Richard Rawen
First Post
Nicely written, kinda got me creeped out!
Makes me want to nuke my 5th level group and start them over lol
jk Torren =)
Makes me want to nuke my 5th level group and start them over lol
jk Torren =)
Lazybones's Keep on the Shadowfell/Thunderspire Labyrinth
Lazybones
Adventurer
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.
* * * * *
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.
Sorry to pester you. But thanks for the update!
Lazybones
Adventurer
Reader posts are my best incentive to write more!
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!
Richard Rawen
First Post
Yeah, I think I'd shrink too...
hmmm, I'm not sure when would be a good day to be a Splug of any kind, but it's a bad day to be a front-line-Splug.
Lazybones
Adventurer
Chapter 50
Balgron the Fat was in a sour mood.
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.
Balgron the Fat was in a sour mood.
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.
Lazybones
Adventurer
Chapter 51
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.
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.
Lazybones
Adventurer
Chapter 52
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.
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.
Richard Rawen
First Post
Really great story angle, thanks for the updates!
