Story HourPost your ongoing tales from your campaigns, and read those from others for inspiration. Lots of other RPG boards post "Story Hours", but this is where it started!
EDIT: Ah, you posted while I was readying this post, Tamlyn!
* * * * *
Chapter 49
“Back, foul things!” Devrem commanded, lifting his silver sigil with one hand, while holding tightly to his staff with the other. “Back to the grave where you belong!”
The priest’s holy symbol flashed silver, but the dark energies of the Shadowfell proved stronger, for the zombies continued their advance unabated. But the attacks of his companions proved more effective. Jaron’s arrow slammed square into the center of the first zombie’s skull, shattering it in a mess of rotten flesh and shards of bone. The zombie slumped over to the side, expiring slowly as its limbs quivered weakly. The next few zombies stepped over their companion, only to fall back under combined attacks from Elevaren and Beetle. The warlock’s eldritch blast and the rogue’s thrown knife each claimed their target, the magic that held the rotting creatures together sundered by the attacks. The zombies flopped to the ground, falling apart as the necromantic energies seeped away from their broken bodies.
The others kept coming, heedless of the destruction of their fellows. Mara stepped forward to face them, her swords hissing as they were drawn from their sheaths. She clove the skull of the first even as it reached out for her, knocking it into the one beside it. That one fell a moment later, as she sliced her second sword upward through its ribs, crashing through its spine and sending into to the ground in pieces.
Thus far the battle had been entirely one-sided, but that changed as the last few zombies entered the fray. These two were more whole than their rotting brethren, their bodies still smelling of dying flesh, the remains of torn muscles and partially intact organs visible through the open wounds that covered their bodies. They came at Mara in a sudden rush, before the fighter could recover and reset her stance. The first grabbed her right arm, dragging her off-balance and keeping her from bringing her longsword into play. The second went for a more direct slam that caught her in the chest with enough force to drive both her and the zombie holding her back a step.
Had she been alone, Mara would have been in dire straits, but her companions were quick to come to her aid. Devrem surged forward, thrusting his staff ahead and unleashing a lance of faith at point-blank range into the zombie holding Mara’s arm. The silvery flashes burned like tongues of fire as they slashed into the zombie’s dead flesh. The zombie, scalded, released Mara and lunged at Devrem, the priest’s extended staff barely keeping the foul creature at bay. Jaron placed an arrow directly into the zombie’s throat, but the wound that would have suffocated a living foe barely distracted this one from its target. The halfling considered his sword for a moment, but ultimately decided that the close confines of the tunnel would only put him in the way of his comrades. After glancing back to verify that Beetle still had their prisoner well in hand, he reached for another arrow from his quiver.
With her weapons now fully restored to her, Mara in turn laid into the zombie that had punched her. Her swords struck true, but the creature’s pale flesh was tougher than that of the rotters they had dispatched earlier, and the edges of her blades tore only shallow gashes, as though she’d been cutting old leather. The zombie persisted in its attack, lunging at her face. A bright flare of fae energy shot past it, narrowly missing, but again the undead monster was not distracted in the way that a living foe might have been, and it did not even flinch as it thrust through the trailing edges of the eldritch blast and bashed Mara hard across the side of her head. Her helmet kept the blow from crunching bone, but it was clear that the hit had been telling. She staggered back and jostled the zombie that was jousting with Devrem, and the lot of them nearly went down in a confused tangle.
Thus far the zombies had inflicted considerable damage, but the odds were still against them, and they began to tell. Devrem unleashed another surge of radiant energy, sheltering himself and Mara within the protective glow of divine power even as the zombie he’d targeted before wilted further against the might of the Raven Queen. The zombie, uninterested in negotiation or flight, sought only to destroy its tormentor, but as it lunged a last time at the cleric Jaron fired an arrow into its left knee, ruining the joint and driving it awkwardly to the floor. The zombie tried to get up, but Devrem thrust the metal head of his staff hard against the back of its neck, and delivered a final surge of power that undid its tenuous link to existence.
Mara likewise refused to give ground despite her wounds, meeting the other zombie in another exchange of attacks. She fought more cautiously now, deflecting its clumsy but powerful blows with conservative sweeps of her swords, relying on the power of her allies to inflict damage on the creature. The tactic proved sound as first Elevaren and then Beetle delivered precise strikes with hurled magic and steel respectively, tearing away at the body of the creature. The zombie, sagging noticeably, rallied for a final attack on Mara, but the fighter was ready for it. Even as it lunged she danced back out of its reach, pivoting and sweeping her longer blade around in an arc that separated its head from its shoulders.
The companions stood there for a moment in the tunnel with the wreckage of the zombies scattered around them, catching their breath from the brief but violent battle. Devrem called upon his divine powers to heal Mara’s injuries, and the pair shared a look. “This is only the first round,” the priest said. Mara merely nodded, as she slid her swords back into their scabbards.
“That scream was loud,” Jaron said. “They have to know we’re coming.”
“A frontal assault is going to be costly,” Mara pointed out.
Devrem nodded. He looked at each of them in turn, before his gaze finally settled on Splug, who seemed to shrink under the priest’s scrutiny.
My calendar has still been crazy, but I hope that things will quiet down some in December and give me a chance to revisit the story. I've been working out some ideas for the big confrontation that's coming. One thing to look for: 20 to 5 odds = heroes in trouble!
All things considered, the goblin realized, the situation could have been significantly worse. Yesterday, he had been the leader of a considerable force of goblin warriors, but that had been stripped from him in a single calamitous encounter. But the last goblin to disappoint Kalarel had been bound to a post and had a half-dozen heated spikes inserted into his abdomen, a most unpleasant procedure that had only slowly concluded in a merciful death. The only other goblin to have escaped the incursion onto the upper level had been retained by Kalarel to “assist” during the final stages of the ritual, an assignment that Balgron was happy to have avoided.
So being on a scouting mission to find the invaders who had slaughtered the bulk of his once-underlings was not, all in all, a terrible outcome.
Balgron risked a glance back at his fellow guards. The hobgoblins abruptly stopped their low conversation and fixed him with dark looks until he looked away. Krul Durga’s warriors did not bother to hide their contempt for the goblin, and they probably weren’t any happier to be here than he was. Balgron suspected that they were here more to keep an eye on him than to provide backup should he encounter the intruders.
After the debacle upstairs Durga had doubled the watches, following Kalarel’s mandate to ward the entrance to the lower level until the ritual was complete. Balgron had spent the few hours not spent on watch duty in the entry hall to the second level sprawled out on a thin blanket in a corner of the storeroom, without even a pad to protect his bones from the hard stone floor. He had not had a chance yet to slip away to the upper level, to check if the intruders had found the treasure secreted in his lair. The hobgoblins seemed to watch him as eagerly as they monitored for the intruders.
The goblin grimaced and paused to adjust his belt; it was chafing again against his considerable gut. The hobgoblins waited impatiently. Balgron thought they were idiots. They were getting close to the sigils, and it was getting increasingly likely that their enemies were close by, perhaps waiting in ambush. The scream had just been an echo when it had reached their guard station, but it was enough to warn them of approaching foes. The sergeant in command had sent off a runner at once to alert Krul Durga, but he had not waited for a response before ordering Balgron to investigate.
Balgron’s hands tightened on his crossbow. Eventually he’d get a chance to make his move, and if his coins were still in his erstwhile lair, he’d be well away long before Kalarel even thought to look for him…
He was so intent on his musings that he almost missed the lumps scattered about the floor. He raised a hand in warning, and this time the hobgoblins paid heed, moving into position behind him, their swords at the ready. But as he crept nearer, Balgron saw that there was no threat here. The carcasses—hacked to pieces, he saw—had been zombie guards not long ago, but now there was nothing but dead meat.
The intruders, it seemed, had withdrawn.
“All right,” he said to the hobgoblins, half turning, “Perhaps we should report back…”
He was cut off by a sudden hint of movement that he barely caught out of the corner of his eye. Startled into a cry of alarm, he lifted his bow, fumbling with the safety clip on the latch. Behind him, the hobgoblins lifted their shields and formed into a defensive wedge—one that didn’t include him, he noted.
“Don’t shoot!” came a reedy voice from the shadows ahead. Balgron’s startlement was almost greater than before, as he recognized the tattered figure that stepped into view, hands raised.
“Splug! What are you doing here?”
The goblin slouched forward, warily, shooting a glance at the hobgoblins, whose readiness had eased only fractionally upon recognizing the race of the newcomer. Compared to the goblins, they were hulking brutes, clad in light armor of layered leather, and armed with swords almost as long as Balgron was tall. One of the grunts growled, “What’s all this now?”
“I escaped! The intruders… they killed all the others… they were heading for the deeper dungeon, to stop Kalarel, but I got away from them while they were distracted by the zombies!”
The goblin was growing hysterical, so Balgron tried to calm him, an effort that was to some extent negated by the hobgoblin’s threatening tone. “How many?” the creature asked.
Splug sucked in a breath. “Five… two humans, two halflings, and an elf… they have many weapons, and magic! They are cruel, very cruel… They mistreated me, but I was too clever for them! I stole this...” The goblin thrust something at Balgron, but the hobgoblin leaned forward and intercepted it. The device glinted in the torchlight; it was a small icon of bright silver, fashioned into the shape of a raven. Balgron had to restrain himself from shooting the prick in the chest; it would have been easy, but the other two would have cut him down before he managed five steps.
“What’s this?” the hobgoblin asked.
“It’s the priest’s sigil!” Splug exclaimed. “Without it, he cannot use his magic!”
Balgron blinked, but the hobgoblin had already pocketed the item. “Perhaps we should alert Lord Durga about these developments,” the goblin leader ventured.
The hobgoblin’s gaze shifted to Balgron, and it was icy. But finally he nodded, and the party turned back the way they had come.
“They’re nasty, especially that priest,” Splug was saying. “But they were hurt by the spell-ward, and the woman fighter was beat up in the fight with the zombies. They were going to fall back and recover their strength, get their magic ready before coming down here. If you strike now, you can catch them off-guard, and destroy them!”
The hobgoblin made a noncommittal grunt. Balgron had a number of questions for his former underling, but with the hobgoblins standing right there, he held his tongue. His eyes kept shifting back to the passage behind them, as if their enemies might materialize there at any moment. The hobgoblins seemed content to wait for orders, and the silence quickly grew awkward.
“You’ve done well, Splug,” Balgron finally did say, as a quiet aside. The goblin looked like he wanted to break and flee. Balgron understood how he felt. He’d been the one to condemn Balgron to the cells and the attentions of the torturer, but somehow it felt reassuring to have one of his kind, even one like Splug, here with him. At least now there was someone here who was lower in the hierarchy than he was.
“Do you think Lord Durga will deal with the intruders?” Splug whispered back.
The goblin shook his head glumly. “All I know is that whatever happens, we’re going to be in the middle of it.”
They reached the stairs and headed back down. Even before the entry hall opened up ahead of them, Balgron could hear the familiar voice below, issuing orders.
Krul Durga had arrived, and he did not sound pleased.
They came in two disciplined columns, shields raised and locked, their boots tramping in step on the smoothed stones of the floor. They were trying to be quiet, but hobgoblins weren’t creatures of subtlety.
Krul Durga had come to his decision quickly, after a brief but thorough interrogation of the goblin that had brought the latest intelligence of their foe. His orders had been to hold the second level against all intruders, but given the fact that their enemy was currently weakened and unprepared, the hobgoblin’s instinct was to attack. He would not leave the dungeon, but if their enemy was lurking on the upper level, a quick strike with overwhelming numbers should yield positive results.
And if the raid should also produce a few slaves that could be sold for a tidy profit to the Bloodreavers, all the better.
Durga wasn’t taking any chances. His front ranks were comprised of ten grunts, equipped with light armor, wooden shields, and large swords. The hobgoblin leader came immediately behind, directing his main force of six disciplined and elite soldiers, armored in steel and equipped with heavy shields and large flails. Those elites formed a phalanx that moved as one unit; in battle they would spread and form into a wedge, adjusting to the space available to protect their flanks and complement the defense of their neighbors. Durga himself would be the point of that wedge, driving forward to strike the strongest point of the enemy defenses. Probably that priest of the death goddess; Durga could not quite credit the claims of the goblins that a woman was the strongest fighter on the opposing side.
The third cohort in the rear of the cohort was the weakest, but it was far from an afterthought. Durga’s warcaster was there, along with a skilled archer, and the two goblins. The archer’s orders were to counter the elf wizard, which he was to neutralize on sight. The caster was a necessity but also a rival as the second-most powerful member of the band. The warchief was too canny not to realize the importance of friendly magic, but his preference was that the caster not be involved in the battle at all if at all possible. At the moment, he was a reserve. Likewise Durga would have preferred to have the goblins in the front rank, where they could absorb damage, but like as not they would manage to ruin his disciplined ranks, and get in the way of his assault. Plenty of time for them to fall victim to an “enemy counterattack” later, if necessary.
A small holding force had been left behind him, one of his sergeants with two soldiers and four grunts to watch the stairs and ensure that nothing got past them. And they had the spider as an extra surprise, if somehow their enemies tried to slip into the dungeon behind Durga’s strike team.
Krul Durga’s fist tightened on the haft of his spear, and a fearsome grin spread across his face in anticipation of the coming battle. The hobgoblin had been only ten when the humans and their elf, dwarf, and halfling allies had killed his elder brother. Krul had been too young to accompany the Great Raid, and he’d missed out on its glories. Now, however, he had a chance to gain some small measure of payback, which would be just the first installment to be paid against the “civilized” folk of the Nentir Vale.
The strike team negotiated the mazelike tunnels of the crypts and reached the stairs heading up to the first level. The grunts in the first rank failed to notice the gaps in the double doors where portions of the heavy planks had been broken and removed, replaced with dark fabric jammed into the openings. But as the hobgoblin warriors made their way up the steps, they became aware of a faint fume in the air, a noxious but familiar stink that raised their hackles. Those in the front slowed, and the leader of the left column finally detected something wrong with the doors, and pointed with his sword while opening his mouth to issue a warning to his peers.
But the warning became moot a moment later, as the cloaks jammed into the breaches in the doors were yanked away, and the intruders behind launched their initial attacks. The hobgoblin that had detected the ambush became its first victim, as a small arrow shot up over the lip of its shield and caught him just below his left eye, the head of the missile glancing up off the front of his skull and through the socket into his brain.
More missiles came out from the slits in the door, although the hobgoblins’ shields served them well, and no further casualties were sustained. But a dark thing of shadows began to coalesce in the midst of the warriors’ ranks, and the hobgoblins wavered, unnerved by the presence of an uncertain magic. One of the grunts swung his sword at the apparition, but the blade passed through it without effect.
Krul Durga and his veterans were still a good distance back, but he quickly got the gist of what was happening. “Forward, attack!” he shouted, his voice solid and sure. “Force the doors!”
The warchief’s words gave the warriors heart, and they surged forward to obey their leader’s commands. Another arrow issued from behind the portal; its target raised his shield, but this shot came from Mara’s heavy bow, and the steel head punched through the wood and kept going, driving through the hobgoblin’s leather armor and sticking into his chest. But the hobgoblins took heart from their numbers, even with two of their cohort down, and they picked up speed as they thrust forward, their shields raised to block the attacks coming from beyond the door. Sparkles of fey magic flared around that raised wall, but the warriors were not harmed by the attack.
But their shields and armor could not protect them from what came next, as a small hand thrust through one of the lower openings in the doors, holding a torch. The torch was tossed onto the stairs at the feet of the onrushing warriors, igniting the lamp oil that had been liberally doused upon the steps. Yellow tongues of flame roared up, igniting the cheap boots and leggings worn by the grunts. The hobgoblins drew back reflexively in disarray, trying to pat out the flames that were licking up their legs. This provided an opening that the archers beyond the door exploited, and two more of the grunts fell, arrows jutting from vital portions of their anatomy.
Even with this turn of fate, the grunts might have rallied and thrust forward through the flames, which were already beginning to die as the limited supply of fuel was consumed. But the dark, insubstantial thing that had gathered further down the steps now took on a more solid form, with a silver radiance emerging from within the shadows, spreading wings that slashed through the tightly packed rear ranks of the hobgoblin column like knives. Two of the grunts collapsed, blood seeping from mortal wounds, and the others, caught between death both ahead and behind, abandoned their charge and gave way to retreat. Even broken they did not abandon discipline completely, those left in front keeping their shields up against the desultory barrage that continued from the top of the stairs. Despite that they left one more grunt lying dead on the steps as they fell back into the relative shelter of the corridor below, the victim of a fey curse that had crumpled his Will.
Krul Durga scowled as the survivors of his grunts trailed past him. He stood in the open at the foot of the stairs, heedless of the arrows that continued to shoot past. A grunt flinched as a shot narrowly missed both him and the warchief, bouncing hard off the wall before tumbling away to the side. Durga grabbed the grunt that had evidenced the cowardly behavior and hurled him aside, away from the phalanx of soldiers behind him. The grunt rolled hard and landed in a moaning heap a few paces away.
Durga was not a fool; he recognized the strength of the enemy position, and the fact that his force had walked into an ambush. At the moment he could not see past his men to where that stupid goblin was hiding with the rear guard, but he promised a reckoning with that one later. For now, though, he had to take action, or he risked losing more than just a handful of expendable grunts.
An arrow caromed off the warchief’s helmet, but he did not so much as flinch. “Zhadroff!” he commanded.
The phalanx shifted enough to allow the warcaster to come forward, although Durga noticed that the spell-weaver remained behind the shelter of his soldiers’ shields. “Your command, warleader?”
“We will ascend the stairs as a wedge. Can you take down those doors?”
“It shall be as you command,” Zhadroff said. Durga thought to see a glimmer of something in the warcaster’s eyes, almost amusement, and Durga made a mental note to make a few changes in that relationship as well. Hobgoblins venerated discipline and obedience, and while Zhadroff had never disobeyed a direct order, the warcaster had become far too close to that renegade human cleric for Durga’s comfort. A second-in-command needed a bit more humility, in Durga’s opinion.
But all of that was put aside for the moment, as Durga mobilized his force for the attack.
More attacks came from behind the door, but Durga’s phalanx was both better protected and more disciplined than his columns of grunt warriors, and none of them had any effect upon the wedge. The shadow-thing still hovered in the air midway up the steps, but the warchief ignored it, leading his men past quickly, its radiant attacks faltering against the heavy armor of the hobgoblin troopers. One of his men yelled in pain as a small knife stabbed into his shin, piercing his boot, but the soldier did not so much as lose a step, keeping his place in the line. Durga nodded to himself; these hand-picked veterans would not break.
As they neared the doors, Durga could see movement from beyond the narrow slits. An arrow glanced off his shoulder; the impact had been hard enough to cause a bruise, even though it failed to penetrate his mail. It would hurt later; for now it was less than nothing.
“Plant shields!” Durga ordered. Metal rang on stone as the soldiers drove their heavy shields into the ground, taking up kneeling stances behind them. Durga, at their lead, fit into the formation like the point of a dagger. He could have thrust through the openings with his long spear, but he waited for Zhadroff to unleash his magic.
That came a moment later, as the caster lifted his staff and thrust it forward over the shoulders of the kneeling soldiers. Durga could feel the shudder that passed through the air over him, a wave of power that slammed into the doors like a battering ram. Wood splintered and shattered, but even though the doors bulged inward, they held together, likely bolstered by a bar on the other side. The warchief heard voices from the far side; he couldn’t make out the words, but clearly the enemy was alarmed by the warcaster’s display.
Well. They were about to become a lot more concerned.
Durga shot up, his warriors shouting as they fell into place behind him. The warchief charged forward, lowering his shoulder to impact the doors with his shield at the weakened point where they joined. Whatever barrier was holding them shut was sundered, and the doors exploded outward, into the room beyond. The big hobgoblin planted the butt of his spear on the ground in front of him to keep from falling forward, but he sprang up quickly, looking for a foe.
What he saw was an empty room, save for a blur of motion to the left as a pair of halflings ran into the corridor that led to the exit. One of them turned and stuck out his tongue at Durga, then turned and followed the other in flight.
Durga glanced back. His soldiers had followed him into the room, keeping their wedge intact. And Zhadroff was there, standing in the doorway. The warcaster raised an eyebrow as he met Durga’s stare. He’d seen it, too.
“Ranks forward,” the hobgoblin growled, leading his troops in pursuit of the fleeing enemy.
I have five updates drafted at the moment, but my schedule's still a bit up in the air, so I can't commit to regular updates for the future. I should be able to get a few up this week and next, however. Thanks to my regular readers for their patience.
* * * * *
Chapter 53
While Khal Durga’s warriors were fighting through the ambush set by the party from Winterhaven, a smaller drama was playing out at the rear of the goblinoid war party.
At first, those in the rearguard were not fully aware of what was happening at the front of the line, as Khal Durga’s phalanx separated them and it was difficult to see ahead; furthermore, the low ceiling blocked a clear view up the staircase to the first level of the complex. However, as the leading columns of grunts began to take losses, it became obvious from their shouts that the strike team had stumbled into an ambush. Khal Durga rapidly restored order, but a majority of the vanguard failed to return from the staircase.
As soon as he realized what was happening, Balgron drew back and turned toward Splug, only to find that the goblin wasn’t there. Looking back down the passage, he caught sight of him slinking back along the wall, trying to avoid notice. The goblins’ eyes met at the same moment, and for a moment a silent dialogue passed between them. Balgron’s crossbow had come up, almost by reflex, but even as his lips tightened in anger, the former goblin leader held his shot.
Unfortunately for Splug, Balgron’s movements had drawn the attention of the hobgoblin archer, who instantly divined the situation, and put the pieces together. He did not hesitate, lifting his bow and drawing in a single motion. Splug let out a tinny cry and darted around the far corner, but the archer did not miss, his arrow taking the goblin in the back near his left shoulder even as he disappeared from sight. The archer started to go after him, but the hobgoblin warcaster stopped him with a hand on his arm.
“We are needed,” he said. The caster—a nasty bastard of a hobgoblin named Zhadroff—fixed his eyes on Balgron. “Bring him back, alive preferably, but dead if necessary. I shall plant his head upon my totem staff, or yours, goblin.”
Balgron felt a cold fist clench in his gut, but he did not have a chance to reply, as Zhadroff and the archer made their way forward in response to Khal Darga’s summons. He could only comply, his bulk shaking under him as he ran after the traitorous runaway, hoping that the archer’s arrow had done his job for him.
Splug had fled to the south, and Balgron followed, tracking the occasional splotches of blood that glistened wetly on the stone tiles of the floor. The goblin leader had never come this way before, and as soon as he’d left the main passage behind he slowed his rush to a more prudent creeping approach. The side corridor opened onto a larger chamber up ahead, and since there was no other way that the renegade goblin could have gone, Balgron followed.
What he found was disturbing.
The chamber was occupied, but its inhabitants were dead. Unlike the wreckage he had encountered in the main passage on his scouting mission, these bodies were intact, standing silent and still in an almost random array about the chamber. They had been humans in life, or at least most of them; one had an orcish look about him, although his face had been smashed in with a club or mace, making a detailed identification difficult. Most of them looked to be barely holding together, the flesh hanging from their rotten corpses like a tattered robe.
There was no sign of Splug, but Balgron noticed an archway on the far side of the room that opened onto another area beyond. He started forward, slowly. The zombies paid no heed; Balgron knew that they had been given orders not to molest goblinoids, but he trusted the sinister workings of necromancy only so far.
He was only about halfway across the room when he noticed that the bloodstains stopped well before the far archway.
Suspicious, he stopped and scanned the room. There; a zombie rotter with the remains of a cloak hanging about its legs. Intact enough to provide cover…
Sensing that he’d been detected, Splug backed into view. “Don’t shoot me,” he said, lifting a hand. “I didn’t do anything.”
“And I suppose that ambush that the hobgoblins walked into was an accident?” Balgron asked.
“Those hobgoblins hate us,” the goblin replied. “What do you care what happens to them?”
“In truth, I care nothing,” Balgron replied. “But it remains a fact that they are going to kill one of us, and I prefer it not be me.”
“Wait!” Splug hissed. “I know where they hid your treasure!”
Balgron hesitated, but only for an instant. “I never did like you, Splug.” He lifted his crossbow. Splug hurled himself aside, but Balgron was a good shot, and the steel head of the bolt tracked his movement cleanly. But as Balgron’s finger tightened on the trigger of his weapon, a bit of cobweb dangling from above brushed his left cheek, and he flinched. The goblin leader’s shot sliced by Splug’s head, close enough to sever several strands of straggly hair, and then buried itself in the belly of one of the zombies standing near the far arch.
For a long second, no one moved. Then the zombies began to shift, stirring as some deep-set instinct toward self preservation overrode the orders that they had been given. Shambling forward on uncertain legs, they started toward the goblins.
“Everyone up the stairs!” Mara yelled, pointing with her shortsword ahead of her. In her heavy armor, she was the slowest of the companions, but most of them could not help looking back, even if they could not immediately see the hobgoblins that they knew were pursuing them.
Jaron and Beetle were their rearguard, and they could see the enemy, at least from the way that Jaron kept turning and hastily loosing arrows into the darkness behind them. Beetle was hopping merrily along beside him, looking as though he were dancing through a summer meadow instead of fleeing ahead of an onrushing horde of hobgoblins intent on his life.
“Come on!” Mara urged, pausing for just an instant at the bottom of the stairs to verify that the halflings had heard and were obeying. Devrem was already up the stairs, no doubt preparing their position for the assault that would be coming sooner rather than later.
Mara started up the stairs as the halflings rushed after her. She spared one last glance and saw the hobgoblin phalanx, moving together as a disciplined wedge, appear in the passage to the south. They were moving quickly but carefully, each step taking in unison, without so much as a crack in the shield wall that was held before them. The hobgoblin warlord formed the point in that wedge, his long spear held out ahead of him from a tiny crack in the wall of shields. No doubt he had been what Jaron was shooting at, but if the creature was injured, Mara couldn’t see it.
Mara passed Elevaren on the stairs. “Hurry, get into position, they’re right behind us!” she urged her friend. But while the eladrin stepped aside to let them pass, he held his ground. “I may be able to do some damage before they get to us. Don’t worry, I’ll be right behind you!”
Mara shook her head, but there was no time for further discussion. She ran up the stairs, Jaron almost on her heels. Beetle lingered a bit, wanting to see what the warlock was going to do.
Elevaren crouched, so that he could see farther into the room at the base of the staircase. The hobgoblin line swung out as it rounded the pit in the center of the room, adjusting with practiced precision as they shaped their formation to the layout of the room. The tread of their boots was like the beating of a drum, each step forward coming one upon the other in a rapid cadence.
Elevaren summoned his magic; a dark cloud of fey power formed around his head and his hands, and his pupils became black orbs that saw into realities that transcended the material realm. He drew deep from that power, and focused it upon the enemy ranks.
The hobgoblin on the left end of the enemy line faltered, breaking ranks with the others and falling out of the formation. His comrades tried to adjust, but the soldier, caught in the curse of the dark dream, stumbled, his perceptions clouded by the warlock’s magic. He did not even see the pit that gaped before him, and did not scream as he plummeted into the waiting darkness where rats swarmed in a wild horde.
One of the hobgoblins started to go to his aid, but the warlord drew him back into line with a sharp bark of command. The hobgoblins rushed forward, breaking into a run that still did not dislodge their formation. Elevaren rushed up the stairs, Beetle close behind him, the halfling flicking a last knife behind him as he ran. The missile glanced off the helmet of the hobgoblin leader, but inflicted no damage. Beetle outpaced the warlock, the halfling’s nimble feet carrying him up the stairs faster despite the difference in stature between them.
At the top of the stairs, Mara and Devrem were working together to roll a broken length of stone pillar into position. The ruins provided ample raw materials for improvised defenses, but the debris also made it hard to maneuver; Mara cursed as their weapon snagged on a protruding wedge of stone. Grunting with effort, she levered her end of the pillar up over the obstacle. Jaron, leaning precariously over the lip of the stairwell, arced a shot over the head of the warlock. The arrow flew true, but hit a shield instead of a hobgoblin soldier’s body, and bounced harmlessly aside. The excellent armor of the hobgoblin veterans and their ability to work together had thus far protected them from any serious injury, other than the one that Elevaren had witched into the pit below. But with five of them left, plus the leader, it looked grim for the clash of arms that looked to be inevitably approaching.
And in fact they were coming faster than the companions had expected, surging up the stairs with their leader driving them to a still-faster pace. They were overtaking Elevaren, for all the disparity in armor and foot speed.
“Elevaren, look out!” Mara warned, even as the leader thrust his spear forward.
The warlock spun, and hurled his magic at the hobgoblin warchief. But the witchfire missed its target, flaring around the edges of the leader’s head instead of driving into his eyes and ears.
The hobgoblin did not miss. He slammed the head of his spear into the warlock’s side, driving him roughly back. The eladrin did not cry out, but he groaned as the impact sent him reeling against the steps. Bright red droplets fell from the spearhead to litter the stone around him, and a plume of the same color began to spread quickly across his tunic.
“Elevaren!” Mara yelled. She started to her friend’s aid, but Devrem seized her arm, roughly holding her back.
In any case, she would not have reached him in time, as the hobgoblin rush continued forward, surging toward the disabled warlock like a wave.
I think it's time for the eladrin to 'port himself away ... assuming, of course, that he manages to survive long enough to pull it off.
__________________ Wait, he did what?!
Yes, he burned down the reinforced adamantine gates, sir. We don't know how, but all indicators seem to support that claim.
[No fortification is safe from a psychopath with pet hellfire engines - the PC's know of at least 3]
Fans of LB's first two campaigns would no doubt be measuring Elevaren's casket. He is, after all, a pure caster... and we all know how well they fared in the early writings.
The Graves series took a different tact towards the arcanists... we'll have to see which way our author leads this new story =-)
Either way, that big rock better roll down the stairs soon or the group is in the soup... Deep!
Heh, you guys know me well. Maybe a bit too well...
* * * * *
Chapter 55
For a moment, it looked like Elevaren was a dead man. The lead hobgoblins had even lifted their swords to strike, barely easing the pace of their rush as it looked like they would walk right over him, leaving him bleeding out his life behind them.
But before the killing thrusts came, the warlock reached out to Faerie, and the power that bound him to the Feywild. He used that power to transport himself through that alternative realm, to return for just an instant to that place he’d been trying to reach ever since that night so long ago, when he’d been lured into the material realm for a purpose that he still hadn’t quite uncovered. As always, he felt a moment of ecstasy at that transition, only to have it yanked away as he completed his fey step and rematerialized behind Jaron above the upper lip of the staircase.
Devrem was ready. “Now!” he cried, pushing hard on his end of the fallen pillar. After the slightest hesitation Mara echoed his effort, and the two rolled the heavy stone down the stairs. The broken cylinder had to weigh at least a few hundred pounds, and it picked up speed as it bounded down the rough slope.
The hobgoblins saw it coming, but there was little they could do to evade; the pillar stretched across almost two-thirds of the entire width of the stair. The hobgoblin warchief fell into a crouch and vaulted it, narrowly clearing the tumbling pillar and landing in a slightly awkward stance in its wake. The hobgoblins on the edges of the formation pressed up against the walls and narrowly avoided being struck, but the three in the center were hit hard as the pillar struck a stair and bounded up into their shields. Two of the soldiers were bowled over, falling onto their shields and sliding down after the descending pillar down the steps. The third screamed as he was knocked down, landing solidly on his backside only to have the pillar roll up over him, driving the upper edge of his shield roughly into his jaw. The pillar’s fall became more erratic after that, as one end caromed off the side of the stairway, and it spun into a jolting, uneven trajectory that finally ended with it sliding onto the floor of the chamber below, where it finally came to a stop. The warcaster and archer, following along behind the phalanx, had stopped to extract the soldier that had fallen into the rat pit, and avoided the threat entirely.
The attack had thrown the hobgoblins into disarray, but the warchief recovered quickly, thrusting the end of his spear down to recover his balance before flipping the point back down to an attack position. A shower of divine sparks flared around him, but Devrem’s attack had no effect. The hobgoblin rushed up the stairs to engage the cleric before he could ready another barrage, but Mara stepped forward to block him, her swords hissing as slid drew them from their scabbards. Her long blade intercepted the war leader’s spearhead and knocked it aside, but the hobgoblin recovered quickly, darting back and recentering the weapon before she could get inside his reach. For a moment each of them took the other’s measure, and then the hobgoblin snarled and lunged forward again to attack. Again Mara pivoted and parried, but the hobgoblin drew back the spearhead and shifted his thrust in a blur. Mara twisted her torso with the the hit, which struck her hard in the right shoulder, but by the grimace that twisted her features, the blow had hurt. She launched a quick counter intended to foul her enemy’s legs and unbalance his footing on the stairs, but the hobgoblin was a veteran combatant, and he merely shifted, letting the solid metal greaves that covered his legs turn the blow without effect. The hobgoblin’s heavy armor and shield protected him exceptionally well, even without his soldiers present to protect his flanks.
The odds were starting to turn quickly, as the other hobgoblins rushed to their commander’s aid. The two that had avoided the rolling pillar surged ahead, their shields raised to protect them from further attacks. Unfortunately for them, they had foes to either side as well as ahead, and they had the advantage of position, on the stone faring that surrounded the stairwell at its summit. From that position Jaron fired an arrow that thudded deep into the thigh of one of the hobgoblins, turning his charge into a painful limp. Beetle, meanwhile, had found a piece of ruined masonry twice the size of his head, which he’d managed to lift and carry over to a position overlooking the stairs. As soon as the hobgoblin turned his shield toward the archer, the halfling dropped it down squarely onto the foe’s head. The hobgoblin was wearing a helmet, but twenty pounds of rock carried a considerable force regardless, and the creature staggered against the wall, stunned by the impact.
The soldier on the other side of the stairs surged forward to join his warchief and further turn the odds against Mara at the top of the steps. But even as he surged ahead, Devrem stepped forward, his staff extended before him. “Know the certainty of your death,” the priest intoned, pointing the iron-shod head of the staff directly at the charging hobgoblin.
The hobgoblin was a sturdy veteran, but he saw the cleric’s staff twist and distort in the man’s hands, becoming a silver bird with glowing red eyes that flew directly at his face, claws extended to pluck out his eyes. The soldier screamed and fell back, overcome with fear, and fled back down the stairs.
Jaron and Beetle had finished off the wounded soldier. Beetle continued to hurl rocks down onto his neck and back even as he collapsed on the steps, arrows jutting from his armored body. But the three that had been knocked down by the pillar had gotten back up to their feet, and despite the beating that they’d taken, they reformed their line, linking shields before starting back up the steps. At the head of the stairs, Mara and the warchief continued their violent exchange. Mara had finally gotten inside the hobgoblin’s reach, only to take a colossal wallop from the warchief’s shield that had knocked her back several steps. She narrowly avoided a thrust that would have pierced her gorget, had it not slid off of the magical shield of faith that Devrem had invoked around all of them at the start of the encounter. She leapt back in, turning the hobgoblin’s spear with her short blade, and then spun as she drove down her longsword into the haft. A loud crack announced her success at breaking the warchief’s weapon, followed by a tinkle of metal on stone as the head landed in the rubble a few feet away.
Sparkles of fey magic flared around the chief as Elevaren hit him with an eldritch blast. But again the warchief’s incredible durability protected him from the attack, and before the warlock could muster his magic again an arrow streaked up from below and impaled his right arm just above the elbow. The eladrin was flung back, and he sagged against a nearby pile of rubble, pale and weak from loss of blood.
The hobgoblin soldiers cried out loudly as they reached the top of the steps, reforming their line around their commander. Devrem stepped forward to join Mara, but the pair were now considerably outnumbered, and their advantageous position was becoming increasingly precarious. The hobgoblin chieftain drew a shortsword with a steel blade that seemed to glisten in the weak morning light, and thrust it at Mara. The sword crunched into her hip, denting the metal scales protecting her and drawing blood. The fighter, now bloodied, cried out in pain but kept fighting, barely bringing her shortsword up in time to parry a downward swipe from a hobgoblin’s flail.
The phalanx pressed forward, and the defenders were forced slowly back. A grim smile began to spread across the face of the warchief, as the eventual outcome of this battle seemed to take form. “Take the woman alive,” he said to his companions, laughing as he turned another of Mara’s thrusts with an almost casual sweep of his shield. The attack opened Mara to a counterattack from the hobgoblin soldier to the warchief’s right, and the spiked end of his flail clanged hard off her helmet, staggering her with a stunning blow. On the far side of the melee Devrem tried to come to her aid, but the other two soldiers pressed him hard, and he nearly dropped his staff as the ball of a flail clipped his hand, hard enough to crack bones. “Any others you take are profit for yourselves, lads!” the chief roared, but his eyes were focused on Mara, who now could barely stand, let alone hold off the pair of foes that were seeking her doom.
Elevaren felt a strange calm come over him. The pain of his wound was real, but it seemed almost ephemeral, something unimportant. Reaching up with his good hand, he seized the head of the arrow and snapped it off, then pulled the shaft free. His right arm was slick with blood and weak; he could barely lift it.
It didn’t matter; his power was not derived from the strength of his body.
He looked up and saw Mara and Devrem, fighting for their lives against the hobgoblin line, the pair slowly giving ground despite their best efforts. His friend was taking hits, and as he watched, one struck her in the head with his flail, leaving her dazed.
The warchief. He was the key, the force that drove and bound the line together. Elevaren rose, and moved closer to the battle. He was careful to stay clear of the staircase, and the line of sight of the archer who had shot him before. But his focus was on the warchief, and he felt his magic building within him, the fey power that he both commanded and served.
“I curse you,” he whispered, and extended his good hand. Flashes of rainbow-colored light surrounded his hand, and lanced out in a stream into the warchief’s face. This time, the eldritch blast had an obvious effect, and the hobgoblin snarled as he shook his head to clear it of the lingering magic. The attack had hurt him, but he was by far the toughest combatant on the field, and it wasn’t clear how even the warlock’s full powers could bring him down.
But Elevaren wasn’t the only one helping the pair holding the line. Jaron leapt up onto the stone lip of the stairs, deliberately exposing himself to fire from below. An arrow came up at him almost immediately, but the halfling wasn’t done; he twisted and rolled, somehow keeping his footing on the narrow line of stone. He came up with his bow drawn, and fired a shot directly into the small of the hobgoblin warchief’s back. The chief’s armor protected him to some extent, but it was obvious by the way that he stiffened that the shot had penetrated. But even that wasn’t enough to bring him down, and he lifted his sword for a strike that would bring the melee in front of him to a close.
A tinny halfling yell sounded over the noise of the battle, as Beetle appeared, charging at a full run through the tumbled rubble of the ruins. He sprang up onto the stone lip of the stairwell as Jaron had, but this was just the first step of a leap that carried him over the open space below, flying out in a wild arc over the shaft, a trajectory that ended with him landing hard on the shoulders of the hobgoblin warchief. Snagging precariously onto a protruding ridge of the chief’s helmet with one hand, the halfling—now roaring with laughter as much as battle rage—stabbed down with the knife in his other hand, sliding the short length of steel into the narrow crevice between the chief’s gorget and helmet.
Blood shot up in a narrow jet from the nasty wound, and Beetle hallooed as the hobgoblin spun around, dropping his sword as he tried to clutch at the hilt of the knife protruding from his neck. Mara, drawing upon some deep reserve of boundless endurance, half-lunged, half-staggered into the hobgoblin soldier facing her has he glanced distracted at the stricken warchief. Knocking aside his shield with her left hand, she jammed her longsword hard into his torso with her right. The steel blade slid up under the metal scales and through the leather underneath into his flesh. The thrust did not penetrate too deeply, but the hobgoblin staggered back, seriously injured.
Devrem had taken a beating from the pair of soldiers facing him, but the power of the Raven Queen still came readily at his call, and he was using it both to assail his foes and bolster his comrades. The two hobgoblins would have overcome him shortly, but the collapse of the right side of their line changed their situation for the worse. As the warchief finally fell, Beetle still shouting as he rode his body down onto the stairs, the hobgoblins started to fall back, holding up their shields to protect their retreat. While this offered a united front against Devrem and Mara, it offered less protection from behind, a fact that Jaron exploited a few seconds later as he fired an arrow into the back of one of them. Now feeling utterly surrounded, the hobgoblins picked up the pace of their retreat. Unfortunately, that retreat brought them back to Beetle, who cut the right hamstring of one of them, causing him to crumple in agony with his next step. The halfling rogue narrowly avoided getting shot by the archer, and sprang up onto the wall of the stairwell, pulling himself up to rejoin the others. The halfling barely paused before running to grab another big rock to throw down at the retreating foe.
Mara and Devrem were in no condition for pursuit, and the cleric had to hold the fighter upright as he summoned healing magic to treat her wounds. “Why’d they give up?” she asked. “They almost had us, even with the death of their chief.”
“I suspect these hobgoblins fight for money, rather than loyalty to Kalarel’s cause,” Devrem replied. Another arrow shot up from below, clipping Jaron’s arm but inflicting only trivial damage. The halfling ranger fired off a last shot and then dropped back into cover, while Beetle finished off the one he’d crippled before it could crawl away after his companions. The heavy thud of the rock as he dropped it onto the hobgoblin’s neck marked the end of the battle, as no further attacks issued forth from the bottom of the stairs.
Once he was certain Mara could support herself, Devrem stepped away and walked over to the top of the staircase. He stood there exposed for a moment, his robe flaring out behind him, his staff clanking hard against the stone as he slammed it down onto the first step.
“Our fight is with the cleric of Orcus,” the priest intoned. “Any who stand in our way will suffer his fate, but we do not seek additional distractions at this time.”
No answer came from below, and after a moment, Devrem turned and walked back to the others. He couldn’t see the bottom of the stairs, where the archer had lifted his bow as soon as the cleric had stepped into view. But the warcaster put a hand on his arm, and shook his head. Even as the cleric drew back out of sight, the hobgoblins, most of them nursing serious injuries, turned and retreated back the way they had come.
The Hobgobs new leader seems more interested in cementing his position than pursuing the battle. That's good news as the group (hopefully) has eased the way to their main foe.
Not that this is necessarily good news for them, knowing how nasty LB's Bosses tend to be!!!
With the usual holiday slowdown, I've been able to spend more time working on the story. I'm approaching the end of the module, but am still not quite certain of where I want to go from there. Stay tuned.
LB
* * * * *
Chapter 57
After taking some time to rest and recover, with Devrem calling upon his healing magic to treat their wounds, the companions set out once more into the dungeon under the ruined keep.
They were alert to the likelihood of an enemy ambush, and Jaron scouted ahead, slipping in and out of the shadows as though he were a part of the darkness. While Beetle was better at remaining unseen, the other halfling was just a bit too flighty to be a reliable scout. Not that they could have escaped notice; their foe knew they were coming, and would have had ample time to prepare.
But for all their vigilance, nothing emerged from the dungeon corridors to threaten them. They made their way back down to the second level of the dungeon, where they found a scene of carnage at the bottom of the stairs. In addition to the hobgoblin grunts they had killed, there were fresh bodies there—“fresh” being a relative term, for it was clear that they had been animated undead, rotting corpses given necromantic life.
“More zombies,” Elevaren said. “I wonder where these came from?”
“There were a number of passages we didn’t explore, last time,” Jaron pointed out.
“At least they gave the hobgoblins some trouble, by the look of it,” Devrem said. And indeed there were a few hobgoblin corpses scattered amongst the hacked up dead, grunts that had survived the initial battle in the stairwell only to be killed by the zombies later. All of them had been thoroughly looted of any valuables.
“I wonder what happened to Splug?” Beetle asked, but none of them had any answer; there were no signs of the goblin anywhere that they could see.
They made their way forward, past the ruined sigil in the floor, to a chamber that contained another stair leading down. Based on Splug’s earlier feedback, they expected to find the hobgoblins waiting in ambush there, but the chamber at the foot of the steps was deserted. There was an open pit in the center of the room, which they gave a wide berth. As they began spreading out to search the area, they began to suspect that this part of the complex had been abandoned entirely.
They’d barely started poking around when a call from Beetle drew their attention to a corridor opposite the stairs they’d used to enter the chamber. “Look over here!” came the halfling’s voice, sounding startlingly loud in the uneasy stillness of the complex.
“So much for stealth,” Mara muttered, as they hastened to discover what their companion had uncovered.
The corridor opened onto an annex that was almost as large as the entry chamber itself. A nasty stink greeted them, which seemed to come from an empty cage of iron bars driven into the floor and ceiling on the far side of the place. The door of the cave was partially open; whatever resident had occupied it was likely long since gone. They found Beetle, and a message, which had been left for them on the wall to their left.
The message came in the form of the goblin leader, his fat body sagging against the iron spikes that had been driven through his wrists and shoulders, pinning him against the wall. Balgron’s head hung separately from a spike that had been driven through his open mouth. His eyes were open, and seemed to peer at them with accusation as they approached.
Above the goblin’s mutilated corpse, someone had taken the time to draw letters upon the stone, apparently from the blood of the dead goblin.
THIS IS NOT FINISHED, the grim warning read.
“An unpleasant threat,” Elevaren observed. But Devrem was more upbeat.
“The fact that they have not challenged us, and felt the need to leave this warning, may indicate that the route to Kalarel is now clear,” the cleric said. “We have to finish this, before it is too late.”
The others were not quite so enthusiastic—with the possible exception of Beetle, who was studying the goblin corpse with interest—but they followed the cleric out of the room, pushing deeper into the complex toward the inevitable confrontation with the evil cleric whose ritual continued to tear at the boundary between Nethir Vale and the Shadowfell.
Linear Mode
And yet another word from our sponsors
