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Travels through the Wild West: a Forgotten Realms Story
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<blockquote data-quote="Lazybones" data-source="post: 1388" data-attributes="member: 143"><p>Part 9</p><p></p><p>Delem dreamed of fire. </p><p></p><p>It was a familiar dream, one that haunted him no matter where he fled to in the waking world. </p><p></p><p>When he was a child, Delem had been as precocious as most boy-children in the untamed lands of Tethyr, if a little more reserved than most. From an early age, however, he’d been fascinated by fire. The dancing flames seemed to mesmerize the lad, and he could call them from wood and tinder with hardly any effort. It was a useful skill, but perhaps one fated to bring grief upon the boy. </p><p></p><p>His father had died while he was still learning to walk and talk, and the man his mother later married wasn’t really bad or good to the boy, just a somber and distant figure who spent most of his time working his trade as a mason in the villages around Umbarthon. Delem had already gotten a few beatings for playing with his particular nemesis, but no beating could long keep him from his fascination, drawn to it like a moth to an open flame. </p><p></p><p>One night, he had just received such a chastisement, and his mother and stepfather had gone to bed after banishing him (with a smarting reminder of his crime) to his small cubby in the back of the house. Delem’s injured pride, more than the physical hurt of his punishment, drew him to the one consolation that he could find. </p><p></p><p>Only that night it had gone horribly wrong. The flames had gone beyond his control, spreading with a violence that seemed born of an inner volition of their own, roaring through the curtains that separated his room from the kitchen of their home, catching on the wood paneling seeped in oil from countless evenings of his mother cooking there. The flames tore eagerly at his mother’s woven tapestries, at the plush carpets his stepfather brought back from his journeys to distant towns. </p><p></p><p>Delem tried to fight the flames as they spread, to undo what he had begun, but his former friends burned him, causing him to writhe in torment on the hard stone floor of his room. He screamed, but the sound was lost over the roar of the flames. He didn’t know how he got out of the house, but could remember watching the fire, more terrible and beautiful than anything he had ever seen, consume everything that had been his life. </p><p></p><p>The now grown man continued to writhe in his sleep, unable to waken. The dream would not release its hold upon him this evening as it usually did at this point, to leave him shaking and cold and alone. It continued, sweeping him up in the flames, wrapping around him in an uncontrollable conflagration. This vision was a new one, and it caught Delem up in its energy. Unable to feel either amazement or terror in the power of the dream, he could only experience it. </p><p></p><p>And then he heard the voice. It came from the flames, and surrounded him and filled him all at once. He could not identify it, and when he remembered it later, it would be impossible for him to recall exactly how it had sounded.</p><p></p><p><em>The flames have scarred you, my son, but they have also shaped you, like iron that is tempered in the furnace before being shaped by the hammer of the master smith. They are a part of you, part of the power that you hold deep within the soul of your being. The power is not your friend, not your enemy. It is you, Delem. Understand yourself, and you will understand the flames.</em> </p><p></p><p><em>It is this gift—or curse—that has brought you to me. I will be there, waiting, when you find that which you seek.</em></p><p></p><p>It was then that Delem woke, shaking… but instead of feeling cold, he was filled with an inner warmth. </p><p></p><p>* * * * * </p><p></p><p>Dawn broke reluctantly on a dark and dreary day. Cold winds from the north whispered through the hill country just north of the Wood of Sharp Teeth, and already fits of drizzle had come and gone, promising more wet weather to come. </p><p></p><p>In the temporary camp of the bandit leader Steel Jack, the morning began quietly. Six ramshackle tents stood in the middle of a stony dell, surrounded on all sides by a ridge of steep hills where bleary-eyed sentries kept watch from hidden positions. To the east two large mounds of boulders marked the entrance to this little hideaway, with a narrow corridor running between them. </p><p></p><p>Orn Throatripper did not greet the morning happily. He half-staggered out of the large tent that served as communal quarters for the half-dozen hobgoblin warriors that remained with Steel Jack’s band. He snorted in general ire at the world as the cold air of the morning hit him fully, and he shot an envious glance back at his companions still snug in their bedrolls behind him. For a moment he considered leaving the tent flap open behind him—that would show the lucky bastards, he thought—but finally tugged it closed and walked out into the camp. He was immediately greeting by the mud sucking at his boots, and he uttered a few choice curses at the climate, his superiors, the ground, Steel Jack, horses, and life in general. </p><p></p><p>Orn headed in the direction of the horses, grumbling all the way. If it wasn’t for his big mouth, he wouldn’t be out here, tending to the mounts and walking the perimeter of the camp. That was work for the weakling humans, their “cohorts” on this job. He and his fellows were the mighty children of Nomog-Geaya, not the nursemaids for a bunch of scrawny humans. Everyone had been having fun last night, and the drink they’d stolen from the puny caravan had flowed freely. They were due a reward, after the hard pace Steel Jack had set for them to get here. Too bad that the slaves had already been turned over to Zorak, so they couldn’t have any fun with them, but ale and fresh meat—one of the horses had gone lame while being unloaded from the barge yesterday—did quite nicely. And if only he hadn’t told that joke, pissing off the humans—and more importantly, Steel Jack—he’d be sleeping off last night’s revels like his companions back in the tent. </p><p></p><p>It was not going to be a good day. </p><p></p><p>It was slow going trudging through the mud, and Orn hadn’t even reached the reached the picket line where the horses were kept, when a noise drew his attention around. It seemed to be coming from the direction of the main entrance to the canyon. Orn glanced around for the sentries who were supposed to be watching along the ridge. None were visible—of course, if they were doing their job right, he shouldn’t see them—but his eyes narrowed anyway. <em>Stupid humans</em>. </p><p></p><p>His eyes widened again as the noise grew louder, and a knot of armed riders charged through the gap into the canyon. </p><p></p><p>Finally realizing what was happening, Orn shouted a cry of alarm and drew his heavy scimitar from its scabbard at his hip. Some of the guards seemed to finally realize what was going on, as he saw movement along the ridge, but instead of firing their bows at the intruders, they leveled them down at the tents. </p><p></p><p>Pain erupted through Orn’s body as a long steel-headed arrow shot through him. He was dimly aware of several of the riders heading at full gallop toward him, the only enemy visible in the open. He could hear his comrades stirring from the tents, but none had emerged as yet. Their enemies had achieved complete tactical surprise. </p><p></p><p>But he was a son of Nomog-Geaya, and he would make the painful journey down to Acheron with blood on his blade. </p><p></p><p>He swung at the first attacker, missing the rider but at least feeling some satisfaction as the blade dug into the shoulder of his mount. The horse staggered as the rider hurled past. The next rider was on him before he could recover, and thrust his longsword like a spear through Orn’s chest. The hobgoblin warrior faltered and collapsed, and the darkness came swiftly. </p><p></p><p>* * * * * </p><p></p><p>The camp was coming alive, and despite gaining surprise Benzan could see that they still had a fight on their hands. From his position atop the ridge he had a good view of the battlefield, and along with the two militiamen with whom he’d crept up the slope he peppered whatever target he could make out with arrows. He saw a sentry emerge from the rocks along the far side of the canyon, a good sixty yards away, and fire his bow at one of Telwarden’s riders. The bandit hit his target, one of the caravan guards, but fell back off the ridge a moment later as Benzan’s arrow buried itself to the feathers in his chest. </p><p></p><p><em>Damn, I knew we missed some,</em> the tiefling thought grimly. </p><p></p><p>Half-armored men and hobgoblins were emerging from the tents, launching themselves with desperate ferocity at the intruders. One man from Dunderion went down with a hobgoblin spear buried in his belly and a bleeding cut laying open his scalp, but both of his attackers quickly fell under the combined might of Telwarden and Lok. Now that the initial charge was over, most of the posse had dismounted, and the area in front of the tents was degenerating into a muddy, violent melee. </p><p></p><p>Cal had reined in directly in front of the entrance to one of the tents, and as the first pair of disoriented bandits emerged, he fired his wand of color spray into their faces. Delem was right behind him, and he released a fan of flames into the tent as he rode past, the magical fire setting even the damp cloth ablaze. His lack of experience with the horses showed, though, as his mount stumbled on a patch of deep mud and he lost his grip, falling hard to the ground a few paces away. Raising his hands to the air in supplication to whatever gods were watching, Cal quickly moved to help his companion. </p><p></p><p>“Come on!” Benzan was having a tough time finding targets in the confusion of the melee, so he led his two allies along the lip of the ridge, trying to mark a better shot. He failed to spot the shadowy figure that emerged, not from the tents, but from a shallow cave opening near the rear of the camp. </p><p></p><p>Lok and Telwarden were forging a storm of death around them that the bandits could not penetrate. Both were wounded, Lok from a glancing blow from a hobgoblin morningstar to his temple, and Telwarden from a spear that had dug through a chink in his chainmail armor. But three men and two hobgoblins lay dead at their feet, and the others had drawn back, reluctant to join that tally. Their charge into the midst of the enemy had spared several of the Dunderion folk and guardsmen who had taken wounds and retreated from the fray. One of each remained where they had fallen in the initial rush. Cullan gathered the rest of the unwounded, two militiamen and three guardsmen, and charged toward the flank of the small group of bandits that faced off against Lok and Telwarden. </p><p></p><p>For a moment it looked like the bandits were finished, but then, suddenly, the surge of reinforcements faltered. Cullan staggered, and the men around him collapsed, falling unconscious to the muddy ground. Soon the old hunter was alone, facing several opponents. </p><p></p><p>“The wizard!” Telwarden shouted, pointing to the hobgoblin adept that had emerged from the hidden cave where he had spent the night practicing whatever foul rites powered his magic. The hobgoblin, his face garishly marked with vivid and unholy tattoos and ritual scars, held a black wand in his hand, and his face creased in a dark smile as he turned it toward Lok and Telwarden. </p><p></p><p>But the hobgoblin did not get the chance to unleash his dire magic a second time. Benzan’s arrow knifed through the morning air, slamming with the full power of his mighty bow into his head. The critical hit dropped the evil adept instantly, his wand rolling uselessly away into the muck as he fell. </p><p></p><p>A bandit had emerged from the back of the burning tent, his eyes alighting on Delem as the young man tried to stand in the slippery mud where he had fallen. Cal fired his crossbow at the bandit, but missed, and he shouted a warning to his friend as the bandit raised his sword and charged at the sorcerer. Delem looked up and raised his hand palm-out against the charging raider, calling upon his magic once again. His eyes seemed to glow with the reflection of his power as two small spheres of fiery energy exploded from his hand and darted unerringly into the torso of the bandit. The man screamed and fell, writhing in the mud as the flames ravaged his body. </p><p></p><p>“KILL THEM ALL, YOU DOGS!”</p><p></p><p>The cry echoed through the canyon as another figure emerged into the fray from the last tent. It was instantly obvious that Steel Jack had finally entered the fray. </p><p></p><p>He was a powerful man, with perhaps a touch of non-human blood coursing through his veins. His curly hair and full beard were the color of rusted iron, and he was clad in a suit of heavy armor, banded mail that hung over his frame like a second skin. He carried a large shield set with the symbol of a red hydra, and in his other hand clutched a battle axe. As he hefted the weapon, a nimbus of pale white energy wreathed the blade, indicating that the weapon was magically enhanced. </p><p></p><p>The appearance of the bandit leader, coupled with the adept’s blunting of the posse’s charge, gave the surviving bandits new courage. As Cullan tried to revive their unconscious allies, Lok and Telwarden met the enemy charge alone, side by side forming a wall. Three hobgoblins and the lone remaining human bandit hit that wall, their blades seeking openings in their foes’ armor. The two fighters’ weapons responded in a blur. Lok struck down an already injured hobgoblin and cleaved into a second, his axe opening a wide gash in his hip. Telwarden slew the human warrior with a backhanded slash that tore open his throat in a bloody torrent, bringing his sword back around to parry the hobgoblin’s attack. </p><p></p><p>Then Steel Jack hit the fray.</p><p></p><p>His first blow was a mighty overhand chop that slammed through Telwarden’s defenses, ripping a tear in his chainmail and digging into the fighter’s shoulder. The sheriff screamed out in pain as the magic of the bandit lord’s blade sent the icy chill of death through his torso, freezing the blood even as it ran down his body. Somehow he managed to keep his footing in the mud, giving ground as he brought his sword around to try to keep his new enemy at bay. </p><p></p><p>“Say hello to my comrades when you get to hell,” Steel Jack said as he came in again, his deadly weapon carving the air as he approached. </p><p></p><p>Lok, meanwhile, was having troubles of his own. The hobgoblin that had been fighting Telwarden had been all too happy to leave the sheriff to his boss, and turned to flank the genasi and help his injured comrade. Facing two opponents, Lok missed with his first attack and suffered a serious thrust that dug in between the plates of his armor and tore deep into his side. Staggered by the blow, he fought on.</p><p></p><p>Telwarden stumbled backward, somehow managing to bring his sword around to deflect Steel Jack’s axe. The impact caused him to lose his footing, however, and he went down, groaning as he landed on his ravaged shoulder. The bandit chief stepped forward, ready to claim victory over his fallen opponent. </p><p></p><p>“You’ve got to get through me, first.”</p><p></p><p>Benzan drew his sword from its scabbard as he faced off against Steel Jack. Unable to fire into the melee for fear of hitting his companions, he had all but run down the treacherous inner slope of the ridge, his boots slipping on the slick rocks with every step but his natural agility allowing him to hit the ground running. He’d seen the bandit leader fight, and knew deep down that he was outmatched, but he hoped that he could at least give his companions—and even Telwarden—time to come to his aid. </p><p></p><p>“All right then,” the bandit said, hefting his axe.</p><p></p><p>Two bolts of liquid fire arced into Steel Jack from the side, blazing black scars on the side of his armor. Delem’s volley had an effect, but it was clear that this adversary would not be so easily defeated. </p><p></p><p>Benzan tried to take advantage of the distraction and lunged at the bandit. Steel Jack, however, responded quickly, and the potent axe clipped him in the side as he dodged back. It was just a glancing blow, but even with that Benzan could feel the magical chill seep into him, biting deep. </p><p></p><p>“Even if you defeat me, you’re too late to save them,” the bandit said as they circled for another exchange. Both had to be cautious on the difficult footing, lest one misstep give the other a critical advantage. “Your pretty noblewoman won’t be coming back from the journey she’s embarked upon.”</p><p> </p><p>He had to pause in his tirade as Benzan launched another attack, the tiefling swiping in a high arc that the bandit only narrowly dodged. His own return stroke struck Benzan’s buckler with a ringing clash that filled the enclosed space of the canyon. </p><p></p><p>“Time is working against you, Jack,” Benzan said between gritted teeth. </p><p></p><p>The bandit leader took a quick glance around him and saw that Benzan’s boast was true. Lok, hard pressed a moment ago, had defeated his opponents with the aid of Cullan and several of the revived guardsmen. Cal and Delem had their own situation well in hand, also, and were quickly approaching from the opposite flank. Telwarden had managed to lurch to his feet, but although he still held his sword he could barely stand, let alone attack. </p><p></p><p>“This is not the end of this, rake!” the bandit hissed. He took a small step back, and downed in a single swallow the contents of a tiny vial that he produced from a small pouch at his belt. Almost immediately, he lifted off into the air, surging thirty feet straight up in a smooth climb.</p><p></p><p>“Farewell, fools!” his voice drifted down to them. </p><p></p><p>Cal’s crossbow bolt tore into his ankle, penetrating the thick leather of his boot to stick in the tender flesh there. An instant later, two flame-bolts from Delem’s hands slammed into the bandit’s legs, causing him to grit his teeth in sudden pain. </p><p></p><p>Benzan moved with smooth efficiency, unlimbering his bow and drawing a long arrow in a single fluid motion. He sighted and fired, the arrow speeding on a straight track to slam upward into Steel Jack’s gut, slanting through his banded mail deep into his belly. The bandit lurched through the air, his incredible fortitude letting him stay conscious even through those wounds, while his fingers dug in his pouch for another vial. He continued to gain altitude, and for a moment it looked as though he might yet escape. </p><p></p><p>And then he looked up, and saw a small dragon swooping down upon him. </p><p></p><p>Jack Corrigan had seen a lot of scary things in his life. He’d killed his first man at fourteen, and his career since then had been one of mayhem, destruction, and wanton pillaging. But now, wounded and defeated, relying on an unfamiliar magic to escape, his nerve failed. He lurched to the side, raising his hands to protect them from the dragon’s gaping maw as it dove at his face. The healing potion slipped from his fingers to fall uselessly to the distant ground below. The dragon’s jaws opened…</p><p></p><p>…and the figment passed right through him. </p><p></p><p>Too late, he realized that the illusion, even without sound, had fooled him.</p><p></p><p>Too late for Steel Jack, as a volley of arrows from below caught up to him. He hovered in the air for a moment longer, his body penetrated by a several more shafts, then the magic of the potion failed as his life did, and he plummeted sixty feet to the ground.</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="Lazybones, post: 1388, member: 143"] Part 9 Delem dreamed of fire. It was a familiar dream, one that haunted him no matter where he fled to in the waking world. When he was a child, Delem had been as precocious as most boy-children in the untamed lands of Tethyr, if a little more reserved than most. From an early age, however, he’d been fascinated by fire. The dancing flames seemed to mesmerize the lad, and he could call them from wood and tinder with hardly any effort. It was a useful skill, but perhaps one fated to bring grief upon the boy. His father had died while he was still learning to walk and talk, and the man his mother later married wasn’t really bad or good to the boy, just a somber and distant figure who spent most of his time working his trade as a mason in the villages around Umbarthon. Delem had already gotten a few beatings for playing with his particular nemesis, but no beating could long keep him from his fascination, drawn to it like a moth to an open flame. One night, he had just received such a chastisement, and his mother and stepfather had gone to bed after banishing him (with a smarting reminder of his crime) to his small cubby in the back of the house. Delem’s injured pride, more than the physical hurt of his punishment, drew him to the one consolation that he could find. Only that night it had gone horribly wrong. The flames had gone beyond his control, spreading with a violence that seemed born of an inner volition of their own, roaring through the curtains that separated his room from the kitchen of their home, catching on the wood paneling seeped in oil from countless evenings of his mother cooking there. The flames tore eagerly at his mother’s woven tapestries, at the plush carpets his stepfather brought back from his journeys to distant towns. Delem tried to fight the flames as they spread, to undo what he had begun, but his former friends burned him, causing him to writhe in torment on the hard stone floor of his room. He screamed, but the sound was lost over the roar of the flames. He didn’t know how he got out of the house, but could remember watching the fire, more terrible and beautiful than anything he had ever seen, consume everything that had been his life. The now grown man continued to writhe in his sleep, unable to waken. The dream would not release its hold upon him this evening as it usually did at this point, to leave him shaking and cold and alone. It continued, sweeping him up in the flames, wrapping around him in an uncontrollable conflagration. This vision was a new one, and it caught Delem up in its energy. Unable to feel either amazement or terror in the power of the dream, he could only experience it. And then he heard the voice. It came from the flames, and surrounded him and filled him all at once. He could not identify it, and when he remembered it later, it would be impossible for him to recall exactly how it had sounded. [I]The flames have scarred you, my son, but they have also shaped you, like iron that is tempered in the furnace before being shaped by the hammer of the master smith. They are a part of you, part of the power that you hold deep within the soul of your being. The power is not your friend, not your enemy. It is you, Delem. Understand yourself, and you will understand the flames.[/I] [I]It is this gift—or curse—that has brought you to me. I will be there, waiting, when you find that which you seek.[/I] It was then that Delem woke, shaking… but instead of feeling cold, he was filled with an inner warmth. * * * * * Dawn broke reluctantly on a dark and dreary day. Cold winds from the north whispered through the hill country just north of the Wood of Sharp Teeth, and already fits of drizzle had come and gone, promising more wet weather to come. In the temporary camp of the bandit leader Steel Jack, the morning began quietly. Six ramshackle tents stood in the middle of a stony dell, surrounded on all sides by a ridge of steep hills where bleary-eyed sentries kept watch from hidden positions. To the east two large mounds of boulders marked the entrance to this little hideaway, with a narrow corridor running between them. Orn Throatripper did not greet the morning happily. He half-staggered out of the large tent that served as communal quarters for the half-dozen hobgoblin warriors that remained with Steel Jack’s band. He snorted in general ire at the world as the cold air of the morning hit him fully, and he shot an envious glance back at his companions still snug in their bedrolls behind him. For a moment he considered leaving the tent flap open behind him—that would show the lucky bastards, he thought—but finally tugged it closed and walked out into the camp. He was immediately greeting by the mud sucking at his boots, and he uttered a few choice curses at the climate, his superiors, the ground, Steel Jack, horses, and life in general. Orn headed in the direction of the horses, grumbling all the way. If it wasn’t for his big mouth, he wouldn’t be out here, tending to the mounts and walking the perimeter of the camp. That was work for the weakling humans, their “cohorts” on this job. He and his fellows were the mighty children of Nomog-Geaya, not the nursemaids for a bunch of scrawny humans. Everyone had been having fun last night, and the drink they’d stolen from the puny caravan had flowed freely. They were due a reward, after the hard pace Steel Jack had set for them to get here. Too bad that the slaves had already been turned over to Zorak, so they couldn’t have any fun with them, but ale and fresh meat—one of the horses had gone lame while being unloaded from the barge yesterday—did quite nicely. And if only he hadn’t told that joke, pissing off the humans—and more importantly, Steel Jack—he’d be sleeping off last night’s revels like his companions back in the tent. It was not going to be a good day. It was slow going trudging through the mud, and Orn hadn’t even reached the reached the picket line where the horses were kept, when a noise drew his attention around. It seemed to be coming from the direction of the main entrance to the canyon. Orn glanced around for the sentries who were supposed to be watching along the ridge. None were visible—of course, if they were doing their job right, he shouldn’t see them—but his eyes narrowed anyway. [I]Stupid humans[/I]. His eyes widened again as the noise grew louder, and a knot of armed riders charged through the gap into the canyon. Finally realizing what was happening, Orn shouted a cry of alarm and drew his heavy scimitar from its scabbard at his hip. Some of the guards seemed to finally realize what was going on, as he saw movement along the ridge, but instead of firing their bows at the intruders, they leveled them down at the tents. Pain erupted through Orn’s body as a long steel-headed arrow shot through him. He was dimly aware of several of the riders heading at full gallop toward him, the only enemy visible in the open. He could hear his comrades stirring from the tents, but none had emerged as yet. Their enemies had achieved complete tactical surprise. But he was a son of Nomog-Geaya, and he would make the painful journey down to Acheron with blood on his blade. He swung at the first attacker, missing the rider but at least feeling some satisfaction as the blade dug into the shoulder of his mount. The horse staggered as the rider hurled past. The next rider was on him before he could recover, and thrust his longsword like a spear through Orn’s chest. The hobgoblin warrior faltered and collapsed, and the darkness came swiftly. * * * * * The camp was coming alive, and despite gaining surprise Benzan could see that they still had a fight on their hands. From his position atop the ridge he had a good view of the battlefield, and along with the two militiamen with whom he’d crept up the slope he peppered whatever target he could make out with arrows. He saw a sentry emerge from the rocks along the far side of the canyon, a good sixty yards away, and fire his bow at one of Telwarden’s riders. The bandit hit his target, one of the caravan guards, but fell back off the ridge a moment later as Benzan’s arrow buried itself to the feathers in his chest. [I]Damn, I knew we missed some,[/I] the tiefling thought grimly. Half-armored men and hobgoblins were emerging from the tents, launching themselves with desperate ferocity at the intruders. One man from Dunderion went down with a hobgoblin spear buried in his belly and a bleeding cut laying open his scalp, but both of his attackers quickly fell under the combined might of Telwarden and Lok. Now that the initial charge was over, most of the posse had dismounted, and the area in front of the tents was degenerating into a muddy, violent melee. Cal had reined in directly in front of the entrance to one of the tents, and as the first pair of disoriented bandits emerged, he fired his wand of color spray into their faces. Delem was right behind him, and he released a fan of flames into the tent as he rode past, the magical fire setting even the damp cloth ablaze. His lack of experience with the horses showed, though, as his mount stumbled on a patch of deep mud and he lost his grip, falling hard to the ground a few paces away. Raising his hands to the air in supplication to whatever gods were watching, Cal quickly moved to help his companion. “Come on!” Benzan was having a tough time finding targets in the confusion of the melee, so he led his two allies along the lip of the ridge, trying to mark a better shot. He failed to spot the shadowy figure that emerged, not from the tents, but from a shallow cave opening near the rear of the camp. Lok and Telwarden were forging a storm of death around them that the bandits could not penetrate. Both were wounded, Lok from a glancing blow from a hobgoblin morningstar to his temple, and Telwarden from a spear that had dug through a chink in his chainmail armor. But three men and two hobgoblins lay dead at their feet, and the others had drawn back, reluctant to join that tally. Their charge into the midst of the enemy had spared several of the Dunderion folk and guardsmen who had taken wounds and retreated from the fray. One of each remained where they had fallen in the initial rush. Cullan gathered the rest of the unwounded, two militiamen and three guardsmen, and charged toward the flank of the small group of bandits that faced off against Lok and Telwarden. For a moment it looked like the bandits were finished, but then, suddenly, the surge of reinforcements faltered. Cullan staggered, and the men around him collapsed, falling unconscious to the muddy ground. Soon the old hunter was alone, facing several opponents. “The wizard!” Telwarden shouted, pointing to the hobgoblin adept that had emerged from the hidden cave where he had spent the night practicing whatever foul rites powered his magic. The hobgoblin, his face garishly marked with vivid and unholy tattoos and ritual scars, held a black wand in his hand, and his face creased in a dark smile as he turned it toward Lok and Telwarden. But the hobgoblin did not get the chance to unleash his dire magic a second time. Benzan’s arrow knifed through the morning air, slamming with the full power of his mighty bow into his head. The critical hit dropped the evil adept instantly, his wand rolling uselessly away into the muck as he fell. A bandit had emerged from the back of the burning tent, his eyes alighting on Delem as the young man tried to stand in the slippery mud where he had fallen. Cal fired his crossbow at the bandit, but missed, and he shouted a warning to his friend as the bandit raised his sword and charged at the sorcerer. Delem looked up and raised his hand palm-out against the charging raider, calling upon his magic once again. His eyes seemed to glow with the reflection of his power as two small spheres of fiery energy exploded from his hand and darted unerringly into the torso of the bandit. The man screamed and fell, writhing in the mud as the flames ravaged his body. “KILL THEM ALL, YOU DOGS!” The cry echoed through the canyon as another figure emerged into the fray from the last tent. It was instantly obvious that Steel Jack had finally entered the fray. He was a powerful man, with perhaps a touch of non-human blood coursing through his veins. His curly hair and full beard were the color of rusted iron, and he was clad in a suit of heavy armor, banded mail that hung over his frame like a second skin. He carried a large shield set with the symbol of a red hydra, and in his other hand clutched a battle axe. As he hefted the weapon, a nimbus of pale white energy wreathed the blade, indicating that the weapon was magically enhanced. The appearance of the bandit leader, coupled with the adept’s blunting of the posse’s charge, gave the surviving bandits new courage. As Cullan tried to revive their unconscious allies, Lok and Telwarden met the enemy charge alone, side by side forming a wall. Three hobgoblins and the lone remaining human bandit hit that wall, their blades seeking openings in their foes’ armor. The two fighters’ weapons responded in a blur. Lok struck down an already injured hobgoblin and cleaved into a second, his axe opening a wide gash in his hip. Telwarden slew the human warrior with a backhanded slash that tore open his throat in a bloody torrent, bringing his sword back around to parry the hobgoblin’s attack. Then Steel Jack hit the fray. His first blow was a mighty overhand chop that slammed through Telwarden’s defenses, ripping a tear in his chainmail and digging into the fighter’s shoulder. The sheriff screamed out in pain as the magic of the bandit lord’s blade sent the icy chill of death through his torso, freezing the blood even as it ran down his body. Somehow he managed to keep his footing in the mud, giving ground as he brought his sword around to try to keep his new enemy at bay. “Say hello to my comrades when you get to hell,” Steel Jack said as he came in again, his deadly weapon carving the air as he approached. Lok, meanwhile, was having troubles of his own. The hobgoblin that had been fighting Telwarden had been all too happy to leave the sheriff to his boss, and turned to flank the genasi and help his injured comrade. Facing two opponents, Lok missed with his first attack and suffered a serious thrust that dug in between the plates of his armor and tore deep into his side. Staggered by the blow, he fought on. Telwarden stumbled backward, somehow managing to bring his sword around to deflect Steel Jack’s axe. The impact caused him to lose his footing, however, and he went down, groaning as he landed on his ravaged shoulder. The bandit chief stepped forward, ready to claim victory over his fallen opponent. “You’ve got to get through me, first.” Benzan drew his sword from its scabbard as he faced off against Steel Jack. Unable to fire into the melee for fear of hitting his companions, he had all but run down the treacherous inner slope of the ridge, his boots slipping on the slick rocks with every step but his natural agility allowing him to hit the ground running. He’d seen the bandit leader fight, and knew deep down that he was outmatched, but he hoped that he could at least give his companions—and even Telwarden—time to come to his aid. “All right then,” the bandit said, hefting his axe. Two bolts of liquid fire arced into Steel Jack from the side, blazing black scars on the side of his armor. Delem’s volley had an effect, but it was clear that this adversary would not be so easily defeated. Benzan tried to take advantage of the distraction and lunged at the bandit. Steel Jack, however, responded quickly, and the potent axe clipped him in the side as he dodged back. It was just a glancing blow, but even with that Benzan could feel the magical chill seep into him, biting deep. “Even if you defeat me, you’re too late to save them,” the bandit said as they circled for another exchange. Both had to be cautious on the difficult footing, lest one misstep give the other a critical advantage. “Your pretty noblewoman won’t be coming back from the journey she’s embarked upon.” He had to pause in his tirade as Benzan launched another attack, the tiefling swiping in a high arc that the bandit only narrowly dodged. His own return stroke struck Benzan’s buckler with a ringing clash that filled the enclosed space of the canyon. “Time is working against you, Jack,” Benzan said between gritted teeth. The bandit leader took a quick glance around him and saw that Benzan’s boast was true. Lok, hard pressed a moment ago, had defeated his opponents with the aid of Cullan and several of the revived guardsmen. Cal and Delem had their own situation well in hand, also, and were quickly approaching from the opposite flank. Telwarden had managed to lurch to his feet, but although he still held his sword he could barely stand, let alone attack. “This is not the end of this, rake!” the bandit hissed. He took a small step back, and downed in a single swallow the contents of a tiny vial that he produced from a small pouch at his belt. Almost immediately, he lifted off into the air, surging thirty feet straight up in a smooth climb. “Farewell, fools!” his voice drifted down to them. Cal’s crossbow bolt tore into his ankle, penetrating the thick leather of his boot to stick in the tender flesh there. An instant later, two flame-bolts from Delem’s hands slammed into the bandit’s legs, causing him to grit his teeth in sudden pain. Benzan moved with smooth efficiency, unlimbering his bow and drawing a long arrow in a single fluid motion. He sighted and fired, the arrow speeding on a straight track to slam upward into Steel Jack’s gut, slanting through his banded mail deep into his belly. The bandit lurched through the air, his incredible fortitude letting him stay conscious even through those wounds, while his fingers dug in his pouch for another vial. He continued to gain altitude, and for a moment it looked as though he might yet escape. And then he looked up, and saw a small dragon swooping down upon him. Jack Corrigan had seen a lot of scary things in his life. He’d killed his first man at fourteen, and his career since then had been one of mayhem, destruction, and wanton pillaging. But now, wounded and defeated, relying on an unfamiliar magic to escape, his nerve failed. He lurched to the side, raising his hands to protect them from the dragon’s gaping maw as it dove at his face. The healing potion slipped from his fingers to fall uselessly to the distant ground below. The dragon’s jaws opened… …and the figment passed right through him. Too late, he realized that the illusion, even without sound, had fooled him. Too late for Steel Jack, as a volley of arrows from below caught up to him. He hovered in the air for a moment longer, his body penetrated by a several more shafts, then the magic of the potion failed as his life did, and he plummeted sixty feet to the ground. [/QUOTE]
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