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Message: <blockquote data-quote="Helfdan" data-source="post: 1091936" data-attributes="member: 11732">Chapter 8Withou further ado, here's Chapter 8.  I think a better title may have been :"The Age of Blood lives up to its name".  Enjoy!**************************************************Part 8:  More Death in Roedran    My father:  It seems that evil Draugord continues to keep his eye on us as we travel through fallen Roedran.  I cannot tell you how exhausted I am at present, both from toils and grief.  I can only write you of what has happened, and hope that you approve of my choices and actions.      I last wrote of how we met a lovely yet mysterious woman named Denora on our arrival to Roedran.  As one of the nature-worshipping Mestorien, she claimed she wished “balance” to return to the land.  She begged us to dispose of a goblin warlock named Berooz who held sway over the fallen city.  Of course we were concerned that this would delay our mission: to retrieve the stolen Goathian Bell (a sacred relic of Terferos, and Medore’s only hope against an impending invasion by un-living horrors) from Koron, a former Kundrian warlord turned bandit.  But the slim beauty freely told us where we could find Koron, and assured us the task would be “of no consequence.”        But as you now know, father, this was not the case.  The goblin’s magical powers were awesome, and his hobgoblin and bugbear cohorts were fierce.  The battle in the ruins of Roedran was terrible, and costly: when it ended, both Segnarus Mank, thief-catcher, and Nikolas Ran, priest of Terferos, were slain.  We decimated the opposition, but Berooz itself escaped, using sorcerous powers to fly.  Denora was satisfied with our accomplishment, and announced she could restore our comrades.  But Jerikas, twin brother to Nikolas, and also a priest of the Caretaker of Souls, refused such a deed for his brother, deeming it unholy.  The Mestorien admitted that Segnarus would come back “different than we knew him”, and that the ritual would take some time.  I felt at the time that something was very wrong with this situation, but in my fatigue and grief I ignored this, which proved to be a costly mistake.      That night I again dreamed of storm-drenched plains, and a mighty destrier running across them.  In the darkness, I could not see its coat, but by its tread it was a magnificent beast.  I awoke with the feeling that someone was watching me, and opened my eyes to see Denora.  Her alabaster skin seemed to glow in the moonlight, and her predatory blue eyes seemed more primal than ever.  When she saw I was awake, she smiled briefly, and walked away.      The next morning dawned clear and hot.  We were all silent as we prepared for our assault on the baronial demesne, now Koron’s stronghold.  We would leave our packhorses behind, as our goal was less than two miles distant.  I first made sure Stepper’s cinches were tight, and that his leather barding was in place.  Then I donned my wondrously light banded armor, the gift from a grateful Lord Eltross, and girt your sword Aerbrand at my left hip.  Taking up shield and lance, I was ready.  By this time Girion, Landotharan, Baruk, and Jerikas were also ready for battle.      As we rode the ranger described our goal: a series of stone buildings surrounded by a wooden palisade, set on a lonely hilltop, roughly one-half mile north of the fallen city.  There was only open plain around it, making a stealthy approach difficult (the folk of Roedran were skilled at defense, which gives credence to the rumors that betrayal played a role in the Kundrian invasion).  From one mile away, we could see chimney smoke wafting from the demesne… our prey was at home.      We paused about five hundred yards from the hill.  Landotharan’s keen elven eyes quickly identified several sentries patrolling on parapets around the palisade.  We discussed our options.  As we had probably been seen, I suggested that a frontal assault might be called for.  Lando, however, stated that the palisade seemed ill kept, and that there could be spaces between warped timbers wide enough to sneak through.  Girion volunteered to scout ahead and search for an entrance.      The wait was tense.  Our confidence in the ranger’s skills led us to believe he would return soon, and with good news, but our experience here had been so ghastly…  And soon our fears were realized, as we saw the sentries lean over the palisade crossbows in hand, and one of them roared in pain- no doubt wounded by a grey-goose shaft.  As we spurred our horses forth to assist our comrade, the great wooden gates opened and four riders galloped out to search for the hidden archer.  I could hear the hatred in the keen-eyed half-elf’s voice as he pronounced them to be orcs.      I knew we were far enough that it was unlikely we could reach Girion in time, as he had too many foes to deal with at once.  I urged Stepper to greater speed, until his dark coat was lathered and I feared his great heart would burst, pulling far ahead of my comrades.  Ahead I could see the green-cloaked ranger had cast his entanglement spell, but only one of the orcish riders was caught.  He then slid a few feet down the slope of the hill, where horses could not follow, and traded arrows with his opponents, two on the wall and three on the ground.  The display of archery was incredible, father.  Girion plied his mighty longbow with speed and accuracy that I had seldom seen.      As I approached, I saw him slay two of the riders, and one of the figures on the wall – though only his wondrous mailshirt protected him from the orcish crossbow-bolts.  But to shoot the second orc on the palisade, he had to climb up to the edge of the slope – just as the fourth rider broke free of the entangling vegetation.  The two riders set upon him, and the ranger staggered back with a cut across his left arm.  But by then I was upon them, as mighty Stepper charged into the fray.  I had dropped my lance in my search for speed, and maneuvered Stepper in front of Girion, orcish swords battering my armor and shield.  As I reached for Aerbrand, Girion fell to one knee and shot under Stepper’s neck, his shaft jutting from the orc’s left temple.  The last rider hesitated, trying to decide whether to fight or flee, long enough for Landotharan to thunder in on his powerful chestnut gelding, and behead him with his two-handed sword.      As Jerikas tended to Girion’s wounds, and I retrieved my lance, Baruk and Lando searched the bodies.  They were wearing clever full-faced helms, which the dwarf assumed were meant to protect them from the sun, in which these subterranean creatures were usually uncomfortable.  We remounted and entered the keep, wary of ambuscades.  Already we knew these orcs were canny fighters, well equipped and strong.      The open gate led to a wide courtyard, with several ill-kept buildings.  As we looked around, two helmeted orcs stepped out of the largest building, calling out to us.      “Halt your attack,” it cried in crude Hintaneese.  “Our master seeks parley.”      “Give us the Goathian Bell!” was my only answer.      “Perhaps we can reach some compromise,” said the orc, likely stalling for time.  But the time for words was past.      “There can be NO compromise with evil.  Give us the bell or die!”  Hasty words perhaps, father, but also heart-felt.      At that, the orcs exchanged some words in their black tongue.  Girion obviously understood them, for he charged, and sorely wounded the one on the left with Renmemnion’s golden blade.  As they moved to flank the ranger, I charged, skewering the other with my lance, killing it instantly.  Girion finished the one he had wounded, and turned to the great hall.  It was pitch dark beyond the open doors.  As I dropped lance and drew sword, Jerikas spoke holy words, and the head of his spiked mace shone as bright as a torch.      Girion and I rode into the hall, while our comrades followed on foot.  Once inside, we saw that the Blessed Sword of Tears shone with a golden light of its own, giving the ranger a light source.  We came into a bare antechamber, from were five broad steps led up to an archway, and from there into the pitch-black baronial hall itself.  It was eerily quiet.  Landotharan, impatient as usual, and confident that his keen elven eyes would help him in the gloom, darted ahead—and was simultaneously stabbed by sword-orcs hiding on either side of the entrance.  Screaming in pain, he backed out of the hall, as I rode past him, Stepper’s hooves echoing in the dark.  I bore on the orc on the right, and Aerbrand shattered its collarbone and froze the wound at once.  The creature staggered and fell, to be brained by an iron-shod hoof.  The other villain disappeared into the darkness, as two throwing axes flew out to batter my armored chest.  As Girion joined me, his sword’s golden light illuminated the entrance.  But a deep, crude voice resonated from the darkness ahead.  “So you refuse to talk to me…  Regardless, the witch did her work well, for she led you straight to me.”  His laughter sounded like the surf on a rocky cliff-side.  “You have already been of service to me, though you know it not.  I am still willing to be merciful and allow you to join me.”  Girion was speechless with fury, and all I could answer was “NEVER!!”  We could hear Baruk’s growls of agreement and fury in the back.  We rode forth, and Renmemnion’s light showed five large orcs, armored in iron-studded leather and wielding fine axes and straight swords – the spoils of fallen Roedran.  Two spheres of eldritch red light flew out of the darkness, to pummel me through my armor, a sure sign that they had sorcerous help.  But what followed was enough to chill the marrow, for we finally met Koron.      Out of the darkness strode a hulking brute, at least nine feet tall.  Its thick, warty hide was covered by a crudely crafted suit of mail-and plate.  Its feral face was hideous beyond description.  And it lightly carried an enormous double-bladed war-axe, stained with the blood of its many victims.  As the six creatures closed with us, I could not help but think of the oft-spoken words of your favorite court bard, and friend, Francis Kevedor – “there is naught left to us but battle!”  Jerikas spoke holy words to keep us from our evil foes, as Baruk sent a brace of his own eldritch missiles to slam against the ogre.  Girion, Lando, and myself charged at Koron, instinctively knowing that if we did not bring it down quickly, it could slaughter us all single-handed.  The battle in the gloom was as furious as I have seen.  Aerbrand, Renmemnion, and Lando’s heavy sword battered the huge bandit, as its axe flailed at us, driven with enormous strength.  Soon the stone floor was slick with blood.  Glowing eldritch missiles flew in both directions, though Baruk concentrated his spells on the ogre.  The orcs were a serious threat, as they constantly attempted to flank us, and attack our undefended backs.  One such slipped by me, but Stepper staggered him with a mule-kick, and I swiftly brained it.  I turned back to Koron, to see it cut Girion from the saddle.  And to my horror, with the back swing it smashed its axe into Lando’s breastplate, sending the half-elf to crash against the wall.  Jerikas charged to my side, his glowing mace drawing sparks from Koron’s armor, but was staggered by the ogre’s riposte.  One of the orcs took this opening to stab him in the back, and the brave Terferian priest fell.  Baruk screamed in rage, hurling two more missiles into the ogre, who laughed and moved to finish me.  And then I realized that except for Baruk in the rearguard, I was the only one left standing, facing Koron and four orcish sworders.  But it was not courage, nor loyalty to my friends that kept me from withdrawing.  It was my oath, freely given, to recover the Bell or die in the attempt.  For Keldorn Hawkshand’s son could not do otherwise.  I could hear the orcs closing in on me as Koron laughed, and raised its bloody axe.  But as my death appeared imminent, I KNEW I was not alone, and could never BE alone.  Maddened by the scent of blood, Stepper snorted in fury and reared, his hooves pummeling the ogre’s cuirass.  I stood in my stirrups, shouting “TILSMAN, JUDGE US ALL!”  Aerbrand seemed to glow momentarily with a holy light, as I plunged it to the hilt into the monster’s throat.  Koron gurgled as blood and steam poured from the ghastly wound, and in its death throes, pulled me from the saddle.   I could hear Baruk cheer as he sent his missiles to slay the closest orc, allowing me to roll to my feet.  A second foe racing at my back was intercepted by Stepper, and sent to whatever hell awaited it by massive, iron-shod hooves and gnashing teeth.  “By the Keeper!” I shouted, leaping to meet the last two foes.  The Winter’s Blessing shattered the first one’s helmet and thick skull in one fell stroke, whereupon the last foe dropped sword and surrendered.  It took great effort, father, to restrain my righteous anger, as I told it to not to move as it valued its life.  Forgetting the as yet unseen enemy sorcerer for the moment, I ran to my fallen friends, hoping my prayers could save them.  Jerikas was still breathing, though bleeding freely.  I prayed over him, laying hands on his chest, and the bleeding stopped.  Next to him, Girion was still alive, no doubt thanks to his enchated mithral mailshirt (a gift from his father, as I understand).  The ogre’s prodigious strength had shattered his ribs, and punctured a lung, from the way he was gasping.  But by Tilsman’s grace his breathing normalized at my fervent prayers.  I reached Lando’s side to see Baruk covering him with a cloak.  “Kalten, there may still be foes around…”  I guess the dwarf was trying to spare me.  But I pulled the cloak back.  Landotharan’s enchanted breastplate, which had been both useful, and the object of some fun, had been sundered by Koron’s massive axe.  The half-elf was beyond healing.  As I stood, numb, Baruk whispered: “May you find in death the peace that eluded you in life.  Rest well, my friend.”  Blinking back the tears, I took up Aerbrand in my right hand, and Renmemnion in my left, to light my way into the hall.  Baruk followed me, his hands starting to move in mystic passes.  But all we found was the corpse of an orcish female, clad in robes, and seemingly torn apart by magical energy.  I looked at Baruk, who quickly shook his head – he had not been able to target her in the melee.  Looking around, I saw that heavy drapes had been drawn over a window in the back wall (these creatures hate the sunlight).  I drew them back, letting the late morning light into the large hall.  It seemed to me I could see a familiar small, robe-clad figure soaring through the air.  Might it have been Berooz?We then restrained and interrogated our prisoner.  The orc confirmed what Koron had alluded to – the bandits were allied to Denora, and the Goathian Bell was in her keeping.  The ogre had planned to use the Bell to conquer the southern Hintaneese cities once they were overrun by undead.  It had asked the Mestorien witch to hide the relic, and to eliminate Berooz, its main obstacle for supremacy in Roedran.  The unspoken end to this sordid tale was obvious to Baruk and I:  We were sent to slay the ogre, leaving the Mestorien to control all of Roedran, or worse, to claim the southern cities once they had been savaged by undead horrors.  As we turned to care for our wounded friends, and mourn for our fallen one, we pondered the biggest question of all.  For we knew of the impending invasion due to Sen Sarazan’s vision.  But how did the Mestorien and the ogre know of Simarul’s plans?  Did they somehow play a part in the mysterious cult’s schemes?  But these were questions for another time.  We had entrusted Segnarus Mank’s body to the villainess who orchestrated this façade.  And my oath is not yet fulfilled, the lives of ten thousand Medorians hanging in the balance.  May the Keeper of the Covenant bless you, father.  For it is unlikely that I will be able to write again until we have faced the Mestorien, whom I am sure will be ready for us.</blockquote>

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