm. Heat flashed, then white pain. Skin split. Flesh peeled.

Her forearm opened enough that she saw pale bone under it, a glimpse that did not feel real until the blood came fast and slick.

Tears flooded her face. She wanted to wail. She was just a teenager.

But the world did not spare infants either, not when parents did not care, not when hungry men wanted what you had.

She bit her lip hard. Blood trickled down her chin. Only a strangled whimper escaped.

Tabulae ripped at her sleeve with her good hand, wrapped the cloth tight, then grabbed the thin rope again.

She slid down in a rush, palms burning, body jerking as the rope fought to take skin.

Her bleeding hand held the flag tight, knuckles locked, like letting go would kill her more surely than the fall.

She hit the ground and rolled, thin body bouncing over grit and broken bone.

She came up on her feet and chose a direction with fewer shadows, fewer footsteps, and ran.

Behind her the skeleton turned, empty sockets finding the motion. It raised its hammer, ready to pursue.

An arrow punched into its head. The giant looked where it came from.

Voices rose nearby, loud with relief and wrong certainty.

"The skeleton stopped. Its ribs are destroyed. I heard it clear."

No one could blame the mortals. It was so dark they could only guess what was happening from sound and tremor and the way the air shifted.

In that confusion, bravery caught fire. Men surged forward, stepping onto broken ribs like they were stairs.

"Let’s go. Beat up this soft ass skeleton."

"Rope. Let’s tie it down. We can do it."

Back in the arena seating, the crowd roared when the first flag was claimed.

It had not been found. It had been earned.

Cheers and curses rose together, the sound of joy and regret braided into one loud rope.

Some spectators spat oaths because they had not bet on such a dark horse, because their coins had gone to safer faces.

That single flag meant Tabulae had crossed into the preliminary stage.

Now she only had to stay alive long enough to make it matter.

Up in the stands, Biscuit and Shortbreads leaned close, eyes bright, already dreaming of what they could squeeze out of Radeon Terraces once Tabulae became useful.

They were not watching the girl anymore. They were picturing the future they wanted to steal. A title that would make people bow.

Biscuit even drifted into a daydream of being the city lord of Radeon Terraces, bossing men around, getting his feet rubbed like a king.

Father and son looked stupid as they stared with hungry faces and empty minds.

The crowd’s attention shifted to another screen.

A fat boy moved through the dark like he owned it, acting like a young master, while skeletons clustered around him as if they were his guards.

Earlier, Almsgiver had giggled when bony fingers poked his soft belly, not out of mockery, but because it tickled.

After that, he watched the undead with a different kind of focus. Their bones were fitted wrong.

An arm where a shin should be. A hand jammed into a socket that did not match. 𝗳𝗿𝐞𝕖𝘄𝗲𝕓𝗻𝚘𝚟𝕖𝐥.𝚌𝕠𝕞

Pieces swapped and forced like someone had assembled them in a hurry and did not care if they hurt.

Almsgiver’s face tightened with concern.

"Senior skeletons," he said, gentle as a son speaking to an old man. "How about I help you with your bodies."

The skeletons clacked at each other, confused by the words, confused by kindness. Almsgiver reached in anyway.

He pulled one arm free and traded it with another, then another. Bone by bone. Socket by socket.

He worked like a child fixing toys, careful and earnest. When the forms looked more normal, he nodded, satisfied.

"Senior skeleton. You look good now," he said. "If you don’t have anything to do, come with me to find some flags."

He invited them the way a boy invited other children to an adventure, as if they were not murderous undead in the dark.

They followed. An hour passed. Almsgiver found over fifty flags. All duds. Purple. Orange. Wrong arms. No arms.

He did not frown once. The skeletons dug for him when he asked. They showed him how to feel for hidden cloth in the dark.

He even asked them how to swing a sword. How to angle a shield. How to keep a stance.

Even the mortals memorized each move in his mind. These were skeletons made by the God Eldric, and the cuts the skeletons made were not sloppy at all.

For the mortals, the silver coin they paid felt worth it, and in their hearts they were willing to pay more.

In another part of the crowd, suspicion spread. People muttered about what they were seeing, asking how such nepotism could be happening.

Eldric’s grandson, some whispered. Calyx’s bastard son, others insisted, because crowds loved a dirty explanation more than a clean one.

Calyx stepped up beside the two announcers and spoke into the air like it was a courtroom.

"My master, Eldric, has looked into the child," the butler said. "He bears no artifact upon his person."

"The reason the skeletons do not attack is quite simple. He shows no malice, no fear, and no hostile intent."

"In plain terms, he is, remarkably, too kind, and fortune has favored him this round. These skeletons were made to kill, you understand?"

The audience quieted. They believed it because they wanted to.

God Eldric would not rig an event like this. It would be a slap to his own face.

Still, they needed the reason spoken aloud so their minds could rest on it.

Thimbles, small in the announcer stand, leaned forward with wide eyes.

"Big brother Calyx," she asked, sweet as summer milk, "Does that mean if you’re kind, you can hug the skeletons?"

She frowned, thinking hard, then hurried on.

"I’m kind. But... I saw Grandpa’s bum when he was bathing, and he said I’m a bad girl. Can I still hug them?"

The crowd laughed out loud. Shears, the old man in the booth, turned red clear down to his neck.

His innocent granddaughter had shamed him without even meaning to, and he suddenly felt he ought to dig a hole and crawl into it until the end of his days.

Up in the seats the mood went light for a moment.

Down on the dark maze, it stayed heavy.

Ropefist panted like a man trying to drink air. His arms shook.

He had finally cracked the skeleton’s head, the fight the longest of his life, every exchange a lesson paid for in bruises.

When the stone bones stopped moving he let himself fall into the grass and stared at the dark above.

Then he saw it. A flag near the broken body.

Elation hit him first. Dark gold fabric. His mouth crept into a grin so wide it hurt.

He crawled closer and squinted at the image, forcing his eyes to focus through sweat and fog.

He started counting.

"Two. Four. Six. Eight. Ten. Ten?"

In the stands, people counted with him, eager as gamblers watching dice roll.

Ropefist blinked hard, disbelieving. He counted again. Still ten.

"Argh. What is this?"

Some spectators looked away. Some sniggered. Men who had bet on Ropefist cursed under their breath.

Elsewhere in the dark, a peculiar partnership moved with purpose.

Whiteblade wore white linen robes, clean lines in a filthy contest, an estoc hanging at his side.

Nightskin stood taller and broader, dark skinned, with steel gauntlets that made his hands look like tools made for breaking.

Together they had beaten down more than seven skeletons in the last two hours.

They had gathered seven flags, all duds, and still they kept them.

Not out of hope. Out of suspicion.

What if these flags held secrets. In this age people clutched anything mysterious like it might be the first step on a path to power.

Another skeleton found them before they found another flag.

Nightskin went in first, long arms shooting fast to catch the skeleton’s sword. Steel gauntlet met blade with a hard scrape.

"Now!" he roared.

Whiteblade circled behind and drove the estoc in, again and again, the point ringing off stone like a bell that refused to break.

The skeleton’s skull turned toward him, hunting, but Nightskin yanked on the sword with brute force and stole its attention.

He could not tear the weapon free, not quite, but he kept the skeleton’s focus on him.

Minutes dragged. The fog swallowed distance and made every movement feel too close.

Finally the skeleton shuddered and went still. The skull had cracked.

A flag slipped free and dropped.

Whiteblade and Nightskin froze at the same time.

Their eyes flashed. In one glance the image showed twelve arms. A gust caught the cloth and snapped it to flapping.

In their minds it glimmered dark gold, as if moonlight had found it in the black, though above there was only black fog.

The pause rippled through the stands. The audience swallowed as one, scared to breathe too loud in case this too proved a lie.