Chapter 12: Bloodshed (Continued)
Motega stretched out of the fetal position he had assumed on the floor. His claws, the claws of the beast had retracted. A faint red hue was all that remained; a scar on his flesh—the mark of the beast.
The Rorn quickly and skillfully checked his bow. No damage had been done it while he had fought the beast despite his violent convulsions. Shouldering the weapon, he drew his blade and leapt through the open window.
The street was empty. To the right, a smoking body laid upon the earth—no doubt one of the brigands that had tried to climb the stone fence. Motega smirked, considering a quick jaunt over to check the body and assure death.
He would have—but Fitz was no longer waiting in the street. The Rorn cursed as he charged forward. The din of battle sounded in his ears as he ran north.
* * *
Halvar glanced to his left. The Rorn archer had been there a moment before but was now gone. Playing dead had worked. Thanking Cula Vak, Halvar awkwardly sat up. He pulled a small vial from his satchel and popped the cork.
The cool contents tingled as they spilled down his throat. Immediately some of his pain subsided. He could feel the burned skin of his forehead and nose peel away. Pink, fresh flesh was beneath; it eagerly replaced the damage.
His hair and eyebrows were another story. Only time would heal that damage. In the meantime, someone was going to f*cking pay. Why not start with that bastard archer? Then—well, then Halivar would move on to the mage.
The Culite stood and drew his sword. Quietly he edged along the edge of the stone barrier, moving closer to his prey.
* * *
Magnus’ hand closed around the scroll.
Each of the
fenboars reared up on their hind legs, stabbing the air futilely with their jagged tusks.
Magnus nearly vomited from their stench.
A quick thought adjusted his direction; he shot upward into the tree’s branches. An arrow sliced through the air, nipping at the wizard’s cloak. A thin line of red appeared on his arm, but the mage didn’t care.
He unraveled the scroll as he sped upward, calling a ravenous ring of fire down upon his foes.
* * *
Tobias and Cochly scrambled into the church, each with their weapons at the ready. The Culite had made it to the door but was stumbling back toward them. Fitz was on the offensive, his scythe humming as he cleaved through the air.
Tobias’ greatsword lifted, shining as a
holy smite, the wrath of Reddel, filled the blade. Likewise, Cochly pulled his axe out wide to the right and then snapped the heavy weapon left in a low and powerful arc.
Tobias’ sword cleaved down.
Fitz feinted left, causing the Culite to bring his blade to bear at the wrong angle. Quickly, too quickly for an armored priest, Fitz twisted and twirled the scythe in the opposite direction.
The brigand’s eyes opened wide as he felt his fate descending upon him. Out of the corner of his eyes he could sense more than see the tell-tale flicker of light playing across other weapons. And then he could see nothing.
Cochly’s axe shattered through bone and muscle, severing the Culite’s leg at the knee before digging hungrily into the next. Tobias blade sliced out and down, tearing through the man’s shoulder and torso, before becoming lodged in his hip. Fitz’s scythe created a clean cut, a farmer’s cut. It simply slid through the brigand’s neck, removing his head.
The head bounced against the wall of the church, splattering a line of blood along the floor and wall before settling to the ground. The Culite’s body fell as well, a deep red stain coating the hardwood floor slickly.
“Enjoy the darkness,” Fitz stated coldly. “Enjoy your God.”
“The torch?” Tobias asked. They turned as one toward the door. With a few steps they managed to circumnavigate the slick puddle safely and exit the church to see Motega charging.
* * *
Bvarki screamed as the
fireball exploded directly before his eyes, centered on his precious
fenboars. He was blasted backward, his eyebrows vanishing along with the coruscating waves of fire. To tell the truth though, Bvarki’s lack of eyebrows could do nothing to worsen the half-orc’s scarred face. He was a hardened mercenary, his body tough and his reflexes sharp.
His
fenboars on the other hand, squealed like common pigs as the spell flash-fried their flesh and hair.
Bvarki reached into his satchel, pulling three healing draughts. He rushed over to the devastating scene; all of his precious, precious pets were strewn on the ground. They cried and whimpered pitifully.
He had half a mind to smack them about for their weakness. But they were still fresh, still young; their training still incomplete. Perhaps that was why they had survived the flash-inferno. If Bvarki succumbed to his rage and beat them to death, it would not aid his situation. It would also be bad for business.
Fenboars were dumb but strong animals. They took forever to train.
With a disgruntled sigh, the half-orc administered the potions to his pets. The change across their bodies was immediately. Growling, they climbed onto their hooves. Just as a reminder, Bvarki smacked them hard, fast.
“Let tha’ be a lesson ter yah,” he growled.
He took the lead, herding them north toward the edge of the church’s western wall. Soon, they would have their vengeance.
* * *
Magnus had left what he thought were his dead foes behind. He had returned to a great distance above the city, taking it all in. The sun had not edged much higher in the intervening moments of battle. Its warm rays tingled across his face and body, allowing him to forget the slight burn of the scratch upon his arm.
A force was moving south, he noted. The mage prepared to unleash another of the potent fireball scrolls.
Beneath him and over the howling of the wind, Magnus heard Arad or Byk shout a warning. The two Minetown patriots had remained on top of the church, surveying the area despite the roaming battle in the courtyard. One screamed of the force to the north.
But the other patriot unleashed a flaming arrow. Magnus had been waiting for the sign.
He followed the arc of the arrow with his eyes. Striking the stone wall, it ended its travel prematurely. Magnus’ eyes scanned in the direction the arrow was heading…
Motega was charging up the street. Behind, one of the Culite brigands was trying to catch up, a vengeful blade trembling in his hands.
But the fool had run right into one of the mage’s traps. He just didn’t know it.
Magnus released the arcane energies of the scroll.
* * *
Halvar was nearing his prey. Nothing, nothing could stop the pain he would deliver unto the Rorn’s body. And then, then the mage would be next.
A strange scent ticked the Culite’s nostrils. It was something familiar, something out-of-place in the street.
Oil.
He stutter stepped. He tried to pull to a hard stop. His momentum would not allow it. Instead, his feet slipped on an oil stone.
The sky was all Halvar saw in that instant. The cobalt was beginning to shift to azure; no doubt another rainless day lied ahead of Rhelm. Halivar noted the red bead that danced—slowly it seemed—toward him.
He was powerless to do anything. Gravity was pulling him and the bead toward the earth. He reached for a healing draught in his satchel but even his arm moved in slow motion. If only his mind could. If only he did not have to face his death knowingly.
Landing with a thud, the Culite knew it was over. The bead gathered itself up, right in front of his eyes. It expanded, ever so slowly, with a tremendous amount of heat and pressure. Sparks leapt out of its center; out of the fiery beast’s heart. The sparks impacted the road. Tiny flames and then larger sheets of fire rose from the earth toward the heavens.
And the bead continued to expand. Fire lanced into his eyes, burning straight through his sockets to massage his brain as the oil under his body—now all over his armor—ignited. The pain was dazzling. His flesh, instantly turned to fluid fell from his bones. His muscles baked; his bones charred.
The mouth of Hell opened around Halivar and drowned him in its eternal embrace.
* * *
Motega fell into a tumbling crouch as a wave of fire nearly touched his body. The Rornman reserved a particularly nasty curse to use against that damned mage later.
But as soon as he went down, he was up again. He had no problems pulling himself to a stop just a little farther than his intended target.
Tobias, Cochly and Fitz rushed out of the church. The priest grabbed the torch, an intentional igniter for the oil slicked roads. They all felt the sudden heat of the firestorm as a
wall of flame[1] fifteen feet in height flared into existence to the left. Solid black smoke billowed up into the heavens, an offering for the gods.
Motega stepped toward the fire, his eyes trained on the wall of fire.
He did not see the sudden appearance of a reptilian creature, hovering above the statue of Morduk on his side of the road. The creature had light green scales, tinted red which showed wherever its black robes did not cover. Its beady, black and yellow eyes swiveled menacingly on the sides of its thin, long snout.
It, the kobold, had just winked into existence as a bead of red energy sped from its extended talon.
Motega was quick; he heard the mad cackling of the sorcerer. But even he did not have enough time to take one final step, away from the oil drenched road.
The fireball blossomed around the Rornman, igniting the oil just as it had around Halivar. The flames leapt up, another sacrifice to the gods, as Motega was swallowed alive.
Tobias, Fitz and Cochly screamed as the burst of heat hit them, tossing them like rag dolls against the church.
Yapper cackled as he popped another potion. His reptilian form faded into nothingness.
------------------------------------------
[1] Well, poor man’s wall of fire, anyway.
[2] You’ll note there wasn’t a [2] above. It is just an additional note referencing this whole battle. It has been…forever and a day or two since we actually played this out. My memory is fading. I have 30+ pages of notes to go off of. But, those notes don’t have round-by-round events, unfortunately. So, it is safe to say—that like always—I’m embellishing a little. But, as far as I know, this follows the events very, very closely with the exception of one or two glaring mistakes.
