The guards hadn’t kept the caravan waiting in as soon as it was established that there would be burning, pillaging, or raping. Probably nothing to steal around here anyway, Tyrel thought sadly. While most people were staring blankly, sleepily, or stupidly, the captain of the guard looked disturbingly intelligent at them. As if he was mentally taking down everything to the smallest detail. I’ll have to watch that one.
Moving past various storage bins, grain silos, meat lockers, and warehouses, it struck Tyrel as being strangely quiet, the shock affect of their arrival should’ve worn off by now, giving way to hushed murmuring and flying rumors as to the newcomers’ identities, purpose, eligibility, and financial status. But no, just silence, like the desperate quiet of a mouse as the predatorial shadow of an owl swoops by.
Suddenly he realized it, all eyes were locked on the gnoll. Tyrel wasn’t normally someone to laugh at something that didn’t end up with a person be hung upside and horsewhipped, but the peoples’ looks of horror at the little gnoll on his leash had him splitting his sides. It was hardly larger than the dogs on the street barking at them as they worked their way through the gate, but they acted as if it were evil incarnate. Aside from that, it’s “leash” was treated leather suitable for tethering a pair of wild horses.
Their horror was something familiar to him, he had seen it often enough on the faces of those not willing to be parted with any trinkets or spare coins they could’ve lived without. but recently he had seen it on the young but haggard features of that boy, Jarn. They hadn’t talked much during their traveling, but the boy didn’t seem to enjoy talking and Tyrel didn’t care enough to pursue it. But it was worrying, ever since that gnoll started its gibbering, Jarn had been in a black mood. Not even the amusing scenery they were traversing could pull him out of it.
They had passed the industrial district, giving way to countless houses, all with the same whitewash finish, gardens, yards, and above all, boring atmosphere. If I fell asleep here I wouldn’t wake up, there is no reason to. The thought of sleep brought him back his injured charge, Seryan, lying near death in the supply wagon. They must find an apothecary, quickly.
Showing posts with label novels. Show all posts
Showing posts with label novels. Show all posts
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
Berserker Part 31
Marhault and his men had done well in training the militia, while their fighting skills were as basic as trying to put the pointed weapon in the other person, their archery was better than he had expected. The city’s mandate that all men of fighting age must own, maintain, and practice with a bow once a week had paid off. While none could match Marhault’s skill, some of them had matched his own men, not an easy feat. During drills, he had spotted the man who’d tried to lay him out on the floor, he was training alongside his men with no qualms. That was good, it showed the exercises they went thru which were designed to insure they followed the chain of command and kept their heads in combat had worked.
Then there had been a meeting held in the town square, the mayor had gotten up and made a speach that didn’t say anything but fooled everyone into thinking that their lives would go on as normal. Must be a knack Marhault mused to himself. Then he had gotten up and told everybody what would happen. Autumn was coming thankfully closer, so most of the crops had been harvested and stored. That just meant that they needed to fill every container they could find with fresh water. Many’s the time a siege was won from thirst or hunger. The only other precaution they could take was to build extra fortifications; lines of spiked pits before the walls, traps in the high grass, and maybe catapults for counterttack if there’s time.
With the men in training, they had been moved to the barracks at the outskirts of town and were currently sleeping after a rigourous day. Leaving a mercenary skeleton crew to watch the walls. Marhault stalked the walls too, trying to get a feel for the place. He had been surprised when he saw the wall’s specifications, it was three feet thick and fifteen feet high, comprised of alternating layers of brick and iron for added hardiness.
Yawning, he was just about to turn in when movement caught his eye on the west wall. Quickly running over he peered into the gloom of the night, his sharp elven eyes could just barely make out movement. He called for his men, sending runners to rouse the militia. At Marhault’s behest they each set an arrow afire and let fly...yes... with the added light of the arrows he could definately make out wagons of some kind. Having made contact, a rider came forth to speak.
“We are a caravan from Pelse, and beg entrance!”, the old man said, sitting imovably atop his nag.
“A scout of ours died bringing news of an approaching army”, Marhault responded. “Could it be that you have something to do with this army?”
“Yes!”, the old man replied. Something in the man’s voice reached down into Marhault’s brain and awakened his curiosity. Hearing this created both tensening nerves and bowstrings of those in earshot. Professing to belonging to an advancing army of hostiles was not conducive to a long life. But if it were an army, why would they sacrifice any chance at surprise and openly admit intentions of laying seige to Halfway
“Yes?”, Marhault asked with interest. “You intend to attack our city?” He was becoming increasingly aware of the rhythmic thumping of the ground behind him, suggesting a large number of men approaching. Militia maybe? It would be about the right time for them to have cleared their bunks and marched wallward.
“No”, the aged one said. “But I know who would most likely be coming to take this city, and have fought them before and thus am affiliated with them. They are gnolls.”
“Gnolls?”, Marhault smirked, “The last gnoll army was defeated and scattered to the winds over a century ago during the last insurrection of the Cursed. No gnoll has been seen in decades”. Inwardly Marhault trembled, knowing only too well what horrors the deep places that still belonged to the inhuman and feral old world held. As an elf, albeight an outcast half-breed, he was privy to certain knowledge. The insurrection which he refferred to had been instigated and carried out by the humans, and that in Marhault’s opinion, was in itself one step away from failure and defeat. Carolinus, the prophet of Aureliana, the Hunter of The Slain, had preached to the multitudes of a vision inspired by the Goddess. He called with froth on his lips and a belly full of fire for a cleansing of the world, that all “subhuman” creatures be systematically exterminated so that the ill humors they cast upon the land may be destroyed.
He led an army of volunteers across the landscape in random search of the “Cursed”, as they are called in the Book of Aureliana, subsequently robbing anyone they came across for the Glory of Aureliana. The campaign against the gnolls had been the army’s only success. The gnolls were scattered and ran, but very little of either side left the battle field that bloody day.
“Only if that twere so”, replied the old man, suddenly looking very tired. “Could it be that no gnoll has been seen because no man has lived long enough to tell the tale?” With that he waved to the caravan, another horsed figure detached from the shadows with a chained person in tow.
As the chained figure came closer it ceased to be a person, now a short, furry creature. Definitely a gnoll. The woman keeping it looked at the men on the wall with a toothy malicious grin. Better to look at her than the insane red eyes of the rabid sepulchral beast.
“Believe him now?!”, she crowed up to the flabbergasted group.
Then there had been a meeting held in the town square, the mayor had gotten up and made a speach that didn’t say anything but fooled everyone into thinking that their lives would go on as normal. Must be a knack Marhault mused to himself. Then he had gotten up and told everybody what would happen. Autumn was coming thankfully closer, so most of the crops had been harvested and stored. That just meant that they needed to fill every container they could find with fresh water. Many’s the time a siege was won from thirst or hunger. The only other precaution they could take was to build extra fortifications; lines of spiked pits before the walls, traps in the high grass, and maybe catapults for counterttack if there’s time.
With the men in training, they had been moved to the barracks at the outskirts of town and were currently sleeping after a rigourous day. Leaving a mercenary skeleton crew to watch the walls. Marhault stalked the walls too, trying to get a feel for the place. He had been surprised when he saw the wall’s specifications, it was three feet thick and fifteen feet high, comprised of alternating layers of brick and iron for added hardiness.
Yawning, he was just about to turn in when movement caught his eye on the west wall. Quickly running over he peered into the gloom of the night, his sharp elven eyes could just barely make out movement. He called for his men, sending runners to rouse the militia. At Marhault’s behest they each set an arrow afire and let fly...yes... with the added light of the arrows he could definately make out wagons of some kind. Having made contact, a rider came forth to speak.
“We are a caravan from Pelse, and beg entrance!”, the old man said, sitting imovably atop his nag.
“A scout of ours died bringing news of an approaching army”, Marhault responded. “Could it be that you have something to do with this army?”
“Yes!”, the old man replied. Something in the man’s voice reached down into Marhault’s brain and awakened his curiosity. Hearing this created both tensening nerves and bowstrings of those in earshot. Professing to belonging to an advancing army of hostiles was not conducive to a long life. But if it were an army, why would they sacrifice any chance at surprise and openly admit intentions of laying seige to Halfway
“Yes?”, Marhault asked with interest. “You intend to attack our city?” He was becoming increasingly aware of the rhythmic thumping of the ground behind him, suggesting a large number of men approaching. Militia maybe? It would be about the right time for them to have cleared their bunks and marched wallward.
“No”, the aged one said. “But I know who would most likely be coming to take this city, and have fought them before and thus am affiliated with them. They are gnolls.”
“Gnolls?”, Marhault smirked, “The last gnoll army was defeated and scattered to the winds over a century ago during the last insurrection of the Cursed. No gnoll has been seen in decades”. Inwardly Marhault trembled, knowing only too well what horrors the deep places that still belonged to the inhuman and feral old world held. As an elf, albeight an outcast half-breed, he was privy to certain knowledge. The insurrection which he refferred to had been instigated and carried out by the humans, and that in Marhault’s opinion, was in itself one step away from failure and defeat. Carolinus, the prophet of Aureliana, the Hunter of The Slain, had preached to the multitudes of a vision inspired by the Goddess. He called with froth on his lips and a belly full of fire for a cleansing of the world, that all “subhuman” creatures be systematically exterminated so that the ill humors they cast upon the land may be destroyed.
He led an army of volunteers across the landscape in random search of the “Cursed”, as they are called in the Book of Aureliana, subsequently robbing anyone they came across for the Glory of Aureliana. The campaign against the gnolls had been the army’s only success. The gnolls were scattered and ran, but very little of either side left the battle field that bloody day.
“Only if that twere so”, replied the old man, suddenly looking very tired. “Could it be that no gnoll has been seen because no man has lived long enough to tell the tale?” With that he waved to the caravan, another horsed figure detached from the shadows with a chained person in tow.
As the chained figure came closer it ceased to be a person, now a short, furry creature. Definitely a gnoll. The woman keeping it looked at the men on the wall with a toothy malicious grin. Better to look at her than the insane red eyes of the rabid sepulchral beast.
“Believe him now?!”, she crowed up to the flabbergasted group.
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
Berserker part 24
Bertrawr knelt in front of the chieftains of the Dog nation, his head lowered in respect for the ancients. The heads of the different tribes sat at a semicircular table, all facing him. Their grayed fur given a ghostly aura by the raging quiet fire behind them, he could feel sawn planks underfoot and felt no breeze and saw no moonlight, so they must have been in one of the luxurious longhouses in which the chieftains congregated. He couldn’t be sure for he dare not look up. The punishment for insolence would be grave. Bertrawr fairly vibrated with excitement and nervousness, he had never come anywhere close to the heart of the Dog nation, having been born and bred in what the humans called the Bretolian Forest.
“You have been chosen to be the leader of a great army”, One of the chieftains said in leaden tones.
“But don’t go putting airs that you’re worth any more than you already were”, seconded a peevish voice.
“Arise”, said the first voice. Bertrawr did so, only then seeing what the fire was doing behind them. A single tendril of flame linked itself to each chieftain. One of them noticed his scared expression.
“Do not be afraid”, said a soothing third. “This is our master, he is allowing us to communicate to you over a great distance.”
“What about this army?”, asked Bertrawr.
“Our glorious lord, Dommiel, The One Who Comes By Night, Leaving But Husks, has chosen you to lead his holy campaign.”, came the response. Bertrawr instinctively dropped to all fours when he heard the name of the gnoll’s patron deity spoken.
“You and all of your kin will be branded as belonging to him”, the voice continued. As he spoke a crest formed itself in the smoke of the great fire, a crescent moon being devoured by the head of a giant wolf.
“You will be supplied by His Grace, to assure you do not fail”. A large bow thunked into the wood before him.
“And finally, you shall be assisted by our lord’s contemporaries, Leraje and Zepar, as well as their servants”. The smoke changed again to show thousands of goblins and orcs marching side-by-side, the orcs under a crest showing crossed swords, the goblins under a fist clenching the world.
“For all these gifts and power, we ask but one thing”, the voice said, becoming more animated as it spoke. “You may conquer the world or shatter it, do as you wish, but their is one person you must spare”. The smoke changed once again to show the hated Jarn, sleeping peacefully, He recognized the man-thing from the failed raid.
“Get him to the circle of summoning!”, the Gnoll shrieked. “The fiery blood running through his veins will allow for the coming of a power even greater than that of your master”. The voice became more frenzied and Bertrawr found himself engulfed in the white hot arms of the flames. He awoke yowling in fear, seeing only the comforting trees around him. It had all been a dream. But if that was so then why was there a huge black bow beside him, and the final words of the chieftain ringing in his head?
Bertrawr abruptly sat up, grabbing his newly found bow, it felt warm and not quite solid in his hands. When he looked at it he saw the surface was comprised of some otherworldly hellmetal, writhing and forming disturbing scenes of carnage, brutality, and torture as he watched it. He put it down in disgust, after a few moments picked it back up again, unable to bear the incessant feeling of despair that had swallowed him. Strangely enough, the despair and pain disappeared.
As he stood up, he felt the wind blow against his fur, creating a stinging sensation on his arm. He peered at it, finding a circular brand on his singed flesh, showing a wolf’s head eating a crescent moon.
He had enough proof, it was no dream. He quickly gathered together his pitiful looking troops and pointed them in a southerly direction, moving faster than anyone thought possible and without rest. After all, Beleth was coming.
“You have been chosen to be the leader of a great army”, One of the chieftains said in leaden tones.
“But don’t go putting airs that you’re worth any more than you already were”, seconded a peevish voice.
“Arise”, said the first voice. Bertrawr did so, only then seeing what the fire was doing behind them. A single tendril of flame linked itself to each chieftain. One of them noticed his scared expression.
“Do not be afraid”, said a soothing third. “This is our master, he is allowing us to communicate to you over a great distance.”
“What about this army?”, asked Bertrawr.
“Our glorious lord, Dommiel, The One Who Comes By Night, Leaving But Husks, has chosen you to lead his holy campaign.”, came the response. Bertrawr instinctively dropped to all fours when he heard the name of the gnoll’s patron deity spoken.
“You and all of your kin will be branded as belonging to him”, the voice continued. As he spoke a crest formed itself in the smoke of the great fire, a crescent moon being devoured by the head of a giant wolf.
“You will be supplied by His Grace, to assure you do not fail”. A large bow thunked into the wood before him.
“And finally, you shall be assisted by our lord’s contemporaries, Leraje and Zepar, as well as their servants”. The smoke changed again to show thousands of goblins and orcs marching side-by-side, the orcs under a crest showing crossed swords, the goblins under a fist clenching the world.
“For all these gifts and power, we ask but one thing”, the voice said, becoming more animated as it spoke. “You may conquer the world or shatter it, do as you wish, but their is one person you must spare”. The smoke changed once again to show the hated Jarn, sleeping peacefully, He recognized the man-thing from the failed raid.
“Get him to the circle of summoning!”, the Gnoll shrieked. “The fiery blood running through his veins will allow for the coming of a power even greater than that of your master”. The voice became more frenzied and Bertrawr found himself engulfed in the white hot arms of the flames. He awoke yowling in fear, seeing only the comforting trees around him. It had all been a dream. But if that was so then why was there a huge black bow beside him, and the final words of the chieftain ringing in his head?
Bertrawr abruptly sat up, grabbing his newly found bow, it felt warm and not quite solid in his hands. When he looked at it he saw the surface was comprised of some otherworldly hellmetal, writhing and forming disturbing scenes of carnage, brutality, and torture as he watched it. He put it down in disgust, after a few moments picked it back up again, unable to bear the incessant feeling of despair that had swallowed him. Strangely enough, the despair and pain disappeared.
As he stood up, he felt the wind blow against his fur, creating a stinging sensation on his arm. He peered at it, finding a circular brand on his singed flesh, showing a wolf’s head eating a crescent moon.
He had enough proof, it was no dream. He quickly gathered together his pitiful looking troops and pointed them in a southerly direction, moving faster than anyone thought possible and without rest. After all, Beleth was coming.
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Berserker Part 15
Bertrawr fumed, pacing back and forth, his fur flat against his body, a sure sign of agitation. Idiots! Morons! The Storm Canis can’t fail! Those must not be Storm Canis then, they can’t be! They’re impostors, someone in the Dog Nation is trying to make a fool out of me! Bertrawr stopped, being a packleader means not showing any weakness. There are always too many others looking for promotion, and emptying the shoes of their occupant is a widely accepted way of doing so. There was nothing for it now but to continue as planned.
Sunday, June 14, 2009
Berserker Part 13
The Storm Canis were in position and the first of the wagons had just rounded the bend in the trail. For some reason the Furless ones’ pace had slowed down, but the pack was far too worked up to care. Bertrawr gave the sign to begin the attack. It would give away his position as well as most of his pack, but since the Storm Canis did not follow the same rules of battle, they would be a great surprise. He howled.
Thursday, June 11, 2009
Berserker Part 12
Jarn tore through the brush, hopping over fallen logs and treacherous dips in the trail. Moving as if a demon from the deepest pits of some unnamable underworld were in hot pursuit. Breath ripping in and out of his lungs, heart racing, panic lending his feet wings, he closed the distance to the lead wagon in record time. He barely avoided crashing into one of the guards by slamming into the ground before the surprised man’s feet. Jarn looked up into the wide brown eyes of the old man who carried the longsword, his name he had heard was Aniston though he had never really talked much with him. He got up to his knees with the aid Aniston’s aid, and tried to speak, only coughing and choking, Jarn had covered at least half a mile in a few moments, his lungs refused to spare the tiniest bit of air for any other use.
Aniston slapped him on the back and waited until Jarn could catch his breath before he questioned the scared boy.
“What’s wrong lad?”, he asked as kindly as possible.
“Monsters... up ahead”, Jarn replied between gasps for air, his head down, concentrating on slowing his breath. “They look like dogs but stand on two legs”. Jarn hadn’t noticed them until one managed to get up behind him, it was a little shorter than him with shaggy fur and a long, dog-like snout. It wore what looked like very poorly cured animal skins and leathers patched together, what Jarn saw that panicked him most was the others of its kind that were quietly moving through the underbrush. With great self control he had kept on chopping wood like nothing had been noticed, the thing behind him backed away and joined its companions. He continued acting oblivious to anyone’s presence for a few more moments just to be sure none were still around and then ran as fast as he could, it was all he could do to remember to keep from dropping his ax to get back more quickly.
“Gnolls?”, Aniston said. “Can’t be, they all disappeared before I was even born, but with the way things are going these days, it’s likely enough. Come on, lets go warn the others.”
As they marched to the rear of the wagon train, Aniston yelled out warnings and orders to everyone he passed, rattling off instructions without cease and addressing every single person by name. What would normally have caused panic, confusion, and people working at cross purposes if issued by any other man they found themselves obeying automatically, there was something in his voice that was used to having orders carried out.
They reached the guardsmen’s wagons quickly to find everyone in the middle of buckling on any spare or heavy armor they might find too cumbersome to wear constantly. Seryan donned a chain mail coat and hood, while the brother and sister team put even more leathers on. Jarn grabbed his other ax and strapped his father’s sword to his back as Aniston quickly relayed the story to the rest of the group.
“I want everyone to guard the flanks”, he said. ‘From what Jarn told me, they’re probably looking to make a quick ambush, which means they won’t try a full frontal assault. Millienya, I want you to find a good spot to work from”.
“Yeah, yeah”, mumbled the bruiser Tyrel, strapping on a bandolier of wicked looking throwing knives.
“Something wrong?”, Aniston challenged with his hand on his sword.
“No”, Tyrel replied in a drawl which was the closest he could get to intelligent sounding. “I just always get so sleepy whenever you open your mouth. Strange coincidence eh?”
“Hah, bloody, hah”, Karnar stepped in. “Let’s just hurry up, I don’t think those things will wait for you to finish this talk”.
They grabbed their crossbows and assorted personal weapons, Millienya switched her crossbow for an ornate shortbow that looked as if it were carved from bone and strung with sinew. They split up to take their positions. Aniston hustled up front to ride with the driver of the first wagon. The inseparable Seryan and Tyrel moved to cover the caravan’s left flank.
Before Jarn could choose who to pair off with, Karnar slapped him on the back. “You’re with me”, he said as he gave Jarn a grin, which was somehow not very reassuring.
Aniston slapped him on the back and waited until Jarn could catch his breath before he questioned the scared boy.
“What’s wrong lad?”, he asked as kindly as possible.
“Monsters... up ahead”, Jarn replied between gasps for air, his head down, concentrating on slowing his breath. “They look like dogs but stand on two legs”. Jarn hadn’t noticed them until one managed to get up behind him, it was a little shorter than him with shaggy fur and a long, dog-like snout. It wore what looked like very poorly cured animal skins and leathers patched together, what Jarn saw that panicked him most was the others of its kind that were quietly moving through the underbrush. With great self control he had kept on chopping wood like nothing had been noticed, the thing behind him backed away and joined its companions. He continued acting oblivious to anyone’s presence for a few more moments just to be sure none were still around and then ran as fast as he could, it was all he could do to remember to keep from dropping his ax to get back more quickly.
“Gnolls?”, Aniston said. “Can’t be, they all disappeared before I was even born, but with the way things are going these days, it’s likely enough. Come on, lets go warn the others.”
As they marched to the rear of the wagon train, Aniston yelled out warnings and orders to everyone he passed, rattling off instructions without cease and addressing every single person by name. What would normally have caused panic, confusion, and people working at cross purposes if issued by any other man they found themselves obeying automatically, there was something in his voice that was used to having orders carried out.
They reached the guardsmen’s wagons quickly to find everyone in the middle of buckling on any spare or heavy armor they might find too cumbersome to wear constantly. Seryan donned a chain mail coat and hood, while the brother and sister team put even more leathers on. Jarn grabbed his other ax and strapped his father’s sword to his back as Aniston quickly relayed the story to the rest of the group.
“I want everyone to guard the flanks”, he said. ‘From what Jarn told me, they’re probably looking to make a quick ambush, which means they won’t try a full frontal assault. Millienya, I want you to find a good spot to work from”.
“Yeah, yeah”, mumbled the bruiser Tyrel, strapping on a bandolier of wicked looking throwing knives.
“Something wrong?”, Aniston challenged with his hand on his sword.
“No”, Tyrel replied in a drawl which was the closest he could get to intelligent sounding. “I just always get so sleepy whenever you open your mouth. Strange coincidence eh?”
“Hah, bloody, hah”, Karnar stepped in. “Let’s just hurry up, I don’t think those things will wait for you to finish this talk”.
They grabbed their crossbows and assorted personal weapons, Millienya switched her crossbow for an ornate shortbow that looked as if it were carved from bone and strung with sinew. They split up to take their positions. Aniston hustled up front to ride with the driver of the first wagon. The inseparable Seryan and Tyrel moved to cover the caravan’s left flank.
Before Jarn could choose who to pair off with, Karnar slapped him on the back. “You’re with me”, he said as he gave Jarn a grin, which was somehow not very reassuring.
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
Berserker Part 11
The scouts had all confirmed the size of the caravan and whatever valuables it were estimated to contain. It was a miracle that the little gnolls with their snorting, loud noses weren’t spotted. One of the newer scouts boasted that he got right up behind one of the big Furless ones that was out ahead of the wagons, hacking at the brush like a maniac and making enough noise for any Gnoll worth his salts to notice from up to a mile. They were all sure that he was lying, but it was normal for a young pup trying to one-up his betters.
Pack leader Bertrawr growled to himself with anticipation, he and his band of warriors hadn’t been lucky enough to find any decent looking pickings in the better part of a month. A number of fights had broken out recently and he had heard some disturbing rumors of a strong push by some of the more freethinking of the group to choose another leader. So this diversion was as much a welcome thing to Bertawr’s underlings as it was him.
He growled a string of unpronounceable syllables to a slightly smaller Gnoll who was the closest thing to a fighter of lesser rank among the primitive military which evolved over years of hard and practical testing. His best Longfangs would hold back until the Storm Canis had softened them up enough to provide little resistance. It was Bertrawr’s pride and joy to have the highly elite Storm Canis with him, only the most famous of the skirmisher units were assigned a group of the highly technological Storm Canis. They had to be sent directly by the chieftains of the Dog Nation. Most of the border fighters were only equipped with a bunch of fresh pups and some veteran Longfangs.
Once the rest of his dogs had formed up, he took his ritual place in the center of the formation. It was a common tradition to do so, it being logically the most secure place of the entire unit, so he was safe to think clearly and issue orders to his troops that were superior to the panicked and frenzied of the enemy. He received the “all clear” sign from his aid and waited.
Pack leader Bertrawr growled to himself with anticipation, he and his band of warriors hadn’t been lucky enough to find any decent looking pickings in the better part of a month. A number of fights had broken out recently and he had heard some disturbing rumors of a strong push by some of the more freethinking of the group to choose another leader. So this diversion was as much a welcome thing to Bertawr’s underlings as it was him.
He growled a string of unpronounceable syllables to a slightly smaller Gnoll who was the closest thing to a fighter of lesser rank among the primitive military which evolved over years of hard and practical testing. His best Longfangs would hold back until the Storm Canis had softened them up enough to provide little resistance. It was Bertrawr’s pride and joy to have the highly elite Storm Canis with him, only the most famous of the skirmisher units were assigned a group of the highly technological Storm Canis. They had to be sent directly by the chieftains of the Dog Nation. Most of the border fighters were only equipped with a bunch of fresh pups and some veteran Longfangs.
Once the rest of his dogs had formed up, he took his ritual place in the center of the formation. It was a common tradition to do so, it being logically the most secure place of the entire unit, so he was safe to think clearly and issue orders to his troops that were superior to the panicked and frenzied of the enemy. He received the “all clear” sign from his aid and waited.
Thursday, June 4, 2009
Berserker Part 8
Lars met Jarn ahead of the groggy caravan. Gerda had the idea that they could make their travel easier by cutting trees that were alongside the trail down for firewood, thus widening the trail as they went. It wasn’t really a bad idea, but then again she wasn’t the one who had to lug huge logs off the path. It made Lars especially irritable because it had been Lars’ turn for the menial task three times in a row. That sophisticated young dandy in chain mail complained of a pulled muscle. Back in Klav people had done such tasks while suffering from the ice rot and not complained! So when Jarn picked a squat old ash tree to start on, Lars didn’t act with particular tact or a sense of self preservation.
“Hey, big oaf!”, he yelled as Jarn was about to dig into the tree. Jarn stopped, startled from the sudden noise. “Got rocks in your head, or just empty space up there?!”, Lars continued, bringing himself to stand directly in front of the man and having to look up to see his surprised features.
“Ash is a man-hating tree!”, he yelled up the taller man’s nose. “Look in those branches”, he indicated the upper regions of the ash’s expansive foliage. “See anything?”
Jarn followed Lar’s upward pointing finger to a large branch with holding a great deal of slowly decaying plant matter that numerous autumns had deposited from taller trees. Now it looked to have the density of a brick and contain the remains of smaller trees and numerous mummified squirrel and bird corpses.
“What should I be seeing?”. He unconsciously changed his stance to a more aggressive form, accentuating his height to discourage violence.
“Ash branches give way without a warning crack”, Lars responded in a slow voice Jarn recognized as being used on children and the mentally impaired. “Do you really want the load of rubbish crashing down on your head? I doubt that even your thick skull could take a knock like that!”
“Besides, Ash give off terrible smelling smoke”, he added, backing off a little.
Jarn took a deep breath and squared his shoulders. He seemed to unfold after that thorough tongue lashing. Still, at least it was just a verbal lashing. He turned away from tree and Lars, and quietly counted out fifteen paces under his breath. He turned around yet again and let the head of the felling ax drop to be perpendicular with the ground. In one swift move Jarn whipped the ax over his head and brought it back down with a yell. He let the ax go at just the right moment, it pinwheeled until burying itself deep in the bark of the offending ash tree and a fingerlength from Lars’ ear.
“I”, Jarn simply stated, “happen to like the way ash smells”.
Lars just stood there with the ax quivering next to him, not knowing whether to scream in rage, fear, or soil himself.
Jarn caught his eye and pointed upward with a knowing grin. Just as Lars regained the coordination to look up, the bough with generations of the putrefying remnants of life, both plant and animal, broke. To credit Lars, this happened with absolutely no noise. Luckily, he managed to stumble aside before the heavy load came crashing to the ground.
He regained his breath to immediately get rid of it again by screaming, “You could have killed me! What were you thinking?!” Lars was shaking with rage and shock over almost dying.
Jarn remained still with a smirk of satisfaction on his face, “If you’re such the expert on trees then you should know not to stand so close”, he said.
Lars glanced up and down the trail to see if anyone was watching. Finding none, he threw himself at Jarn with a scream, trying to knock the other man over and kill him quickly. Jarn was caught completely unaware and was sent skidding on his back into the middle of the dirt trail. Lars kept up the attack by running up to where Jarn lay and attempting to bring his boot down on the other man’s face. Jarn managed to grab hold of the leg which was not raised in the air and twist it, toppling Lars. Jarn quickly got back up and ran over to the aforementioned ash tree. He then grabbed at the ax embedded in the tree, pulling desperately. But to no avail, Lars had managed to rise but was limping, he must’ve twisted his leg in the fall. He moved carefully over to the tree opposite from Jarn, where the other ax had been set down. He picked it up and hefted it, giving Jarn a calculating look, wondering if he could take the taller man with the advantage of an ax and disadvantage of a limp.
He obviously thought he could as he made his way toward Jarn. Jarn frantically scoured the ground for anything he could find, coming up with a study looking stick. He widened his stance and gave himself room to maneuver as Lars came closer, suddenly braking into a run! It had been a ruse, Lars was fine! Jarn charged forward to meet him and warcry on his lips that was swiftly echoed by his assailant. They were but a few yards apart as two arrows came whistling toward them, slamming home in the haft of Lars’ ax and the head of Jarn’s stick.
“Knock that off you two!”, shrieked a voice that they were both familiar with.
“S’right”, agreed a gruff man. “Where the hell is breakfast?”
The two would-be combatants turned to see half the camp was watching their fight. At the head of the crowd was Millienya and Tyrel, the self-proclaimed bodyguard of Seryan’s. Both were in the process of reloading their crossbows.
“Lars!”, Millienya yelled. “You finish cutting the wood and leave Jarn be!”
“He tried to murder me”, Lars protested in dismay.
“By the look of it you almost killed him too, so you’re level”, she countered. “You deserve whatever he did”.
Jarn put down his pitiful looking stick and walked slowly back to camp, while Lars stomped deeper into the woods, muttering to himself and cursing in a language Jarn didn’t understand. The camp watched him go with a mixed sense of anger and hunger, it was already mid-morning and very few of them had eaten because they couldn’t get a fire going. When they go to find out what the hold-up was, they find him tussling with the newcomer and ignoring their rumbling bellies!
“Are you hurt?”, Millienya asked in concern for Jarn.
“I’ll be fine, I just need to be wary of Lars, nothing more”, responded Jarn sullenly
The crowd dispersed with grumbling mouths and bellies as they got about their chores of packing up their things, taking care of the pack mules and horses, and a few small children collecting sticks in hope of cooking breakfast a little faster. Only Jarn and Millienya remained.
Why does Lars have to fight with anyone he ever meets? It’s not as if everyone else in the world is out to get him, well at least not until they talk to him.
“I apologize for him”, she said. “He just doesn’t get along with other people”.
“Really?”, Jarn said in mock surprise. “I thought he was being coy....If he doesn’t get along well with people, who does get along with?”
“Damned if I know”, she said theatrically throwing her hands up in surrender.
Jarn began walking back to the camp to load up his bedroll and other things into the guards’ wagon. Since Karnar vouched for him, people thought he must be a guard too.
“Jarn, wait”, Millienya said. “Don’t worry about watching Lars, I’ll keep him civil”.
“You have my thanks”, Jarn said, warming up to her a little. Jarn smiled to himself, liking the idea that someone else was looking out for him. And then there was the embarrassed smile he always received when facing her, it gave one pause to think about it’s implications. Jarn might just have an admirer.
“Hey, big oaf!”, he yelled as Jarn was about to dig into the tree. Jarn stopped, startled from the sudden noise. “Got rocks in your head, or just empty space up there?!”, Lars continued, bringing himself to stand directly in front of the man and having to look up to see his surprised features.
“Ash is a man-hating tree!”, he yelled up the taller man’s nose. “Look in those branches”, he indicated the upper regions of the ash’s expansive foliage. “See anything?”
Jarn followed Lar’s upward pointing finger to a large branch with holding a great deal of slowly decaying plant matter that numerous autumns had deposited from taller trees. Now it looked to have the density of a brick and contain the remains of smaller trees and numerous mummified squirrel and bird corpses.
“What should I be seeing?”. He unconsciously changed his stance to a more aggressive form, accentuating his height to discourage violence.
“Ash branches give way without a warning crack”, Lars responded in a slow voice Jarn recognized as being used on children and the mentally impaired. “Do you really want the load of rubbish crashing down on your head? I doubt that even your thick skull could take a knock like that!”
“Besides, Ash give off terrible smelling smoke”, he added, backing off a little.
Jarn took a deep breath and squared his shoulders. He seemed to unfold after that thorough tongue lashing. Still, at least it was just a verbal lashing. He turned away from tree and Lars, and quietly counted out fifteen paces under his breath. He turned around yet again and let the head of the felling ax drop to be perpendicular with the ground. In one swift move Jarn whipped the ax over his head and brought it back down with a yell. He let the ax go at just the right moment, it pinwheeled until burying itself deep in the bark of the offending ash tree and a fingerlength from Lars’ ear.
“I”, Jarn simply stated, “happen to like the way ash smells”.
Lars just stood there with the ax quivering next to him, not knowing whether to scream in rage, fear, or soil himself.
Jarn caught his eye and pointed upward with a knowing grin. Just as Lars regained the coordination to look up, the bough with generations of the putrefying remnants of life, both plant and animal, broke. To credit Lars, this happened with absolutely no noise. Luckily, he managed to stumble aside before the heavy load came crashing to the ground.
He regained his breath to immediately get rid of it again by screaming, “You could have killed me! What were you thinking?!” Lars was shaking with rage and shock over almost dying.
Jarn remained still with a smirk of satisfaction on his face, “If you’re such the expert on trees then you should know not to stand so close”, he said.
Lars glanced up and down the trail to see if anyone was watching. Finding none, he threw himself at Jarn with a scream, trying to knock the other man over and kill him quickly. Jarn was caught completely unaware and was sent skidding on his back into the middle of the dirt trail. Lars kept up the attack by running up to where Jarn lay and attempting to bring his boot down on the other man’s face. Jarn managed to grab hold of the leg which was not raised in the air and twist it, toppling Lars. Jarn quickly got back up and ran over to the aforementioned ash tree. He then grabbed at the ax embedded in the tree, pulling desperately. But to no avail, Lars had managed to rise but was limping, he must’ve twisted his leg in the fall. He moved carefully over to the tree opposite from Jarn, where the other ax had been set down. He picked it up and hefted it, giving Jarn a calculating look, wondering if he could take the taller man with the advantage of an ax and disadvantage of a limp.
He obviously thought he could as he made his way toward Jarn. Jarn frantically scoured the ground for anything he could find, coming up with a study looking stick. He widened his stance and gave himself room to maneuver as Lars came closer, suddenly braking into a run! It had been a ruse, Lars was fine! Jarn charged forward to meet him and warcry on his lips that was swiftly echoed by his assailant. They were but a few yards apart as two arrows came whistling toward them, slamming home in the haft of Lars’ ax and the head of Jarn’s stick.
“Knock that off you two!”, shrieked a voice that they were both familiar with.
“S’right”, agreed a gruff man. “Where the hell is breakfast?”
The two would-be combatants turned to see half the camp was watching their fight. At the head of the crowd was Millienya and Tyrel, the self-proclaimed bodyguard of Seryan’s. Both were in the process of reloading their crossbows.
“Lars!”, Millienya yelled. “You finish cutting the wood and leave Jarn be!”
“He tried to murder me”, Lars protested in dismay.
“By the look of it you almost killed him too, so you’re level”, she countered. “You deserve whatever he did”.
Jarn put down his pitiful looking stick and walked slowly back to camp, while Lars stomped deeper into the woods, muttering to himself and cursing in a language Jarn didn’t understand. The camp watched him go with a mixed sense of anger and hunger, it was already mid-morning and very few of them had eaten because they couldn’t get a fire going. When they go to find out what the hold-up was, they find him tussling with the newcomer and ignoring their rumbling bellies!
“Are you hurt?”, Millienya asked in concern for Jarn.
“I’ll be fine, I just need to be wary of Lars, nothing more”, responded Jarn sullenly
The crowd dispersed with grumbling mouths and bellies as they got about their chores of packing up their things, taking care of the pack mules and horses, and a few small children collecting sticks in hope of cooking breakfast a little faster. Only Jarn and Millienya remained.
Why does Lars have to fight with anyone he ever meets? It’s not as if everyone else in the world is out to get him, well at least not until they talk to him.
“I apologize for him”, she said. “He just doesn’t get along with other people”.
“Really?”, Jarn said in mock surprise. “I thought he was being coy....If he doesn’t get along well with people, who does get along with?”
“Damned if I know”, she said theatrically throwing her hands up in surrender.
Jarn began walking back to the camp to load up his bedroll and other things into the guards’ wagon. Since Karnar vouched for him, people thought he must be a guard too.
“Jarn, wait”, Millienya said. “Don’t worry about watching Lars, I’ll keep him civil”.
“You have my thanks”, Jarn said, warming up to her a little. Jarn smiled to himself, liking the idea that someone else was looking out for him. And then there was the embarrassed smile he always received when facing her, it gave one pause to think about it’s implications. Jarn might just have an admirer.
Monday, June 1, 2009
Berserker Part 6
The group was asleep long before he decided it was safe to sneak from the clearing where they had chosen to camp. It was a clear, cool summer night. The greater and lesser moons chased each other through the sky as the stars twinkled above and the air was filled with the sounds of all the nocturnal animals awaking.
The smoldering embers of the cooking fire gave just enough light to see a rippling in the air, as a pebble is thrown into a pond. As his eyes lingered on the shimmering he could feel heat on the nape of his neck, he turned around and was nearly blinded by the flaring embers. They had risen off the ground and were swooping towards him! He threw himself to the ground and the hot coals soared over him and interposed themselves over the shimmering in the air, melding together to form a smoking and sputtering doorway. Inside was darkness, not the absence of light, but the essence of darkness. A sort of anti-light. The man quickly shielded his eyes, to look into that doorway was to brave blindness. Where it led could be found on no map or atlas, for it was a tear in the boundaries of this world. He ran through the doorway, making sure not to burn himself.
He floated through the void, on fire and frozen, dead and alive, his body was dissolved. Yet his thoughts remained. He thought of his lungs and there they were, he thought of his heart and there it was. Piece by piece he was reassembled, kneeling in front of a large stone table.
It looked as if this table was the very first ever created, covered with arcane symbols and patterns which glowed with an eerie inner fire and hurt the eyes when viewed, it was a proto-table. Of the gargantuan seats surrounding the table, only 3 were occupied. One was dressed in the skins of creatures that the world was thankful to have never known, a bow of black iron and a quiver close at hand. The other was cloaked and cowled, only his pale, gnarled hands were visible. His body shook and jumped like a man in the throes of a terminal illness. The third was sitting at the head of the table in a throne carved out of ebony, the semblance’s of screaming demons were carved into its surface and seemed to writhe when looked upon. His body was swathed in blood red armor, its surface had a glistening organic quality, seeming to sweat in the stifling air. Not even his eyes were visible through the slits in his helmet.
Lit candelabras surrounding the table burned brightly, but only served to further alienate the 3 from anything that could be considered normal. The room they occupied was absolutely cavernous. It was so large that the lights didn’t even illuminate the walls or ceiling. He fervently hoped that there were walls and a ceiling, that could surely be the only explanation for the oppressive gloom that weighted the air.
He took a few steps toward the foot of the table, after this didn’t make any real change in his distance from them, he realized how large the figures actually were. They seemed to have been constructed at a size one fifth larger than normal, and the furniture was equally cut to their proportions. It took him a few more moments to get to within easy speaking distance.
“What have you to report?”, demanded the armored being. Strange, he could’ve sworn that he never saw the knight move and his ears never heard a thing, but he knew the figure’s question. The being’s voice bypassing the ears and sending the question straight to his mind, there seemed to be a hollow, echoing quality to the words.
He forced himself to speak “The Bloodthorns have been stopped short of their goal, my lord”. His words came out thin and quiet, as if the oppressive weight of the air was trying to crush them. “They were destroyed in Jeriscar”.
A shrieking cackle was received in response. He looked over to see that it was the sound of the figure clad in skins laughing. It looked to the cowled being and said in a voice that altered pitch with nearly every word to the point where it could’ve broken glass at times, “I told you that those greenskinned runts would do no good Dommiel!” It was clear that this one had thrown itself into the pit of insanity and had dwelt happily in its bottom for some time. Thankfully, it spoke aloud rather than in that unholy mindspeech that was used before.
The cowled creature known as Dommiel just chuckled to himself and waved a clawlike hand in the air. The darkness was driven further away by the apparition which sprang forth there. It took the shape of a very large man, rail thin and tired looking, but with a fire of determination in his eyes. The prostating figure at the foot of the table gasped in recognition as he saw that it was Jarn.
Dommiel replied in a voice that was choked with the secretions and pustules of a thousand plagues, “I had hopes that they wouldn’t make it. It would’ve meant that my scrying led me astray. Seeing as it didn’t, let’s not trouble ourselves with such matters”.
“Who is he?”, intoned the suit of armor with the same hollow voice.
“I was just getting to that Zepar”, Dommiel said, bridling at having been interrupted. “This boy has a fire which drew me from leagues away, he will serve as the perfect vessel”.
A few moments of stunned silence followed this shocking news. The worshipper shifted uncomfortably, inadvertently regaining the attention of the three seated demons. “You will protect this boy with your life to make sure that he reaches the ancient place” , Zepar said. There was no arguing with his words, it wasn’t an order or question, it was a simple statement of fact.
The smoldering embers of the cooking fire gave just enough light to see a rippling in the air, as a pebble is thrown into a pond. As his eyes lingered on the shimmering he could feel heat on the nape of his neck, he turned around and was nearly blinded by the flaring embers. They had risen off the ground and were swooping towards him! He threw himself to the ground and the hot coals soared over him and interposed themselves over the shimmering in the air, melding together to form a smoking and sputtering doorway. Inside was darkness, not the absence of light, but the essence of darkness. A sort of anti-light. The man quickly shielded his eyes, to look into that doorway was to brave blindness. Where it led could be found on no map or atlas, for it was a tear in the boundaries of this world. He ran through the doorway, making sure not to burn himself.
He floated through the void, on fire and frozen, dead and alive, his body was dissolved. Yet his thoughts remained. He thought of his lungs and there they were, he thought of his heart and there it was. Piece by piece he was reassembled, kneeling in front of a large stone table.
It looked as if this table was the very first ever created, covered with arcane symbols and patterns which glowed with an eerie inner fire and hurt the eyes when viewed, it was a proto-table. Of the gargantuan seats surrounding the table, only 3 were occupied. One was dressed in the skins of creatures that the world was thankful to have never known, a bow of black iron and a quiver close at hand. The other was cloaked and cowled, only his pale, gnarled hands were visible. His body shook and jumped like a man in the throes of a terminal illness. The third was sitting at the head of the table in a throne carved out of ebony, the semblance’s of screaming demons were carved into its surface and seemed to writhe when looked upon. His body was swathed in blood red armor, its surface had a glistening organic quality, seeming to sweat in the stifling air. Not even his eyes were visible through the slits in his helmet.
Lit candelabras surrounding the table burned brightly, but only served to further alienate the 3 from anything that could be considered normal. The room they occupied was absolutely cavernous. It was so large that the lights didn’t even illuminate the walls or ceiling. He fervently hoped that there were walls and a ceiling, that could surely be the only explanation for the oppressive gloom that weighted the air.
He took a few steps toward the foot of the table, after this didn’t make any real change in his distance from them, he realized how large the figures actually were. They seemed to have been constructed at a size one fifth larger than normal, and the furniture was equally cut to their proportions. It took him a few more moments to get to within easy speaking distance.
“What have you to report?”, demanded the armored being. Strange, he could’ve sworn that he never saw the knight move and his ears never heard a thing, but he knew the figure’s question. The being’s voice bypassing the ears and sending the question straight to his mind, there seemed to be a hollow, echoing quality to the words.
He forced himself to speak “The Bloodthorns have been stopped short of their goal, my lord”. His words came out thin and quiet, as if the oppressive weight of the air was trying to crush them. “They were destroyed in Jeriscar”.
A shrieking cackle was received in response. He looked over to see that it was the sound of the figure clad in skins laughing. It looked to the cowled being and said in a voice that altered pitch with nearly every word to the point where it could’ve broken glass at times, “I told you that those greenskinned runts would do no good Dommiel!” It was clear that this one had thrown itself into the pit of insanity and had dwelt happily in its bottom for some time. Thankfully, it spoke aloud rather than in that unholy mindspeech that was used before.
The cowled creature known as Dommiel just chuckled to himself and waved a clawlike hand in the air. The darkness was driven further away by the apparition which sprang forth there. It took the shape of a very large man, rail thin and tired looking, but with a fire of determination in his eyes. The prostating figure at the foot of the table gasped in recognition as he saw that it was Jarn.
Dommiel replied in a voice that was choked with the secretions and pustules of a thousand plagues, “I had hopes that they wouldn’t make it. It would’ve meant that my scrying led me astray. Seeing as it didn’t, let’s not trouble ourselves with such matters”.
“Who is he?”, intoned the suit of armor with the same hollow voice.
“I was just getting to that Zepar”, Dommiel said, bridling at having been interrupted. “This boy has a fire which drew me from leagues away, he will serve as the perfect vessel”.
A few moments of stunned silence followed this shocking news. The worshipper shifted uncomfortably, inadvertently regaining the attention of the three seated demons. “You will protect this boy with your life to make sure that he reaches the ancient place” , Zepar said. There was no arguing with his words, it wasn’t an order or question, it was a simple statement of fact.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Berserker Part 5
“Hold!”, bellowed an accented voice in front of Jarn. Suddenly he was looking down the shaft of a crossbow. His eyes followed down the crossbow and rested upon his assailant. He was a tall blond young man, wearing an out of place coat of animal skins over light leather armor. He also carried two sabers in sheathes at his waist and what looked like a spear across his back. Jarn looked up to realize that he was surrounded by a group, equally armed with crossbows.
Well this is the end of me. Funny, after surviving the goblin warriors I’m going to be shot while leaving after a terrible battle. The irony was thick enough to be cut with a knife. Jarn heaved a resigned sigh. “Hurry and finish it.” he said, suddenly feeling very tired. “My people haven’t made much headway in the next world, if you hurry I can catch up to them.”
“Wait”, said the man. “We’re not going to kill you if we don’t have to... understand?”
“You’re not with the goblins?”, Jarn asked hesitantly.
“Not at all”, replied the man, bridling under the suggestion he would be affiliated with such loathsome and depraved creatures. “Is that what happened here? Goblins attacked?”
Jarn nodded his head, shuddering at the memory of such carnage. “Aye”, he said. “Those little cowards attacked during the night and gutted the lot. They must’ve known the men were away at the time. When we returned everyone was dead, except for the goblins. I’m the only one left.” He fell to his knees and openly wept, exhausted beyond words.
The man guffawed with laughter. clearly not believing him “You jest, yes?”, the man asked incredulously. “Why do you live and nobody else does? What is special about you?” He raised his crossbow and released the safety pin for emphasis.
“I wish I knew”, Jarn said. He lowered his head and waited for the arrow to come.
“Stop!”, cried another man’s voice beside Lars. “Don’t shoot him yet!” He addressed Jarn. “What clan does this town belong to?”, He asked. His voice is familiar, where have I heard it before?
“This was the only home of the Flameheart clan”, Jarn replied.
“Jarn!”, the voice cried. “I thought it might’ve been you! It’s me, Karnar!” Jarn felt a tendril of hope worm through him at the man’s statement. He looked up to confirm it. Despite himself he smiled, he knew this man. They had been good friends since they could walk, Karnar had married Jarn’s cousin not more than 3 years ago. He was from the Crushbone clan, just south of the Goblin mountains. They were notorious for reclusive behavior, so it was strange to be seeing one anywhere from home, but Jarn’s eyes couldn’t be tricked. He stood there, plain as day. His short stature made him easy to pick out when compared to others of his clan, it had also made him the target for a lot of bullies when they were very young, but he made up for it by being more than twice as thick as anyone Jarn had ever known.
“Karnar!”, Jarn shouted back with as much force as he could muster. “It’s good to see you, but do you think you could get him to keep from shooting that thing down my nose before we get aquatinted? I’m going cross-eyed looking at it.”
“Go easy Lars”, Karnar said with a huge grin plastered across his features. “I know this man and personally vouch for his trustworthiness. Although I wouldn’t exactly be sure of that when he’s drunk.” Oh no, not this again.
“Oh not again”, Jarn moaned, wondering if he was dreaming again. “Just because I got drunk and woke up next to a sheep doesn’t mean I did anything.” This had haunted him for years, and he could feel the blood rising to his face.
Karnar’s wedding was a time where he indulged in a little too much merrymaking. When he was walking back to one of the Crushbone villages from the wedding site, he tripped and fell. Being very tired and more than a little inebriated, he decided to stay where he was for the night, on second thought, Jarn wasn’t really sure he had a choice. Anyway, when he woke up, he found that he had wandered into one of the livestock pastures and a flock of sheep had bedded down next to him. Needless to say, when the shepherd got back to town with this news, nobody could stop laughing. Except Jarn of course, he had never been so embarrassed in his life.
Lars reluctantly complied with Jarn’s wishes, as did all those around him. Jarn rose back to his feet, not bothering to brush the mud from his legs or the tears from his eyes. He walked over to where Karnar stood and clenched the man in a bear hug that would’ve surely crushed a lesser person. Karnar returned the gesture and held the other man back to get a look at him. Jarn’s face was haggard and pale from little sleep or food, it looked as if he hadn’t attended to any of his wounds either, the number of infected cuts on his arms and legs must’ve been weakening him too. The dazed sense of prolonged horror that seemed to hold his facial muscles in thrall made him look years older, and nearly unrecognizable. His eyes had changed too. At one time they showed the great inner peace and happiness that made Jarn such a good person to know and be around. His eyes now held such a desperate ferocity, they belonged to someone who had flown over hell and made the devils run for cover. Karnar was strangely frightened by them.
“What happened here?”, Karnar whispered in Jarn’s ear.
Jarn broke away from the man. “I told you” he said, obviously frustrated. “Goblins came and slaughtered them all.” He turned around and started jogging down the line of huts. “If you don’t believe me then follow!” He called over his shoulder. Stopping at one particularly large hut, he beckoned to the group to look inside.
Karnar cautiously poked his head inside the hut, withdrew it with blinding speed, spun to one side, and vomited. The group quickly clustered around the grounded man after he finished. “What was it?” Questioned the old man.
“Goblins.” Came the weak reply. “Dozens of corpses. Must’ve been dead for some time, that was what we smelled earlier.”
Jarn leaned against the hut. “Believe me now?” He asked.
The noble looked inside the hut as well, wrinkling his nose in disgust but managing to hold onto his meal. “You mean to tell me that you have killed all of those goblins? He asked in wonder.
“Not all of them,” Came Jarn’s reply. “The other warriors vanquished roughly half before they were killed.”
“But that leaves at least 20 that you killed.” The noble gasped, his eyes big as plates.
“What of it?” Jarn asked.
“Oh, nothing.” The noble said, edging away, making sure to keep his guard between him and Jarn.
“It’s all a kind of haze.” Jarn said. “I can remember fragments, but I’m still not sure why I’m alive.”
“You look like you’re are traveling somewhere.” Karnar put in, indicating his traveling pack. “Where would that be?”
“There is nothing left in this village.” Jarn replied. “I intend to take revenge.”
“You mean you haven’t already?” asked the noble dryly, indicating the hut full of decaying goblins. “Hey!” He shouted at his bodyguard. “Get away from there!” The bruiser had been investigating the hut further and already carried three pairs of rather small boots, some assorted bits of jewelry, a few knives that might fetch a good price, and his purse looked a little bigger than it had been.
The bruiser looked over at the group and grinned. “It’s not as if they’re going to need anything.” He said. “Yet I found something strange, all of the goblins had tattoos.”
“Tattoos?” The woman in the group said. “I didn’t think goblins would trust anyone with a needle. What did they depict?”
“A small copy of the world,” the bruiser replied. “With a fist of smoke holding it tight.” He looked back in the hut to confirm his thoughts. “They all have the same mark” he reported. The idea that goblins had anything in common with one another was disconcerting. Although lacking in combat skill for the most part, the only reason their sheer numbers hadn’t overrun half the Dominion yet is that they were such untrustworthy, backstabbing, and disorganized little whelps, and spent most of their time squabbling amongst themselves and trying to keep from being killed in their sleep.
“I took note when I moved the bodies,” Jarn interjected. “Whoever could get goblins to submit to wearing that mark probably sent them this way. If I’m right, then that’s the bastard I’m lookin’ for.” He picked up his fallen pack and made to leave. “If you have no more questions, I’ll not take any more of your time.” He said acidly.
Jarn faced to the north and began walking away. Karnar ran to catch up to him. “How will you find this person?” He asked. “Its not as if you have a definite idea.”
“I’ll head up to the mountains and ask the goblins.” Jarn replied.
“What if they don’t want to tell you.” Karnar asked.
“I’ll insist.” Jarn said, with an evil glint in his eye and a cruel smile that frightened Karnar more than the prospect of facing down any goblin.
“What if they really have no knowledge?” Asked Karnar, playing his final card.
The horrible glow of bloodlust in the dirtied and disheveled youth’s eyes faded, showing only fatigue, pain, and how desperately he was clinging to one coherent thought.
“I don’t know!” Jarn screamed, his shoulders slumped and his head lowered.
“Come with me, come with us, we’ll help you.” Karnar replied gently, leading the boy back to the caravan, the other fighters in tow.
Jarn’s lips parted slightly, Karnar thought that on the cusp of hearing he detected the whispered words, “Thank you.”
Well this is the end of me. Funny, after surviving the goblin warriors I’m going to be shot while leaving after a terrible battle. The irony was thick enough to be cut with a knife. Jarn heaved a resigned sigh. “Hurry and finish it.” he said, suddenly feeling very tired. “My people haven’t made much headway in the next world, if you hurry I can catch up to them.”
“Wait”, said the man. “We’re not going to kill you if we don’t have to... understand?”
“You’re not with the goblins?”, Jarn asked hesitantly.
“Not at all”, replied the man, bridling under the suggestion he would be affiliated with such loathsome and depraved creatures. “Is that what happened here? Goblins attacked?”
Jarn nodded his head, shuddering at the memory of such carnage. “Aye”, he said. “Those little cowards attacked during the night and gutted the lot. They must’ve known the men were away at the time. When we returned everyone was dead, except for the goblins. I’m the only one left.” He fell to his knees and openly wept, exhausted beyond words.
The man guffawed with laughter. clearly not believing him “You jest, yes?”, the man asked incredulously. “Why do you live and nobody else does? What is special about you?” He raised his crossbow and released the safety pin for emphasis.
“I wish I knew”, Jarn said. He lowered his head and waited for the arrow to come.
“Stop!”, cried another man’s voice beside Lars. “Don’t shoot him yet!” He addressed Jarn. “What clan does this town belong to?”, He asked. His voice is familiar, where have I heard it before?
“This was the only home of the Flameheart clan”, Jarn replied.
“Jarn!”, the voice cried. “I thought it might’ve been you! It’s me, Karnar!” Jarn felt a tendril of hope worm through him at the man’s statement. He looked up to confirm it. Despite himself he smiled, he knew this man. They had been good friends since they could walk, Karnar had married Jarn’s cousin not more than 3 years ago. He was from the Crushbone clan, just south of the Goblin mountains. They were notorious for reclusive behavior, so it was strange to be seeing one anywhere from home, but Jarn’s eyes couldn’t be tricked. He stood there, plain as day. His short stature made him easy to pick out when compared to others of his clan, it had also made him the target for a lot of bullies when they were very young, but he made up for it by being more than twice as thick as anyone Jarn had ever known.
“Karnar!”, Jarn shouted back with as much force as he could muster. “It’s good to see you, but do you think you could get him to keep from shooting that thing down my nose before we get aquatinted? I’m going cross-eyed looking at it.”
“Go easy Lars”, Karnar said with a huge grin plastered across his features. “I know this man and personally vouch for his trustworthiness. Although I wouldn’t exactly be sure of that when he’s drunk.” Oh no, not this again.
“Oh not again”, Jarn moaned, wondering if he was dreaming again. “Just because I got drunk and woke up next to a sheep doesn’t mean I did anything.” This had haunted him for years, and he could feel the blood rising to his face.
Karnar’s wedding was a time where he indulged in a little too much merrymaking. When he was walking back to one of the Crushbone villages from the wedding site, he tripped and fell. Being very tired and more than a little inebriated, he decided to stay where he was for the night, on second thought, Jarn wasn’t really sure he had a choice. Anyway, when he woke up, he found that he had wandered into one of the livestock pastures and a flock of sheep had bedded down next to him. Needless to say, when the shepherd got back to town with this news, nobody could stop laughing. Except Jarn of course, he had never been so embarrassed in his life.
Lars reluctantly complied with Jarn’s wishes, as did all those around him. Jarn rose back to his feet, not bothering to brush the mud from his legs or the tears from his eyes. He walked over to where Karnar stood and clenched the man in a bear hug that would’ve surely crushed a lesser person. Karnar returned the gesture and held the other man back to get a look at him. Jarn’s face was haggard and pale from little sleep or food, it looked as if he hadn’t attended to any of his wounds either, the number of infected cuts on his arms and legs must’ve been weakening him too. The dazed sense of prolonged horror that seemed to hold his facial muscles in thrall made him look years older, and nearly unrecognizable. His eyes had changed too. At one time they showed the great inner peace and happiness that made Jarn such a good person to know and be around. His eyes now held such a desperate ferocity, they belonged to someone who had flown over hell and made the devils run for cover. Karnar was strangely frightened by them.
“What happened here?”, Karnar whispered in Jarn’s ear.
Jarn broke away from the man. “I told you” he said, obviously frustrated. “Goblins came and slaughtered them all.” He turned around and started jogging down the line of huts. “If you don’t believe me then follow!” He called over his shoulder. Stopping at one particularly large hut, he beckoned to the group to look inside.
Karnar cautiously poked his head inside the hut, withdrew it with blinding speed, spun to one side, and vomited. The group quickly clustered around the grounded man after he finished. “What was it?” Questioned the old man.
“Goblins.” Came the weak reply. “Dozens of corpses. Must’ve been dead for some time, that was what we smelled earlier.”
Jarn leaned against the hut. “Believe me now?” He asked.
The noble looked inside the hut as well, wrinkling his nose in disgust but managing to hold onto his meal. “You mean to tell me that you have killed all of those goblins? He asked in wonder.
“Not all of them,” Came Jarn’s reply. “The other warriors vanquished roughly half before they were killed.”
“But that leaves at least 20 that you killed.” The noble gasped, his eyes big as plates.
“What of it?” Jarn asked.
“Oh, nothing.” The noble said, edging away, making sure to keep his guard between him and Jarn.
“It’s all a kind of haze.” Jarn said. “I can remember fragments, but I’m still not sure why I’m alive.”
“You look like you’re are traveling somewhere.” Karnar put in, indicating his traveling pack. “Where would that be?”
“There is nothing left in this village.” Jarn replied. “I intend to take revenge.”
“You mean you haven’t already?” asked the noble dryly, indicating the hut full of decaying goblins. “Hey!” He shouted at his bodyguard. “Get away from there!” The bruiser had been investigating the hut further and already carried three pairs of rather small boots, some assorted bits of jewelry, a few knives that might fetch a good price, and his purse looked a little bigger than it had been.
The bruiser looked over at the group and grinned. “It’s not as if they’re going to need anything.” He said. “Yet I found something strange, all of the goblins had tattoos.”
“Tattoos?” The woman in the group said. “I didn’t think goblins would trust anyone with a needle. What did they depict?”
“A small copy of the world,” the bruiser replied. “With a fist of smoke holding it tight.” He looked back in the hut to confirm his thoughts. “They all have the same mark” he reported. The idea that goblins had anything in common with one another was disconcerting. Although lacking in combat skill for the most part, the only reason their sheer numbers hadn’t overrun half the Dominion yet is that they were such untrustworthy, backstabbing, and disorganized little whelps, and spent most of their time squabbling amongst themselves and trying to keep from being killed in their sleep.
“I took note when I moved the bodies,” Jarn interjected. “Whoever could get goblins to submit to wearing that mark probably sent them this way. If I’m right, then that’s the bastard I’m lookin’ for.” He picked up his fallen pack and made to leave. “If you have no more questions, I’ll not take any more of your time.” He said acidly.
Jarn faced to the north and began walking away. Karnar ran to catch up to him. “How will you find this person?” He asked. “Its not as if you have a definite idea.”
“I’ll head up to the mountains and ask the goblins.” Jarn replied.
“What if they don’t want to tell you.” Karnar asked.
“I’ll insist.” Jarn said, with an evil glint in his eye and a cruel smile that frightened Karnar more than the prospect of facing down any goblin.
“What if they really have no knowledge?” Asked Karnar, playing his final card.
The horrible glow of bloodlust in the dirtied and disheveled youth’s eyes faded, showing only fatigue, pain, and how desperately he was clinging to one coherent thought.
“I don’t know!” Jarn screamed, his shoulders slumped and his head lowered.
“Come with me, come with us, we’ll help you.” Karnar replied gently, leading the boy back to the caravan, the other fighters in tow.
Jarn’s lips parted slightly, Karnar thought that on the cusp of hearing he detected the whispered words, “Thank you.”
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