Richard Rawen
First Post
Excellent battle scene, as always... thanks for the story LB, great stuff!
Lazybones's Keep on the Shadowfell/Thunderspire Labyrinth
- Thread starter Lazybones
- Start date
Lazybones
Adventurer
Thanks, Richard!
Is it just me, or has the SH forum gotten real quiet of late? I'm still seeing new stories posted, but it seems to be taking much longer for threads to drop down the page lately. I remember where I could go a few days without a post and end up at the bottom of the page.
* * * * *
Chapter 8
Carzen swallowed at the thought of the weight of all of the stone piled on top of them. This tunnel, a broad avenue cut into the side of the mountain like a knife, lined with bricks the size of a man’s forearm, looked as though it had existed unaltered for centuries, but for the warrior, that was little consolation. Men were not meant to come into these deep places under the world. That was the province of dwarves, orcs, and other creatures of darkness, and he was happy to leave it to them.
The eerie features of the tunnel did not reassure him. The entrance, a black opening that gaped in the surface of a cliff at the summit of the Khel Vale, had been flanked by a pair of massive statues, fearsome minotaurs bearing great axes and depicted in suits of armor that flowed oddly over their huge bodies. Those had been imposing enough, but they had been much preferable to the vividly imagined carvings of demonic figures that marked the tunnel proper at regular intervals. There was light, as well, green flames that sprang from copper lanterns that were positioned in niches every fifty paces or so, their radiance adding to the unreality of the place. Gez had asked about these, how they were kept fueled, and the dwarf wizard had indicated that they were magic, burning endlessly without intervention.
The answer had not pleased Carzen. He had grown up around magic, what with his brother and sister both studying the Art since childhood, but he had never been able to grasp it, and he profoundly mistrusted things that he could not himself touch with his hands.
Things like his sword, which he frequently touched with his hand, seizing the hilt, or idly toying with the fittings of the scabbard.
He was not a coward; he’d proven that in the battle with the wyvern. But Carzen Zelos was quick to judge things that did not fit into his perception of how the world should work. And this dragonborn, Vhael, was quickly moving out of that favored category in the young man’s mind.
The company moved single file, even though the tunnel, stretching nearly thirty feet across, could have accommodated all of them had they chosen to walk side-by-side. There was little conversation; words spoken here carried oddly off the brick walls, and occasionally distant echoes filtered back to them, noises that they could not identify, let alone gauge their source. Only that idiot halfling—the mentally defective one—seemed comfortable in these surroundings, peering around with wide eyes like some yokel that had been invited into Moonstone Keep on a feastday. He had even clambered onto one of the demon statues, crawling over it like a child, ignoring all of their warnings until finally Vhael had barked a command. At least he listened to the dragonborn.
Gez muttered something under his breath, probably an invocation to one of his alien gods. Carzen had interacted little with the Issandrian before the wyvern ambush; although the man had been a guardsman at Fallcrest for almost two years, he’d said maybe ten words to him before he’d been picked for this mission. Before his father had picked him. Lord Zelos had not deigned to provide his son with insights as to his reasoning, so Carzen had had to make the best of things. At least he’d known the others that had been chosen better, and in fact had got along well enough with Ladren and Chaffin, both of whom had been players of dragonshard. Now that he was an officer he couldn’t take their money, but it was still fun to drink and tell stories in the company of good men.
Except now that they were dead, all of them. And he was stuck with an Issandrian, a pair of halflings, a dwarf, and a dictatorial dragonborn who still thought he was a general in the great wars. Wars that had ended before Carzen had even been born.
He forced himself to meet Gez’s eyes and make a reassuring smile. Issandrians were known for their quick fingers—one watched their purse closely when around them—and their limited habits of personal hygiene, but at least the man was still one of them, a man of Fallcrest even if a foreigner by birth. It wouldn’t hurt to have an ally if things came to a head with the dragonborn.
Even as the thought passed through his mind, the scaly raised a hand, calling a stop. Carzen moved forward enough to see that the halfling scout was coming back; he was a slippery one, disappearing quickly from view when he didn’t want to be seen. He reported quietly to the scaly. Carzen came closer, but Vhael didn’t elect to share what he’d learned, and merely gestured them forward, the halfling moving ahead again to take the lead. The nobleman clenched his teeth in frustration, and glanced at Gez, rolling his eyes in exaggerated fashion with a nod of his head at the dragonborn’s back. The Issandrian grinned, but he held an arrow fitted to the string of his bow as they continued their movement down the tunnel.
They came to what the halfling had found a few minutes later. The stink alerted them first, although there wasn’t much of whatever had caused it left, just some bones, bits of fur, and some bloodstains on the faded bricks. There was another side-tunnel here, one of several they’d passed since they’d set out on this fool’s errand. Vhael knelt beside some of the remains, carefully examining the debris, and the marks upon the floor nearby.
The halfling came up holding something—a broken piece of arrow, not much except for a bit of wood and fletching. Vhael accepted it as though it were the most important thing in the world, and he nodded to himself as he rose. He showed it to the wizard, who said, “Hobgoblin make.”
Carzen let out an exasperated sigh. “It’s just a piece of arrow… we don’t know how long it’s been down here, or whether it was used by the raiders, our raiders. What does that prove?”
“The tracks are fairly recent,” the halfling scout said. “As are those bodies. I’m not sure what they were…”
“Kruthik, unless I miss my guess,” the dwarf interjected.
The halfling nodded, although Carzen had never heard of them. The scout went on, “A group stopped here, after the battle. At least one of them was seriously injured, but he left under his own power.”
“How can you know that?” Carzen asked, but he could sense that he was losing the argument; all the others were looking at him, even Gez nodding along with the halfling’s words.
The scout pointed to a spot along the wall a few paces back. “There’s some bloodstains there, enough to indicate that whoever left them was in pretty bad shape. Scratches where metal—probably armor, or the haft of a weapon—scraped against the wall. If the body had been picked up, or dragged, there would likely be signs, and there certainly would have been a blood trail. I think that it was a group of raiders, a pretty good-sized party, and that they had prisoners with them. Some of the footmarks are too close together to have been left by hobgoblins.”
Another problem with the halfling’s logic occurred to Carzen, but this time he held his tongue. He looked at Vhael, who looked down the tunnel ahead, thoughtful, a faint rumbling coming from deep inside his chest.
“We move out,” he finally said.
Is it just me, or has the SH forum gotten real quiet of late? I'm still seeing new stories posted, but it seems to be taking much longer for threads to drop down the page lately. I remember where I could go a few days without a post and end up at the bottom of the page.
* * * * *
Chapter 8
Carzen swallowed at the thought of the weight of all of the stone piled on top of them. This tunnel, a broad avenue cut into the side of the mountain like a knife, lined with bricks the size of a man’s forearm, looked as though it had existed unaltered for centuries, but for the warrior, that was little consolation. Men were not meant to come into these deep places under the world. That was the province of dwarves, orcs, and other creatures of darkness, and he was happy to leave it to them.
The eerie features of the tunnel did not reassure him. The entrance, a black opening that gaped in the surface of a cliff at the summit of the Khel Vale, had been flanked by a pair of massive statues, fearsome minotaurs bearing great axes and depicted in suits of armor that flowed oddly over their huge bodies. Those had been imposing enough, but they had been much preferable to the vividly imagined carvings of demonic figures that marked the tunnel proper at regular intervals. There was light, as well, green flames that sprang from copper lanterns that were positioned in niches every fifty paces or so, their radiance adding to the unreality of the place. Gez had asked about these, how they were kept fueled, and the dwarf wizard had indicated that they were magic, burning endlessly without intervention.
The answer had not pleased Carzen. He had grown up around magic, what with his brother and sister both studying the Art since childhood, but he had never been able to grasp it, and he profoundly mistrusted things that he could not himself touch with his hands.
Things like his sword, which he frequently touched with his hand, seizing the hilt, or idly toying with the fittings of the scabbard.
He was not a coward; he’d proven that in the battle with the wyvern. But Carzen Zelos was quick to judge things that did not fit into his perception of how the world should work. And this dragonborn, Vhael, was quickly moving out of that favored category in the young man’s mind.
The company moved single file, even though the tunnel, stretching nearly thirty feet across, could have accommodated all of them had they chosen to walk side-by-side. There was little conversation; words spoken here carried oddly off the brick walls, and occasionally distant echoes filtered back to them, noises that they could not identify, let alone gauge their source. Only that idiot halfling—the mentally defective one—seemed comfortable in these surroundings, peering around with wide eyes like some yokel that had been invited into Moonstone Keep on a feastday. He had even clambered onto one of the demon statues, crawling over it like a child, ignoring all of their warnings until finally Vhael had barked a command. At least he listened to the dragonborn.
Gez muttered something under his breath, probably an invocation to one of his alien gods. Carzen had interacted little with the Issandrian before the wyvern ambush; although the man had been a guardsman at Fallcrest for almost two years, he’d said maybe ten words to him before he’d been picked for this mission. Before his father had picked him. Lord Zelos had not deigned to provide his son with insights as to his reasoning, so Carzen had had to make the best of things. At least he’d known the others that had been chosen better, and in fact had got along well enough with Ladren and Chaffin, both of whom had been players of dragonshard. Now that he was an officer he couldn’t take their money, but it was still fun to drink and tell stories in the company of good men.
Except now that they were dead, all of them. And he was stuck with an Issandrian, a pair of halflings, a dwarf, and a dictatorial dragonborn who still thought he was a general in the great wars. Wars that had ended before Carzen had even been born.
He forced himself to meet Gez’s eyes and make a reassuring smile. Issandrians were known for their quick fingers—one watched their purse closely when around them—and their limited habits of personal hygiene, but at least the man was still one of them, a man of Fallcrest even if a foreigner by birth. It wouldn’t hurt to have an ally if things came to a head with the dragonborn.
Even as the thought passed through his mind, the scaly raised a hand, calling a stop. Carzen moved forward enough to see that the halfling scout was coming back; he was a slippery one, disappearing quickly from view when he didn’t want to be seen. He reported quietly to the scaly. Carzen came closer, but Vhael didn’t elect to share what he’d learned, and merely gestured them forward, the halfling moving ahead again to take the lead. The nobleman clenched his teeth in frustration, and glanced at Gez, rolling his eyes in exaggerated fashion with a nod of his head at the dragonborn’s back. The Issandrian grinned, but he held an arrow fitted to the string of his bow as they continued their movement down the tunnel.
They came to what the halfling had found a few minutes later. The stink alerted them first, although there wasn’t much of whatever had caused it left, just some bones, bits of fur, and some bloodstains on the faded bricks. There was another side-tunnel here, one of several they’d passed since they’d set out on this fool’s errand. Vhael knelt beside some of the remains, carefully examining the debris, and the marks upon the floor nearby.
The halfling came up holding something—a broken piece of arrow, not much except for a bit of wood and fletching. Vhael accepted it as though it were the most important thing in the world, and he nodded to himself as he rose. He showed it to the wizard, who said, “Hobgoblin make.”
Carzen let out an exasperated sigh. “It’s just a piece of arrow… we don’t know how long it’s been down here, or whether it was used by the raiders, our raiders. What does that prove?”
“The tracks are fairly recent,” the halfling scout said. “As are those bodies. I’m not sure what they were…”
“Kruthik, unless I miss my guess,” the dwarf interjected.
The halfling nodded, although Carzen had never heard of them. The scout went on, “A group stopped here, after the battle. At least one of them was seriously injured, but he left under his own power.”
“How can you know that?” Carzen asked, but he could sense that he was losing the argument; all the others were looking at him, even Gez nodding along with the halfling’s words.
The scout pointed to a spot along the wall a few paces back. “There’s some bloodstains there, enough to indicate that whoever left them was in pretty bad shape. Scratches where metal—probably armor, or the haft of a weapon—scraped against the wall. If the body had been picked up, or dragged, there would likely be signs, and there certainly would have been a blood trail. I think that it was a group of raiders, a pretty good-sized party, and that they had prisoners with them. Some of the footmarks are too close together to have been left by hobgoblins.”
Another problem with the halfling’s logic occurred to Carzen, but this time he held his tongue. He looked at Vhael, who looked down the tunnel ahead, thoughtful, a faint rumbling coming from deep inside his chest.
“We move out,” he finally said.
Richard Rawen
First Post
[sblock=pointless ramble lol]
I know what you're talking about on the post rates. I've been busier of late, I find it difficult to maintain a couple of PbP's and have limited myself to just two story hours, I've even missed yours for over a week... though it is very satisfying to sit and read several posts straight =0)
Hard to connect the economy, but many people seem to be buying into the media's Negative onslaught, Doom and Gloom are the watchwords of the day!
Meh... Life gets hard, the wimps whimper with their hands out and the rest of us keep moving.
'nuff babble, I know there's less time for me but your SH will always be part of my regular ritual, thanks for taking the time to write it, I'm sure there's many other readers - lurkers perhaps.
Honestly sometimes I feel like I'm over-posting... c'mon you lurkers! Do your part =-)
k, gonna sblock this ramble, don't want to ruin the story flow![/sblock]
NP on the well-deserved praise.
I know what you're talking about on the post rates. I've been busier of late, I find it difficult to maintain a couple of PbP's and have limited myself to just two story hours, I've even missed yours for over a week... though it is very satisfying to sit and read several posts straight =0)
Hard to connect the economy, but many people seem to be buying into the media's Negative onslaught, Doom and Gloom are the watchwords of the day!
Meh... Life gets hard, the wimps whimper with their hands out and the rest of us keep moving.
'nuff babble, I know there's less time for me but your SH will always be part of my regular ritual, thanks for taking the time to write it, I'm sure there's many other readers - lurkers perhaps.
Honestly sometimes I feel like I'm over-posting... c'mon you lurkers! Do your part =-)
k, gonna sblock this ramble, don't want to ruin the story flow![/sblock]
/delurk
Part of it may be economy - more time working for less/equivalent money means less time for gaming - less time for gaming means less material for story hours - less material for story hours means fewer updates in the same time span - fewer updates means fewer people coming back to read on a regular basis - fewer people coming back regularly means fewer posts in a given SH thread - which means that some authors get discouraged about their SH.
It's tough starting a new SH if you've got more limited game time - you have less material, so you need to stretch it out, which either means smaller updates and/or updates further apart. Unless it's a Play-by-Post game, which means it inherently takes longer to accomplish the same amount of progress.
Also, taking the kind of exhaustive notes that are required for an accurate SH isn't fun - I know that I was considering doing an SH based off a FR game I'm in - first session, fairly detailed notes, second session, pretty detailed still, third session quality really started dropping, and lately I've barely been bullet pointing things that go on, and not including much detail. I've since discarded that plan. Might do a SH if I run a campaign, though.
Anybody who can pull off a SH has my utmost respect, because it's a serious PITA to pull off a SH, much less a really good SH that has pretty reliable updates.
This is a really good SH with quite reliable updates; just like every other SH of yours that I've read, Lazybones. Props, kudos, etc. to you LB, for doing what you do so well.
/relurk
Part of it may be economy - more time working for less/equivalent money means less time for gaming - less time for gaming means less material for story hours - less material for story hours means fewer updates in the same time span - fewer updates means fewer people coming back to read on a regular basis - fewer people coming back regularly means fewer posts in a given SH thread - which means that some authors get discouraged about their SH.
It's tough starting a new SH if you've got more limited game time - you have less material, so you need to stretch it out, which either means smaller updates and/or updates further apart. Unless it's a Play-by-Post game, which means it inherently takes longer to accomplish the same amount of progress.
Also, taking the kind of exhaustive notes that are required for an accurate SH isn't fun - I know that I was considering doing an SH based off a FR game I'm in - first session, fairly detailed notes, second session, pretty detailed still, third session quality really started dropping, and lately I've barely been bullet pointing things that go on, and not including much detail. I've since discarded that plan. Might do a SH if I run a campaign, though.
Anybody who can pull off a SH has my utmost respect, because it's a serious PITA to pull off a SH, much less a really good SH that has pretty reliable updates.
This is a really good SH with quite reliable updates; just like every other SH of yours that I've read, Lazybones. Props, kudos, etc. to you LB, for doing what you do so well.
/relurk
Lazybones
Adventurer
Gah, no time to write lately. Digging deep into my reserve of chapters...
* * * * *
Chapter 9
Carzen Zelos drew off his helm, and wiped the sweat from his brow. It was not warm, not deep in the depths under the surface of the world, but they’d been walking for hours since they’d first entered the dark opening in the side of Thunderspire, and Vhael had set a hard pace. He had no idea what time it was, or how many hours they’d been down here altogether.
“Stay together,” came the dragonborn’s voice from ahead, though he had not even turned to see Carzen’s pause. The young nobleman stifled a curse and hurried forward to catch up with the rest of the group.
They’d been negotiating a slope for a good fraction of the last hour, following the main tunnel as it wound back and forth, in what Carzen recognized as the equivalent of switchbacks. They had passed more dark side-passages, but Vhael had kept them straight on the main corridor, following the regular incidence of demon statues and magical green flames.
Finally they paused, Vhael and his wizard stopping to confer at one of the bends in the tunnel. Gez and the halfling scout were nearby. The other halfling was nowhere to be seen, but the little bastard always turned up where you least expected it. “How far down does this go?” Carzen asked.
For a moment he thought that the others would ignore him again, but then the dwarf looked up. “The labyrinth is quite extensive,” he said. “Our destination, the Seven-Pillared Hall, is far from the deepest place under Thunderspire. We will be there shortly.”
Carzen grimaced; he suspected that he and the wizard had differing definitions of “shortly.” He leaned against the nearest wall and rubbed at the muscles of his legs, then bent to take off one of his boots.
“We’re not stopping,” Vhael said, and started down the next leg of the descending tunnel. Carzen had no choice but to follow.
After the next bend in the tunnel the passage straightened out and resumed a more or less level course ahead. The change caused new muscles in Carzen’s legs to start throbbing, but he tightened his jaw and forced himself to keep up. The halfling scout shot a look at him but turned back at Carzen’s scowl; the little bastard had short legs, but he wasn’t wearing thirty pounds of metal, and a twenty pound pack, so he had no right to fault him.
When Vhael called a halt about a thousand paces later, Carzen almost didn’t notice, and he had to shift suddenly to avoid tripping over Gezzelhaupt. The easterner nodded an apology and moved out of the way, and Carzen had to bite back an irate comment. He saw that Vhael was talking to the halfling and the dwarf, who pointed to the tunnel ahead and said something in response to a question that Carzen had missed.
He felt an odd instinct that something subtle had changed, and after a moment he realized that there was a faint but familiar change in the air, a hint of a smell that was strangely similar to that of Fallcrest. The stink of civilization, he thought to himself wryly, a reek that was identical whether it existed in the sunlit Vale above, or in this gods-forsaken pit deep underground.
“So we’re almost there?” he asked, coming up to join the others, forcing himself to walk as though his feet didn’t hurt and a million pounds of earth weren’t looming over his head.
Vhael didn’t answer his question directly, but he said, “When we get to the Seven-Pillared Hall, you will pay close heed to Gral and myself. We have been here before; you have not. Do not wander off; do not speak to anyone without direction. This place has its own unique customs and rules, and both are very unforgiving of ignorant outsiders.”
Carzen felt a stab of anger at the dragonborn’s words, but he forced himself to smile. “Sure thing, chief,” he said, taking some gratification at the dark look that flashed in the scaly’s beady eyes.
Vhael’s response, however, was interrupted by a sharp tug on his hauberk. He looked down in surprise, and Carzen followed his gaze to see the other halfling, the weird one, standing in the shadow of the big dragonborn. As usual, he’d come out of nowhere.
“What is it?” Vhael asked. For once, the halfling looked earnest, and he pointed back down the passage behind them, where a dark side tunnel they’d just passed was just barely visible.
“Some hobgoblins are beating up a halfling,” he said. “Come quick!”
* * * * *
Chapter 9
Carzen Zelos drew off his helm, and wiped the sweat from his brow. It was not warm, not deep in the depths under the surface of the world, but they’d been walking for hours since they’d first entered the dark opening in the side of Thunderspire, and Vhael had set a hard pace. He had no idea what time it was, or how many hours they’d been down here altogether.
“Stay together,” came the dragonborn’s voice from ahead, though he had not even turned to see Carzen’s pause. The young nobleman stifled a curse and hurried forward to catch up with the rest of the group.
They’d been negotiating a slope for a good fraction of the last hour, following the main tunnel as it wound back and forth, in what Carzen recognized as the equivalent of switchbacks. They had passed more dark side-passages, but Vhael had kept them straight on the main corridor, following the regular incidence of demon statues and magical green flames.
Finally they paused, Vhael and his wizard stopping to confer at one of the bends in the tunnel. Gez and the halfling scout were nearby. The other halfling was nowhere to be seen, but the little bastard always turned up where you least expected it. “How far down does this go?” Carzen asked.
For a moment he thought that the others would ignore him again, but then the dwarf looked up. “The labyrinth is quite extensive,” he said. “Our destination, the Seven-Pillared Hall, is far from the deepest place under Thunderspire. We will be there shortly.”
Carzen grimaced; he suspected that he and the wizard had differing definitions of “shortly.” He leaned against the nearest wall and rubbed at the muscles of his legs, then bent to take off one of his boots.
“We’re not stopping,” Vhael said, and started down the next leg of the descending tunnel. Carzen had no choice but to follow.
After the next bend in the tunnel the passage straightened out and resumed a more or less level course ahead. The change caused new muscles in Carzen’s legs to start throbbing, but he tightened his jaw and forced himself to keep up. The halfling scout shot a look at him but turned back at Carzen’s scowl; the little bastard had short legs, but he wasn’t wearing thirty pounds of metal, and a twenty pound pack, so he had no right to fault him.
When Vhael called a halt about a thousand paces later, Carzen almost didn’t notice, and he had to shift suddenly to avoid tripping over Gezzelhaupt. The easterner nodded an apology and moved out of the way, and Carzen had to bite back an irate comment. He saw that Vhael was talking to the halfling and the dwarf, who pointed to the tunnel ahead and said something in response to a question that Carzen had missed.
He felt an odd instinct that something subtle had changed, and after a moment he realized that there was a faint but familiar change in the air, a hint of a smell that was strangely similar to that of Fallcrest. The stink of civilization, he thought to himself wryly, a reek that was identical whether it existed in the sunlit Vale above, or in this gods-forsaken pit deep underground.
“So we’re almost there?” he asked, coming up to join the others, forcing himself to walk as though his feet didn’t hurt and a million pounds of earth weren’t looming over his head.
Vhael didn’t answer his question directly, but he said, “When we get to the Seven-Pillared Hall, you will pay close heed to Gral and myself. We have been here before; you have not. Do not wander off; do not speak to anyone without direction. This place has its own unique customs and rules, and both are very unforgiving of ignorant outsiders.”
Carzen felt a stab of anger at the dragonborn’s words, but he forced himself to smile. “Sure thing, chief,” he said, taking some gratification at the dark look that flashed in the scaly’s beady eyes.
Vhael’s response, however, was interrupted by a sharp tug on his hauberk. He looked down in surprise, and Carzen followed his gaze to see the other halfling, the weird one, standing in the shadow of the big dragonborn. As usual, he’d come out of nowhere.
“What is it?” Vhael asked. For once, the halfling looked earnest, and he pointed back down the passage behind them, where a dark side tunnel they’d just passed was just barely visible.
“Some hobgoblins are beating up a halfling,” he said. “Come quick!”
So I'll take up Richard's challenge and delurk for a moment. This may be only the 2nd or 3rd time that I've ever posted a comment. Once to compliment Piratecat on his storyhour, once to compliment Sagiro on his, and now finally to lend my admiration to you Lazybones. Truly fantastic writing. I applaud you and your efforts. Your previous storyhours have been amongst my favorites and I hope that you continue. I especially enjoy the interesting things you can do given that you are writing a narrative without players involved. That seems to allow for possibilities that would be difficult to pull off at a table with players.
That's it for me. Maybe I'll have another post in another 2 years or so.
That's it for me. Maybe I'll have another post in another 2 years or so.
Lazybones
Adventurer
Thanks for coming out of lurkerdom for the praise, Oversight. I appreciate it.
And Neurotic, perhaps part of my position in the SH forum is simply outlasting most of the other longtime posters.
* * * * *
Chapter 10
Beetle led them forward almost at a run, barely pausing at intersections to ensure that they were following before shooting off again down another tunnel. The route off the main tunnel was truly a labyrinth, and they’d barely gone five hundred paces before they’d had to decide between at least a half-dozen tunnels and branching side-corridors. The passages were much tighter here, and some of the openings they’d passed were little more than cracks that might have led nowhere—or to some other mysterious place far from here.
Jaron wondered just how far afield Beetle had gone in his wanderings, and how he’d managed to avoid getting lost in this warren. He glanced back at his companions, and saw that the dwarf was making markings on a small piece of parchment. He nodded to himself; the dragonborn and his wizard were cautious veterans, and would not plunge headlong into danger.
Vhael now held a torch, the bright flame driving back the darkness in a ring around them. His eyes were wary, probing, and he glanced down at Jaron, briefly meeting his gaze as if evaluating the trustworthiness of his cousin through him. Jaron didn’t know what to say in response, so he turned back and hastened to the last bend ahead around which Beetle had most recently vanished.
He rounded it to see his cousin stopped about forty feet ahead. The tunnel continued on ahead, but there was an alcove there, from which a slab of light stabbed out into the passage, as though a doorway.
Jaron quickly dropped back around the corner to where the others were rapidly approaching. “Light ahead!” he whispered, loud enough for them to hear, but not for the sound to carry off the walls of the tunnel.
Vhael doused his torch at once, and darkness rushed in to embrace them. The dragonborn continued ahead much more slowly, unlimbering the big sword from across his back. The others followed, careful not to make any noises that might alert the foe, even the nobleman carefully pressing his weapons against his legs to keep them from jostling and making noise.
Jaron hurried ahead toward Beetle. His cousin saw him coming and raised his finger to his lips. Before Jaron could do anything to stop him, he then darted into the alcove. Jaron rushed after him, but stopped before following him into the lighted space beyond; he could hear voices now, harsh, guttural sounds speaking a language with which he was all too familiar.
“Goblins,” he muttered to himself.
He raised a hand to warn the others, in case they’d missed hearing it themselves, then slowly edged forward, until he could peer into the alcove without drawing the attention of those inside.
There was a set of heavy double doors there, ill-fitting and obviously old, quite the worse for wear. They stood partially open, the light slanting out through the gap into the tunnel passage. Beetle had vanished through the opening, and with a silent curse, Jaron crept silently up to the door, the muffled steps of his companions behind him sounding deafeningly loud to his ears. But the conversation beyond did not break off, and there were no shouts of alarm.
Moving slowly, so as not to draw any eyes that might be looking in his direction, he leaned forward and peered through the gap in the doors.
The chamber was irregularly shaped, its corners cluttered with old crates and debris of furniture, including a few small rickety tables. A row of huge wooden kegs ran along the wall to his right, almost big enough to reach the ceiling, their slats cracked and obviously empty. There was no sign of Beetle, but Jaron couldn’t spare much thought for his cousin at the moment; the five hobgoblins in the room drew his more immediate attention.
Four of them were soldiers, by the look of them, their shields and heavy flails slung across their broad backs but within easy reach in case of trouble. They stood in a rough line, facing away from the door, toward the far side of the room. One was bent over something, and it took Jaron a moment to realize that it was a prone figure, small enough to only be the halfling that Beetle had mentioned earlier.
“Not speak so bold now,” the soldier looming over the halfling grunted. He kicked the halfling, who appeared to be unconscious.
“The Grimmerzhul will scour his pride from him,” the last occupant of the room hissed. He was a tall but lean hobgoblin, his exposed skin covered with a crisscross hatching of scars old and new, clad in a drape of old leather over a hauberk of metal rings. Jaron didn’t need to see the tiny fetishes woven into his hair or the markings carved into his long hooked staff to recognize this foe as a warcaster; the ranger had met his type before, and knew enough to recognize how dangerous this enemy was. Obviously, he was the leader of this group.
For the moment, the hobgoblins were oblivious to the threat lurking just a few feet away, but Jaron knew that their advantage would not last long. Even if his companions did not give themselves away with a too-loud whisper or a clank of metal, hobgoblins were not known to be careless, and now that the distraction of the halfling prisoner had been taken care of, it was almost certain that they would return their vigilance to the gates to their lair.
And there was Beetle, of course, who as always was the unpredictable wild card in this situation.
Jaron drew back, again careful to move slowly. Vhael was there, looming over him, careful not to place any part of his body or his gear in the line of sight of the opening in the door. He’d heard the voices, Jaron had no doubt, although he did not know if the dragonborn understood the goblinoid speech.
He leaned in close and stood on his toes, and Vhael bent slightly, so that his ear was just inches from the halfling’s mouth.
“Four soldiers, in a row, backs to the door. A warcaster, far side of the room, looking in this general direction. Unconscious halfling prisoner on the floor, between them.”
Vhael nodded. He seemed to have come to the same conclusion that Jaron had a moment ago, and did not wait to brief the others. Instead he communicated through a series of curt but clear gestures that Carzen, Jaron, and Gezzelhaupt were to ready missile weapons, and await his signal. Gez slipped across the shaft of light to the far side of the doors, and fitted an arrow to his bow. Gral required no direction; the dwarf merely took up a position behind the dragonborn and waited.
The preparation took all of two seconds, and then the warlord was moving, driving forward with his shoulder lowered. The doors crashed open and the dragonborn hurled forward into the room, his sword slicing out of its scabbard and up into a ready position even as the hobgoblins, startled by the sudden appearance of two hundred and fifty pounds of armored fury, spun in the direction of the threat. Instead of charging blindly forward, Vhael quickly recovered and shifted to the left. Immediately a flurry of missiles shot through the space he’d just vacated. Gezzelhaupt’s shot narrowly missed its target, but Carzen’s javelin thudded hard into the hobgoblin’s shoulder a fraction of a second later. The missile failed to penetrate the soldier’s heavy armor, but by the way that the hobgoblin snarled in pain, it had clearly hurt him. A second hobgoblin standing in front of the kegs took an arrow from Jaron’s bow a moment later, the shaft penetrating the thinner armor protecting his side as he turned. The hobgoblin got his shield up, but it was obvious that the halfling’s shot had hurt him badly.
Their situation deteriorated further a moment later as Gral hurled a pair of icy rays at the two injured soldiers. The magical blasts painted a rime of frost across their breastplates, the chill penetrating to the bone. Neither hobgoblin fell, but both were now bloodied, and in dire shape.
But the hobgoblins were tough and disciplined foes, and they quickly reacted to the surprise attack. The two that had not been hit in the initial attack moved quickly to join their fellows, unlimbering their heavy shields to form a line. Trained and drilled in phalanx tactics, the soldiers would have made a strong force had they had time to get organized.
Vhael, however, did not give the enemy those critical seconds they needed. The dragonborn surged forward in the wake of his allies’ missiles, and drove his sword down into the more seriously wounded of the two hobgoblins. The edge of the greatsword came down under the soldier’s shield and clove deep into his shoulder, crunching through mail, leather, cloth, and flesh, finally cracking the clavicle under the sheer force of the impact. The hobgoblin, for all his discipline, could not choke off a cry of pain that turned into a gurgle as he staggered backward and fell. Vhael wrenched his blade free as he collapsed, bright droplets of blood flashing as he recovered into a defensive stance, challenging the three survivors to do anything about it.
The warcaster had recovered quickly from his initial surprise, but as his shoulders shifted to face the attack, he caught a hint of motion out of the corner of his eye. He looked down to see a long leather throng that trailed across the floor. One end was looped around the unconscious halfling prisoner’s wrist, while the other vanished into the narrow gap between the broken kegs and the chamber wall. There was a faint flicker of movement there, and the line suddenly drew taut; the prisoner started to slide across the floor.
The hobgoblin snarled and lifted his staff, speaking a guttural word of command. Magic flowed at his command, and the big tuns suddenly lurched within their bracing; the one at the end slid free as its frame snapped, and it crumpled as it hit the floor.
But the damage was incidental to the warcaster’s intent. As the keg disintegrated a small figure shot out from the wreckage, landing awkwardly with arms spread wide upon the floor just a few paces in front of the hobgoblin.
Beetle looked up at the hobgoblin, who hefted his staff like a weapon. Bright flickers of electric energy danced around its tip.
“Uh oh,” the halfling said.
And Neurotic, perhaps part of my position in the SH forum is simply outlasting most of the other longtime posters.
* * * * *
Chapter 10
Beetle led them forward almost at a run, barely pausing at intersections to ensure that they were following before shooting off again down another tunnel. The route off the main tunnel was truly a labyrinth, and they’d barely gone five hundred paces before they’d had to decide between at least a half-dozen tunnels and branching side-corridors. The passages were much tighter here, and some of the openings they’d passed were little more than cracks that might have led nowhere—or to some other mysterious place far from here.
Jaron wondered just how far afield Beetle had gone in his wanderings, and how he’d managed to avoid getting lost in this warren. He glanced back at his companions, and saw that the dwarf was making markings on a small piece of parchment. He nodded to himself; the dragonborn and his wizard were cautious veterans, and would not plunge headlong into danger.
Vhael now held a torch, the bright flame driving back the darkness in a ring around them. His eyes were wary, probing, and he glanced down at Jaron, briefly meeting his gaze as if evaluating the trustworthiness of his cousin through him. Jaron didn’t know what to say in response, so he turned back and hastened to the last bend ahead around which Beetle had most recently vanished.
He rounded it to see his cousin stopped about forty feet ahead. The tunnel continued on ahead, but there was an alcove there, from which a slab of light stabbed out into the passage, as though a doorway.
Jaron quickly dropped back around the corner to where the others were rapidly approaching. “Light ahead!” he whispered, loud enough for them to hear, but not for the sound to carry off the walls of the tunnel.
Vhael doused his torch at once, and darkness rushed in to embrace them. The dragonborn continued ahead much more slowly, unlimbering the big sword from across his back. The others followed, careful not to make any noises that might alert the foe, even the nobleman carefully pressing his weapons against his legs to keep them from jostling and making noise.
Jaron hurried ahead toward Beetle. His cousin saw him coming and raised his finger to his lips. Before Jaron could do anything to stop him, he then darted into the alcove. Jaron rushed after him, but stopped before following him into the lighted space beyond; he could hear voices now, harsh, guttural sounds speaking a language with which he was all too familiar.
“Goblins,” he muttered to himself.
He raised a hand to warn the others, in case they’d missed hearing it themselves, then slowly edged forward, until he could peer into the alcove without drawing the attention of those inside.
There was a set of heavy double doors there, ill-fitting and obviously old, quite the worse for wear. They stood partially open, the light slanting out through the gap into the tunnel passage. Beetle had vanished through the opening, and with a silent curse, Jaron crept silently up to the door, the muffled steps of his companions behind him sounding deafeningly loud to his ears. But the conversation beyond did not break off, and there were no shouts of alarm.
Moving slowly, so as not to draw any eyes that might be looking in his direction, he leaned forward and peered through the gap in the doors.
The chamber was irregularly shaped, its corners cluttered with old crates and debris of furniture, including a few small rickety tables. A row of huge wooden kegs ran along the wall to his right, almost big enough to reach the ceiling, their slats cracked and obviously empty. There was no sign of Beetle, but Jaron couldn’t spare much thought for his cousin at the moment; the five hobgoblins in the room drew his more immediate attention.
Four of them were soldiers, by the look of them, their shields and heavy flails slung across their broad backs but within easy reach in case of trouble. They stood in a rough line, facing away from the door, toward the far side of the room. One was bent over something, and it took Jaron a moment to realize that it was a prone figure, small enough to only be the halfling that Beetle had mentioned earlier.
“Not speak so bold now,” the soldier looming over the halfling grunted. He kicked the halfling, who appeared to be unconscious.
“The Grimmerzhul will scour his pride from him,” the last occupant of the room hissed. He was a tall but lean hobgoblin, his exposed skin covered with a crisscross hatching of scars old and new, clad in a drape of old leather over a hauberk of metal rings. Jaron didn’t need to see the tiny fetishes woven into his hair or the markings carved into his long hooked staff to recognize this foe as a warcaster; the ranger had met his type before, and knew enough to recognize how dangerous this enemy was. Obviously, he was the leader of this group.
For the moment, the hobgoblins were oblivious to the threat lurking just a few feet away, but Jaron knew that their advantage would not last long. Even if his companions did not give themselves away with a too-loud whisper or a clank of metal, hobgoblins were not known to be careless, and now that the distraction of the halfling prisoner had been taken care of, it was almost certain that they would return their vigilance to the gates to their lair.
And there was Beetle, of course, who as always was the unpredictable wild card in this situation.
Jaron drew back, again careful to move slowly. Vhael was there, looming over him, careful not to place any part of his body or his gear in the line of sight of the opening in the door. He’d heard the voices, Jaron had no doubt, although he did not know if the dragonborn understood the goblinoid speech.
He leaned in close and stood on his toes, and Vhael bent slightly, so that his ear was just inches from the halfling’s mouth.
“Four soldiers, in a row, backs to the door. A warcaster, far side of the room, looking in this general direction. Unconscious halfling prisoner on the floor, between them.”
Vhael nodded. He seemed to have come to the same conclusion that Jaron had a moment ago, and did not wait to brief the others. Instead he communicated through a series of curt but clear gestures that Carzen, Jaron, and Gezzelhaupt were to ready missile weapons, and await his signal. Gez slipped across the shaft of light to the far side of the doors, and fitted an arrow to his bow. Gral required no direction; the dwarf merely took up a position behind the dragonborn and waited.
The preparation took all of two seconds, and then the warlord was moving, driving forward with his shoulder lowered. The doors crashed open and the dragonborn hurled forward into the room, his sword slicing out of its scabbard and up into a ready position even as the hobgoblins, startled by the sudden appearance of two hundred and fifty pounds of armored fury, spun in the direction of the threat. Instead of charging blindly forward, Vhael quickly recovered and shifted to the left. Immediately a flurry of missiles shot through the space he’d just vacated. Gezzelhaupt’s shot narrowly missed its target, but Carzen’s javelin thudded hard into the hobgoblin’s shoulder a fraction of a second later. The missile failed to penetrate the soldier’s heavy armor, but by the way that the hobgoblin snarled in pain, it had clearly hurt him. A second hobgoblin standing in front of the kegs took an arrow from Jaron’s bow a moment later, the shaft penetrating the thinner armor protecting his side as he turned. The hobgoblin got his shield up, but it was obvious that the halfling’s shot had hurt him badly.
Their situation deteriorated further a moment later as Gral hurled a pair of icy rays at the two injured soldiers. The magical blasts painted a rime of frost across their breastplates, the chill penetrating to the bone. Neither hobgoblin fell, but both were now bloodied, and in dire shape.
But the hobgoblins were tough and disciplined foes, and they quickly reacted to the surprise attack. The two that had not been hit in the initial attack moved quickly to join their fellows, unlimbering their heavy shields to form a line. Trained and drilled in phalanx tactics, the soldiers would have made a strong force had they had time to get organized.
Vhael, however, did not give the enemy those critical seconds they needed. The dragonborn surged forward in the wake of his allies’ missiles, and drove his sword down into the more seriously wounded of the two hobgoblins. The edge of the greatsword came down under the soldier’s shield and clove deep into his shoulder, crunching through mail, leather, cloth, and flesh, finally cracking the clavicle under the sheer force of the impact. The hobgoblin, for all his discipline, could not choke off a cry of pain that turned into a gurgle as he staggered backward and fell. Vhael wrenched his blade free as he collapsed, bright droplets of blood flashing as he recovered into a defensive stance, challenging the three survivors to do anything about it.
The warcaster had recovered quickly from his initial surprise, but as his shoulders shifted to face the attack, he caught a hint of motion out of the corner of his eye. He looked down to see a long leather throng that trailed across the floor. One end was looped around the unconscious halfling prisoner’s wrist, while the other vanished into the narrow gap between the broken kegs and the chamber wall. There was a faint flicker of movement there, and the line suddenly drew taut; the prisoner started to slide across the floor.
The hobgoblin snarled and lifted his staff, speaking a guttural word of command. Magic flowed at his command, and the big tuns suddenly lurched within their bracing; the one at the end slid free as its frame snapped, and it crumpled as it hit the floor.
But the damage was incidental to the warcaster’s intent. As the keg disintegrated a small figure shot out from the wreckage, landing awkwardly with arms spread wide upon the floor just a few paces in front of the hobgoblin.
Beetle looked up at the hobgoblin, who hefted his staff like a weapon. Bright flickers of electric energy danced around its tip.
“Uh oh,” the halfling said.
Lazybones
Adventurer
Chapter 11
Vhael had broken the hobgoblin line before it could form, but he surviving three soldiers were quick to lay into him with everything they had.
The one to his right was wounded, favoring the side where Jaron had shot him, but he let out a vicious cry as he lifted his flail and slammed it down toward the dragonborn’s head. Vhael met the blow with his sword, deflecting the heavy swinging end of the flail. The spiked bar slid down and gashed Vhael’s fingers on the hilt, but the only sign that the warlord felt the pain was a slight shifting of his bloody hands on the hilt of the weapon as he spun to face the next attack.
The second parry came too late, as a second hobgoblin brought his flail up under his guard and smashed the head into his side. This time Vhael could not disguise the effect of the hit, and he grunted as the air was knocked from his body. The third hobgoblin came in behind his fellow and tried to put a finishing blow to the foe, but somehow Vhael was able to duck under the swung, which whistled through the air scant inches above his head.
With the initial advantage of surprise fading, the warlord was seriously outnumbered, but his companions were quick to come to his aid. As the first hobgoblin sought to follow up his initial attack another arrow slammed into his left leg just above the knee. Jaron had moved into the room, and had taken up a shooting position to the right of the doors that gave him a clear shot without risking hitting Vhael. But that also blocked his view of what was happening on the far side of the room, where chaotic noises suggested that Beetle was right in the middle of whatever the warcaster was up to.
“Hooo!” Beetle cried, as the warcaster’s staff thrust through air his head had occupied a fraction of a second earlier. The halfling had pulled himself into a crouch, but he was forced to bend backwards to avoid the attack, the back of his head almost touching the ground as his body formed an arch. The hobgoblin drew back his staff and lifted it to slam it down like a club, but the halfling shifted his balance like a taut bowstring suddenly released, shooting forward under the warcaster’s guard, and snapping out with a leg as he tumbled between his legs. The hobgoblin fell forward, landing face-first onto the ground where his magic had planted the halfling just a few moments before.
Vhael took another hit as the hobgoblin soldiers continued to harry him; the dragonborn was yielding ground now, moving back as the hobgoblins coordinated their attacks to bypass his guard without compromising their own defenses. The third soldier had disengaged from the melee, but only to turn toward the archers near the doorway. But before he could attack, Carzen Zelos came to him, his shield now in place on his left arm, drawing his sword with his right as he rushed forward. The hobgoblin was ready for him, but Carzen deflected the head of the flail with his shield and drove his sword into the soldier’s gut with a perfect thrust that sent him bleeding to the floor.
“Take one of them alive!” Vhael said, even as he parried another strike from a hobgoblin flail.
Beetle let out a yell as he sprang up and leapt at the fallen warcaster’s back, a knife appearing in his hand from one of the several sheaths he kept secreted about his person. But the hobgoblin proved to be faster than he looked. As Beetle reached the apogee of his jump and started down, the warcaster rolled and thrust his staff up with one hand. The head collided with Beetle, not hard enough to cause real damage, but there was a flash, a sizzling discharge of energy, and the halfling went flying, bouncing off the nearby wall and landing dazed just a short step from where he’d been standing. The hobgoblin took advantage of the delay to pull himself to his feet, thrusting the staff under him. He glanced back at the battle taking place just a few paces away in the middle of the room, and so it was that he spotted Gral as the dwarf wizard slipped around the melee and approached, stepping over the ruins of the broken cask.
“You will regret coming here,” the creature hissed, the words thickly accented but decipherable. “The Bloodreavers will collect their due from your flesh.”
“We shall see,” was the dwarf’s only response. He stood there, the bottom of his staff tapping slightly against the floor. The warcaster snarled and raised his own staff, summoning a pulse of force energy that he hurled at the wizard. But Gral was ready, and he responded with his own magic, invoking a glowing white shield that deflected the force pulse around him. One of the casks exploded, blasting a storm of splinters out into the room, but the dwarf was unharmed.
“Insufficient,” he said, and he lowered his staff slightly, unleashing a chill strike that drove a hard wedge of magical cold into the hobgoblin’s body. The warcaster raised his arms, crossing them in front of his body, drawing upon every reserve of strength to resist the potency of Gral’s assault. He managed to fight off the worst of it, although his lips chattered slightly as he started forward, obviously intent on engaging the dwarf directly in melee. Once again, Gral merely held his ground and waited, unperturbed despite the disparity in size between the two combatants.
As Carzen joined the melee raging around Vhael, the battle started to turn decisively against the hobgoblins. Jaron had kept up his barrage, placing arrows with precision that shot through the melee to pound into armored bodies, finding the smallest gaps in armor to pierce hobgoblin flesh. The hobgoblins could do nothing to counter, pressed as they were by Vhael. The dragonborn had seemed content to fight defensively, but as Carzen moved adjacent, forcing the nearer hobgoblin to shift to deal with him, Vhael struck. The sword that had been parrying attacks suddenly surged out and down, biting deep into the hobgoblin’s arm. The hobgoblin nearly dropped his weapon, and the attack left and opening that Carzen could not help but exploit, sweeping his blade up in an arc that sliced up through the hobgoblin’s armor and ended by clipping his jaw under the lip of his helmet. The hobgoblin, mortally wounded, staggered back a step and fell.
Vhael turned to demand the surrender of the other, but before he could speak he got a reply in the form of a powerful swipe of his flail. The heavy end of the weapon cracked hard against the side of the dragonborn’s head, and he fell to his knees, dazed by the blow. The soldier didn’t get a chance to finish him, however, as Carzen lowered his shield and surged forward, driving the hobgoblin back a full step, and forcing him to put his efforts into dealing with the fighter.
The warcaster closed to close quarters with Gral, who still had not reacted, even as the hobgoblin lifted his staff to strike. Unfortunately for him, he’d forgotten about Beetle. Even as the staff started down the halfling leapt at him from behind, his knife slicing across one hamstring with lethal efficiency. The warcaster’s attack was spoiled, and only a desperate planting of his staff kept him from falling as the damaged leg gave out under his weight. Unable to turn to deal with Beetle, he fixed a baleful stare at Gral. “To the hells with you,” he hissed.
The wizard said nothing, and watched with a cold expression as Beetle first kicked the hobgoblin’s staff away, then followed him to the ground as he fell, hooting wildly as his dagger thrust repeatedly into the caster’s body until it gleamed bright red down its entire length.
The last hobgoblin found himself outnumbered and outmatched, but to Carzen’s surprise he tossed his shield aside and surged forward with his flail in both hands, sweeping his weapon around in a powerful arc that battered through the fighter’s guard and caromed off his helmet hard enough to strike sparks. Somewhat dazed by the impact, the fighter barely got his sword up in time to meet the soldier’s brazen charge. The two collided and it was Carzen who gave way, stumbling back until the pair hit the solidity of the chamber wall. The hobgoblin snarled at the human, but before Carzen could react he could see the light dying in his foe’s eyes. Through some fluke of luck the creature in his charge had impaled himself on Carzen’s sword, the bright steel sliding up through a gap in his armor. Carzen shook his head to clear it as the hobgoblin slid off the fighter’s bloody blade to land in a clatter of metal upon the stone floor.
Vhael was already on his feet, with Gaz steadying him slightly. The dragonborn glanced around the room, confirming that the threat was over, before turning toward Carzen. “You fought well. But my orders were to take one alive.”
“Maybe the hobgoblin didn’t hear you,” the fighter snapped, his own legs still a bit unsteady as he took out a rag and wiped his blade clean before sliding it back into its scabbard. Vhael’s eyes were like icicles, but he did not respond, and if he was still hurting from the beating he’d taken, he didn’t show it as he walked over to where Gral was kneeling beside the unconscious halfling who’d been held prisoner by the hobgoblins.
“How is he?” Vhael asked. Gral had taken out a small crystal vial, and gently trailed a stream of clear liquid between the halfling’s lips. Jaron and Gez had started to follow, but Vhael gestured for them to take up a warding position at the door, and both headed off in that direction. Beetle stood quietly a few paces away, his face spotted with tiny splatters of bright red blood from the hobgoblin he’d killed.
“He took a savage beating, but he will live,” the wizard replied. “The Small Folk are a durable race,” he said, glancing up briefly at Beetle.
“You did not share that you had healing draughts,” Carzen muttered to Vhael as he came up to where he could watch what was happening. “That information might have been useful.”
Vhael ignored him. He grimaced slightly as he lowered himself to one knee next to Gral and the halfling, but with his back to the others only Beetle could have seen that sign of the pain the warlord was feeling. The unconscious halfling started to stir, groaning as he tentatively reached up and touched his head. “Ow,” he said. He blinked once, twice, and then his eyes widened as he took in those crouched over him.
“Rest easy, lad,” Gral said, while Vhael added, “We mean you no harm.”
The halfling’s expression grew even more surprised as he looked over at Beetle, who smiled and waved. His eyes lingered for a moment on the corpse of the warcaster, from which an arc of red continued to spread across the floor. “Who… who are you people?” he asked.
“We come from Fallcrest,” Vhael said. “We are here seeking prisoners, captured from the surface by slavers.”
“Hmm. Well, I thank you for the help. Name’s Rendil. Rendil Halfmoon. My family runs an inn in the Seven-Pillared Hall.”
Vhael nodded, as if this information was not unexpected. “Are you well enough to travel, master Halfmoon? This does not seem a safe place in which to linger.”
Gral extended a hand, which the halfling accepted gratefully. “No, no it’s not,” Rendil said. “Come on, I can show you the fastest way to the Hall from here.”
Vhael introduced each of them in turn. When he came to Jaron, the scout asked, “Have you seen a column of halfling prisoners, brought from the surface? They would have come through here not long ago, a few days, maybe.”
Rendil shook his head, and grimaced at the sudden pain that followed the movement. “No, but if there’s slaves involved, the Bloodreavers are likely up to their eyeballs in it.”
“The Bloodreavers are the ones we’re after,” Carzen said.
“Oh. Well, they probably took them to the Chamber of Eyes. It’s the main base of the Reavers in the Labyrinth.”
“Can you tell us how to get there?” Vhael asked.
“Sure. I mean, I haven’t been there personally, you know, but I know the Labyrinith pretty good, better than most.”
“Not good enough to keep from getting caught,” Carzen noted.
Rendil rubbed his sore head. “Yeah, I got a bit overconfident, I admit. I saw these Reavers slinking about near the Hall, and I thought they looked pretty suspicious, so I followed them. Looks like they were a bit more alert than I thought. Bad luck for me, but I guess it was a lucky bit that you were coming by, so it all balances out, I suppose.”
“Let’s get moving,” Vhael said. “We’ll need to rest and resupply before we set out again, in any case. In the meantime, you can tell us more about these Bloodreavers.”
Vhael had broken the hobgoblin line before it could form, but he surviving three soldiers were quick to lay into him with everything they had.
The one to his right was wounded, favoring the side where Jaron had shot him, but he let out a vicious cry as he lifted his flail and slammed it down toward the dragonborn’s head. Vhael met the blow with his sword, deflecting the heavy swinging end of the flail. The spiked bar slid down and gashed Vhael’s fingers on the hilt, but the only sign that the warlord felt the pain was a slight shifting of his bloody hands on the hilt of the weapon as he spun to face the next attack.
The second parry came too late, as a second hobgoblin brought his flail up under his guard and smashed the head into his side. This time Vhael could not disguise the effect of the hit, and he grunted as the air was knocked from his body. The third hobgoblin came in behind his fellow and tried to put a finishing blow to the foe, but somehow Vhael was able to duck under the swung, which whistled through the air scant inches above his head.
With the initial advantage of surprise fading, the warlord was seriously outnumbered, but his companions were quick to come to his aid. As the first hobgoblin sought to follow up his initial attack another arrow slammed into his left leg just above the knee. Jaron had moved into the room, and had taken up a shooting position to the right of the doors that gave him a clear shot without risking hitting Vhael. But that also blocked his view of what was happening on the far side of the room, where chaotic noises suggested that Beetle was right in the middle of whatever the warcaster was up to.
“Hooo!” Beetle cried, as the warcaster’s staff thrust through air his head had occupied a fraction of a second earlier. The halfling had pulled himself into a crouch, but he was forced to bend backwards to avoid the attack, the back of his head almost touching the ground as his body formed an arch. The hobgoblin drew back his staff and lifted it to slam it down like a club, but the halfling shifted his balance like a taut bowstring suddenly released, shooting forward under the warcaster’s guard, and snapping out with a leg as he tumbled between his legs. The hobgoblin fell forward, landing face-first onto the ground where his magic had planted the halfling just a few moments before.
Vhael took another hit as the hobgoblin soldiers continued to harry him; the dragonborn was yielding ground now, moving back as the hobgoblins coordinated their attacks to bypass his guard without compromising their own defenses. The third soldier had disengaged from the melee, but only to turn toward the archers near the doorway. But before he could attack, Carzen Zelos came to him, his shield now in place on his left arm, drawing his sword with his right as he rushed forward. The hobgoblin was ready for him, but Carzen deflected the head of the flail with his shield and drove his sword into the soldier’s gut with a perfect thrust that sent him bleeding to the floor.
“Take one of them alive!” Vhael said, even as he parried another strike from a hobgoblin flail.
Beetle let out a yell as he sprang up and leapt at the fallen warcaster’s back, a knife appearing in his hand from one of the several sheaths he kept secreted about his person. But the hobgoblin proved to be faster than he looked. As Beetle reached the apogee of his jump and started down, the warcaster rolled and thrust his staff up with one hand. The head collided with Beetle, not hard enough to cause real damage, but there was a flash, a sizzling discharge of energy, and the halfling went flying, bouncing off the nearby wall and landing dazed just a short step from where he’d been standing. The hobgoblin took advantage of the delay to pull himself to his feet, thrusting the staff under him. He glanced back at the battle taking place just a few paces away in the middle of the room, and so it was that he spotted Gral as the dwarf wizard slipped around the melee and approached, stepping over the ruins of the broken cask.
“You will regret coming here,” the creature hissed, the words thickly accented but decipherable. “The Bloodreavers will collect their due from your flesh.”
“We shall see,” was the dwarf’s only response. He stood there, the bottom of his staff tapping slightly against the floor. The warcaster snarled and raised his own staff, summoning a pulse of force energy that he hurled at the wizard. But Gral was ready, and he responded with his own magic, invoking a glowing white shield that deflected the force pulse around him. One of the casks exploded, blasting a storm of splinters out into the room, but the dwarf was unharmed.
“Insufficient,” he said, and he lowered his staff slightly, unleashing a chill strike that drove a hard wedge of magical cold into the hobgoblin’s body. The warcaster raised his arms, crossing them in front of his body, drawing upon every reserve of strength to resist the potency of Gral’s assault. He managed to fight off the worst of it, although his lips chattered slightly as he started forward, obviously intent on engaging the dwarf directly in melee. Once again, Gral merely held his ground and waited, unperturbed despite the disparity in size between the two combatants.
As Carzen joined the melee raging around Vhael, the battle started to turn decisively against the hobgoblins. Jaron had kept up his barrage, placing arrows with precision that shot through the melee to pound into armored bodies, finding the smallest gaps in armor to pierce hobgoblin flesh. The hobgoblins could do nothing to counter, pressed as they were by Vhael. The dragonborn had seemed content to fight defensively, but as Carzen moved adjacent, forcing the nearer hobgoblin to shift to deal with him, Vhael struck. The sword that had been parrying attacks suddenly surged out and down, biting deep into the hobgoblin’s arm. The hobgoblin nearly dropped his weapon, and the attack left and opening that Carzen could not help but exploit, sweeping his blade up in an arc that sliced up through the hobgoblin’s armor and ended by clipping his jaw under the lip of his helmet. The hobgoblin, mortally wounded, staggered back a step and fell.
Vhael turned to demand the surrender of the other, but before he could speak he got a reply in the form of a powerful swipe of his flail. The heavy end of the weapon cracked hard against the side of the dragonborn’s head, and he fell to his knees, dazed by the blow. The soldier didn’t get a chance to finish him, however, as Carzen lowered his shield and surged forward, driving the hobgoblin back a full step, and forcing him to put his efforts into dealing with the fighter.
The warcaster closed to close quarters with Gral, who still had not reacted, even as the hobgoblin lifted his staff to strike. Unfortunately for him, he’d forgotten about Beetle. Even as the staff started down the halfling leapt at him from behind, his knife slicing across one hamstring with lethal efficiency. The warcaster’s attack was spoiled, and only a desperate planting of his staff kept him from falling as the damaged leg gave out under his weight. Unable to turn to deal with Beetle, he fixed a baleful stare at Gral. “To the hells with you,” he hissed.
The wizard said nothing, and watched with a cold expression as Beetle first kicked the hobgoblin’s staff away, then followed him to the ground as he fell, hooting wildly as his dagger thrust repeatedly into the caster’s body until it gleamed bright red down its entire length.
The last hobgoblin found himself outnumbered and outmatched, but to Carzen’s surprise he tossed his shield aside and surged forward with his flail in both hands, sweeping his weapon around in a powerful arc that battered through the fighter’s guard and caromed off his helmet hard enough to strike sparks. Somewhat dazed by the impact, the fighter barely got his sword up in time to meet the soldier’s brazen charge. The two collided and it was Carzen who gave way, stumbling back until the pair hit the solidity of the chamber wall. The hobgoblin snarled at the human, but before Carzen could react he could see the light dying in his foe’s eyes. Through some fluke of luck the creature in his charge had impaled himself on Carzen’s sword, the bright steel sliding up through a gap in his armor. Carzen shook his head to clear it as the hobgoblin slid off the fighter’s bloody blade to land in a clatter of metal upon the stone floor.
Vhael was already on his feet, with Gaz steadying him slightly. The dragonborn glanced around the room, confirming that the threat was over, before turning toward Carzen. “You fought well. But my orders were to take one alive.”
“Maybe the hobgoblin didn’t hear you,” the fighter snapped, his own legs still a bit unsteady as he took out a rag and wiped his blade clean before sliding it back into its scabbard. Vhael’s eyes were like icicles, but he did not respond, and if he was still hurting from the beating he’d taken, he didn’t show it as he walked over to where Gral was kneeling beside the unconscious halfling who’d been held prisoner by the hobgoblins.
“How is he?” Vhael asked. Gral had taken out a small crystal vial, and gently trailed a stream of clear liquid between the halfling’s lips. Jaron and Gez had started to follow, but Vhael gestured for them to take up a warding position at the door, and both headed off in that direction. Beetle stood quietly a few paces away, his face spotted with tiny splatters of bright red blood from the hobgoblin he’d killed.
“He took a savage beating, but he will live,” the wizard replied. “The Small Folk are a durable race,” he said, glancing up briefly at Beetle.
“You did not share that you had healing draughts,” Carzen muttered to Vhael as he came up to where he could watch what was happening. “That information might have been useful.”
Vhael ignored him. He grimaced slightly as he lowered himself to one knee next to Gral and the halfling, but with his back to the others only Beetle could have seen that sign of the pain the warlord was feeling. The unconscious halfling started to stir, groaning as he tentatively reached up and touched his head. “Ow,” he said. He blinked once, twice, and then his eyes widened as he took in those crouched over him.
“Rest easy, lad,” Gral said, while Vhael added, “We mean you no harm.”
The halfling’s expression grew even more surprised as he looked over at Beetle, who smiled and waved. His eyes lingered for a moment on the corpse of the warcaster, from which an arc of red continued to spread across the floor. “Who… who are you people?” he asked.
“We come from Fallcrest,” Vhael said. “We are here seeking prisoners, captured from the surface by slavers.”
“Hmm. Well, I thank you for the help. Name’s Rendil. Rendil Halfmoon. My family runs an inn in the Seven-Pillared Hall.”
Vhael nodded, as if this information was not unexpected. “Are you well enough to travel, master Halfmoon? This does not seem a safe place in which to linger.”
Gral extended a hand, which the halfling accepted gratefully. “No, no it’s not,” Rendil said. “Come on, I can show you the fastest way to the Hall from here.”
Vhael introduced each of them in turn. When he came to Jaron, the scout asked, “Have you seen a column of halfling prisoners, brought from the surface? They would have come through here not long ago, a few days, maybe.”
Rendil shook his head, and grimaced at the sudden pain that followed the movement. “No, but if there’s slaves involved, the Bloodreavers are likely up to their eyeballs in it.”
“The Bloodreavers are the ones we’re after,” Carzen said.
“Oh. Well, they probably took them to the Chamber of Eyes. It’s the main base of the Reavers in the Labyrinth.”
“Can you tell us how to get there?” Vhael asked.
“Sure. I mean, I haven’t been there personally, you know, but I know the Labyrinith pretty good, better than most.”
“Not good enough to keep from getting caught,” Carzen noted.
Rendil rubbed his sore head. “Yeah, I got a bit overconfident, I admit. I saw these Reavers slinking about near the Hall, and I thought they looked pretty suspicious, so I followed them. Looks like they were a bit more alert than I thought. Bad luck for me, but I guess it was a lucky bit that you were coming by, so it all balances out, I suppose.”
“Let’s get moving,” Vhael said. “We’ll need to rest and resupply before we set out again, in any case. In the meantime, you can tell us more about these Bloodreavers.”
I'll add my kudos. I started reading Doomed Bastards over a year ago on my lunch hours. I loved it enough to go back and read Travels and then move on to Shackled City. I have loved it all. I'm almost through with Shackled City and am a little depressed because once I have it done I'm not sure what I'll read at my desk at lunch. But I do know my first stop will be at your website to look at your other fiction. I thoroughly enjoy your writing and definitely love your characters.
~Tam
~Tam
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