“Open the gates!”, Marhault screamed to his men, his sharp eyes making out human figures amid the ash and smoke that obscured the fields. He had made a grevious error and prayed desperately that he was the only person to pay for it.
With bolstering cries the men ran to the gates, grunting and swearing as they removed the heavy logs bracing the gates shut. Finally managing to wrestle them aside, two more teams of men hauled desperately on thick ropes attached to the doors. Their muscles strained and veins bulged beneath their skin as they dug into the churned earth and pulled with all their combined might. With a horrible shrieking of unoiled hinges the gates ponderously swung wide open to reveal a rabble of smoke-stained men and women determinedly forcing jelly-like muscles to carry them through the flaming gauntlet.
While the leading members of the group gained entry to the walled haven, this was not so for all of them. Just as their goal was upon them and relief was in sight, the smoking hell behind them belched forth more horrors.
The remaining orcs and goblins streaked to the slow moving humans, the clothes on their backs smoking and angry red burns raised on their pebbly skin lent their flat slapping feat wings. Quickly catching up to the lagging members of the group the frenzied goblins swarmed over them and pulled yet more struggling victims to the ground where they were swiftly dispatched.
Seeing the travesty before him, Marhault screamed his men into line the wall. The
archers quickly nocked arrows and took aim, their eyes blurred by tears from the stinging smoke. Hearing the order to loose, they sent their darts winging forth to stick five of the enemy to the ground like pincushions, most of the shots going wide to miss the still vulnerable men and women. yet the fallen’s places were taken by more Goblins and orcs surging toward the open gate, no longer caring about the fleeing humans and only thinking of saving their own hides.
Showing posts with label berserk. Show all posts
Showing posts with label berserk. Show all posts
Friday, September 4, 2009
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
Berserker Part 59
Millienya had already rounded up all the surviving members of the caravan when Lars finally reached her. Maybe forty refugees had survived. They had started out with easily twice that number, the sickly sweet smell of cooking flesh filling the air leaving no doubt in the minds of those assembled their as to what terrible fate befell the rest. Realizing the origin of the stench a few of the more emotional or less dazed adults retched uncontrollably. Somehow Kyle had managed to avoid the explosion that rocked the lead wagon and was participating in the sick display.
With the wagons either on fire or tipped over they all would be forced to travel by foot, abandoning their possessions in exchange for their lives. They had trudged perhaps a qaurter of the way back to the city in the smoke when a stragglerin the group fell to the ground. A goblin ripping avidly at his back, pulling up great strips of clothe and eventually skin before his cries attracted the attention of the rest. The goblin was swiftly cut down and friends kindly helped the wounded man to his feet.
Millienya could see in the distance the remaining few Orcs and Goblins charging forth to escape the flames. With the enemy’s mode of retreat cut off they desperately ran after the refugees, just as intent on escaping the flames as any creature. She was not the only one to have spotted their plight, a number of grim faced veterans turned around and planted themselves firmly to face the oncoming monsters.
Continuing onward the tide of frantic creatures crashed against the thin wall of resistance the stubborn fighters provided. For the time it took the greenskins to dispatch the valiant men, the refugees had gained a few hundred more strides. At the very cusp of the city walls, where the large ditches dug around the city created a chasm which the fire could not cross, the group ran desperately, breaking coughing and choking through the thick cover of smoke to a small window of fresh light provided by the ditch.
With the wagons either on fire or tipped over they all would be forced to travel by foot, abandoning their possessions in exchange for their lives. They had trudged perhaps a qaurter of the way back to the city in the smoke when a stragglerin the group fell to the ground. A goblin ripping avidly at his back, pulling up great strips of clothe and eventually skin before his cries attracted the attention of the rest. The goblin was swiftly cut down and friends kindly helped the wounded man to his feet.
Millienya could see in the distance the remaining few Orcs and Goblins charging forth to escape the flames. With the enemy’s mode of retreat cut off they desperately ran after the refugees, just as intent on escaping the flames as any creature. She was not the only one to have spotted their plight, a number of grim faced veterans turned around and planted themselves firmly to face the oncoming monsters.
Continuing onward the tide of frantic creatures crashed against the thin wall of resistance the stubborn fighters provided. For the time it took the greenskins to dispatch the valiant men, the refugees had gained a few hundred more strides. At the very cusp of the city walls, where the large ditches dug around the city created a chasm which the fire could not cross, the group ran desperately, breaking coughing and choking through the thick cover of smoke to a small window of fresh light provided by the ditch.
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
Berserker Part 58
Jarn saw the the comet whistle its way to the ground and explode, ending the lives of dozens and sending the world into panicked confusion. Silva shrieked in terror as the wagon they had occupied moments before caught fire, the oil treated canvas sizzled and popped with strikingly blue flame.
Their path back to the city blocked by the flaming wagon, Jarn grabbed hold of Silva’s wrist and plunged into the tall grasses. Regaining his bearings in the closely packed foliage, he set out back toward the city. After a few strides he wondered how the orcs could’ve possibly navigated in the thick plant life. At his great height his head just poked above the stuff, allowing him to keep an eye on his goal. Silva, however, was lost in the confines of the greenery and required that Jarn constantly stomp down a path in the stiff grass for her to follow in his wake.
After a few moments Jarn noticed the distinct odor of burning grass. Looking around, he saw that a great amount of the catapults’ payload had landed in the grass. The extremely flammable substances contained within those clay urns combined with the very dry grass which had yet to be scythed for cattle-feed created a flashfire.
Seeing the great fingers of flame racing across the ground sent a jolt of fear through him. Gripping Silva’s arm firmly he broke into a run. Crashing through the cursedly dense growth while pulling along a full grown woman despite her protests and carrying an extra twelve stone he could only manage a fast trot.
They were within five hundred strides of the city walls when the raging fire caught up to them. Jarn felt the increasing heat for some time before Silva cried out, the hem of her skirt had begun to smolder. She continued to run, knowing full well the extent of the danger they were in.
Flames arced out from either side of the fleeing three, passing them and arcing inward as if conciously trapping them. Meeting a wall of flame they were forced to angle to the right and began threading through a hellish maze of searing flame and shimmering heat.
Finally they came to a dead end. The two concious persons’ eyes tearing for the utter futility of their endeavor rather than because of the thick acrid smoke or choking ash raining down on them.
Jarn, saw that the wall before them was not more than a foot thick, bracing himself for the imminent searing agony he charged forth. Never reaching the wall, instead the ground dropped out from under them and they tumbled into darkness with Silva at his side and poor Selenne on his shoulder. The image that Jarn carried with him into the blackness was a scene of utter Stygian horror. A world dancing in flame, twisting and contorting as waves of heat distorted the world while ash and embers rained down to the blasted earth below.
Their path back to the city blocked by the flaming wagon, Jarn grabbed hold of Silva’s wrist and plunged into the tall grasses. Regaining his bearings in the closely packed foliage, he set out back toward the city. After a few strides he wondered how the orcs could’ve possibly navigated in the thick plant life. At his great height his head just poked above the stuff, allowing him to keep an eye on his goal. Silva, however, was lost in the confines of the greenery and required that Jarn constantly stomp down a path in the stiff grass for her to follow in his wake.
After a few moments Jarn noticed the distinct odor of burning grass. Looking around, he saw that a great amount of the catapults’ payload had landed in the grass. The extremely flammable substances contained within those clay urns combined with the very dry grass which had yet to be scythed for cattle-feed created a flashfire.
Seeing the great fingers of flame racing across the ground sent a jolt of fear through him. Gripping Silva’s arm firmly he broke into a run. Crashing through the cursedly dense growth while pulling along a full grown woman despite her protests and carrying an extra twelve stone he could only manage a fast trot.
They were within five hundred strides of the city walls when the raging fire caught up to them. Jarn felt the increasing heat for some time before Silva cried out, the hem of her skirt had begun to smolder. She continued to run, knowing full well the extent of the danger they were in.
Flames arced out from either side of the fleeing three, passing them and arcing inward as if conciously trapping them. Meeting a wall of flame they were forced to angle to the right and began threading through a hellish maze of searing flame and shimmering heat.
Finally they came to a dead end. The two concious persons’ eyes tearing for the utter futility of their endeavor rather than because of the thick acrid smoke or choking ash raining down on them.
Jarn, saw that the wall before them was not more than a foot thick, bracing himself for the imminent searing agony he charged forth. Never reaching the wall, instead the ground dropped out from under them and they tumbled into darkness with Silva at his side and poor Selenne on his shoulder. The image that Jarn carried with him into the blackness was a scene of utter Stygian horror. A world dancing in flame, twisting and contorting as waves of heat distorted the world while ash and embers rained down to the blasted earth below.
Monday, August 31, 2009
Berserker Part 57
Lars continued his swordwork, wondering briefly if his heart would pop before his arms fell off. It seemed he had been fighting for hours his only moment of respite was during the magic display. He wasn’t sure who or what committed such a feat but as long as it kept killing goblins he wasn’t going to waste time and energy worrying about it.
Seeing a large orc in the rear shaking a club covered with porcupine quills at him he snarled in return, baring his teeth. But inwardly lars groaned, knowing they would be the death of him if something didn’t happen soon. The excessive numbers had been overwhelming at first, but now only a score of the goblins remained and maybe three dozen orcs all told. He would’ve given his side a fighting chance under normal conditions but the defenders had taken casualties as well, losing almost half of their original number. Also the footing had become treacherous, Lars had seen a number of men’s feet or ankles siezed by enemies they thought had been vanquished but still clung to life. Not being able to get free from the death-grip they were stuck were they were and quickly cut down by the rest of the enemy that still stood.
And like him all the rest of their group were worn, every thrust sent burning agony through their arms, every blocked attack felt as if their fingers would be wrenched from their sockets.
Tiredly managing to parry the clumsy thrust of a goblin, his other blade reflexively snaked forth, skewering it. As he withdrew his blade the orc that had been eyeing him decided to make good his threat. Charging Lars from his left, the arm which still grasped an outhrust saber.
With deceptive speed the orc brought its club down in a blurring arc. Lars, wishing to keep his arm, abandoned his left sword and dove rolling hard to his right, the huge club missing his head by inches and pounding heavily into the dirt. He came out of the roll and sprung to his feet before the Orc had recovered from its overlunge. Forcing his screaming muscles to respond, he in turn charged the Orc bringing his blade down at the thing’s neck.
To Lars’ dismay, his blow was stopped short by the leather wrapped haft of his opponents club. Lars was astonished at it’s sheer strength, despite his opponent being down on one knee holding his weapon high overhead it didn’t budge. It was like trying to move a mountain.
Coming easily to its feet the Orc pressed forth inexorably forcing Lars’ sword back face to face the Orc grinned horribly at Lars. With malice kin its eyes it jerked its head up, intent on using its sharp tusks to its adavantage in such close combat fighting.
Surprised by its move, Lars stumbled back and tripped over the corpse of a goblin. Like a hulking angel of death the Orc strode haughtily to the prone figure. It stopped with its club half raised for the killing blow, looking around curiously for the source of the high pitched whistling that had become more shrill for the past few moments.
Finally looking up it saw the flaming meteor hurtling straight toward it from the heavens. It barely had time to register that it was in danger before the missile struck a few feet behind the Orc. Upon striking it burst into hundreds of burning shards, sending sheets of flame in all directions.
The object’s placement was both useful and horribly damaging. Having dropped almost in the center of the fighting, both friend and foe alike were awash in fiery agony. Hair sizzling, lungs crisping from superheated air, the poor torches ran crazzily about seaching for an end to the pain.
The horses,which had been barely under control during the fighting, bolted madly. Spooked by the flames they no longer heeded the shouts or reins of their masters as they ran in all directions, breaking tack, dragging wagons, and flinging out terrified passengers.
The Orc that had stood so triumphant before Lars in it’s imminent kill saved his life, taking the brunt of the fiery blast and shielding Lars from harm. Rolling aside to avoid the flaming carcass from hitting him as it fell, Lars took the time to utter a few small prayers to the spirits of his ancestors that had most assuredly save him from death.
Stumbling to his feet, Lars looked around dazed from the sudden change of events. He saw that the fireball was not alone, having at least a dozen of its kind rocketing from the distant city. Momentarily he fancied that the men at the battlements saw him in peril and took action. Shaking himself to his sense he realized the utter stupidity of such a thought. The only other possible reason for their catapulting surfaced unpleasantly from the persistant fog his head seemed wreathed in. They were being sacrified in exchange for the deaths of the invading Orcs and Goblins.
Lars ran as quickly as the laws of physics would allow him, looking for his sister. She would know what to do.
Seeing a large orc in the rear shaking a club covered with porcupine quills at him he snarled in return, baring his teeth. But inwardly lars groaned, knowing they would be the death of him if something didn’t happen soon. The excessive numbers had been overwhelming at first, but now only a score of the goblins remained and maybe three dozen orcs all told. He would’ve given his side a fighting chance under normal conditions but the defenders had taken casualties as well, losing almost half of their original number. Also the footing had become treacherous, Lars had seen a number of men’s feet or ankles siezed by enemies they thought had been vanquished but still clung to life. Not being able to get free from the death-grip they were stuck were they were and quickly cut down by the rest of the enemy that still stood.
And like him all the rest of their group were worn, every thrust sent burning agony through their arms, every blocked attack felt as if their fingers would be wrenched from their sockets.
Tiredly managing to parry the clumsy thrust of a goblin, his other blade reflexively snaked forth, skewering it. As he withdrew his blade the orc that had been eyeing him decided to make good his threat. Charging Lars from his left, the arm which still grasped an outhrust saber.
With deceptive speed the orc brought its club down in a blurring arc. Lars, wishing to keep his arm, abandoned his left sword and dove rolling hard to his right, the huge club missing his head by inches and pounding heavily into the dirt. He came out of the roll and sprung to his feet before the Orc had recovered from its overlunge. Forcing his screaming muscles to respond, he in turn charged the Orc bringing his blade down at the thing’s neck.
To Lars’ dismay, his blow was stopped short by the leather wrapped haft of his opponents club. Lars was astonished at it’s sheer strength, despite his opponent being down on one knee holding his weapon high overhead it didn’t budge. It was like trying to move a mountain.
Coming easily to its feet the Orc pressed forth inexorably forcing Lars’ sword back face to face the Orc grinned horribly at Lars. With malice kin its eyes it jerked its head up, intent on using its sharp tusks to its adavantage in such close combat fighting.
Surprised by its move, Lars stumbled back and tripped over the corpse of a goblin. Like a hulking angel of death the Orc strode haughtily to the prone figure. It stopped with its club half raised for the killing blow, looking around curiously for the source of the high pitched whistling that had become more shrill for the past few moments.
Finally looking up it saw the flaming meteor hurtling straight toward it from the heavens. It barely had time to register that it was in danger before the missile struck a few feet behind the Orc. Upon striking it burst into hundreds of burning shards, sending sheets of flame in all directions.
The object’s placement was both useful and horribly damaging. Having dropped almost in the center of the fighting, both friend and foe alike were awash in fiery agony. Hair sizzling, lungs crisping from superheated air, the poor torches ran crazzily about seaching for an end to the pain.
The horses,which had been barely under control during the fighting, bolted madly. Spooked by the flames they no longer heeded the shouts or reins of their masters as they ran in all directions, breaking tack, dragging wagons, and flinging out terrified passengers.
The Orc that had stood so triumphant before Lars in it’s imminent kill saved his life, taking the brunt of the fiery blast and shielding Lars from harm. Rolling aside to avoid the flaming carcass from hitting him as it fell, Lars took the time to utter a few small prayers to the spirits of his ancestors that had most assuredly save him from death.
Stumbling to his feet, Lars looked around dazed from the sudden change of events. He saw that the fireball was not alone, having at least a dozen of its kind rocketing from the distant city. Momentarily he fancied that the men at the battlements saw him in peril and took action. Shaking himself to his sense he realized the utter stupidity of such a thought. The only other possible reason for their catapulting surfaced unpleasantly from the persistant fog his head seemed wreathed in. They were being sacrified in exchange for the deaths of the invading Orcs and Goblins.
Lars ran as quickly as the laws of physics would allow him, looking for his sister. She would know what to do.
Monday, August 24, 2009
Berserker Part 56
Millienya smiled to herself, after seeing the display of mystical power, the enemy had lost heart in their attack. Goblins ceased flying through the air, they most likely refused such a risky manuever after witnessing a friend exploding. Orcs still lurked around the edge of the grasses, becoming more daring by the moment. They realized that if the goblins were scattered to the winds then the human defenders would turn to the Orcs next.
With this in mind a few had slunk from the grasses to aid their diminutive comrades. Finally in daylight they all took on an olive green coloring.
The tallest standing only five and a half feet high they seemed like no large threat. However they compensated by being almost three feet wide at the shoulders with muscular arms and a barrel chest that tapered down to a thin waist and short skinny legs.
Unlike their cousins they possessed thick manes of black hair braided in all manner of styles. Below their heavy sloping brows were widely set red eyes with a flat nondescript nose in between. All these combined with a thick protruding lower jaw which sprouted two massive tusks gave the feral creatures a truly wicked visage.
They wore plain cloth or badly cured hides draped over them and tied at the waist for makeshift clothes. A few wore tightfitting shirts or leggings they had apparently taken from former battles. Additional armor was not necessary due to their inhuman ability to absorb damage. Pain just forced them into greater savagery. Millienya had seen an Orc with one arm and half of its face in bloody ruin rampage through four attackers before being spitted by spears.
Thankfully they were just as susceptible to Millienya’s poisons as any other living thing. She busily sent arrow after arrow into Orcs pressing the milling Goblins toward the defender, neither too keen on being the next victim to sorcerous powers .
She only hoped she could deplete their numbers sufficiently before the full number of the Orcs abandoned cover in the long grasses lest they be totally overun. Working with such a speed that coherent thought about the task was too slow, Millienya redoubled her efforts to aid the defenders, her hands seeming to work by reflex alone as the battle raged.
With this in mind a few had slunk from the grasses to aid their diminutive comrades. Finally in daylight they all took on an olive green coloring.
The tallest standing only five and a half feet high they seemed like no large threat. However they compensated by being almost three feet wide at the shoulders with muscular arms and a barrel chest that tapered down to a thin waist and short skinny legs.
Unlike their cousins they possessed thick manes of black hair braided in all manner of styles. Below their heavy sloping brows were widely set red eyes with a flat nondescript nose in between. All these combined with a thick protruding lower jaw which sprouted two massive tusks gave the feral creatures a truly wicked visage.
They wore plain cloth or badly cured hides draped over them and tied at the waist for makeshift clothes. A few wore tightfitting shirts or leggings they had apparently taken from former battles. Additional armor was not necessary due to their inhuman ability to absorb damage. Pain just forced them into greater savagery. Millienya had seen an Orc with one arm and half of its face in bloody ruin rampage through four attackers before being spitted by spears.
Thankfully they were just as susceptible to Millienya’s poisons as any other living thing. She busily sent arrow after arrow into Orcs pressing the milling Goblins toward the defender, neither too keen on being the next victim to sorcerous powers .
She only hoped she could deplete their numbers sufficiently before the full number of the Orcs abandoned cover in the long grasses lest they be totally overun. Working with such a speed that coherent thought about the task was too slow, Millienya redoubled her efforts to aid the defenders, her hands seeming to work by reflex alone as the battle raged.
Friday, August 21, 2009
Berserker Part 55
Marhault and his aid had been keeping watch over the eastern gate after determining that the gnolls’ projectile attack done no real harm to the structure. He was sorry to say that this was not so for the soldiers manning the wall, over ten were dead and another ten wounded. Arrows and spears sought them out with uncanny accuracy, making shots that he daresay would’ve been difficult even for his skilled hands. The loss of his men both rankled and interested him, the idea that he might soon meat another who was as fine an archer as he excited him. As a result he had ordered more than ninety percent of the troops on gaurd to keep their heads down and not to return fire until further notice.
Going over the plans in his head as he surveyed the crippled caravan he heard a sharp crack and whoosh from behind. The few catapults he had managed to manufacture before the enemy arrives would prove usefull, letting the gnolls know that not even in the forests were they safe from Halfway’s retaliation.
He turned in time to see the first of the rocks they had fall short by fifty yards. The crews manning the flingers would need practice. Marhault suspected they would have plenty of opportunities soon.
Shouts of wonder and superstitious signs from his men dragged his eyes back to the eastern gates, where a figure was being propelled upward on pillars of blue flame.
“Black magic”, his aid gasped to the distracted nods of others.
Suddenly the figure was ripped apart, the energies that earthed in its body shrieked and crackled across the sky triumphantly.
“That’s magic alright”, Marhault agreed. His kind were much more familiar with such practices than humans, who deemed magic to be evil and something to keep away from. While he knew better than they, and that magic was a natural force which is shaped by the user depending on its purpose. He also knew that wielding such power can twist even the most kind and humble soul into a grandiose monstrosity. Thus Marhault made it a point to keep as far away from anything arcane as possible.
“The enemy must have powerful sorcerers”, a man said, judging by the pyrotechnic display. Marhault rolled his eyes, rumor mongerers such as he were the most dangerous foe in situations such as this. He had better put a stop to it quickly.
“Sergeant?”, he called to his aid. Who drew himself to attention upon hearing his rank.
“Sir?”
“Do we have any pitch?”
“Yessir”.
“Good, then have a sizeable measure loaded into the catapults and set the eastern fields ablaze. We must destroy those magicians before they can reach the walls”.
“But sir”, the sergeant asked in shock, “there are soldiers, women, and children out there. Would you have them die?”
“Sadly with sorcerers of such power fighting against us, our men would have no hope of survival, let alone the civilians. They’ll be dead before long. Now carry out your orders”.
The sergeant wordlessly saluted and hopped down the wall to obey.
Going over the plans in his head as he surveyed the crippled caravan he heard a sharp crack and whoosh from behind. The few catapults he had managed to manufacture before the enemy arrives would prove usefull, letting the gnolls know that not even in the forests were they safe from Halfway’s retaliation.
He turned in time to see the first of the rocks they had fall short by fifty yards. The crews manning the flingers would need practice. Marhault suspected they would have plenty of opportunities soon.
Shouts of wonder and superstitious signs from his men dragged his eyes back to the eastern gates, where a figure was being propelled upward on pillars of blue flame.
“Black magic”, his aid gasped to the distracted nods of others.
Suddenly the figure was ripped apart, the energies that earthed in its body shrieked and crackled across the sky triumphantly.
“That’s magic alright”, Marhault agreed. His kind were much more familiar with such practices than humans, who deemed magic to be evil and something to keep away from. While he knew better than they, and that magic was a natural force which is shaped by the user depending on its purpose. He also knew that wielding such power can twist even the most kind and humble soul into a grandiose monstrosity. Thus Marhault made it a point to keep as far away from anything arcane as possible.
“The enemy must have powerful sorcerers”, a man said, judging by the pyrotechnic display. Marhault rolled his eyes, rumor mongerers such as he were the most dangerous foe in situations such as this. He had better put a stop to it quickly.
“Sergeant?”, he called to his aid. Who drew himself to attention upon hearing his rank.
“Sir?”
“Do we have any pitch?”
“Yessir”.
“Good, then have a sizeable measure loaded into the catapults and set the eastern fields ablaze. We must destroy those magicians before they can reach the walls”.
“But sir”, the sergeant asked in shock, “there are soldiers, women, and children out there. Would you have them die?”
“Sadly with sorcerers of such power fighting against us, our men would have no hope of survival, let alone the civilians. They’ll be dead before long. Now carry out your orders”.
The sergeant wordlessly saluted and hopped down the wall to obey.
Thursday, August 20, 2009
Berserker Part 53
Jarn’s cry of warning died as the scene before him changed dramatically, at one moment Selenne was pinned helplessly in Death’s path, her hands raised to protect her and crying out mixed pleas for mercy and half forgotten scraps of prayers. The next moment her upraised hands shot forth solid beams of warm blue light. As these shafts hit the goblin, he jerked as if bodily struck. The girl’s teeth gritted in fierce determination and her arms trembling in pain she continued her assault. The goblin forced back and upward, twitching and chattering uncontrollably as the light surged through it, sparking off its teeth and turning its knife into a charred lump attached to its burning arm. Finally, its little body could take no more, at a height of no less than twenty feet it detonated in a crackling explosion of wild untamed power and energy.
Not a sound could be heard throughout the interuppted battle, wether it was because of the surprised participants or deafening explosion Jarn didn’t know. The silence finally broken by Selenne, sighing quietly she gently folded up and passed out once more.
Jarn regained enough of his wits to untangle himself from the boxes and help free Silva, who immediately stumbled to her child and tried to shake her awake. Finding she did not respond, she became more frantic.
Kneeling down beside Selenne he held his hand above her mouth, reassured to feel her breath. He gently pulled Silva away fom her daughter, forcing the woman to meet his focused eyes with her teary ones.
“She lives”, he told her.
“Then why will she not awake?”, Silva asked hesitantly
“She is tired and needs sleep”, Jarn replied. “Let’s get her out of here”.
Jarn looked hard at the woman, relieved to find her jaw had stopped quivering and was set firmly. She was coping with the situation well enough.
After helping Silva climb through the rip in the wagon’s canavas, he turned away and retrieved his axes from the woodwork, slung his sword over his shoulder and carefully swung Selenne over the other. Briefly surprised to find that she seemed to weigh less than the massive weapon he hefted, he followed the lady out.
Not a sound could be heard throughout the interuppted battle, wether it was because of the surprised participants or deafening explosion Jarn didn’t know. The silence finally broken by Selenne, sighing quietly she gently folded up and passed out once more.
Jarn regained enough of his wits to untangle himself from the boxes and help free Silva, who immediately stumbled to her child and tried to shake her awake. Finding she did not respond, she became more frantic.
Kneeling down beside Selenne he held his hand above her mouth, reassured to feel her breath. He gently pulled Silva away fom her daughter, forcing the woman to meet his focused eyes with her teary ones.
“She lives”, he told her.
“Then why will she not awake?”, Silva asked hesitantly
“She is tired and needs sleep”, Jarn replied. “Let’s get her out of here”.
Jarn looked hard at the woman, relieved to find her jaw had stopped quivering and was set firmly. She was coping with the situation well enough.
After helping Silva climb through the rip in the wagon’s canavas, he turned away and retrieved his axes from the woodwork, slung his sword over his shoulder and carefully swung Selenne over the other. Briefly surprised to find that she seemed to weigh less than the massive weapon he hefted, he followed the lady out.
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Berserker Part 53
Selenne was bare inches from its green features, its skin looking like it had been streched tightly over its spindly little bones. Big red eyes rolling in its large oversized skull. That skull seeming to weigh far too much for the thin stick of a neck which it lolled about wildly on.
Seeing its pinned victim, the goblin happily shrieked right in her face, in the seconds she stared in blank horror she had taken in every minute detail of the loathesome creature. Hairless scalp, warted chin, rusty knife held by its side, and the overwhelming stench of rotting meat and decaying dentistry coming from its open mouth.
Grinning wickedly as it raised a knife that would add lockjaw as another one of the terrors of warfare, time slowed to Selenne almost stopping completely. Looking around in confusion she saw that her perception of the world was altered as well, in place of the normal colors she was accustomed to were shades from a totally different spectrum. As if she was looking through the normal colors to see their innards and real meanings behind the distraction of the pigment. And while they were strange and eerily different, she was able to distinguish them as they reminded her of the tints of the normal world.
The creature in front of her was filled with an ugly pulsing red-brown cloud that sent shivvers down her spine. Jarn, frozen in a desperate cry of anguish for her was filled with an infinite black nexus swirling with bluegreens and redblues, entranced by the wyrd beauty of it she did her best to ignore the aching sensation building up behind her eyes until she was sure her head would split open.
With the curse of a practical mind that her father had laid upon her, she realized that now would be an opportune time to remove herself from danger. Fate seemed to feel otherwise as she noticed the knife in the goblin’s hand had finally reached the apex of its upswing. Time was returning to the unnatural place she had briefly inhabited. Drawn by the movement of the knife, she looked past it to the open sky above. The air was filled with a thick electrified mist that flowed in and around everything.
The last thing she could remember of the beautful world as the knife descended was the mist suddenly rushing to envelope her in embrace.
Seeing its pinned victim, the goblin happily shrieked right in her face, in the seconds she stared in blank horror she had taken in every minute detail of the loathesome creature. Hairless scalp, warted chin, rusty knife held by its side, and the overwhelming stench of rotting meat and decaying dentistry coming from its open mouth.
Grinning wickedly as it raised a knife that would add lockjaw as another one of the terrors of warfare, time slowed to Selenne almost stopping completely. Looking around in confusion she saw that her perception of the world was altered as well, in place of the normal colors she was accustomed to were shades from a totally different spectrum. As if she was looking through the normal colors to see their innards and real meanings behind the distraction of the pigment. And while they were strange and eerily different, she was able to distinguish them as they reminded her of the tints of the normal world.
The creature in front of her was filled with an ugly pulsing red-brown cloud that sent shivvers down her spine. Jarn, frozen in a desperate cry of anguish for her was filled with an infinite black nexus swirling with bluegreens and redblues, entranced by the wyrd beauty of it she did her best to ignore the aching sensation building up behind her eyes until she was sure her head would split open.
With the curse of a practical mind that her father had laid upon her, she realized that now would be an opportune time to remove herself from danger. Fate seemed to feel otherwise as she noticed the knife in the goblin’s hand had finally reached the apex of its upswing. Time was returning to the unnatural place she had briefly inhabited. Drawn by the movement of the knife, she looked past it to the open sky above. The air was filled with a thick electrified mist that flowed in and around everything.
The last thing she could remember of the beautful world as the knife descended was the mist suddenly rushing to envelope her in embrace.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Berserker Part 52
Jarn started into wakefulness, briefly thinking he was back in his home village during its destruction, doomed to relive that fateful day time and again until his death had been avenged.
As he tried to get up he became aware of his cramped surroundings, boxes and barrels dangling precariously around them. His eyes came to rest on the prone bodies of Selenne and her mother, unconscious and half buried by crates and barrels.
Crawling forward to help them up, the wagon was yet again jolted, struck heavily by something unknown and disloged several objects. A box fell flat on his back and knocking the wind from him, his axe plummeted to the ground, burying itself scant inches from its owner’s ear.
Where the impact hindered Jarn it aided Selenne and her mother, rousing them from their insentient state to muzzy wakefullness. As Selenne looked around at her surroundings groggily as if for the first time -looking very much like Jarn suspected he had but a few scant minutes before- a great rending noise filled the overturned wagon. There, right behind her Jarn could see a line being cut into the thick canvas. It was yanked aside to reveal the leering and triumphant face of a goblin.
As he tried to get up he became aware of his cramped surroundings, boxes and barrels dangling precariously around them. His eyes came to rest on the prone bodies of Selenne and her mother, unconscious and half buried by crates and barrels.
Crawling forward to help them up, the wagon was yet again jolted, struck heavily by something unknown and disloged several objects. A box fell flat on his back and knocking the wind from him, his axe plummeted to the ground, burying itself scant inches from its owner’s ear.
Where the impact hindered Jarn it aided Selenne and her mother, rousing them from their insentient state to muzzy wakefullness. As Selenne looked around at her surroundings groggily as if for the first time -looking very much like Jarn suspected he had but a few scant minutes before- a great rending noise filled the overturned wagon. There, right behind her Jarn could see a line being cut into the thick canvas. It was yanked aside to reveal the leering and triumphant face of a goblin.
Monday, August 17, 2009
Berserker Part 51
Millienya perched motionless as a statue and just as well composed, her bow tracking the slightest jostled grass. From her elevated height on the wagon she had seen a large portion of the goblin forces disappear back into the long grass and was just waiting for them to reemerge.
It had been some minutes since things had quieted and her senses had keened to the point where her own heartbeat was a racket which she distractedly wished she could stop.
When a few errant shadows passed over her she thought nothing of it. It could be the rainy season there for all she knew about the weather patterns south of her homeland. It wasn’t until she felt a feignt whining screech, slowly rising in pitch in volume. Finally it ended with a whump and a crash, a slightly tipsy little goblin sitting right next to her.
The little thing gained its bearings faster than she did, drawing a small rusted dagger it made a swipe at her throat. Just missing by the scantest of measurements she fell backward and rolled off the wagon, arrow still knocked and ready. When the little goblin followed she hit her target in midair, the force of the arrow carrying the spitted greenskin backward.
As Millienya waited for her heart to slow down from a high whine to a purr, she saw another goblin rise from the grasses, creating a similar noise such as she had heard. Literally propelled some ten yards into the air, it arced to land right in the circle. Apparently the orcs had found another mode of attack, by hurling their featherweight brethren up and over their defenses to wreak havoc from within.
Astounded by the impossible sight she froze where she stood, watching as the goblin was accompanied by half a dozen more from the grasses. One impacting right in the lead wagon, what came next she couldn’t even begin to desribe or understand.
It had been some minutes since things had quieted and her senses had keened to the point where her own heartbeat was a racket which she distractedly wished she could stop.
When a few errant shadows passed over her she thought nothing of it. It could be the rainy season there for all she knew about the weather patterns south of her homeland. It wasn’t until she felt a feignt whining screech, slowly rising in pitch in volume. Finally it ended with a whump and a crash, a slightly tipsy little goblin sitting right next to her.
The little thing gained its bearings faster than she did, drawing a small rusted dagger it made a swipe at her throat. Just missing by the scantest of measurements she fell backward and rolled off the wagon, arrow still knocked and ready. When the little goblin followed she hit her target in midair, the force of the arrow carrying the spitted greenskin backward.
As Millienya waited for her heart to slow down from a high whine to a purr, she saw another goblin rise from the grasses, creating a similar noise such as she had heard. Literally propelled some ten yards into the air, it arced to land right in the circle. Apparently the orcs had found another mode of attack, by hurling their featherweight brethren up and over their defenses to wreak havoc from within.
Astounded by the impossible sight she froze where she stood, watching as the goblin was accompanied by half a dozen more from the grasses. One impacting right in the lead wagon, what came next she couldn’t even begin to desribe or understand.
Friday, August 14, 2009
Berserker Part 50
Lars fought alongside other swordsmen at the front line, howling like a wolf as he slashed with his sabers at any that dared scuttle near. Millienya was off somewhere, leaving him to the manual labor of helping hold back the goblin tide as women and children cowered in fear, the wagon drivers trying vainly to turn their carts around to the safety of the city.
Considering the likely outcomes of the fight, he was rather enjoying himself. The militia were well trained in working together and numerous so as to avoid any real sense of urgency. While one would reach forth to spit a squirming goblin on his blade, the other would cover his companion’s vulnerable side. This became the basic mode of fighting as the battle continued, the long spears and polearms had become too cumbersome in the shoulder-to-shoulder defensive semicircle they had formed at the head of the caravan.
While throwing themselves bodily at their human enemies, the goblins really didn’t know how to follow up their initial lunge, leaving them totally defenseless and easy pickings for the grim combatants. It had only been the surprise and confusion provided from the tipped wagons that gave the goblins any advantage air of a warrior. With that gone many of the militia were reminded of their children in the midst of a temper tantrum. Some of the more sentimental of the group were even reluctant to defend themselves. Until they were knocked silly because of carelessness.
All this combined with the lack of any organization to block their route of retreat made Lars feel that they were engaging in a game rather than a life and death struggle. Which was really an overstatement when Lars got to thinking about it, only four men had been critically wounded and there were no deaths that he was aware of.
After a few moments he noticed the cries of the panicked caravan members behind him becoming louder. Taking a step back, he let a man with scars patchworking his face and armor take his place on the front line.
In the relative safety of his position he risked a quick glance behind him to see what was wrong. What he saw sent a jolt of liquid fire through his veins. Another wagon clawed open, goblins swarming over fallen women and children, bone and muscle disapearing down their glistening maws. Stalking ever closer to the contracing nucleus of terrified refugees hunkering against the remaining wagons.
Shouting for the second line of men to break and follow he charged the goblins, his sabers raised in anticipation of chopping death strokes, his long firm strides eating up the distance. In the noise and swirling disorientation of the fight, Lars’ charge was not heard or seen until he had already laid waste to four of their number.
Turning around in expectation to find one outraged fighter whose attack would be quickly put to an end, they found themselves meeting a whole line of armed and wratheful relatives of the slaughtered innocents. They too had seen what Lars had witnessed and raced just a few steps behind him, cries choking their dust-dried throats and death in their tear filled eyes.
With a roar of painfilled-sorrow the men impacted with the goblins, audibly crunching armor and shattering bone on both sides. Yet they continued on, atoning to the dead for their inability to protect them and sending their stricken souls winging peacefully into the next world through the pain they were inflicting as well as enduring.
As Lars was jostled aside by the avenging sons of Halfway, he could do nothing but stand in open amazement at feats these men committed out of love. Love for those who had passed on or just barely inhabited the mortal coil. Miraculously ignoring gaping wounds, broken limbs, even intestines spilling out beneath tunics to gouge eyes, choke throats, and mangle bodies.
It was not long before the goblins lay stacked on the dirt like cordwood. Sadly so were a number of the defenders, laying next to their deceased loved ones or held close by the crying live ones. One body struck Lars as being familiar. He approached the man curiously, wondering where he had seen that short but thick frame. Even in death the flint-like eyes did not cloud over, but remained sharp and calculatingly soulful. Thankfully recollection came knocking, of course, how could he forget? It was the owner of the inn where they first got mixed up in the whole mess.
Only once he was on his way around the wagons with the remainder of his group did he remember the serving maid he had been flirting with, worriedly he quickened his pace and scanned the faces of those huddling together in the wagons. He couldn’t bring himself to search the blood dusted ground for her there, such grief would only distract him and most likely get him killed as well.
Pulling himself from the mindnumbing revelry that comes after combat, he steeled himself for another grisly scene of overrun guards and slaughtered innocents. Only to find a group of rather surprised rear-gaurdsmen.
The mercenary sergeant of the group quickly recovered and came forth. “What’s been going on?”, he demanded, dying to know what had been happening.
“The enemy broke through our lines”, Lars relayed, scanning the grasses alertly. “They were repelled but at great cost. Strangely we cannot find the breach point”.
“There haven’t been any sir”, the sergeant said. ‘We’ve got squads of ten each spaced twenty yards apart, surrounding the wagons, with at least two experienced men per unit. Plus two extra sqauds in reserve”.
“Then how did they get in?” Lars demanded in exasperation. “They didn’t fly did they?”
Considering the likely outcomes of the fight, he was rather enjoying himself. The militia were well trained in working together and numerous so as to avoid any real sense of urgency. While one would reach forth to spit a squirming goblin on his blade, the other would cover his companion’s vulnerable side. This became the basic mode of fighting as the battle continued, the long spears and polearms had become too cumbersome in the shoulder-to-shoulder defensive semicircle they had formed at the head of the caravan.
While throwing themselves bodily at their human enemies, the goblins really didn’t know how to follow up their initial lunge, leaving them totally defenseless and easy pickings for the grim combatants. It had only been the surprise and confusion provided from the tipped wagons that gave the goblins any advantage air of a warrior. With that gone many of the militia were reminded of their children in the midst of a temper tantrum. Some of the more sentimental of the group were even reluctant to defend themselves. Until they were knocked silly because of carelessness.
All this combined with the lack of any organization to block their route of retreat made Lars feel that they were engaging in a game rather than a life and death struggle. Which was really an overstatement when Lars got to thinking about it, only four men had been critically wounded and there were no deaths that he was aware of.
After a few moments he noticed the cries of the panicked caravan members behind him becoming louder. Taking a step back, he let a man with scars patchworking his face and armor take his place on the front line.
In the relative safety of his position he risked a quick glance behind him to see what was wrong. What he saw sent a jolt of liquid fire through his veins. Another wagon clawed open, goblins swarming over fallen women and children, bone and muscle disapearing down their glistening maws. Stalking ever closer to the contracing nucleus of terrified refugees hunkering against the remaining wagons.
Shouting for the second line of men to break and follow he charged the goblins, his sabers raised in anticipation of chopping death strokes, his long firm strides eating up the distance. In the noise and swirling disorientation of the fight, Lars’ charge was not heard or seen until he had already laid waste to four of their number.
Turning around in expectation to find one outraged fighter whose attack would be quickly put to an end, they found themselves meeting a whole line of armed and wratheful relatives of the slaughtered innocents. They too had seen what Lars had witnessed and raced just a few steps behind him, cries choking their dust-dried throats and death in their tear filled eyes.
With a roar of painfilled-sorrow the men impacted with the goblins, audibly crunching armor and shattering bone on both sides. Yet they continued on, atoning to the dead for their inability to protect them and sending their stricken souls winging peacefully into the next world through the pain they were inflicting as well as enduring.
As Lars was jostled aside by the avenging sons of Halfway, he could do nothing but stand in open amazement at feats these men committed out of love. Love for those who had passed on or just barely inhabited the mortal coil. Miraculously ignoring gaping wounds, broken limbs, even intestines spilling out beneath tunics to gouge eyes, choke throats, and mangle bodies.
It was not long before the goblins lay stacked on the dirt like cordwood. Sadly so were a number of the defenders, laying next to their deceased loved ones or held close by the crying live ones. One body struck Lars as being familiar. He approached the man curiously, wondering where he had seen that short but thick frame. Even in death the flint-like eyes did not cloud over, but remained sharp and calculatingly soulful. Thankfully recollection came knocking, of course, how could he forget? It was the owner of the inn where they first got mixed up in the whole mess.
Only once he was on his way around the wagons with the remainder of his group did he remember the serving maid he had been flirting with, worriedly he quickened his pace and scanned the faces of those huddling together in the wagons. He couldn’t bring himself to search the blood dusted ground for her there, such grief would only distract him and most likely get him killed as well.
Pulling himself from the mindnumbing revelry that comes after combat, he steeled himself for another grisly scene of overrun guards and slaughtered innocents. Only to find a group of rather surprised rear-gaurdsmen.
The mercenary sergeant of the group quickly recovered and came forth. “What’s been going on?”, he demanded, dying to know what had been happening.
“The enemy broke through our lines”, Lars relayed, scanning the grasses alertly. “They were repelled but at great cost. Strangely we cannot find the breach point”.
“There haven’t been any sir”, the sergeant said. ‘We’ve got squads of ten each spaced twenty yards apart, surrounding the wagons, with at least two experienced men per unit. Plus two extra sqauds in reserve”.
“Then how did they get in?” Lars demanded in exasperation. “They didn’t fly did they?”
Thursday, August 6, 2009
Berserker Part 48
Marhault watched in impotent rage from the walls as the ambush was sprung on the caravan. He was going to have the grasses cleared to provide an open killing field, but he didn’t think that they would’ve been able to organize an evacuation effort so soon, thus he had let it slide. Then that northerner woman came to beg on her friends’ behalf. With her beautiful blue eyes and silver tongue, normally he would’ve had such men killed and comandeered the caravan anyway. He had actually let her leave whenever it suited her! He kicked himself for his weakness time and again.
“Should we help them?”, inquired his second, gesturing at the distant group with his bow.
“I wish we could”, Marhault returned. “But they’re not in arrow range”.
“What about our catapults sir?”, the grizzled old man asked anxiously. “Or perhaps we could bolster them with a few more men?”
Marhault turned his smoldering anger on the man who normally passed for his best friend. “Do you truly believe that you could fire a hunk of stone at a distance of at least a mile, while accurately hitting the enemy that stand just a few feet away from our own?”, he asked acidly
“Then we could send in more men, sir”, the man insisted.
“True”, Marhault conceded, his anger quickly cooling into something closer to a depressive gloom. “But I doubt that is the full size of the army that the scout mentioned. Also he said there were Gnolls and I see none in that mass”.
“Its a mile distant sir”, the old man said skeptically. “How can you tell from here?”.
“Trust me”, he responded wearily. “If we open our gates or abandon our posts, we will be overun as well”. As he spoke a page ran up to them, his face red with exertion.
“My Lord!”, he puffed. “The eastern wall is under attack, men are falling in droves by poison arrows!”
Sighing deeply, he adressed his friend. “See?”
“Should we help them?”, inquired his second, gesturing at the distant group with his bow.
“I wish we could”, Marhault returned. “But they’re not in arrow range”.
“What about our catapults sir?”, the grizzled old man asked anxiously. “Or perhaps we could bolster them with a few more men?”
Marhault turned his smoldering anger on the man who normally passed for his best friend. “Do you truly believe that you could fire a hunk of stone at a distance of at least a mile, while accurately hitting the enemy that stand just a few feet away from our own?”, he asked acidly
“Then we could send in more men, sir”, the man insisted.
“True”, Marhault conceded, his anger quickly cooling into something closer to a depressive gloom. “But I doubt that is the full size of the army that the scout mentioned. Also he said there were Gnolls and I see none in that mass”.
“Its a mile distant sir”, the old man said skeptically. “How can you tell from here?”.
“Trust me”, he responded wearily. “If we open our gates or abandon our posts, we will be overun as well”. As he spoke a page ran up to them, his face red with exertion.
“My Lord!”, he puffed. “The eastern wall is under attack, men are falling in droves by poison arrows!”
Sighing deeply, he adressed his friend. “See?”
Berserker Part 47
Millienya cursed in Klavistan, her home language. A good language to curse in, full of hard syllables that really get across the point even if the exact words aren’t understood. She should’ve expected some trick from the crafty little goblins.
Upon charging, they had thrown themselves bodily into the defenders, whirling and twisting their bony bodies around in insane frenzy, using centrifical force and the heavy objects on their clothing to turn them into living morningstars. Their rags straining away from their bodies, rock and metal whistled around them, bludgeoning repeatedly anyone they came into contact with.
As long as their energy held out, getting in close for knife work was near impossible. The long gash across her knuckles was proof of the effective defensive properties of their attire. But a number of the militia with pikes and spears had formed a makeshift wall to hold them at bay. Even then they constantly attempted leaping past their wall, occasionally getting behind the long weapons only to be slashed in half by a second line of vigilant swordsmen.
The goblins holding ropes had used the confusion caused by their counterparts to slip over to a few of the wagons and tie them to the carts. After making sure the knots were secure they tugged on the rope a few times and suddenly the rope was taught, the wagons being pulled inexorably over by creatures in the grass. This effectively immoblised the wagons ahead of those that had fallen, what with having nowhere to turn.
She guessed that an attack this coordinated, one would expect to find a few orcs too. They were much larger and slightly more intelligent than their greenskinned cousins. Like their cousins they also possessed a basic cowardice which would explain their choosing to stay in the long grass and attack from a distance.
Even as she watched, the lead wagon with Kyle still holding desperately to the reins, toppled. Seeing the waving grasses caused by the taughtened ropes she had an idea. Drawing her bow she broke from the front line and climbed up to the second wagon in line, which was still upright, though just barely.
Sighting down the length of the rope, she let fly. Smiling with gratification as she heard a low piteous moan rise up from the grass, the wagon thumped back to the ground on all four wheels.
Not only did the single wagon right itself, but others did as well. Realizing they were in danger, the orcs had apparently stopped their attack and abandonned their grapnels.
This gave her some breathing room to formulate an effective defensive strategy. She hoped vainly that Marhault would see their plight and send reinforcements.
Upon charging, they had thrown themselves bodily into the defenders, whirling and twisting their bony bodies around in insane frenzy, using centrifical force and the heavy objects on their clothing to turn them into living morningstars. Their rags straining away from their bodies, rock and metal whistled around them, bludgeoning repeatedly anyone they came into contact with.
As long as their energy held out, getting in close for knife work was near impossible. The long gash across her knuckles was proof of the effective defensive properties of their attire. But a number of the militia with pikes and spears had formed a makeshift wall to hold them at bay. Even then they constantly attempted leaping past their wall, occasionally getting behind the long weapons only to be slashed in half by a second line of vigilant swordsmen.
The goblins holding ropes had used the confusion caused by their counterparts to slip over to a few of the wagons and tie them to the carts. After making sure the knots were secure they tugged on the rope a few times and suddenly the rope was taught, the wagons being pulled inexorably over by creatures in the grass. This effectively immoblised the wagons ahead of those that had fallen, what with having nowhere to turn.
She guessed that an attack this coordinated, one would expect to find a few orcs too. They were much larger and slightly more intelligent than their greenskinned cousins. Like their cousins they also possessed a basic cowardice which would explain their choosing to stay in the long grass and attack from a distance.
Even as she watched, the lead wagon with Kyle still holding desperately to the reins, toppled. Seeing the waving grasses caused by the taughtened ropes she had an idea. Drawing her bow she broke from the front line and climbed up to the second wagon in line, which was still upright, though just barely.
Sighting down the length of the rope, she let fly. Smiling with gratification as she heard a low piteous moan rise up from the grass, the wagon thumped back to the ground on all four wheels.
Not only did the single wagon right itself, but others did as well. Realizing they were in danger, the orcs had apparently stopped their attack and abandonned their grapnels.
This gave her some breathing room to formulate an effective defensive strategy. She hoped vainly that Marhault would see their plight and send reinforcements.
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
Berserker Part 45
Millienya, hearing the shrieks and shouts, drew two daggers from a back sheathe, one long and one short. Her shouts to Kyle to try to turn the caravan around were drowned by the rising chattering and gibbering eminating from the grasses around them.
Thanks to the hoarse bawling and shouts of the mercenaries carrying over the sea of noise, the militia men formed up to protect the front and flanks of the caravan. Moments later a horde of monsters burst thrashing from the grasses all around them. The more experienced fighters there recognized them as goblins, and in far greater numbers than anyone knowing the neurotic little creatures thought possible. Normally they argued, tricked, and fought each other so much that a large band would be no more than forty. But more than twice that number were visible in the throng and a great many more than that had yet to break from cover.
All clad in rags, they three to four feet tall, skin a deep olive green, baring the likeness of a small emaciated child. Unlike children, two small tusks protruded from the lower lips of each. Instead of carrying weapons, they had curiously attached little bits of metal and rock all over their clothes. Oddly, some of them held the ends of rope lengths winding back into the grass.
Blinking against the bright sun, they shrieked and capered madly. Finally after much posturing and threats, one was pushed from behind. Its involuntary step forward was all the leadership they needed, spurring the rest of them in to meet the human defenders in combat.
Thanks to the hoarse bawling and shouts of the mercenaries carrying over the sea of noise, the militia men formed up to protect the front and flanks of the caravan. Moments later a horde of monsters burst thrashing from the grasses all around them. The more experienced fighters there recognized them as goblins, and in far greater numbers than anyone knowing the neurotic little creatures thought possible. Normally they argued, tricked, and fought each other so much that a large band would be no more than forty. But more than twice that number were visible in the throng and a great many more than that had yet to break from cover.
All clad in rags, they three to four feet tall, skin a deep olive green, baring the likeness of a small emaciated child. Unlike children, two small tusks protruded from the lower lips of each. Instead of carrying weapons, they had curiously attached little bits of metal and rock all over their clothes. Oddly, some of them held the ends of rope lengths winding back into the grass.
Blinking against the bright sun, they shrieked and capered madly. Finally after much posturing and threats, one was pushed from behind. Its involuntary step forward was all the leadership they needed, spurring the rest of them in to meet the human defenders in combat.
Monday, August 3, 2009
Berserker Part 44
Karnar watched Jarn walk off, doing his best to imitate the boy’s calm posture. He worked his way around to the left flank of the wagons, softly whispering their predicament to the militiamen as passed them. The mercenaries aknowledged him with barely perceptable nods of the head and clenching hands on sword pommels. Older militia men took the information in much the same manner, some looking sick or worried, but reigning their panic in by willpower.
Karnar had to give them credit, he knew many who would not be able to handle a similar situation. Unfortunately, he met one more. A thin sallow young lad, trembling as if the weight of the short sword in his belt was all he could bare. He looked at Karnar with big wavering eyes, he wondered how this runt had ever been assigned to escort the train in absolute bewilderment. He looked as if the slightest breeze would knock him to the ground.
Karnar still tried his best. He smiled and draped an arm amiably over his shoulder, earning a nervous smile from the boy. Still smiiling he whispered conspiratorially into his cocked ear. “I’m not trying to alarm you, so just keep calm and pretend nothing is amiss. But we are being watched”. Karnar’s efforts to calm the boy were for naught. Hearing that they were watched, he began whipping his head in all directions in an attempt to locate their spies.
Clapping him closer to his chest, Karnar continued desperately. “Just stay quiet, listen to your superiors, and remember what you were taught! You’ll get through this!”. The boy’s rising panic was too great to hold back, he shoved Karnar away and clumsily drew his blade. Still searching the tall grasses for hidden assailants, he shouted loudly for help.
That went well, Karnar thought cynically.
Karnar had to give them credit, he knew many who would not be able to handle a similar situation. Unfortunately, he met one more. A thin sallow young lad, trembling as if the weight of the short sword in his belt was all he could bare. He looked at Karnar with big wavering eyes, he wondered how this runt had ever been assigned to escort the train in absolute bewilderment. He looked as if the slightest breeze would knock him to the ground.
Karnar still tried his best. He smiled and draped an arm amiably over his shoulder, earning a nervous smile from the boy. Still smiiling he whispered conspiratorially into his cocked ear. “I’m not trying to alarm you, so just keep calm and pretend nothing is amiss. But we are being watched”. Karnar’s efforts to calm the boy were for naught. Hearing that they were watched, he began whipping his head in all directions in an attempt to locate their spies.
Clapping him closer to his chest, Karnar continued desperately. “Just stay quiet, listen to your superiors, and remember what you were taught! You’ll get through this!”. The boy’s rising panic was too great to hold back, he shoved Karnar away and clumsily drew his blade. Still searching the tall grasses for hidden assailants, he shouted loudly for help.
That went well, Karnar thought cynically.
Thursday, July 30, 2009
Berserker Part 43
The group tromped along a few yards ahead of the wagons. The focal point of a V shape movement that was formed by twenty to thirty other men, mixed militia and mercenaries assigned to accompany the caravan for the first day. Just until they were safely out of the city’s site.
Aniston had regained his ice-like composure and marched along, back straight and head up. Lars often wondered how he could see where he was going like that. But Millienya had been especially quiet upon receiving the unfortunate news concerning Seryan. Knowing her and her motherly attention to the rest, Lars thought she was probably blaming herself.
Aside from Kyle, who was at the head of the wagon train again, he was the only one in a relatively observant mood. Which was why he noticed the persistant whining coming from the gnoll hitched to the lead wagon. Ever since it had realized that it would come to no harm and was cared for relatively well, it had behaved itself. Not snapping at people, howling, or attempting to chew its own leg off to escape. Becoming a sort of mascot for the group, it was tolerated as long as it continued to work pulling the wagons. Kyle had even made a shoulder harness to fit, allowing the thing better traction.
Stopping, Lars got the others’ attention. “What’s wrong with the gnoll?” , he asked.
It now had stopped trying to pull the wagon and had its nose in the air, sniffing wildly and clawing at its harness.
“Maybe it has fleas”, Aniston dismissed.
“Then what about the tall grass?”, Lars persisted.
“What about it?”, Millienya asked, scanning the grass for anything unusual.
“Its waving”, he said.
“Grass does that all the time”, Aniston explained. “The air pushes it around like surf on a beach”.
Lars dropped the bomb. “Do you feel any wind?”
“Oh”, Aniston realized.
“Everyone pass the word”, Millienya hissed urgently, feeling unseen eyes on her. “No fast movements, act like nothing’s wrong.”
“Where are my weapons?”, Jarn asked quietly
“The gnoll’s wagon”
“Right”, he said, doing his best to stroll nonchalantly to the cart.
Aniston had regained his ice-like composure and marched along, back straight and head up. Lars often wondered how he could see where he was going like that. But Millienya had been especially quiet upon receiving the unfortunate news concerning Seryan. Knowing her and her motherly attention to the rest, Lars thought she was probably blaming herself.
Aside from Kyle, who was at the head of the wagon train again, he was the only one in a relatively observant mood. Which was why he noticed the persistant whining coming from the gnoll hitched to the lead wagon. Ever since it had realized that it would come to no harm and was cared for relatively well, it had behaved itself. Not snapping at people, howling, or attempting to chew its own leg off to escape. Becoming a sort of mascot for the group, it was tolerated as long as it continued to work pulling the wagons. Kyle had even made a shoulder harness to fit, allowing the thing better traction.
Stopping, Lars got the others’ attention. “What’s wrong with the gnoll?” , he asked.
It now had stopped trying to pull the wagon and had its nose in the air, sniffing wildly and clawing at its harness.
“Maybe it has fleas”, Aniston dismissed.
“Then what about the tall grass?”, Lars persisted.
“What about it?”, Millienya asked, scanning the grass for anything unusual.
“Its waving”, he said.
“Grass does that all the time”, Aniston explained. “The air pushes it around like surf on a beach”.
Lars dropped the bomb. “Do you feel any wind?”
“Oh”, Aniston realized.
“Everyone pass the word”, Millienya hissed urgently, feeling unseen eyes on her. “No fast movements, act like nothing’s wrong.”
“Where are my weapons?”, Jarn asked quietly
“The gnoll’s wagon”
“Right”, he said, doing his best to stroll nonchalantly to the cart.
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Berserker Part 42
Selenne sat crammed into a wagon, her mother sitting at her side. Hargram decided he would walk alongside the carts to provide the ladies more room inside. Selenne really didn’t think it was a choice, he had long been afraid of close spaces after being so accustomed to the open air and sea and would’ve preferred to pull the wagon rather than be forced to ride in it.
What was pulling the wagon gave her something of a shock, beside the horses grunted a large dogman that had come to be known as a gnoll, it glared up at her from its work scrabbling for purchase along the cobbled streets, scaring her into hastily pulling her head back and slamming it painfully into a rib for the canvas covering overhead.
Despite her aches and pains she was excited to be moving, having spent all the years she could remember behind the walls of the city she was anxious to see the rest of the world. Kastontel, she had heard was one of the largest cities in all the known world.
As they neared the eastern gates, she felt a sudden pang of worry. What if she never saw her home again? Would she ever hear the voices of the people bidding them farewell from the streets and walls? Would she ever see that boy from the barfight again?
Snuggling closer to her mother she tried to put such thoughts out of her mind and relax. It would be a long journey and she had already been up before dawn readying herself. She quickly fell asleep to the ponderous rocking motion of the cart as it slowly made its way out to the grasslands of western Gath
What was pulling the wagon gave her something of a shock, beside the horses grunted a large dogman that had come to be known as a gnoll, it glared up at her from its work scrabbling for purchase along the cobbled streets, scaring her into hastily pulling her head back and slamming it painfully into a rib for the canvas covering overhead.
Despite her aches and pains she was excited to be moving, having spent all the years she could remember behind the walls of the city she was anxious to see the rest of the world. Kastontel, she had heard was one of the largest cities in all the known world.
As they neared the eastern gates, she felt a sudden pang of worry. What if she never saw her home again? Would she ever hear the voices of the people bidding them farewell from the streets and walls? Would she ever see that boy from the barfight again?
Snuggling closer to her mother she tried to put such thoughts out of her mind and relax. It would be a long journey and she had already been up before dawn readying herself. She quickly fell asleep to the ponderous rocking motion of the cart as it slowly made its way out to the grasslands of western Gath
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Berserker Part 41
The heavy door to the apothecary’s shop flew open before Jarn could reach for the handle. Out stumbled Aniston, his face pasty and pale. Lars and Jarn helped him steady himself, leaning back against the shops’ exterior.
“What’s wrong?”, Lars asked urgently.
“Of all my life, that was the loathesome and dirtying experience I’ve ever had”, he gasped out, wiping his sweaty brow with a handkerchief.
Strung tight as a bow, the two burst into the room, prepared to see some twisted and depraved torture of the worst kind being acted out upon their friends.
If only it had been that straightforward. The apothecary was nowhere to be seen, but by the smoke drifting from the upper floor, the wierdroot had gotten him.
Near the back of the shop, Tyrel sat on a stool in front of Seryan’s table with his head down. Seryan lay on the table, pale, only then did they notice the steady dripping noise in the deep silence of the room. They came closer, trying to get Tyrel’s attention. But he was deep in his own realm, his head and hands clenching Seryan’s arm with fierce sorrow and pain. Such a scene would not be so disturbing if the arm Tyrel held was attached to something. It wasn’t.
The poor man’s left arm had been cut off just above the elbow. His wound was bound tightly with white linen and the stench of burned flesh indicated the stump had been cauterized. The blood slowly congealing on the table was dripping down in a steady trickle.
Fighting the bile threatening to choke his gorge, Jarn managed to place his hand lightly on Tyrel’s shoulder, trying to pull him out of his downward spiral. Tyrel looked up startled at the touch. Seeing his friends he tried to smile, his face a sickly green.
“What happened?”, Jarn asked gently, trying to humor the grieving man.
“The antidotes worked”, Tyrel responded through tear filled eyes. “But his arm was too far gone to help, it was infected and had to be taken. He called it an amputation”, jerking his thumb upward toward the smoke filled stairway.
“Will it work?”, Lars asked. “The apothecary thinks so, but that’s what he said about the antidote, and look what happened here”, waving the ghastly appendage at them without thinking, they were forced back a step by the horror of the thing.
“Could you put the arm down Tyrel?”, Lars asked as kindly as possible.
He looked at the arm as if he was seeing it for the first time. The he threw it disgustedly into a bucket of water on the floor in which a bloody saw bobbed.
“Did Aniston tell you why he came?”, Jarn asked
“No”, Tyrel replied, whiping his eyes. “He walked in just as we started. The apothecary’s painkilling potion worked but not well enough, so we had Aniston hold him down. He never told me anything before he had to leave.”
“Well, I don’t know how to tell you this”, Jarn continued. “But we have to leave in an hour’s time”.
“Why so quickly?”, Tyrel inquired. Jarn and Lars relayed the story in depth, using their bruises as bragging rights. At the finish Tyrel looked a little more like himself, their story had helped to take the plight of his friend of his mind.
“Well, he’s in no condition to travel”, Tyrel stated.
“But this city may come under attack”, Lars argued.
“If what you’ve told me is true, the army will make itself known long before any attacks occur. And if things get reall rough we can sneak out. Besides, I look forward to scouting out that tavern you mentioned”, Tyrel finished, even managing a smile.
“Right then”, Jarn said, preparing to leave. “We’ll see you in a week’s time maybe?”
“Aye”
“What’s wrong?”, Lars asked urgently.
“Of all my life, that was the loathesome and dirtying experience I’ve ever had”, he gasped out, wiping his sweaty brow with a handkerchief.
Strung tight as a bow, the two burst into the room, prepared to see some twisted and depraved torture of the worst kind being acted out upon their friends.
If only it had been that straightforward. The apothecary was nowhere to be seen, but by the smoke drifting from the upper floor, the wierdroot had gotten him.
Near the back of the shop, Tyrel sat on a stool in front of Seryan’s table with his head down. Seryan lay on the table, pale, only then did they notice the steady dripping noise in the deep silence of the room. They came closer, trying to get Tyrel’s attention. But he was deep in his own realm, his head and hands clenching Seryan’s arm with fierce sorrow and pain. Such a scene would not be so disturbing if the arm Tyrel held was attached to something. It wasn’t.
The poor man’s left arm had been cut off just above the elbow. His wound was bound tightly with white linen and the stench of burned flesh indicated the stump had been cauterized. The blood slowly congealing on the table was dripping down in a steady trickle.
Fighting the bile threatening to choke his gorge, Jarn managed to place his hand lightly on Tyrel’s shoulder, trying to pull him out of his downward spiral. Tyrel looked up startled at the touch. Seeing his friends he tried to smile, his face a sickly green.
“What happened?”, Jarn asked gently, trying to humor the grieving man.
“The antidotes worked”, Tyrel responded through tear filled eyes. “But his arm was too far gone to help, it was infected and had to be taken. He called it an amputation”, jerking his thumb upward toward the smoke filled stairway.
“Will it work?”, Lars asked. “The apothecary thinks so, but that’s what he said about the antidote, and look what happened here”, waving the ghastly appendage at them without thinking, they were forced back a step by the horror of the thing.
“Could you put the arm down Tyrel?”, Lars asked as kindly as possible.
He looked at the arm as if he was seeing it for the first time. The he threw it disgustedly into a bucket of water on the floor in which a bloody saw bobbed.
“Did Aniston tell you why he came?”, Jarn asked
“No”, Tyrel replied, whiping his eyes. “He walked in just as we started. The apothecary’s painkilling potion worked but not well enough, so we had Aniston hold him down. He never told me anything before he had to leave.”
“Well, I don’t know how to tell you this”, Jarn continued. “But we have to leave in an hour’s time”.
“Why so quickly?”, Tyrel inquired. Jarn and Lars relayed the story in depth, using their bruises as bragging rights. At the finish Tyrel looked a little more like himself, their story had helped to take the plight of his friend of his mind.
“Well, he’s in no condition to travel”, Tyrel stated.
“But this city may come under attack”, Lars argued.
“If what you’ve told me is true, the army will make itself known long before any attacks occur. And if things get reall rough we can sneak out. Besides, I look forward to scouting out that tavern you mentioned”, Tyrel finished, even managing a smile.
“Right then”, Jarn said, preparing to leave. “We’ll see you in a week’s time maybe?”
“Aye”
Monday, July 27, 2009
Berserker part 40
They awoke from their cots the stablemaster had been kind enough to provide, to the sound of civilization. By this Jarn could hear the stamp of feet, cry of children, and loud yelling of adults no more mature than their smaller counterparts. The three had been greeted by Karnar as they reached the stable the previous night, acting very much like a dog who has broken a priceless heirloom and hopes that by being cheerful and happy, then no punishment would be exacted upon him. This had not worked given that, the three men had spent much of the day hanging by their wrists. Strangely enough it was mild Kyle that suggested Karnar should insert his head into the rear end of the nearest horse. Exercising his powers of perception, Karnar thought it best that he bedded down elsewhere, not that he was welcome in the tavern anymore. Thus there were only three men sitting up and wincing at sore muscles and bruises going from the initial black and blue to shades of unsightly brown and nauseating green.
Millienya peeked into their little alcove- usually a stall for sick horses but better than nothing- as they were cleaning themselves from a basin of water that one of the stableboys had left.
“We’ll be clearing out in an hour so you had better get ready”, she chided.
“Yeah, yeah”, Lars grumbled. “We’ll just end up back here anyway”.
Still weary and aching they stumbled out into the morning light, with hands shielding their faces. A lot had changed while they were getting some well-deserved sleep. A number of wagons had been added to the train and Kyle noted happily that their mixed teams of mules and horses had been sorted out.
“The extra wagons are with us only until the civilians are safe”, Millienya supplied by way of explanation. “The extra horses, on the other hand, are ours to use as we see fit”.
Kyle, having met the stablemaster, found such a generous donation more than a little surprising.
Millienya walked through the throng of bustling crowd that was on the verge of hysteria to the front of the lead wagon, where the pitchfork that Jarn had forced through the cobbles still stood. “Thanks to Jarn’s... social skills”, she said with a smile, plucking the instrument for emphasis, sending it vibrating. “We have been treated more than fairly by most everybody here. Even the town blacksmith couldn’t pry it loose.” Lars chuckled wryly at the thought of such consternation among his captors.
“Imagine that”, he grinned. “The world’s largest tuning fork”. He thought it was funny, but Jarn was still in some gloomy mood of his and Kyle was busy examining the carts.
It was true what Millienya had said, the wagons looked amazing. Like new. Splinters, blemishes, and mudsplatters covering the wood had been swept into oblivion. The tattered remains ones canvas top had been replaced. Axles and wheels had been checked and oiled. Harness had been mended in places and greased to reduce chafing. Someone had even made the attempt to polish the iron shodding the wagon wheels!
Admirations aside, the wagons barely looked large enough to harbor the huge number of people who were queuing up to stow away their goods. Jarn, Lars, and Millienya quickly found their hands full, Kyle having left to see to the wellbeing of his animals.
It seemed that although the people arriving knew how to behave in a high stress situation, they hadn’t counted on the finite carrying capacity of the wagons. A person who was considered to have packed lightly in the crowd would have had two large bags or sacks, while those who had more possessions were even carrying furniture. While Millienya tried to explain this predicament, the utter sense of selfishness from some of the people made such level-headed thinking impossible. Finally Lars had the bright idea to create a baggage check line. Millienya, Lars, and Jarn would inspect everyone’s belongings to assure that no one was taking up to much valuable room.
Though the line was long and wound its way down the street and around a corner, some semblance of order was established. As the tense morning continued, the group noticed that the owners of the bags that Jarn inspected put up much less of a fight whenever he deemed something to be too large or deadweight. It might’ve been a strange coincidence or a spark from the Lars’ rather slow synapses that the line ended right beside the pitchfork, illiciting much whispered comments and nervous glances. Apparently the stablemaster’s having a big gut depended on his having a big mouth too.
Finally having checked and loaded the refugees’ possessions, they made ready to roll.
“Is their anything else before we leave?”, Lars asked the other two.
“Yes, I sent Aniston to get get Seryan and Tyrel before you two awoke. Go see what is keeping him”.
Millienya peeked into their little alcove- usually a stall for sick horses but better than nothing- as they were cleaning themselves from a basin of water that one of the stableboys had left.
“We’ll be clearing out in an hour so you had better get ready”, she chided.
“Yeah, yeah”, Lars grumbled. “We’ll just end up back here anyway”.
Still weary and aching they stumbled out into the morning light, with hands shielding their faces. A lot had changed while they were getting some well-deserved sleep. A number of wagons had been added to the train and Kyle noted happily that their mixed teams of mules and horses had been sorted out.
“The extra wagons are with us only until the civilians are safe”, Millienya supplied by way of explanation. “The extra horses, on the other hand, are ours to use as we see fit”.
Kyle, having met the stablemaster, found such a generous donation more than a little surprising.
Millienya walked through the throng of bustling crowd that was on the verge of hysteria to the front of the lead wagon, where the pitchfork that Jarn had forced through the cobbles still stood. “Thanks to Jarn’s... social skills”, she said with a smile, plucking the instrument for emphasis, sending it vibrating. “We have been treated more than fairly by most everybody here. Even the town blacksmith couldn’t pry it loose.” Lars chuckled wryly at the thought of such consternation among his captors.
“Imagine that”, he grinned. “The world’s largest tuning fork”. He thought it was funny, but Jarn was still in some gloomy mood of his and Kyle was busy examining the carts.
It was true what Millienya had said, the wagons looked amazing. Like new. Splinters, blemishes, and mudsplatters covering the wood had been swept into oblivion. The tattered remains ones canvas top had been replaced. Axles and wheels had been checked and oiled. Harness had been mended in places and greased to reduce chafing. Someone had even made the attempt to polish the iron shodding the wagon wheels!
Admirations aside, the wagons barely looked large enough to harbor the huge number of people who were queuing up to stow away their goods. Jarn, Lars, and Millienya quickly found their hands full, Kyle having left to see to the wellbeing of his animals.
It seemed that although the people arriving knew how to behave in a high stress situation, they hadn’t counted on the finite carrying capacity of the wagons. A person who was considered to have packed lightly in the crowd would have had two large bags or sacks, while those who had more possessions were even carrying furniture. While Millienya tried to explain this predicament, the utter sense of selfishness from some of the people made such level-headed thinking impossible. Finally Lars had the bright idea to create a baggage check line. Millienya, Lars, and Jarn would inspect everyone’s belongings to assure that no one was taking up to much valuable room.
Though the line was long and wound its way down the street and around a corner, some semblance of order was established. As the tense morning continued, the group noticed that the owners of the bags that Jarn inspected put up much less of a fight whenever he deemed something to be too large or deadweight. It might’ve been a strange coincidence or a spark from the Lars’ rather slow synapses that the line ended right beside the pitchfork, illiciting much whispered comments and nervous glances. Apparently the stablemaster’s having a big gut depended on his having a big mouth too.
Finally having checked and loaded the refugees’ possessions, they made ready to roll.
“Is their anything else before we leave?”, Lars asked the other two.
“Yes, I sent Aniston to get get Seryan and Tyrel before you two awoke. Go see what is keeping him”.
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Berserker Part 37
Jarn awoke painfully. His face swelled with bruises to the point where he could hardly open his eyes, body battered to a mottled black and blue. His nose crusted with dried blood, he tried very hard to keep from sneezing in the dust. Beside him were Kyle and Lars, both still unconscious and looking no better than he felt. Lars looked as if his nose would be crooked for the rest of his life. Maybe Selenne would like him then. Jarn tried muzzily to rub the sleep out of his eyes but found his hands were bound above his head, chained to the wall. Looking around he found himself in a large dank room, it was rank with the smell of dust, dirt, and offal.
Looking around by the dim light provided from the large streaked windows set at regular intervals across the front wall, they found the room contained a dirt floor stained with the blood of countless slain animals. Checking their restraints confirmed his suspicions, oversized cattle shackles, they were imprisoned within a slaughterhouse.
Jarn drifted in and out of conciousness for what could’ve been hours or minutes, with the heavy glazed windows it was impossible to tell the time. It was surprisingly quiet in their jail, but Jarn had never been in a house made of brick before. It was cool, but whenever Lars or Kyle groaned or mumbled in their stupor the noise would be amplified, seeming to come from all directions at once.
For once Jarn finally felt alone, Karnar had apparently failed and there was no one else to help or even care about what would happen to them. With Lars and Kyle gone he was bereft of even the simple pleasures of conversation, left to his thoughts.
It was strange, ever since his village had been destroyed he was filled with a great need for revenge. It was some awesome force, like the cannons that he had seen. A power which exists in potential and just needs to be tapped into or harnessed to be used for one’s purposes. And like the cannon, he felt this need was much greater than he and in turn used him for its own unfathomable purposes.
Having been swept up by this he didn’t think about his past or his future, but just of the moment at hand and how it would lead him to his ultimate goal of vengeance. The power he had known left him and he was empty and alone in the world again, uncaring of what happened to the mass of flesh and bone that’s known as a man. He could no longer support his own weight, instead hanging by his manacles, no longer heading the rusted metal biting into his wrists.
A shaft of light blinded him, squinting he looked up blankly. The door to the slaughterhouse opened to reveal a tall, lanky figure. Jarn’s hope that it might be Aniston was shattered as he walked into the gloom of the chamber, this man’s hair was a mossy brown, not his friend’s salt and pepper locks. He strode over to the three with a business-like air.
Seeing the unconscious state of two of the men, he checked for breathing. Finding they were fine- to Jarn’s surprised relief, he hadn’t realized how worried he was about the health of his friends- he applied light taps on their faces with readily increasing pressure to the point where they were stinging slaps until they were fully awake. Taking a few steps back he widened his stance to a comfortable shoulder width and adressed the three.
“Because of your resistance in my men’s attempt to recruit you as active members of the militia you have been arrested”, he said.
“But your men attacked us!”, Lars protested hysterically.
“Really?”, he said, his voice rife with mockery. “Can you prove it? Because I have twenty men with proof that you attacked them.”
“What proof?”, Lars asked.
The man pulled a small note from his belt, only too happy to comply. Making a show of going through the list, he cleared his throat and continued.
“Nineteen bloody noses, seven broken, seventeen black eyes, twenty five cracked ribs, six clean breaks, three broken arms, four broken toes, and one wrenched knee”, he finished. “As well as numerous cuts and bruises.”
“We’re bruised too”, Lars pointed out. Wrinkling his nose and wincing as it began bleeding again.
“True, but in order for three men to have caused so much damage you would’ve had to attack first! Besides, many of these men will not be able to defend the city when it comes under attack now!”
“How do you know it will come under attack?”, inquired Kyle.
“I have dealt with gnolls before”, he responded haughtily, expecting them to cringe at the name of the creatures.
“How could you have”, kyle asked. “None have been encountered until just a few weeks ago?”
“That is not your business and don’t try to change the subject.”, he snapped back, quickly recovering from their lack of emotion at his mention of the creatures. “For these transgressions you will be hung in a summary execution tommorrow morning and your bodies will be put on display to show others the consequences of such behavior.”
Lars and Kyle whimpered at this, Jarn just staring at the man.
“However”, He said as the two men’s hearts began beating again at this. “Some acquaintances of yours have spoke out on your behalf and it turns out you and they will be more useful alive than dead.”
He reached for his belt again, this time retrieving the keys to their shackles, which he used somewhat reluctantly. Letting them rub their chaffed wrists, and massage life back into sore muscles.
The light pouring through the open front door was once again eclipsed as another figure appeared. This one more discernadly feminine in nature. To the group’s joy Millienya ran to meet them.
Looking around by the dim light provided from the large streaked windows set at regular intervals across the front wall, they found the room contained a dirt floor stained with the blood of countless slain animals. Checking their restraints confirmed his suspicions, oversized cattle shackles, they were imprisoned within a slaughterhouse.
Jarn drifted in and out of conciousness for what could’ve been hours or minutes, with the heavy glazed windows it was impossible to tell the time. It was surprisingly quiet in their jail, but Jarn had never been in a house made of brick before. It was cool, but whenever Lars or Kyle groaned or mumbled in their stupor the noise would be amplified, seeming to come from all directions at once.
For once Jarn finally felt alone, Karnar had apparently failed and there was no one else to help or even care about what would happen to them. With Lars and Kyle gone he was bereft of even the simple pleasures of conversation, left to his thoughts.
It was strange, ever since his village had been destroyed he was filled with a great need for revenge. It was some awesome force, like the cannons that he had seen. A power which exists in potential and just needs to be tapped into or harnessed to be used for one’s purposes. And like the cannon, he felt this need was much greater than he and in turn used him for its own unfathomable purposes.
Having been swept up by this he didn’t think about his past or his future, but just of the moment at hand and how it would lead him to his ultimate goal of vengeance. The power he had known left him and he was empty and alone in the world again, uncaring of what happened to the mass of flesh and bone that’s known as a man. He could no longer support his own weight, instead hanging by his manacles, no longer heading the rusted metal biting into his wrists.
A shaft of light blinded him, squinting he looked up blankly. The door to the slaughterhouse opened to reveal a tall, lanky figure. Jarn’s hope that it might be Aniston was shattered as he walked into the gloom of the chamber, this man’s hair was a mossy brown, not his friend’s salt and pepper locks. He strode over to the three with a business-like air.
Seeing the unconscious state of two of the men, he checked for breathing. Finding they were fine- to Jarn’s surprised relief, he hadn’t realized how worried he was about the health of his friends- he applied light taps on their faces with readily increasing pressure to the point where they were stinging slaps until they were fully awake. Taking a few steps back he widened his stance to a comfortable shoulder width and adressed the three.
“Because of your resistance in my men’s attempt to recruit you as active members of the militia you have been arrested”, he said.
“But your men attacked us!”, Lars protested hysterically.
“Really?”, he said, his voice rife with mockery. “Can you prove it? Because I have twenty men with proof that you attacked them.”
“What proof?”, Lars asked.
The man pulled a small note from his belt, only too happy to comply. Making a show of going through the list, he cleared his throat and continued.
“Nineteen bloody noses, seven broken, seventeen black eyes, twenty five cracked ribs, six clean breaks, three broken arms, four broken toes, and one wrenched knee”, he finished. “As well as numerous cuts and bruises.”
“We’re bruised too”, Lars pointed out. Wrinkling his nose and wincing as it began bleeding again.
“True, but in order for three men to have caused so much damage you would’ve had to attack first! Besides, many of these men will not be able to defend the city when it comes under attack now!”
“How do you know it will come under attack?”, inquired Kyle.
“I have dealt with gnolls before”, he responded haughtily, expecting them to cringe at the name of the creatures.
“How could you have”, kyle asked. “None have been encountered until just a few weeks ago?”
“That is not your business and don’t try to change the subject.”, he snapped back, quickly recovering from their lack of emotion at his mention of the creatures. “For these transgressions you will be hung in a summary execution tommorrow morning and your bodies will be put on display to show others the consequences of such behavior.”
Lars and Kyle whimpered at this, Jarn just staring at the man.
“However”, He said as the two men’s hearts began beating again at this. “Some acquaintances of yours have spoke out on your behalf and it turns out you and they will be more useful alive than dead.”
He reached for his belt again, this time retrieving the keys to their shackles, which he used somewhat reluctantly. Letting them rub their chaffed wrists, and massage life back into sore muscles.
The light pouring through the open front door was once again eclipsed as another figure appeared. This one more discernadly feminine in nature. To the group’s joy Millienya ran to meet them.
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