Berserker Part 32

The guards hadn’t kept the caravan waiting in as soon as it was established that there would be burning, pillaging, or raping. Probably nothing to steal around here anyway, Tyrel thought sadly. While most people were staring blankly, sleepily, or stupidly, the captain of the guard looked disturbingly intelligent at them. As if he was mentally taking down everything to the smallest detail. I’ll have to watch that one.

Moving past various storage bins, grain silos, meat lockers, and warehouses, it struck Tyrel as being strangely quiet, the shock affect of their arrival should’ve worn off by now, giving way to hushed murmuring and flying rumors as to the newcomers’ identities, purpose, eligibility, and financial status. But no, just silence, like the desperate quiet of a mouse as the predatorial shadow of an owl swoops by.

Suddenly he realized it, all eyes were locked on the gnoll. Tyrel wasn’t normally someone to laugh at something that didn’t end up with a person be hung upside and horsewhipped, but the peoples’ looks of horror at the little gnoll on his leash had him splitting his sides. It was hardly larger than the dogs on the street barking at them as they worked their way through the gate, but they acted as if it were evil incarnate. Aside from that, it’s “leash” was treated leather suitable for tethering a pair of wild horses.

Their horror was something familiar to him, he had seen it often enough on the faces of those not willing to be parted with any trinkets or spare coins they could’ve lived without. but recently he had seen it on the young but haggard features of that boy, Jarn. They hadn’t talked much during their traveling, but the boy didn’t seem to enjoy talking and Tyrel didn’t care enough to pursue it. But it was worrying, ever since that gnoll started its gibbering, Jarn had been in a black mood. Not even the amusing scenery they were traversing could pull him out of it.

They had passed the industrial district, giving way to countless houses, all with the same whitewash finish, gardens, yards, and above all, boring atmosphere. If I fell asleep here I wouldn’t wake up, there is no reason to. The thought of sleep brought him back his injured charge, Seryan, lying near death in the supply wagon. They must find an apothecary, quickly.

Berserker Part 31

Marhault and his men had done well in training the militia, while their fighting skills were as basic as trying to put the pointed weapon in the other person, their archery was better than he had expected. The city’s mandate that all men of fighting age must own, maintain, and practice with a bow once a week had paid off. While none could match Marhault’s skill, some of them had matched his own men, not an easy feat. During drills, he had spotted the man who’d tried to lay him out on the floor, he was training alongside his men with no qualms. That was good, it showed the exercises they went thru which were designed to insure they followed the chain of command and kept their heads in combat had worked.

Then there had been a meeting held in the town square, the mayor had gotten up and made a speach that didn’t say anything but fooled everyone into thinking that their lives would go on as normal. Must be a knack Marhault mused to himself. Then he had gotten up and told everybody what would happen. Autumn was coming thankfully closer, so most of the crops had been harvested and stored. That just meant that they needed to fill every container they could find with fresh water. Many’s the time a siege was won from thirst or hunger. The only other precaution they could take was to build extra fortifications; lines of spiked pits before the walls, traps in the high grass, and maybe catapults for counterttack if there’s time.

With the men in training, they had been moved to the barracks at the outskirts of town and were currently sleeping after a rigourous day. Leaving a mercenary skeleton crew to watch the walls. Marhault stalked the walls too, trying to get a feel for the place. He had been surprised when he saw the wall’s specifications, it was three feet thick and fifteen feet high, comprised of alternating layers of brick and iron for added hardiness.

Yawning, he was just about to turn in when movement caught his eye on the west wall. Quickly running over he peered into the gloom of the night, his sharp elven eyes could just barely make out movement. He called for his men, sending runners to rouse the militia. At Marhault’s behest they each set an arrow afire and let fly...yes... with the added light of the arrows he could definately make out wagons of some kind. Having made contact, a rider came forth to speak.

“We are a caravan from Pelse, and beg entrance!”, the old man said, sitting imovably atop his nag.

“A scout of ours died bringing news of an approaching army”, Marhault responded. “Could it be that you have something to do with this army?”

“Yes!”, the old man replied. Something in the man’s voice reached down into Marhault’s brain and awakened his curiosity. Hearing this created both tensening nerves and bowstrings of those in earshot. Professing to belonging to an advancing army of hostiles was not conducive to a long life. But if it were an army, why would they sacrifice any chance at surprise and openly admit intentions of laying seige to Halfway

“Yes?”, Marhault asked with interest. “You intend to attack our city?” He was becoming increasingly aware of the rhythmic thumping of the ground behind him, suggesting a large number of men approaching. Militia maybe? It would be about the right time for them to have cleared their bunks and marched wallward.

“No”, the aged one said. “But I know who would most likely be coming to take this city, and have fought them before and thus am affiliated with them. They are gnolls.”

“Gnolls?”, Marhault smirked, “The last gnoll army was defeated and scattered to the winds over a century ago during the last insurrection of the Cursed. No gnoll has been seen in decades”. Inwardly Marhault trembled, knowing only too well what horrors the deep places that still belonged to the inhuman and feral old world held. As an elf, albeight an outcast half-breed, he was privy to certain knowledge. The insurrection which he refferred to had been instigated and carried out by the humans, and that in Marhault’s opinion, was in itself one step away from failure and defeat. Carolinus, the prophet of Aureliana, the Hunter of The Slain, had preached to the multitudes of a vision inspired by the Goddess. He called with froth on his lips and a belly full of fire for a cleansing of the world, that all “subhuman” creatures be systematically exterminated so that the ill humors they cast upon the land may be destroyed.

He led an army of volunteers across the landscape in random search of the “Cursed”, as they are called in the Book of Aureliana, subsequently robbing anyone they came across for the Glory of Aureliana. The campaign against the gnolls had been the army’s only success. The gnolls were scattered and ran, but very little of either side left the battle field that bloody day.

“Only if that twere so”, replied the old man, suddenly looking very tired. “Could it be that no gnoll has been seen because no man has lived long enough to tell the tale?” With that he waved to the caravan, another horsed figure detached from the shadows with a chained person in tow.

As the chained figure came closer it ceased to be a person, now a short, furry creature. Definitely a gnoll. The woman keeping it looked at the men on the wall with a toothy malicious grin. Better to look at her than the insane red eyes of the rabid sepulchral beast.

“Believe him now?!”, she crowed up to the flabbergasted group.

Berserker part 24

Bertrawr knelt in front of the chieftains of the Dog nation, his head lowered in respect for the ancients. The heads of the different tribes sat at a semicircular table, all facing him. Their grayed fur given a ghostly aura by the raging quiet fire behind them, he could feel sawn planks underfoot and felt no breeze and saw no moonlight, so they must have been in one of the luxurious longhouses in which the chieftains congregated. He couldn’t be sure for he dare not look up. The punishment for insolence would be grave. Bertrawr fairly vibrated with excitement and nervousness, he had never come anywhere close to the heart of the Dog nation, having been born and bred in what the humans called the Bretolian Forest.

“You have been chosen to be the leader of a great army”, One of the chieftains said in leaden tones.

“But don’t go putting airs that you’re worth any more than you already were”, seconded a peevish voice.

“Arise”, said the first voice. Bertrawr did so, only then seeing what the fire was doing behind them. A single tendril of flame linked itself to each chieftain. One of them noticed his scared expression.

“Do not be afraid”, said a soothing third. “This is our master, he is allowing us to communicate to you over a great distance.”

“What about this army?”, asked Bertrawr.

“Our glorious lord, Dommiel, The One Who Comes By Night, Leaving But Husks, has chosen you to lead his holy campaign.”, came the response. Bertrawr instinctively dropped to all fours when he heard the name of the gnoll’s patron deity spoken.

“You and all of your kin will be branded as belonging to him”, the voice continued. As he spoke a crest formed itself in the smoke of the great fire, a crescent moon being devoured by the head of a giant wolf.

“You will be supplied by His Grace, to assure you do not fail”. A large bow thunked into the wood before him.

“And finally, you shall be assisted by our lord’s contemporaries, Leraje and Zepar, as well as their servants”. The smoke changed again to show thousands of goblins and orcs marching side-by-side, the orcs under a crest showing crossed swords, the goblins under a fist clenching the world.

“For all these gifts and power, we ask but one thing”, the voice said, becoming more animated as it spoke. “You may conquer the world or shatter it, do as you wish, but their is one person you must spare”. The smoke changed once again to show the hated Jarn, sleeping peacefully, He recognized the man-thing from the failed raid.

“Get him to the circle of summoning!”, the Gnoll shrieked. “The fiery blood running through his veins will allow for the coming of a power even greater than that of your master”. The voice became more frenzied and Bertrawr found himself engulfed in the white hot arms of the flames. He awoke yowling in fear, seeing only the comforting trees around him. It had all been a dream. But if that was so then why was there a huge black bow beside him, and the final words of the chieftain ringing in his head?

Bertrawr abruptly sat up, grabbing his newly found bow, it felt warm and not quite solid in his hands. When he looked at it he saw the surface was comprised of some otherworldly hellmetal, writhing and forming disturbing scenes of carnage, brutality, and torture as he watched it. He put it down in disgust, after a few moments picked it back up again, unable to bear the incessant feeling of despair that had swallowed him. Strangely enough, the despair and pain disappeared.

As he stood up, he felt the wind blow against his fur, creating a stinging sensation on his arm. He peered at it, finding a circular brand on his singed flesh, showing a wolf’s head eating a crescent moon.

He had enough proof, it was no dream. He quickly gathered together his pitiful looking troops and pointed them in a southerly direction, moving faster than anyone thought possible and without rest. After all, Beleth was coming.

Berserker Part 19

Jarn was pulled from his revelry by an incessant low growling and strange shlurping sound. He peered around the corner of a wagon to behold a scene that seared itself into the back of his skull and would be the subject of many nightmares to come. A small boy, Jarn recognized as one of Gerda’s helpers was lying on the ground, in a pool of his own fluids. His eyes gazed blankly down at his abdomen, where a greasy little leach of a Gnoll was firmly entrenched. Up to its eyeballs in the child’s intestines, gulping and chewing ravenously. The boy looked up at Jarn, dull recognition in his glazed eyes.

It was as if another cannon had barked, Jarn was thrown forward on an explosive wave of rage and hate, shouting screaming and shrieking with the unholy energy of a demon at the abomination. This should not exist, this cannot exist, this doesn’t exist, YOU DO NOT EXIST! If the power of Jarn’s mind was enough to kill, that bloody little worm would’ve promptly detonated. Seeing as it didn’t Jarn just had to do the best he could. The Gnoll didn’t even have a chance to look around before it was dragged up off the boy by a grip which could’ve crushed rock. It’s slavering features were brought level with a face that would’ve made the Four Devils of Torment soil themselves. Jarn’s eyes were two smoldering pits of hate, his nostrils were flared, pumping air in and out like a bellows, the rest of his features were obscured by a slurry of blood and muck. Dying his skin a fitting hot red, it was a surprise the sweat on his face wasn’t boiling away.

Jarn tried vainly to say something coherent to the miserable little thing, but the words couldn’t be shaped around the banshee’s scream which welled up from within and seemed to go on for an eternity. The Gnoll, shaken and deafened, began to feel a distinct pressure on its arms where it was held firmly, whining in anticipation of the pain to come. The pressure increased to an unbearable level, Jarn could hear tendons creaking and groaning in the scrawny flea-bitten thing’s body. In a virulent spray of red, it’s arms were yanked from their moorings. The Gnoll fell to the ground to die in keening agony, its arms several feet away. Jarn gently picked up the stricken boy and carried him around the wagons. In the death the child took a cherubic quality, as if he was just sleeping and a the mearist coaxing would arouse him. After aimlessly stumbling around, he finally returned to the place where he had fought alongside Seryan and Tyrel.