Blue_Kryptonite
First Post
Lots of good stuff. I want some of these books. 
As for me... what the heck. No one much knows who I am, but it would be nice to have this seen by someone other than my wife, kids, and the rejection committee.
One-Page
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The Last Prisoner follows Taran Bec, the sole survivor of a Cyran regiment as he tries to go home, farm his ancestral land, try to forget the last hundred years ever happened, and hope the dreams fade in time. Unfortunately, it’s not that easy.
The doomed regiment Taran Bec was part of was wiped out in a desperate last stand in an abandoned farmhouse by a Goblin mercenary army. Poor planning turned their own magical traps against them. Ambush by Hobogblins using invisibility finished them. The last thing Bec saw and heard was a flashing blade across his eyes and an increasingly shrill battle cry.
Taran awoke on a Lightning Rail, rubbing the scar he got from the blade four years ago. The shrill tone was the whistle of the train going around a curve. He reached down to pick up his travel papers and bumped into Lise d’Medani, Dragonmarked house member. She recognized him as The Last Prisoner.
Taran flashed back to how he earned his unwanted fame. The Hobgoblins had taken him to torture for military information. He had none to give, but spent the next two years being tortured and questioned. He never let them know there was nothing to learn. A year ago, they stopped coming. He found two months ago that the war had been over for a year, and he had no home to go to. He found out last week that his family farm was just outside the dead-grey mist, and was now in Karrnath territory. He found out yesterday he was going to get to go home.
When Taran got to Karrnath, he was given a carefully staged hero’s welcome. He was escorted to his farm, and was going to be allowed to remove sentimental items. Disappointed, he figured he could start over in New Cyre. He wasn’t prepared for his parents having been converted to working undead on their former farm.
In his shock, Taran ran for his parents. He was struck by a guard. He flashed back to his beatings. Fighting it off, he was struck again, and was again at the farmhouse and the Goblins. When he came to, the house was aflame, the guards were dead, and his parent’s corpses were in pieces. He discovered the reason for Karrnath’s caution. His parents had been digging up a newly discovered sizeable deposit of Eberron shards.
Nearby Undead reacted swiftly. Taran fought his way through and around them, finding himself lost in the Dead-Grey Mist of the Mournland. He was stalked by a Half-Orc in Hobgoblin armor who could become invisible. Slipping in and out of flashbacks, he fought back, never certain if he were in the here and now or reliving a battle against a phantom opponent from the war. They stumbled out of the mist into the path of a Living Spell.
Joining forces to survive, they defeated the living flames. Taran had killed the fire, and new that he had freed the part of himself trapped on the burning farm. The Half-Orc revealed he had come to kill Taran on behalf of the d’Medani clan to prevent him revealing the existence of the Shard deposits on his family’s land. After fighting alongside him, he could not. The Half-Orc, a barbarian from Darguun named Skarath, offered to accompany Taran back to the hobgoblin lands. Seeing no alternative, Taran accepted.
They were intercepted partway by an old friend turned deadly enemy. Bulwark had survived the farm, and now served the Lord of Blades. They defeated him at the cost of Skarath’s life. The Warforged revealed that he had been working as a Karrnathi agent all along. The ambush was deliberate. Skarath gave his totem to Taran, and told him to take it to the plains of Talenta, where he should seek a Clawfoot rider named Darr. After fighting his way through the corpse-fields against undead and a corpse-crab, he ran into a herd of stampeding Carvers. He was rescued by Darr herself. They went back to Gatherhold, where he attended a meeting with Lise D’Medani and Lathon Halpum. Taran learned that House Medani and New Cyre had been manipulating him from the very beginning in a bid to obtain the deposit of Eberron shards on his family’s land. It was agreed after much maneuvering that a small force of riders would accompany Taran back to his farm for a three-way split of the shards.
The riders staged a daring raid on the farm, dealing with a garrison of undead and the same clan of Hobgoblin mercenaries that had kept Tarn as The Last Prisoner. No longer having anything to lose or anything to fight for, he tore into the fray with savage abandon. Every stroke of his sword liberated a day of pain. Every thrust of the blade point healed the ghost of a scar. Taran knew he could never be whole again. But he knew he would die on his own land at peace.
When the battle seemed darkest, two forces entered the fray. Two dozen Barbarians of Skarath’s tribe tore through the undead in force, laying waste to the Karrnati forces. And a hundred strong Warforged followers of the Lord Of Blades marched from the Dead-Grey mist to decimate the Hobgoblins. They took the shards and were gone.
Back at Gatherhold, Lise D’Medani and Lathon Halpum agreed to keep secret their manipulation by the Lord Of Blades. Taran Bec bargained his silence with the cost of a Lightning Rail ticket back to New Cyre and a plot of land to farm for the rest of his days.
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Sample
[sblock]Goblin mercenaries poured over the battlement, shrieking frenzied battle cries as the last defenders of the forward line fell. With the loss of the two Shifters, there was nothing between the Goblin army and the last few survivors of the Cyran battalion holding what was left of the farmhouse. The Goblins swarmed over the earthen fortifications they had built around the dilapidated wooden fence at the border of the property, unheedingly stepping on dead and wounded, friend and foe alike in their savage charge. A terse command brought the archers forward to the entry of the hayloft. A hail of arrows dropped the first dozen Goblins. There was scare time to restring as the Goblins began assaulting the hole they had made, widening it to let the body of their force advance. The roiling sea of motion visible beyond the now-ruined fortification offered little hope to the beleaguered defenders. Still, the Cyrans held their ground. Below the loft, mages and sorcerers stepped forth from the lower barn. Arcane chanting echoed above the thundering din of the army beyond the farmhouse. The clear blue sky boiled over with spontaneous grey thunderclouds summoned by magic. Two dozen more were felled by flashing purple and blue volleys of Magic Missiles cast by the sorcerers. The Wizards completed their spells as the Sorcerers began summoning the next volley. The sky opened up in a torrential rain. Bolts of lightning struck at random throughout the Goblin force, arcing between metal armor and weapons. Dozens more Goblins fell under the mystic assault. Another volley of Magic Missiles and Acid Arrows struck the enemy. Yet still they came.
The Goblins reached the feed yard. The first of the carefully concealed runes detonated as they passed, exploding outward from the feed troth. Goblin bodies went flying in all directions. Still the relentless force advanced as more took their place, pouring through the open wound in the fortification. The other two runes triggered as a dead Goblin landed atop the milk can it had been cast upon, knocking it into the pail where the last was set. Gouts of flame erupted as planned from the spinning can, but its wild trajectory threatened Goblin and Cyran alike. Flames splayed across the courtyard, immolating the closest of the attackers. The pail disgorged a flood of oil, spattering it on every surface in reach instead of forming the slippery puddle the Cyrnas had counted on to buy them time. Wherever the wild flames touched the oil, an inferno bust into destructive life.
The next volley of arrows went wild as the archers dove out of the hay loft to avoid the flames. The loft caught fire behind them, several more powerful spells failing or going wild as the mages rushed out to avoid the flames. An Ice Storm and a Fireball detonated well short of the battlement, setting the rest of the area on fire while rendering the ground even more slippery. The final rune, forgotten in the race to exit the rapidly burning building, activated as they passed. Spinning, cutting blades whirled into existence, slashing the remaining archers and mages into oblivion.
Inside the barn, the final ten defenders waited for their leader’s order. The massive Warforged they called Bulwark considered the chaos outside. Firelight flickered off the massive steel club he wore on his left arm.
He turned and walked along the line of his last ten soldiers. No one could read the expression in his gold-bronze lenses as he considered each in turn. His second in command, the human woman Aislinn Shae, had already been wounded during the ambush that had left them trapped at the farm. Fresh bandages applied over her left eyebrow were blood-soaked. She hadn’t bothered to wipe the goblin gore out of her raven-black hair. She gazed back, her trust in him absolute.
He moved on to the boys. Always “the boys”, Dal and Cor Kel were brothers. They were two years apart, but may as well have been twins. The boys shared the same curly red hair, the same freckles, the same sparking green eyes. They were less than an inch apart in height, and famous for finishing each other’s sentences. They weren’t acting up now, however. They were terrified.
The stout Dwarf who stood next to them was as stoic as ever. Bulwark knew that the keen mind behind Thurn Korel’s stony-grey eyes was calculating endless permutations of the odds of their surviving this one. He was certain the Dwarf would reach the same zero-sum conclusion he had.
The grizzled Human man next in line, though, was, predictably, not exactly in line. Leaning on the table, the scarred, bald veteran had been fighting since before Bulwark was forged. Pors Fam was leaning… No, slouching, really… against the rickety table behind them. He unconcernedly went about his pre-battle ritual of polishing the collection of enemy teeth he kept on a gut-leather cord around his neck. Pors had been in worse. Or so he would say if asked.
Glaring in disgust at Pors’ Fetish String, none of the fire or will to live of the young Meli Ras showed any signs of diminishing. The flame-haired young woman trusted in the power of the land and sky to protect her and her friends. Bulwark could only be struck by how very young she was.
His gaze traveled across the room to the pantry of the dilapidated kitchen of the long-abandoned farmhouse. Kneeling in prayer were the three most devout of his command staff. The thin, graying form of Arus Bina lead a whispered chant to the Sovereign Host. Joining him were the most and least likely people Bulwark had ever known to be fervently religious.
Managing to remain ordered and clean despite the ambush, the long weeks of battle through hostile territory, and lack of adequate supplies and tools to remain so, Jana Nes held the holy symbol of Dol Arrah close to her as she recited the litany. Opposite her, the perpetually dirty, disheveled, and surly Mins Coras kept count with them as he manipulated the prayer beads dedicated to Kol Korran.
At the far end of the kitchen stood Taran Bec. The word that came to mind at first glance was “average”. Average height, average build. An unremarkable set of features. Dark hair, medium complexion, neutrally dark green eyes. If you had to put up a poster of the average Cryran, Bec would be a good subject. But Bulwark knew that inside the man was a core of determination that he suspected stemmed from his family. Bec talked infrequently, but somehow the subject always came back to his family’s farm and their proud history of generations successfully running it.
Another set of flaming arrows thudded into the side of the main house. One broke the window, setting the frame alight. Bulwark nodded to himself as he gazed at the flirelight reflecting from the shards. It was time.
He waited a moment or two longer, allowing the prayers and rituals to finish. An extra minute would make no difference now. As they stood and arrayed themselves, he saw that he had no need to issue his command. They had fought together for a long time. Now, they would die together. Bulwark nodded to each of them. “Lets end this.”
The massive Warforged kicked the farmhouse door off its hinges, sending it hurtling forward into the Goblins closest to the house. He made a point to tread over the door and the Goblins beneath it as he waded into the fray, his tremendous maul hurling Goblins aside as bashed a hole for his troops to advance. Goblins scattered before him, but were regrouping as they moved to flank him.
The defenders charged, their own fierce oaths shouted in battle-heat. The Boys fought back to back, twin sets of dual shortblades flashing as they danced around each other cutting a wide path. Opposite them, Pors chopped through a forest of Goblins on his own with his mighty axe. Thurn had set up his crossbow in the window that wasn’t currently on fire and was eliminating archers on the remains of the battlement. Aislinn darted in and out of the paths of the others, crushing skulls with her flail.
The defenders had cleared a hole large enough for the others to spread out and begin casting. Aris began to call upon the power of Bolderi to grant fortune to his comrades.
Jana drew her gleaming holy sword and chanted a battle prayer to further bless it. Meli began to call the small stinging and biting creatures to plague the army beyond the remains of the wall. Mins pulled out a wand covered in runes and began to trigger it.
Taran Bec reached the door in time to see flaming arrows pepper the casters from the roof. Bulwark spun around, roaring in disgust and alarm. “It’s a trap! Fall back!” No sooner had he issued the order than a column of flamed descended from the storm clouds, explosively destroying the only path of retreat. Surrounded by Goblins, the remaining four defenders fell back to join Taran and Thurn, who had switched to his own stout axe.
The survivors formed a defensive circle against the rapidly burning farmhouse. Cut after cut, blow after blow, they held off the first wave. The archers who had been on the roof were incinerated by a second Flame Strike, leaving the defenders with nowhere to move.
The defenders tightened their ranks, preparing to die fighting. Without warning, the Goblins retreated, falling back around the flames to the fortification. Warily, they held their defensive stance in the heartbeats that followed.
The boys died together as a blade thrust through both their hearts. A huge Hobgoblin broke his invisibility with attack. He discarded the blade and drew another. Three more Hobgoblins broke their invisibility and charged the Cyrans. Bulwark attacked the one who had killed Dal and Cor. A solid blow from his club shattered the attacker’s wrist. A follow through crushed his skull. Two more became visible as they attacked the Warforged.
Aislinn dropped one of the Hobgoblins with a precision series of blows. She spun to face to the other, but saw that Bec had dispatched it with his own sword. The hesitation cost her life as two more appeared and ran her through. Another dozen or more Hobgoblins appeared. The Goblin army surged forward.
At the last, only Taran Bec stood with his commander. The massive Warforged shouted for Bec to take as many as he could with him. Taran’s blade flashed furiously as he felled body after body. Bulwark smashed in wide arcs, desperately defending what small amount of space he still controlled. Amidst a pile of Goblin and Hobgoblin corpses, Bec lost his blood-soaked grip and dropped his sword. The last thing he saw was a Goblin blade flashing across his eyes, its shrill battlecry rising higher and higher.
The shrill squeal of the Lightning Rail rounding a curve jolted Taran Bec awake. He rubbed the scar across the bridge of his nose by habit. Opening his eyes, he squinted to clear them, then rubbed the sleep out of them. A deep breath turned into a wide yawn as he sat up, spilling the papers he had been loosely holding when the motion of the Lightning Rail sent him to sleep. Shaking his head ruefully, he bent to retrieve them. Taran jumped back as a hand appeared across his vision, hitting his head on the outer wall of the rail car. A feminine voice cut through his confusion and panic, bringing him back from the edge of the farmhouse again. Back to reality. “I’m sorry. Are you alright? I didn’t mean to startle you.” Taran managed a shallow smile as he nodded, absently rubbing his head. “No harm done, miss?” The blonde young woman smiled politely, brushing back her long hair to reveal a slightly pointed ear. The shimmering blue tracing of a Dragonmark was visible on her neck. “Lise. Lise d’Medani. Pleased to me you, mister Bec.” Taran’s tilted his head in confusion. “How did you know my name?” Lise smiled more genuinely, offering him the papers. “Your identification pouch.” He looked down, realizing his papers had fallen open. “Oh. Of course.” He paused for a moment, collecting his wits from the flashback dream. The portrait attached to his papers was a gift from Oargev ir’Wynarn himself. It was master craftsmanship. He wondered if he actually looked that haunted. After the last two years, he supposed, anyone would. He realized he was staring at his papers vacantly when she cleared her throat. Shaking his head again, he offered a mumbled apology. Lise nodded. “I understand. The war is still fresh in your mind.” Taran’s smile faded as he nodded. “More than most.” Lise’s eyes widened as she realized who it was she was speaking with. “Oh… Taran Bec. You’re…” the small pause said volumes. Bec had gotten used to the reaction in the last few months since he made it to New Cyre. Thanks to a series of articles about him in the Korranberg Chronicle, he had achieved some small reputation and fame. More than he was really comfortable with, if the truth be told. Offering the complimentary Lightning Rail copy of the Chronicle, he nodded. “That’s me.” The headline resting above a significantly uglier drawing of his face read “Last Prisoner Goes Home.”
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As for me... what the heck. No one much knows who I am, but it would be nice to have this seen by someone other than my wife, kids, and the rejection committee.
One-Page
[sblock]
The Last Prisoner follows Taran Bec, the sole survivor of a Cyran regiment as he tries to go home, farm his ancestral land, try to forget the last hundred years ever happened, and hope the dreams fade in time. Unfortunately, it’s not that easy.
The doomed regiment Taran Bec was part of was wiped out in a desperate last stand in an abandoned farmhouse by a Goblin mercenary army. Poor planning turned their own magical traps against them. Ambush by Hobogblins using invisibility finished them. The last thing Bec saw and heard was a flashing blade across his eyes and an increasingly shrill battle cry.
Taran awoke on a Lightning Rail, rubbing the scar he got from the blade four years ago. The shrill tone was the whistle of the train going around a curve. He reached down to pick up his travel papers and bumped into Lise d’Medani, Dragonmarked house member. She recognized him as The Last Prisoner.
Taran flashed back to how he earned his unwanted fame. The Hobgoblins had taken him to torture for military information. He had none to give, but spent the next two years being tortured and questioned. He never let them know there was nothing to learn. A year ago, they stopped coming. He found two months ago that the war had been over for a year, and he had no home to go to. He found out last week that his family farm was just outside the dead-grey mist, and was now in Karrnath territory. He found out yesterday he was going to get to go home.
When Taran got to Karrnath, he was given a carefully staged hero’s welcome. He was escorted to his farm, and was going to be allowed to remove sentimental items. Disappointed, he figured he could start over in New Cyre. He wasn’t prepared for his parents having been converted to working undead on their former farm.
In his shock, Taran ran for his parents. He was struck by a guard. He flashed back to his beatings. Fighting it off, he was struck again, and was again at the farmhouse and the Goblins. When he came to, the house was aflame, the guards were dead, and his parent’s corpses were in pieces. He discovered the reason for Karrnath’s caution. His parents had been digging up a newly discovered sizeable deposit of Eberron shards.
Nearby Undead reacted swiftly. Taran fought his way through and around them, finding himself lost in the Dead-Grey Mist of the Mournland. He was stalked by a Half-Orc in Hobgoblin armor who could become invisible. Slipping in and out of flashbacks, he fought back, never certain if he were in the here and now or reliving a battle against a phantom opponent from the war. They stumbled out of the mist into the path of a Living Spell.
Joining forces to survive, they defeated the living flames. Taran had killed the fire, and new that he had freed the part of himself trapped on the burning farm. The Half-Orc revealed he had come to kill Taran on behalf of the d’Medani clan to prevent him revealing the existence of the Shard deposits on his family’s land. After fighting alongside him, he could not. The Half-Orc, a barbarian from Darguun named Skarath, offered to accompany Taran back to the hobgoblin lands. Seeing no alternative, Taran accepted.
They were intercepted partway by an old friend turned deadly enemy. Bulwark had survived the farm, and now served the Lord of Blades. They defeated him at the cost of Skarath’s life. The Warforged revealed that he had been working as a Karrnathi agent all along. The ambush was deliberate. Skarath gave his totem to Taran, and told him to take it to the plains of Talenta, where he should seek a Clawfoot rider named Darr. After fighting his way through the corpse-fields against undead and a corpse-crab, he ran into a herd of stampeding Carvers. He was rescued by Darr herself. They went back to Gatherhold, where he attended a meeting with Lise D’Medani and Lathon Halpum. Taran learned that House Medani and New Cyre had been manipulating him from the very beginning in a bid to obtain the deposit of Eberron shards on his family’s land. It was agreed after much maneuvering that a small force of riders would accompany Taran back to his farm for a three-way split of the shards.
The riders staged a daring raid on the farm, dealing with a garrison of undead and the same clan of Hobgoblin mercenaries that had kept Tarn as The Last Prisoner. No longer having anything to lose or anything to fight for, he tore into the fray with savage abandon. Every stroke of his sword liberated a day of pain. Every thrust of the blade point healed the ghost of a scar. Taran knew he could never be whole again. But he knew he would die on his own land at peace.
When the battle seemed darkest, two forces entered the fray. Two dozen Barbarians of Skarath’s tribe tore through the undead in force, laying waste to the Karrnati forces. And a hundred strong Warforged followers of the Lord Of Blades marched from the Dead-Grey mist to decimate the Hobgoblins. They took the shards and were gone.
Back at Gatherhold, Lise D’Medani and Lathon Halpum agreed to keep secret their manipulation by the Lord Of Blades. Taran Bec bargained his silence with the cost of a Lightning Rail ticket back to New Cyre and a plot of land to farm for the rest of his days.
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Sample
[sblock]Goblin mercenaries poured over the battlement, shrieking frenzied battle cries as the last defenders of the forward line fell. With the loss of the two Shifters, there was nothing between the Goblin army and the last few survivors of the Cyran battalion holding what was left of the farmhouse. The Goblins swarmed over the earthen fortifications they had built around the dilapidated wooden fence at the border of the property, unheedingly stepping on dead and wounded, friend and foe alike in their savage charge. A terse command brought the archers forward to the entry of the hayloft. A hail of arrows dropped the first dozen Goblins. There was scare time to restring as the Goblins began assaulting the hole they had made, widening it to let the body of their force advance. The roiling sea of motion visible beyond the now-ruined fortification offered little hope to the beleaguered defenders. Still, the Cyrans held their ground. Below the loft, mages and sorcerers stepped forth from the lower barn. Arcane chanting echoed above the thundering din of the army beyond the farmhouse. The clear blue sky boiled over with spontaneous grey thunderclouds summoned by magic. Two dozen more were felled by flashing purple and blue volleys of Magic Missiles cast by the sorcerers. The Wizards completed their spells as the Sorcerers began summoning the next volley. The sky opened up in a torrential rain. Bolts of lightning struck at random throughout the Goblin force, arcing between metal armor and weapons. Dozens more Goblins fell under the mystic assault. Another volley of Magic Missiles and Acid Arrows struck the enemy. Yet still they came.
The Goblins reached the feed yard. The first of the carefully concealed runes detonated as they passed, exploding outward from the feed troth. Goblin bodies went flying in all directions. Still the relentless force advanced as more took their place, pouring through the open wound in the fortification. The other two runes triggered as a dead Goblin landed atop the milk can it had been cast upon, knocking it into the pail where the last was set. Gouts of flame erupted as planned from the spinning can, but its wild trajectory threatened Goblin and Cyran alike. Flames splayed across the courtyard, immolating the closest of the attackers. The pail disgorged a flood of oil, spattering it on every surface in reach instead of forming the slippery puddle the Cyrnas had counted on to buy them time. Wherever the wild flames touched the oil, an inferno bust into destructive life.
The next volley of arrows went wild as the archers dove out of the hay loft to avoid the flames. The loft caught fire behind them, several more powerful spells failing or going wild as the mages rushed out to avoid the flames. An Ice Storm and a Fireball detonated well short of the battlement, setting the rest of the area on fire while rendering the ground even more slippery. The final rune, forgotten in the race to exit the rapidly burning building, activated as they passed. Spinning, cutting blades whirled into existence, slashing the remaining archers and mages into oblivion.
Inside the barn, the final ten defenders waited for their leader’s order. The massive Warforged they called Bulwark considered the chaos outside. Firelight flickered off the massive steel club he wore on his left arm.
He turned and walked along the line of his last ten soldiers. No one could read the expression in his gold-bronze lenses as he considered each in turn. His second in command, the human woman Aislinn Shae, had already been wounded during the ambush that had left them trapped at the farm. Fresh bandages applied over her left eyebrow were blood-soaked. She hadn’t bothered to wipe the goblin gore out of her raven-black hair. She gazed back, her trust in him absolute.
He moved on to the boys. Always “the boys”, Dal and Cor Kel were brothers. They were two years apart, but may as well have been twins. The boys shared the same curly red hair, the same freckles, the same sparking green eyes. They were less than an inch apart in height, and famous for finishing each other’s sentences. They weren’t acting up now, however. They were terrified.
The stout Dwarf who stood next to them was as stoic as ever. Bulwark knew that the keen mind behind Thurn Korel’s stony-grey eyes was calculating endless permutations of the odds of their surviving this one. He was certain the Dwarf would reach the same zero-sum conclusion he had.
The grizzled Human man next in line, though, was, predictably, not exactly in line. Leaning on the table, the scarred, bald veteran had been fighting since before Bulwark was forged. Pors Fam was leaning… No, slouching, really… against the rickety table behind them. He unconcernedly went about his pre-battle ritual of polishing the collection of enemy teeth he kept on a gut-leather cord around his neck. Pors had been in worse. Or so he would say if asked.
Glaring in disgust at Pors’ Fetish String, none of the fire or will to live of the young Meli Ras showed any signs of diminishing. The flame-haired young woman trusted in the power of the land and sky to protect her and her friends. Bulwark could only be struck by how very young she was.
His gaze traveled across the room to the pantry of the dilapidated kitchen of the long-abandoned farmhouse. Kneeling in prayer were the three most devout of his command staff. The thin, graying form of Arus Bina lead a whispered chant to the Sovereign Host. Joining him were the most and least likely people Bulwark had ever known to be fervently religious.
Managing to remain ordered and clean despite the ambush, the long weeks of battle through hostile territory, and lack of adequate supplies and tools to remain so, Jana Nes held the holy symbol of Dol Arrah close to her as she recited the litany. Opposite her, the perpetually dirty, disheveled, and surly Mins Coras kept count with them as he manipulated the prayer beads dedicated to Kol Korran.
At the far end of the kitchen stood Taran Bec. The word that came to mind at first glance was “average”. Average height, average build. An unremarkable set of features. Dark hair, medium complexion, neutrally dark green eyes. If you had to put up a poster of the average Cryran, Bec would be a good subject. But Bulwark knew that inside the man was a core of determination that he suspected stemmed from his family. Bec talked infrequently, but somehow the subject always came back to his family’s farm and their proud history of generations successfully running it.
Another set of flaming arrows thudded into the side of the main house. One broke the window, setting the frame alight. Bulwark nodded to himself as he gazed at the flirelight reflecting from the shards. It was time.
He waited a moment or two longer, allowing the prayers and rituals to finish. An extra minute would make no difference now. As they stood and arrayed themselves, he saw that he had no need to issue his command. They had fought together for a long time. Now, they would die together. Bulwark nodded to each of them. “Lets end this.”
The massive Warforged kicked the farmhouse door off its hinges, sending it hurtling forward into the Goblins closest to the house. He made a point to tread over the door and the Goblins beneath it as he waded into the fray, his tremendous maul hurling Goblins aside as bashed a hole for his troops to advance. Goblins scattered before him, but were regrouping as they moved to flank him.
The defenders charged, their own fierce oaths shouted in battle-heat. The Boys fought back to back, twin sets of dual shortblades flashing as they danced around each other cutting a wide path. Opposite them, Pors chopped through a forest of Goblins on his own with his mighty axe. Thurn had set up his crossbow in the window that wasn’t currently on fire and was eliminating archers on the remains of the battlement. Aislinn darted in and out of the paths of the others, crushing skulls with her flail.
The defenders had cleared a hole large enough for the others to spread out and begin casting. Aris began to call upon the power of Bolderi to grant fortune to his comrades.
Jana drew her gleaming holy sword and chanted a battle prayer to further bless it. Meli began to call the small stinging and biting creatures to plague the army beyond the remains of the wall. Mins pulled out a wand covered in runes and began to trigger it.
Taran Bec reached the door in time to see flaming arrows pepper the casters from the roof. Bulwark spun around, roaring in disgust and alarm. “It’s a trap! Fall back!” No sooner had he issued the order than a column of flamed descended from the storm clouds, explosively destroying the only path of retreat. Surrounded by Goblins, the remaining four defenders fell back to join Taran and Thurn, who had switched to his own stout axe.
The survivors formed a defensive circle against the rapidly burning farmhouse. Cut after cut, blow after blow, they held off the first wave. The archers who had been on the roof were incinerated by a second Flame Strike, leaving the defenders with nowhere to move.
The defenders tightened their ranks, preparing to die fighting. Without warning, the Goblins retreated, falling back around the flames to the fortification. Warily, they held their defensive stance in the heartbeats that followed.
The boys died together as a blade thrust through both their hearts. A huge Hobgoblin broke his invisibility with attack. He discarded the blade and drew another. Three more Hobgoblins broke their invisibility and charged the Cyrans. Bulwark attacked the one who had killed Dal and Cor. A solid blow from his club shattered the attacker’s wrist. A follow through crushed his skull. Two more became visible as they attacked the Warforged.
Aislinn dropped one of the Hobgoblins with a precision series of blows. She spun to face to the other, but saw that Bec had dispatched it with his own sword. The hesitation cost her life as two more appeared and ran her through. Another dozen or more Hobgoblins appeared. The Goblin army surged forward.
At the last, only Taran Bec stood with his commander. The massive Warforged shouted for Bec to take as many as he could with him. Taran’s blade flashed furiously as he felled body after body. Bulwark smashed in wide arcs, desperately defending what small amount of space he still controlled. Amidst a pile of Goblin and Hobgoblin corpses, Bec lost his blood-soaked grip and dropped his sword. The last thing he saw was a Goblin blade flashing across his eyes, its shrill battlecry rising higher and higher.
The shrill squeal of the Lightning Rail rounding a curve jolted Taran Bec awake. He rubbed the scar across the bridge of his nose by habit. Opening his eyes, he squinted to clear them, then rubbed the sleep out of them. A deep breath turned into a wide yawn as he sat up, spilling the papers he had been loosely holding when the motion of the Lightning Rail sent him to sleep. Shaking his head ruefully, he bent to retrieve them. Taran jumped back as a hand appeared across his vision, hitting his head on the outer wall of the rail car. A feminine voice cut through his confusion and panic, bringing him back from the edge of the farmhouse again. Back to reality. “I’m sorry. Are you alright? I didn’t mean to startle you.” Taran managed a shallow smile as he nodded, absently rubbing his head. “No harm done, miss?” The blonde young woman smiled politely, brushing back her long hair to reveal a slightly pointed ear. The shimmering blue tracing of a Dragonmark was visible on her neck. “Lise. Lise d’Medani. Pleased to me you, mister Bec.” Taran’s tilted his head in confusion. “How did you know my name?” Lise smiled more genuinely, offering him the papers. “Your identification pouch.” He looked down, realizing his papers had fallen open. “Oh. Of course.” He paused for a moment, collecting his wits from the flashback dream. The portrait attached to his papers was a gift from Oargev ir’Wynarn himself. It was master craftsmanship. He wondered if he actually looked that haunted. After the last two years, he supposed, anyone would. He realized he was staring at his papers vacantly when she cleared her throat. Shaking his head again, he offered a mumbled apology. Lise nodded. “I understand. The war is still fresh in your mind.” Taran’s smile faded as he nodded. “More than most.” Lise’s eyes widened as she realized who it was she was speaking with. “Oh… Taran Bec. You’re…” the small pause said volumes. Bec had gotten used to the reaction in the last few months since he made it to New Cyre. Thanks to a series of articles about him in the Korranberg Chronicle, he had achieved some small reputation and fame. More than he was really comfortable with, if the truth be told. Offering the complimentary Lightning Rail copy of the Chronicle, he nodded. “That’s me.” The headline resting above a significantly uglier drawing of his face read “Last Prisoner Goes Home.”
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