The Red Hand of Doom - Completed 8 February 2008: Against Tiamat and Epilogue

[Pedestrian]

It hadn’t been half a day since they’d left Brindol, and already there was trouble. Seemed like the Hand had reached further than anyone thought. Sol was quite pleased with that thought. He would have shared it with Xerxes, but he was being all spooky. Besides, there was business to attend to.

Having just crested a gentle hill, the two found themselves looking down at a ruined caravan, clustered with a few dead bodies. A group of goblins were dancing on top of it, and a pair of two-headed giants were hooting and hollering, like as if they were going to take on the army next. Sol slid of his horse and unbuckled his axe. Xerxes also started to get off his mare, but the giants noticed them.

The ground shook at the brutes ran up to meet them, clubs coming down hard. Sol brought his axe up just in time to deflect the worst of the blow, but it still set his bones shaking. He didn’t have time to see how Xerxes was doing, but he needn’t have worried. All of a sudden, cold winds whipped up, and the other giant screamed as half of one of its face just dropped off.

Sol took his chance, leaping into the thick of things. He span his axe in a big arc, slashing down the melted giant, and hacking into the calf of the other. The goblins, for their bit, tried to stick him with their flimsy javelins, but he was too quick. Or they were just bad shots.

More angry than hurt, though probably a bit scared that his friend was dead, the other giant tried to pummel both him and Xerxes into bits. It got a good hit in, and put Sol off balance enough that he mistimed his next swing, only catching the mud before the giants fingers. Xerxes, on the other hand, just vanished. One second, it looked like the giant would be taking his head off with a club-swing, the next, Xerxes was gone, and a big spot of black had emerged and swallowed up the goblins. Sol could hear screams coming from inside it, but he had bigger troubles.

With Xerxes vanished, the giant managed to rub its two heads together and come up with one idea. Smashing Sol. He ducked and dodged, dived and weaved, parried with his axe, pulled out every trick he’d learnt on the sands, and some he made up just then, but two heads were better than one, especially when using arms as big as Sol was. He was knocked from side to side, slammed about, rolling with blows that should have clobbered him into the mud, all the while half-hearing the terrified yells of the goblins in the cloud. At least Xerxes was doing well. Barely standing, he still tried to bring his axe up to defend from one last swing.

Darkness. The giant rumbled in fear, then shrieked in pain. Then Sol could see again, and he lunged in, swinging so hard he span with the force of it. But the giant went down, and Sol just managed to get out of the way.

Sol sighed with the relief, leaning on his axe. Xerxes, using the belt Kayan had given him, poured channelled healing magic. It wasn’t like being cured by a priest, where you felt someone watching. Just, being fixed, getting better quick. Sol wondered if it was how a sword felt when it was being made.

The pair looked around the destroyed caravan. There were three iron coffers, heavy, so Sol lugged them back to the horses, who were munching on the grass. None of the guards had made it out alive. They wore the gold lion on a blue field of Brindol. Sol sighed. Every person dead meant a gap in the walls. A quick look showed their swords weren’t much cop either. Xerxes had found a satchel, containing a letter and a key. Sol grabbed the key excitedly. It matched the chests, solid, strong iron. He liked reading, but he liked treasure even more.

Engrossed in the letter, Xerxes waved absently at the chests, which clicked open as Sol reached them. Oh well, thought the half-Orc. He stuffed the key in his belt, and listened to what Xerxes was saying.

“For the eyes of Captain Ervath Helmbreaker.

“I wish to retain the service of the Shining Axes regiment of the Hammerfist Holds in the defence of the free city of Brindol. To that effect, I have despatched with this document coffers containing coins and valuable gems to the price of six thousand crowns.

“In honour,

“Lord Jaarmaath of Brindol.”

Sol was already rooting through the boxes, which held several sacks of coin, along with smaller velvet pouches containing rubies. He frowned for a bit, then began sorting them into piles.

“It seems as if these were intended for the dwarves of the Holds,” Xerxes tucked the letter into his vest, looking over as Sol split the coin and jewels between the horses.

“Yup. Good thing it’s on the way.” Sol pulled out the map, drew a thick finger from Brindol, “We go to Prosser, then along to Dauth, then up south to the Holds. From there, it’s all mountains an’ desert anyway. Nice to have a good sleep before we get to the Ghost Lord, anyway.” The division of treasures divided, the pair returned to the road.

By the end of the day, they had reached Prosser. Years past, the village had been victim of monstrous incursions, but a band by the name of the Six Blades had tamed the beasts of the Prosser Woods, which was now dwindling to nothing as logging took its toll. The place was small, mostly built out of the Blades’ own pockets, and as the woodland had declined, farming had sprung up. Much of the bread and beer of growing Brindol started on Prosser’s fields.

Only one Inn stood in the village, the Six Cups, run by Deillyr of the Starry Cloak, one of the blades. It was a quick stop, just overnight. Sol found himself ruminating over a mug of the local brew, while Deillyr asked about the Red Hand. Seemed the Prosser folk’d got it into their mind that they could stand here. Xerxes soon put paid to that idea, but Deillyr didn’t say they’d come ‘round but that she’d “talk it over” with the other Blades. Sol felt pretty bad that the place was probably going to go up in smoke. The beer was pretty good.

 

[Pedestrian]

Dauth was their next stop. They went along the new road, west out of Prosser, through what was once the heart of Prosser wood. Xerxes felt watched, dim eyes held back by layers only as thick as gauze. The wildness of this place had been beaten back, destroyed, but the ghost of it eked on in a place beyond this. Old dark trees lined the path, solemn trunked and stoic in the face of their eventual demise. Strange, how awareness of other places added to his perception of his own.

Much like Prosser, Dauth had been terrorised by the monsters of Prosser Wood, and saved by the Blades. It was a collection of modified humans houses from the time of Rhest and new built Halfling burrows, overlooked by the burnt out shell of a tower. As they rode through, they saw that the insular nature did not mean the Halflings were ignorant of goings on in the wider world. Bales of hay were being set up to provide cover, and the locals all went about with slings of crude javelins. Xerxes and Sol dismounted, walking over to one of the locals who was resting against a human built wall.

“Ayp, bigg’n?” said the stocky Halfling, sandy haired with a face worn and lined from hours in the sun. The thick accent took Xerxes a moment to decipher, so Sol answered.

“What’s going on that’s made everyone so afraid?”

“You no ‘ear? Gobber be comin’ outta th’ mounts, ‘n’ our town be in th’ way.”

Xerxes nodded “We have found they plan to enslave you.”

Sol, a bit shocked by his friend’s abruptness, added “There’s not much comfort to offer, but maybe you could head to Brindol. They’ve got walls there. Could make a stand.”

“Thar’s no shock in tha’. Jus’ us much they plan t’ ate us’n. An’ we can’t be goin’. This ‘ere be our ‘omes. We ain’t got nothin’ else.”

“So what’s your plan then?” Sol was trying not to sound desperate. The little burrows of the Halflings, protected by bales of hay, wouldn’t last a day against even a squad of hobgoblins foot-troops.

“’Idin’ most. We’re no’ so close t’ Brin’ol tha’ many’ll come. May’ap we c’n give ‘em ‘ard time. In’eges’ion like. Doubt the bigg’uns o’ Brindol’ll ‘ave time fer us’n anyway.”

“I think Brindol will take anyone who stands with them. It’s going to be a hard thing against the Hand as it stands, without turning away help.”

“Oi see’s what yer sayin’. Mayhap you should ‘ave words wi’ th’ elders,” Brund nodded up at the tower, “they be up there, in th’ cellar. ‘S a good place fer war plannin’, spirits in th’ keep are frien’lier to such than those o’ th’ farm” He sucked on his lower lip, thinking. “Oi tell you wot, why don’t you let me put you up in m’ barn? There’s nowhere else’ll fit you in town. Look af’er yer ‘orses too.”

“My thanks, master Brund. We shall take you up on that offer,” Xerxes bowed his head, “and we will also seek out your elders. It won’t be safe for your people here, and if your elders can make it so you go to Brindol, then I shall be happy. ”

“Thanks fer yer words, sir. It of’en be tha’ the big’ll forget th’ small.”

“The stature of the soul never thinks of that of the body.”

Brund bowed and wondered off, leading the two horses as he did. Xerxes and Sol followed the old cobbled road, shot through with weeds and grass, up the hill, to the ruin. As they walked, Halflings looked up at them, but none barred their progress. For all Brund’s talk of making a stand, the Halflings looked resigned to defeat. Xerxes also noticed that there were no children, or elderly about. They reached the old keep, three walls all that was left of the fortification, the ground scorched black. There were no guards posted, and the two descended down an ancient ladder into the once wine cellar of the keep.

Barrels served as seating and fuel for light down in the earth, broken and rebuilt as crude tabling. Just near enough the ladder to benefit from the waning daylight, three wizened Halflings pored over a crudely sketched map of Dauth village, whispering amongst themselves. Just off to the side, a younger Halfling woman in a green cloak with an aged sword strapped to her waist, waited. It seemed the elders had just received a report from her.

“Greetings, elders of Dauth. I am Xerxes of the North, scholar and adventurer. My friend is Sol, a warrior hardened in the pits of Srax. We come to speak with you of the threat of the Red Hand.”

“Ayup,” one of the Halflings, a wrinkled man with a slight stoop, regarded the pair with tired brown eyes “I be Doug, this be Cam” a younger – though still old – Halfling, shorter and stocky, “Th’ ladies are Rose,” a plump, large-nosed woman, “and this be m’ daugh’er, This’le,” the young woman standing outside the group. “We‘re jus’ talkin’ ‘bout the gobbers as it ‘appens.”

“’Ow many of you are there? Who can fight?” Sol towered above the gathering. With his thick, scarred arms across his broad chest, he cast a long broad, shadow, ominously covering the map of Dauth.

“Count is ‘alf the adults’ve stuck ‘ere to keep Dauth ours. Others are off.” Thistle answered, stepping around the half-Orc as she did. “We’re keepin’ ‘em safe, and ne’er you mind where.” Sol grunted in response, whether satisfied or irritated it was hard to tell.

Xerxes took the lead. “I am here to convince you to head for the safety and high walls of Brindol. I can well understand the desire to remain by your homes, but if you do then you throw away your lives. Bricks can be relaid, houses rebuilt. Lives are not so easily replaced.”

“It be biggun’s trouble,” cursed Cam, “biggun trouble causin’ harm fer us folk. Las’ place we need to go be a biggun town.” He stamped his foot. “My kin ‘ave worked this land goin’ back ten mothers, all while biggun lords and kings was ‘aving their wars and killin’s, an’ look where it got ‘em? Nay, the folk go unnoticed by bigguns, an’ tha’s th’ best.”

“See here,” Xerxes strode forward, rolling out the map that had been reclaimed from Vraath Keep, placing it across the little Dauth parchment. He traced a gloved finger across the path of the Horde, marking where it split, where it rejoined, “the Red Hand has plans to sweep across the Vale, in numbers. Only in Brindol, with her stout stone and strong arms can a stand be made. This Hand is reaching out, trying to crush the rose of Elsir. Only one strong thorn will pierce it, turn the Hand away.”

“The Horde’s comin’ here,” Sol’s voice was quiet, soft. “who’ll stand up for you out here? Who’ve you got to defend you?” Xerxes knew his friend’s quietness was born of anger, anger and fear from an old hurt.

“Me an’ a few other striders, we keep an eye on the wild things, keep hurt away from town,” Thistle fingered the well-worn hem of her cloak “We’re not strong warriors like you’n, maybe, an’ we’ll not be saying otherwise,” her eyes flicked to the gathered elders, “but those that’re ‘ere aren’t aimin’ to be moved offa their land. I just come back from Talar, two days back, watched as the Horde burned it down. I don’ wan’ tha’ ‘appenin’ ‘ere.”

“Good folk, I am not trying to tell you how to go about your business, how to govern your village. But I can see no way for Dauth to stand on it’s own. You must leave for Brindol, the sooner the better.”

“What o’ Pross’r?” spoke up Rose, knitting her doughy hands together, “we o’ Dauth know the Six, know an’ trust ‘em. Times were bad, an’ the Six ‘elped Dauth as much as they ‘elped Pross’r.”

“We gave the Six the same council as we have given you. Leave for Brindol. Stand together with Lord Jaarmath.”

“We’ll… we’ll give it some thought. We’ll def’nately ‘ead Pross’r way,” Doug’s voice was the deciding one on the council it seemed. Sol and Xerxes said their goodbyes, and went to seek out Brund’s barn for the night.

 

[Pedestrian]

Sleep was not peaceful. The still summer air of the Vale always carried the smell of woodsmoke, and the hint of burning meat. Across the starlit night, howls of goblins and their worgs echoed, sometimes close, other times far. Despite the solid wooden walls and sturdy door of the barn, the pair kept a watch through the short night.

Up with the dawn, they decided not to stay to see if the Dauth people left that day. Leaving a small pouch of coin as thanks for Brund’s hospitality, the two mounted their horses and rode off. Brund had taken good care of their mounts, feeding and grooming them himself. The pair also found their packs plumped with sausage and bread, their skins filled with water. Though artifice of the northlands meant they were always provisioned, the kindness was much appreciated.

The two had agreed to move with all haste to the Holds, pressing their horses in the hopes that fresh mounts could be gotten from the dwarves. As such, they made good time, passing from the scrub and light trees of the Vale to the first rolling foothills of the Wyvernwatches. As evening crept on, the lights of the first of the Holds became visible. Still, a grim reminder was behind them, at their back, distant over many miles could be seen a column of smoke. A town aflame.

A bolt rang out from the darkness, sticking into the hard earth of the hills. “Who goes?” cried a voice from the hills in heavily accented Argyle, the unmistakable lilting tongue of a continental dwarf. There was a brief, heated exchange.

“Who’s there?”

“I’ve sixteen crossbows on you, greenskin. If you value your neck, you’ll answer.”

“Greenskin!? You talk to ‘em Xerx, I’m not dealing with savages.”

“We are the warriors who defended Drellin’s Ferry, seeking help for the Vale against the Red Hand. We care not for your aggression, though we understand it in this time. Come forth so we may make proper introductions.”

“Cloth-brained low-landers. Names, give me your names!”

“My name’s Sol, and this is Xerxes. And you have no idea where we’re from!”

“Now you know us, tell us yours.”

Finally, a short, stock figure crept forth from the darkness. “You’ve a tongue on you, Sol Greenskin.” He was dressed in grey leather, with the short beard of a young dwarf. Casually, he held an unloaded crossbow and at his belt he wore an axe and a long knife. He was nutty skinned, and dark toned, with dark blue eyes. “And my name is Bors, son of Bors, of the Hammerfist Holds. I do not know your names, but I can see you are not goblin, nor friend to their kind. What brings you so far in this bad time, away from the security of Brindol?”

“Hammerfist, eh? We’re lookin’ for a captain Helmbreaker.”

“Never heard of him.”

“Are you sure, Bors? An Ervath Helmbreaker, captain of the Shining Axes. We have taken up a duty on behalf of the Lord of Brindol, to secure his warriors in the defence of the city. We discovered the couriers for the message murdered on the road. After avenging them against their slayers, we took up the message… and the money.”

“Ah, well now,” Bors’ brow furrowed, and he looked from Xerxes to Sol and back again, “Well now, maybe I was a little hasty. There is a Helmbreaker around these parts, though I don’t know why you would be looking for him. He’s not much more than a babysitter these days. Still, I can show you to him. Provided you tie off your weapons.”

The pair agreed and, as soon as spear and axe were stowed, Bors lead the way. Along through the hills for an hour, away from the lights and sounds of the hold they went. Bors shushed their questions as the settlement faded away behind them. Finally, the path they followed sloped down and broadened into a flat clearing before a tall cliff. Here was the camp of the Shining Axes. Yet here and there could be seen small people, tiny children and stooped elders, obviously not dwarfs.

“So this is where the other Halflings went,” whispered Sol. Xerxes nodded in quiet reply. They reached a larger fire, where a lone dwarf sat. He was bearish, tall for his kind, massive and hairy. He wore dull grey plate of adamant, his face hidden behind long silver hair and beard. As Bors approached, he peered at the party through tired old eyes, sorrowful as stone that had witnessed the passing of an age.

“Captain Helmbreaker, I bring you Sol Greenskin and Xerxes of the Low-lands, champions of the Ferrry. I found them stumbling towards the holds. They say they have business with you.” The old dwarf nodded, his gaze intent on the flame.

“We found a letter, with some soldiers. It was meant for you, to buy help for Brindol against the Red Hand.” Sol stepped forward, thought better of it. “Xerxes, give him the letter.”

“In times past, things were not so,” the dwarf muttered as he read over the letter. He crumbled the page, threw it into the fire with a casual flick “Bors, see to it this coin is set to provisioning the company. The Axes march at dawn.” He stood, brushing his hands off on his long beard “I do not know you strangers, nor your names, nor what deeds you have or what lies before you, but I know that you hold to the honour of times past. You took up the duty of a fallen warrior, and ensured that mine could know to do theirs, that the time is upon us. Sol and Xerxes, now I know your names. I will know them, and mark them as names of honour.” Helmbreaker stretched, his thick bones crackling like shifting earth “You may share camp with the Axes this night, and we will see to it you have fresh mounts for the morrow. Now I must prepare my men.”

He began a deep rumble them, a chant in the back of this throat as he moved off. As he passed each of his warriors, they took up the chant, a hymn in praise to Moradin, a reminder of honour, and the doom set forth for each. Sol and Xerxes found a place to bed down and slept.

The dwarfs provided tough mountain ponies in place of their mounts, rugged grey haired beasts that, while not as fleet as the horses, were much suited to their path. The first day, they travelled along the passes of the Wyverwatches, the newly built dwarf-roads offering speedy travel. Then came the Thornwaste.

Mile upon mile of hardened brown earth, ever parched land growing drier under the unforgiving summer sun, clogged by greedy brambles grown to monstrous size. Here, they were forced to stretch out every drop, and even with the powers Xerxes commanded they slept through the worst heat of the first day. Creatures slithered and crept throughout the waste, monsters grown accustom to the clawed grip of the Ghostlord. The pendant of the lich, away from its master so long, seemed to throb in profane anticipation as they drew closer.

Yet their map proved true, and after two days of hard trek, the Thorns parted, opening into a basin. The lion crypt of the Ghostlord waited below.

“Let’s get to it then.” Sol was matter-of-fact, axe in hand, as they began their descent.

 

[Pedestrian]

Session 10: The Lion of the Thornwaste

Session 10: The Lion of the Thornwaste
Xerxes noted the ghostly forms of lions flitting about the lion statue, fleeting creatures that sent a chill down the part of his soul that was still his. He knew he could reach forth and, with the barest will, snuff them out, but they were not important. The eerie phantasms were little more than fragments of the once proud beasts. He turned his attention to the Lion. It was ancient, for this heathen land, perhaps a millennia old, weathered by time and rain, but still remarkably intact. He wondered what sorcery had made such a colossus.

Sol was completely nonplussed, heading forward between the cat’s paws, where he froze. Xerxes hurried after him, finally seeing what had given his friend paws. Hunched and waiting were the skeletons of two massive cats, guarding the broad stairway into the heart of the beast. But the skeletons were as stony and immobile as the great lion. Sol shook his head and sighing, flashing Xerxes a grin as they passed the statues. He even tapped one with his axe playfully.

As they gained the stairs, a massive serpentine beast launched itself out of the lion, straight for Xerxes. A behir! But no, there was something different something… wrong about the creature. Xerxes skipped back steps, pulling forth from the dark font of the tenebrous presence within him, gripping the monster’s heart in an icy claw and squeezing. The creature faultered, but only for the barest second. This was no normal behir, but a monster birthed of the unholy pit. Striations on the beasts flank, colourless in the night, hinted at relationship with Tiamat’s brood.

The maw descended, enveloping him. Outside, he heard Sol bellow, but he could not make out what. Though panic rose in him, the second his initial onslaught had bought him allowed a moment of planning. He blasted with the cold wind of the Other, and with his mind reached out across the Shadow. The behir’s jaws closed with a snap, but Xerxes was away, across the room on a pile of bones. It hissed and span, rumbling in profane language for the interdiction of its patron, and was answered. Xerxes shrugged off the blandishment and continued battering at the monster with gusts of air.

A furious scream from the other side of the Behir filled the cavern. “XERXES!” roared Sol, and a blossom of blood and gore spread from the creature’s flank as it split in half, its guts spilling out across the floor. A final roar, and it was finished, Sol still trying to split its body in a frustrated search.

“Sol, here!” called Xerxes. Relief flooded the half-Orc’s face, but was quickly gone.

“Hobgoblins,” he pointed one bloody hand to the lower jaw of the lion, “up there.” Xerxes ran forward, taking hold of Sol. He closed his eyes and once more pushed through the Shadow. He was certain he heard Sol screaming as they went, but he shut out the sound, thinking only of their destination, not of where they were.

They reappeared a heartbeat later in the mouth of the lion, and Xerxes felt the presence of Tenebrous recede, spent. Overhead and around were stone fangs as big as a man. The pair wasted no time, rushing toward a pair of heavy stone doors. A solid boot, and they were open. The hobgoblins inside were caught surprised, potions in hand.

With a whoop, Sol was upon them, his axe spinning in a wide arc, bloodying them both. Xerxes followed up with twin bursts of icy wind, slamming them to the floor. “There were three of ‘em!” No time to waste, they hurried on, shouldering aside more doors to stairs leading down. They all but jumped down the stairs, but all they found was an empty room. Doors east and north.

Some quick thinking, east would lead back out it seemed, north deeper in. With no sign of the fled hobgoblin, they decided north. They found a room crowded with jars and tools, with several large tables, similar in design to things Xerxes recognised from his brief training with a surgeon in the Empire. The thought of what had gone on on those blood-stained slabs of stone turned his stomach.

Sol was occupied with a pit in the corner of the room. Xerxes, with his eldritch vision, could see to the bottom, a long way down. Sol, who’s own nightvision failed much before that depth, rummaged in his pack for a bit before producing a little pellet, a huge fanged grin on his face. Xerxes recalled when Sol had bought the daylight stone, his first purchase as a free man, from a merchant in a Dennovarian bazaar. Smiling all the while, the half Orc rubbed the sun symbol on the pebble and flicked it down the hole. It bounced off the walls as it fell, finally hitting the floor, reflecting off a pool of water. Sol shrugged and turned away.

Across the room was another door, and they pressed on. Neither of them needed light, so Xerxes could not tell whether the elaborate and grisly decorations on the walls were painted or not. Images of lions hunting humans, falling upon them, feasting on their still screaming bodies. He was still enough of himself to be disgusted.

They pushed open another stone door, swinging easily on stone pins, opening into a large chamber, illuminated by a sickly green pool in which something span. In alcoves along the room, things crept. Xerxes had never encountered their like, and one hand fled to his belt, retrieving the Book of All Hours. Mechanically, he flicked through the pages as he filled his heart with the Shadow. In the Book it read:

Bonedrinkers
Undead spawn of goblin kin
Hungry for the marrow of bone
They come as tentacled doom
Know that to win
Rely not on fire nor cold
Neither will screams avail
To attain victory in this travail
You must rush in and be bold
As with all of the deathless
Faith reminds them they are breathless

The Shadow in his heart bubbled to full potency, and he blasted the goblin-spawned undead with the malediction of a god dead, flensing them of a portion of their vitality. They bounded forward, met by Sol’s spinning axe, cutting one down, but the others piled in, flailing with claws and tentacles.

He and Sol fought back to back, Xerxes with the force of the Other, Sol with strength of arms. Yet the sheer number of Bonedrinkers was too much, and Xerxes felt himself weaken, tumble. Sol shifted stance, stepping protectively over his fallen friend, slaying two more, stopping the advance of another. His whirling blade moved like silver lightning, an avalanche of steel, the incomparable skill born in him and honed on the bloody sands of Srax. Yet it could not be everywhere, and even mighty Sol faltered. Xerxes watched in a haze as Sol faltered, stooped to one knee, forced to lash clumsily with his axe simply to keep the drinkers back.

The Shadow moved in his mind, welling in his heart. Once more, just once. He closed his eyes, letting the black power move through him, blasting the remaining Bonedrinkers into darkness. Seeing the enemy vanish into putrescent smoke before them, Sol collapsed against the wall, leaving a bloody smear behind him.

“Good… good work Xerx,” he gasped. Xerxes shuffled up beside his friend and, with one thumb hooked in the belt Kayan had gifted him with, placed the other on Sol. The countless wounds on the half Orc sealed, though he was still slick with his own blood and painfully bruised. Xerxes was about to channel more healing into Sol, but the big half Orc grabbed his wrist at the last moment, and lay it on Xerxes’ own chest.

“Can’t do it all on my own, mate,” smiled the big half-Orc, achingly rising to his feet, and offered Xerxes his hand. He gratefully took it. “Don’t fancy going near that pool. Probably some sort of squiddy beast in there. What do you reckon is in there?” He pointed a thick finger north, where a short passage led into another chamber.

Xerxes shrugged, and led the way. They came to a smaller chamber, in which floated a shadowy obsidian orb, nearly the size of a man. Around it orbited flickers of orange light which looked, from the corner of the eye, like lions. Sol froze.

“I remember stories from the tribe. My old aunt used to tell all us sproggs about wizards who stole souls and kept ‘em in jars. Jars like this.” Xerxes raised an eyebrow, and once more referred to the Book, which provided only this:

Sometime the blackest
Deeds of man are not against him
A heart turned on nature

Xerxes probed the orb with the awareness of the Other but could find nothing. Frustrated, the two backed out into the previous chamber, and decided to follow and earlier branch they had found before Bonelasher chamber.

After hurrying through the dark, they found another door and, past it, an abandoned room thick with dusk and crowded with lion-themed art, tomes and items, a hodgepodge collection of odds and ends. After digging through the mess of sculptures and pictures, they had found no clue as to where to look next. Perhaps a return to the Orb, and attempt to disturb it?

 

[Pedestrian]

A little editorial comment, if I may.

This is the second session of the Red Hand of Doom we've played over MSN (necesitated by a move). It's a shame there's not face to face contact, but it's handy to have the resources available online, and we're not losing that much.

Due to shortage of players, I've included a few rules. Both Sol and Xerxes currently have +20hp, and have the option of refreshing 1/4 of their hit points once per day - used during the fight with the bonedrinkers. Also, they have a Destiny Point, which neither have spent. It's pretty much a "Get out of prison free" card.

The poetry in the most recent entry is something I ad-libbed during play. The Book is a big part of Xerxes backstory and character, and probably what put his feet on the road to damnation. I wanted to give it a bit more flavour than +5 to Knowledge as a Move action. I'm still refining them.

At the end of this session, Sol and Xerxes advanced to 9th level.

Thanks for reading

 

[Leinart]

Well if your short of players and are going to continue gaming on msn Id join up, that is if your even looking.

 

[Pedestrian]

Session 11: Evil ends

So, they’d left the arty room after a bit of a chinwag. There wasn’t nothing there worth having, so they’d gone back to the big room with the green pool. He’d volunteered to swim in and have a look at whatever was in it, and Xerxes had waited on the side, his shock gloves at the ready. What would that be like? Anyway, so he’d swam in the green glop. It was cold, but not like snow, more it made him cold, sucked the heat right out of him, made his arms stiff. After a bit of a struggle he’d reached the thing, which turned out to be a lion. Sol had fought lions, in the pit, but nothing as big as this one. A shaggy great brute, with paws as big as Sol’s chest. Sol struggled to the surface and waved to Xerxes before plunging beneath the goo again. It was tiring work.

Xerxes, the flash git, had just appeared beside him – magic – and the two of them had pulled the big lion, which was pretty light. Until they tried to take it from the pool, that was. They just managed it. Even out of the green stuff, the lion stayed still. It looked pretty dead, unless you noticed the rise and fall as it breathed. Xerxes flipped out his book – a funny looking thing, all black leather and blue letters – and flipped to the exact page he was looking for. Uncanny, a word from a book, was how Sol thought of it. Xerxes always knew where to look in books. He said that it was only in the Book, with big letters, and that it was more to do with the Book than Xerxes.

Dire Lion
Dire Lions are throwbacks its true
To a time long before you
They live and hunt in prides
The man chooses sides
Watch out for when they run
After you as their claws are no fun
Think you this rhyme silly?
Pay attention when there is grass and hilly

Xerxes read aloud, shrugged and turned the book to Sol. There was a picture of a lion, much like the one on the floor. “I thought it might tell us something about this lion in particular but… well, I guess the book doesn’t go into specifics. Though…” Xerxes crouched down by the lion “This one seems a little overweight.” Sol shrugged. Not sure where a lion would get pies at in this place. Xerxes suggested they try taking the lion to the black ball, and so they dragged the heavy thing along the floor. Sol was relieved the lion was well out of it. It’d probably be real angry when it woke up.

They got the lion to the ball, but nothing happened. Sol tried raising the lions paw, a hard effort, what with the animal being so stiff, to touch the globe. Still nothing. He looked at the weird chunk of crystal, and shivered. All the little lions dancing around it set him on edge. Casually, he reached around his back to his axe, unbuckling it. The weight of it was good. A real thing, his axe. Not like magic, like this big ball that ate lions, or the stuff that was eating up Xerxes. Steel.

He swung, quick as anything, both hands on the haft, sharp edge plunging down, he could see it, the blow connecting, the black stone splitting, the magic breaking. There was a ringing crack, and the shock of impact shuddered up his arms. The orb looked much as it did, unharmed. No, wait, there, a crack. The tiniest scratch. It wasn’t unbreakable. Steel was stronger. He grinned, ignoring Xerxes horrified expression. The axe came up for another swing. The room went deathly cold. He turned, lowering the axe across his chest, a guard.

A thing lurched into the room. It was spindly, yellow and stank of rot, wrapped in bit of old dead lion. Where its eyes should have been were only two spots of fire. Sick, green fire. Was that what smelt of rot? It hissed words, and the stink got worse. “Intruders. Your dare trespass in my domain? Explain yourselves.” It came closer. Sol wanted to say something, but his tongue was too heavy.

“Oh venerable one,” Xerxes was a smooth talker “we have come in search of you. We hear you aim to wreak havoc on Elsir Vale to aid the Red Hand. We have come to tell you that you do not need to help them anymore.”

“Do not have to help them? Who speaks such? I do not have to do anything. I choose! This is my choice!” The dead thing’s face twisted, the green fires flickered, bony hands twisted into claws.

“Why? Why do you choose to help the Hand?” While Xerxes did the talking, Sol edged around the corpse. One clean stroke and he could lop of its head. Problem solved.

“Why? Why? Foolish, weak thing of flesh. I will lash you to my table, feed your flesh to my lions!”

“We cannot allow you to act as you please. This land flourishes, and we will not let you make it into a wasteland such as your demesne.”

“Allow? And who are you to oppose me? I do not see the heroes of brave Rhest reborn before me. No, no, only weak, stupid playthings of fate. Tell me, living ones, how do you intend to defeat me? With steel? With spell? I am eternal, I am undying. I have rejected false gods, spurned death, rebuilt life anew."

“This day your unlife is is revoked, what is left of your soul will go to its final resting place of oblivion that all creatures such as you deserve!” Xerxes yanked the phylactery from his neck, and made to smash it against the black stone ball. With his other hand, he expunged choking darkness onto the Ghostlord, tendrils such as had torn through the goblin zombies earlier, but the ancient undead shrugged off the assault.

“Enough of meddling flesh! I will have my charm and then I will cleanse all the Vale of life!” The fires of its eyes, blanketing Xerxes and Sol in rotten flames, incinerating the comatose lion. Xerxes was spared the worst of it, and Sol just grunted as he leaned in to attack the Lich.

There were secrets in stone. Secrets passed down from the gnomes to the hobgoblins who conquered them. Secrets taken into the arena. Secrets Sol knew. Steel was stone. Flesh could be made as stone. He shifted his feet, felt the power of this old place, rocks hewn by hand, not magic, stone old as the world. He swung forward, slamming his axe into the Ghostlord’s shoulder, shattering it.

The creature slumped, half-broken, but would not quit. Xerxes danced the phylactery in buffeting blue winds, trying to crack it open. The Ghostlord lashed out with its good arm, but was too weak.

The axe rose, the mountain fell, the Ghostlord was no more.

 

[Pedestrian]

Xerxes leafed through the Book, comparing the entry on Elsir Vale with the map they had bought. Ruins of Drellin’s Ferry. Ruins of Nimon’s Gap. Mage’s Stand. Ruins of Talar. The Horde was not far from Brindol now. They’d been contacted by Sellyria, who had warned them of the Hand’s approach, and asked them to return home swiftly. Owls had been despatched to collect them.

In the meantime, they had looked around the Ghostlord’s lair, after destroying both the phylactery and the orb. The ghostly lions that had previously illuminated the lair were gone now, as were the hobgoblins emissaries of the Red Hand, fled at the death of the Ghost Lord. A previously secret door had been left open, offering more potential for exploration. They had found a vault of treasure, wealth equal to what the elves held in trust. Sol had claimed a finely honed sword and an elephant talisman, having little interest in wealth. Even now, the warrior practiced with the keen-edged blade, acclimatising himself to its weight and feel. More interesting, to Xerxes at least, had been the mural in one of the chambers, offering tantalising hints of what had led the Ghostlord down his dark path, though no concrete answers.

A gust of air, accompanied by an avian screech, ended Xerxes’s contemplation. The owls had arrived from Brindol. The bulk of their riches were now sealed in the vault of the Lion, to await their return in victory. The two of them mounted the pair of owls, and they were off.

Flying was an exhilarating experience, not at all like the unsettling sensation of being pulled between two worlds when he walked with the Shadow. While he was above the world, he was still part of it.

The sight of the Vale, and its state, served to provide unsettlement enough. The west of the Vale burned, clouds of smoke choking the air. Below, bands of goblins wolf-riders, hobgoblin looters, giant brigands dot the land. Farms in flames, trees torn up at the root, the earth blooded and scarred. The Shadow and the Other had long since left him but, though exhausted he could not sleep. For three hours they flew, the land beneath them a ruin. Then, ahead, Brindol. But closer, much closer, the teeming multitudes of the Red Hand. And circling above it, lazy, a vast red dragon, fire crackling around its maw. The owls banked hard, rose high, to avoid the beast.

They descended, landing in the common grounds of Brindol, where a large crimson tent had been erected. Around it, a crowd had gathered, their faces now upturned at the arrival of Xerxes and Sol. Soft music filtered to their ears from the tent. Above, a lonely penant flickered in the slight night-time breeze, torchlight illuminating the symbol of the Dead Empress.

A handsome man, dressed in red painted plate hurried over to them.

“Greetings, sirs, might I ask a moment of your time?” The man’s slight accent gave him away for an Embrean. A Knight of the Ruby Lady, mused Xerxes. Missionaries spreading the unusual teachings of the Dead Empress as a preserved of beauty eternal. “My name is Alexander, and I would-“

“Where’s the Lord of Brindol?” Interrupted Sol, brusque as ever.

“I would assume he is in his home, sir. My apologies, but I am not native to this city, and so can offer no further insight,” Alexander smiled, his white teeth contrasting with the smooth bronze skin of his face. “Please, I would ask you assistance, sirs. My fellows and I are trying to arrange for these people to be taken to Dennovar, and safety. They are scared, and need the reassurance of heroes.”

“We… will try our best, Brother Alexander.” Xerxes offered. Alexander bowed. Before departing, he placed his hands upon each of them, a ruby glow suffusing his touch, and relieved some of their wounds.

It actually proved easier then Xerxes had thought. No doubt aided by their arrival on owl-back, and exaggerated tales of the battle at Drellin’s Ferry, the awed populace responded quickly to Xerxes’ kind words and, when that didn’t work, Sol’s less subtle persuasions. As the last cart of people rumbled away, Xerxes noticed a woman with brilliant red hair, her arm in a sling. She was breathtakingly beautiful but there was something about her… She was gone.

“My thanks, sirs.” Alexander bowed to the pair of them. “An honour to meet you.”

“Allejandro!” called one of the Ruby Knights. The tall Embrean bowed once more and left them. Xerxes and Sol in turn headed into the centre of the city, to Lord Jarmaath’s hall.

 

[Pedestrian]

Lord Jarmaath’s home was a massive building, the old original stone extended and augmented with wood additions. It sat at the top of the hill Brindol was built upon, and held a commanding view of the city, the walls, the lands beyond. Within, it was as grand as the exterior. Artwork celebrating martial prowess adorned the walls, images of the Heir of Heaven in all His glory, the Celestial Throne imbued the radiance of heaven. The Jarmaaths were a pious line, thought Xerxes. In the Empire, that would have meant a cleric behind the throne, Seraphim in every shadow.

The guards ushered them, past the assembled and impatient worthies of Brindol, into the dinner hall, now acting as a war room. Around a large table a group of people were in heated discussion. Xerxes recognised Speaker Wiston and Sellyria, but none of the other four. A well dressed man was arguing with a shrewd looking woman in equal finery, his finger jabbing at a map held down by several plates. A stern, heavy set man in the Brindol colours scowled at the whole thing. The last was a woman in silvery robes possessed of an otherworldly air, a Templar.

“Ah, hello, welcome,” the well dressed broke off from his argument with the woman, walking around the table to greet them. “I am Lord Jarmaath, ruler of this city. Norro and Sellyria you have met. The others at the table are Lady Kaal, Captain Ulverth of the Lions, and High Templar Tredora Goldenbrow.” Lord Jarmaath grasped both of their wrists in turn, smiling warmly “and you are Xerxes of the South, and Sol, defenders of Drellin’s Ferry. I’ve heard a great deal of your prowess.” As he spoke, he guided the two to the table.

“Greetings,” Xerxes raised his hand to his forehead, “Sol and I have just come from the Thornwaste, where we have vanquished the Ghostlord, an ally of the horde. He is returned to myth, nothing more than a tale to frighten children, and a further blow to the Hand. What progress against the Hand has been made here in the Vale in our absence?”

“The Ghostlord dead?” Jarmaath clapped his hands together excitedly, “by the Celestial Throne, that’s good news. Another thorn gone from our side.” He swept his hand to indicate the map. “The progress is as you see it before you. We make plans to hold off an assault. Thanks to your heroic efforts in the Fens and the larger Vale, we can count on the support of the good elves of the Kiri Titor” he bowed to Sellyria “and the Shining Axes. Captain Helmbreaker reported your names to me, as have many others. Your fame grows large!

“Your deeds are well known to we in Brindol, but only in the broadest strokes.” He clapped a hand against the firm muscle of Sol’s arm “Brave Sol, have you slain greater beasts than the two Chimera you vanquished at Drellin’s Ferry?” Sol scowled, thinking a jest had been made at his expense. Jarmaath seemed not to notice. “And you, cunning Xerxes, I have no doubt your eldritch arts played a role in the downfall of the Ghostlord. So, friends, tell us of your deeds, of what you know of the Hand and its plans, any weaknesses.” He waved to a servant “See to it that our brave heroes have anything they desire. Wine? Food? No doubt the quest has put a thirst into you. Come, tell us of the Blackfens, of the monsters you faced there.”

“Sol struck down an infernal Behir guarding the crypt of the Ghostlord,” Xerxes supplied uncertainly. This was not what he had had in mind for the war council. Jarmaath seemed more intent on showing them off to the dour council then in preparing for war “And destroyed the body of the Ghostlord while I banished its festering remnant of a soul.”

“A… behir? A fiendish behir?” Lady Kaal’s voice seemed to carry a sneer, though it may only have been her cultured Argyle accent. “Did this happen to be an ally of the Hand, or just some roving monster you despatched in Waste?”

“It was at the entrance to the lair… it could have been either, I suppose.” Lady Kaal seemed unimpressed with this answer, inclining her head toward Lord Jarmaath.

“Aye, aye, the Ghostlord done. That is good, knowing the Hand will not be able to call on the forces from beyond death.” Jarmaath moved some black pebbles from the tabletop, placing them in a small coffer. “What of Rhest? The ruins of the old kingdom? Sellyria tells me you aided her people, earning their allegiance, fought off dragons and worse… though I can scarce imagine what could be worse!”

“I received visions of Rhest,” Tredora’s voice was musical, almost verging on song. Xerxes was slightly unnerved by her presence. Could it be she carried the blood of the Heralds of the Sun? “Visions of a monstrous birth. Sellyria assures us that you mercenaries dealt with it?”

“Your visions are accurate, High Templar. The Red Hand were involved in some plan to breed a new creature, infused with the blood and power of forest dragons. I can only offer guesses, as I’ve never witnessed their like, and my studies only told me that little. They are fierce, and strong, but neither so much as their dragon forebears.”

The table erupted in clamour.

“Dragon men? Did they fly?-“ “surely if they are some new miscegentation-“ “- Sol, what of the battle with them?”

“So, what have you done to get ready for the fight then?” interrupted Sol, stretching the thick fingers of his hands, to encompass the maps, looking as if he thought to scoop up the whole city into that strong grasp.

“Indeed,” Xerxes stepped up to the map, scanning the coloured stones arrayed here and there “There are dragons at hand now. We saw a red, a massive beast, on our flight to Brindol. We should prepare for that.”

“Sol is right to call us to the matter at hand, of course,” Lord Jarmaath looked vaguely disappointed, but Xerxes didn’t feel overly worried. He and Sol were not here to entertain some bored noble. “I have a plan, a bold one, but if you hear me out, I think you’ll see the wisdom in it.” As Jarmaath spoke, he moved his hands about the city map, emphasising with jabbing fingers. “If we can gain the field outside Brindol, we can strike at the Horde using our superior skill at arms to break them, perhaps cause a rout. Audacious, I know, but the element of surprise will help us gain in the early stages, and perhaps even break the Hand.”

“My Lord!” cried Captain Ulverth, horror quickly hidden on his broad face “I beg your pardon lord but we should consider using the high walls of Brindol to defend our warriors as they battle the Horde.”

“I have considered that, Lars. I am concerned that placing our men on the walls only lines them up for dragonfire, and fighting in the streets will lead to a fiery death-trap. This way, seizing the initiative, we can cut into the Horde and perhaps spare Brindol from the torch.”

“I am not certain of this plan, Jarmaath,” Lady Kaal’s voice was acidic “it seems a risky gamble for glory.”

“There’ll be no glory here. Just fighting.”

“My point, Master Sol, is that I would prefer the fighting spared lives and relied on what we have, rather than throwing them into the mouth of the Horde.”

“Well, if we mass ranks out on the field, those on the wall can shoot, give a bit of cover.”

“Aye, that is true, but if one hundred of we Lions can make a difference on the wall, a thousand all up with crossbows will make that much more.”

“What of the Halflings? And the Six of Prosser?” Xerxes had almost forgotten about the small folk of Dauth, and the band they looked to for protection.

“We… Lord Jarmaath held audience with the Six three days past,” answered Tredora, “the folk of Prosser and Dauth have either joined the militia if they are able, or moved on to Dennovar if they are not.”

“I was just considering… we need a band of those mighty in arts eldritch and martial, to assist Sol and I an vanquishing the flame drake.”

“Yeah. What about magic too? Anyone any good at that in the city?”

Lady Kaal looked distinctly uncomfortable. Captain Ulverth spoke up. “There is Immerstal the Red. Lady Kaal and he have an… understanding. We’ll have to negotiate.”

“The Temple stands with Brindol, of course.” Tredora’s amber complexion darkened for a breath. “There are also the local cults and the newcomer, the Ruby Knights. And the… the Heretics. They have all declared for Brindol.”

“It don’t matter who someone prays to if they’ll save lives.”

"Discussions of theology are better suited for another day. Suffice to say, I accept the aid of these others, but I will not condone their beliefs."

Sol grunted noncommittally. “Anyway, a bunch of magic guys would be a big help in killing the dragon. Who can lend a hand?”

“In good time Sol. First let’s attend to the broader battle, eh?” Lord Jarmaath stood straight. “So, are we to follow my plan, and seize the day? Or hide behind the walls? I’m for meeting destiny with sword in hand, so I say aye.”

“Nay.” Lady Kaal’s tone brooked no argument.

My men are brave, well-trained and equipped. But the weight of numbers against them... Out on the field, they can be consumed easily by the dragon. I cannot, in good conscience, commit to the field. I say nay."

Lady Tredora’s face was a conflict of doubt. “Though I fear… no matter. I support Lord Jarmaath’s plan. Aye for the field.”

“Two votes either way. Lady Sellyria, yours is the deciding vote.”

"My people have long relied on mobility and superior skill to survive in what you know as the Blackfens. We also use the land to our advantage. To forsake the shelter of your high walls... no, you should not send your warriors into the field. Nay."

“The nays have it then,” sighed Jarmaath.

“Ok, so what about the dragon? Who’s going to help me and Xerx out with that?”

“Sol, my friend, I suspect wherever we fight, the dragon will not waste time in finding us all.”

“Even with these high walls,” Sellyria spoke up again, “The Horde is many. You, we should consider what to do should they fall.” The council members were silent, uncomfortable at the thought of the walls failing, the Hand running unchecked through the streets. Would mentioning the possibility weaken the stone?

“All I know is there is a dragon flying with the Hand, and it needs to be dealt with.”

“Yeah, can we get some volunteers and we’ll take care of the beasty.”

“Sol, Xerxes,” Ulverth heaved a tired sight. His eyes were red, sunk into his face like he suffered from a ravaging sickness “Aye, there’s a dragon that’s to be dealt with. And five thousand hobgoblins. And two thousand more goblins on wolf-back. Who knows how many giants? There are many threats. Perhaps more than Brindol can face. The dragon’s a big one, but I need to look to the city’s defence as a whole.”

Jarmaath placed a hand on the captain’s shoulder. “Lars, you are wise in the ways of war.” He lifted his hand, encompassing Sol and Xerxes in a broad sweep, “but as are these heroes. The dragon needs to be planned for, and deeply, but first let us, as Lars suggests, look to the rest of the city. And then,” he clenched his hand, grinned fiercely, “we can talk of the role you will play in the coming battle.”

“We aren’t going to!” Sol had lost his temper “Xerx and I are going to get the dragon, whether you give us help or not!”

“Yes, see to whatever you wish, and Sol and I will face the peril over the city,” Xerxes heard his voice raising, and shook his fist at the council, “We will see who will stand with us or go it alone as we need. Our only concern is the dragon and preventing it from burning the city down around us all.”

“Very well,” Jarmaath’s earlier good humour was gone, icy formality settling in its place, “I see that you are determined. We will hold council, and provide you with whatever aid we can in your dragonslaying.”

Xerxes swallowed his anger, a hard act. “We did not wish to focus on the one thing, we understand that the dragon is not the only problem, but it seemed as though you dismissed our idea and moved on, we just wished some feedback. We have not come this far just to fight a dragon, we have done that and it is not so much fun. We are here for the city and wish to discuss plans further, for all we've done all we ask is that we be of service to you”

“Look, I know what it's like. I was young once, a wanderer" Jarmaath smiled, "but I must think of the whole of the city. Yes, the dragon is a huge threat - tremendous - and likely you two must deal with it. But we cannot very ignore that potential of hundreds of hobgoblins breaking through the gate, or giant bombarding us. Do you see what I am speaking of?” Jarmaath visibly softened. Here was not a hard man, a bold tyrant, realised Xerxes. He could be decisive, perhaps, but as a ruler, Lord Jarmaath sought only to be loved.

The pair settled themselves in for a long discussion but, apart from Jarmaath, the rest of the council seemed to only half entertain their ideas. The plans went back and forth, decisions were made. The healers of the Temple would be split up amongst the units of the army, to offer support in battle. A system of barricades would be used to block the roads. Finally, Xerxes would be linked in a telepathic bond with Lord Jarmaath, Immerstal and Lady Kaal. This last point was hotly argued, and only resolved with the concession that Kaal would support a field battle outside Brindol.

 

[Pedestrian]

Sessions 12&13: The Battle for Brindol

The attack came with the night. The Hand had encamped outside Brindol two days again. There was some uncertainty whether they would settle into a siege. Lord Jarmaath did not intend to give them the opportunity. Wanting to take advantage of the brightness of the summer day, the troops had ridden out early morning.

Jarmaath had wanted them protecting the flank of the city while he engaged the enemy. From the battlements, even across the city, the sound of the battle being joined could be heard, and the battlecries, screams and explosions continued for hours. Xerxes and Sol had been given command of a small group – a handful of Brindol Lions under by Captain Soranna and Tiri Kitor rangers and Trellara Nightshadow – and stationed on the North wall, the other side of the fighting. As had been agreed upon, the healers of Brindol had been broken up amongst the unit. Their healer was the warped little man Xerxes had first encountered at the Jasite mound. Wolsey. He crept around the northerner, always observing him, furtively, from the corner of his eyes.

An image of ugly, misshapen humans with blood slicked feet filled Xerxes mind. Jarmaath was attempting to communicate through the link. The southerner concentrated on the image, and it resolved into words. Giantkin are moving forward to assail the walls. I have despatched the Six from the main force to face them in the south. We’re too pressed here to defend the north. Your group will have to bring them down.

The first stone struck the wall with a clap like thunder. Even flung this far, it made the battlement shake and Xerxes had to put out a hand to steady himself.

“Giants, bombarding the walls. We have to bring them down, or the Hand will have a doorway into Brindol,” he relayed. Trellara nodded, and she and the other elves leapt onto their owls and sped into the air. The rest were forced to exit out of a small wall gate, but soon enough were sprinting over open ground. Sol took a moment to gulp down a potion, commandeered from the merchants of the city. He instantly swelled up, his already large muscles bulking to ogrish grotesquery.

The giants, four of them, were easy enough to spot, hurling boulders at the walls ceaselessly. Who knew how long they could stand under that assault? Xerxes drew ahead of the others, only at the last moment summoning his blood-slicked armour from the nether. His eyes flashed a cold, otherworldy colour, and the giants faltered in their throwing.

Soon enough, the battle was joined. The owl-riding elves, bolstered by a screeching cry from Trellara, sent arrow after arrow into the giants. In response, one of the brutes aimed a rock at Trellara. With one mighty fling, she was silenced. Her owl banked off, hoping to find healing for its mistress. Sol slammed into the giants with force to match their rock throwing, and laid about them with the lion-blade captured from the Ghostlord. The lions, more cautious, linked shields and closed on the giants. That earnt one a sharp kick that rent her shield, staggering her. Xerxes looked to the horizon. The dim mass of the Red Hand was surging, coming closer. They had been noticed.

“Quickly!” he bellowed, and focused all the netherwordly cold surging through his being into one brilliant beam, freezing a giant solid. The elves continued to pepper the giant vanquisher of Trellara with arrows, driving the creature off, while the Lions battled on and Sol sparred with a giant, reckless abandon in his every move. Soon, all the giants were dead or driven off. “Back to the walls!” They ran, the Tiri Kitor acting as rear-guard, shooting arrows against any goblin taking the lead.

Xerxes, how fairs the north?

Well, Lord Jarmaath. There were some confused images, broken swords and smouldering ruins. Panic. All is well. The giants are driven off and –

The Six are dead. The walls on the south have been broken over. Captain Ulverth and I are holding the breach.

Overhead, a crimson form surged toward Brindol, wreathed in fire and smoke. A blossom of fire spread out underneath it as it passed over the city.

The dragon! They have set the dragon loose! Again, the images of cracked blades, shattered walls, a murk of blood. We’re too pressed here. Xerxes, you and Sol have to stop the dragon!

*

The dragon’s attack on Brindol would be remembered forever after. More than what had been done, more than what came after, it came to represent both the destructive abandon of the Red Hand, and the bravery of the heroes who would defend Elsir.

Sol plummeted from the heavens, a vengeful angel to oppose the fiery dragon. With a bone shattering thud, he collided with the beast. There was no chance to use his sword here, just try and grapple with the monster. No good. It was strong. Stronger than anything he’d ever encountered. The drake got him in its claws, rolled in the air and… dropped him.

He fell hard, no time to disappear into a cloud in the same way he had gotten up there. The impact with the ground blasted the air out of him. He was pretty sure something was broken. No time to worry about that, either. His sword was fine. No use fighting a dragon in the air. Xerxes was busy fighting fires with his ice magic, and couldn’t reach the dragon anyway.

Another blast of flame, and the building behind him disappeared in a dizzying wave of heat. Sol shielded his eyes with his hands. He needed to bring the dragon down. There! A bit of debris, still smoking from dragon flame. He grabbed the still smouldering rock, ignoring the sizzling of his skin and flung it as the dragon made another pass. It tore a gash along the lizard’s belly.

“COME ON!” The half-Orc screamed, blade already in hand. The wyrm dived at him, trailing flame as it did. He met it blade first, clashing against the hard, bony ridges over the eyes.

The impact sent him skidding backwards, but he kept his foot. The dragon exhaled a gout of smoke at him, then lunged. His strike flew off the beats armoured hide, leaving not a scratch. In return, he was subject to a dizzying assault of talon, fang and tail, forcing him to retreat.

Scornful, the dragon reared onto its haunches and let forth a sulphurous gout of flame, immolating a home. Sol attempted a lunge, but he couldn’t drive the blade through the creature’s belly. In return, the dragon snapped down on his arm, mangling it, and tried to toss him into the flames. Stubborn, the warrior resisted.

Stubborn, but weakened. He backed away, fumbling to find a potion. He couldn’t think, it was so damn hot. The red dragon darted toward him, mouth wide. He just managed to duck aside, warding it off with his now clumsy sword.

“Wolsey, tend Sol!” A burst of bright, cool light passed over his head, freezing the dragon. It roared, leaping over Sol to attack Xerxes, trying to drive the northerner into the flames. A clammy palm fell on Sol’s shoulder, and the smell of loam filled his nostrils. He took something into himself, and the pain of his many wounds lessened.

Grunting, he charged the dragon’s back, scoring a deep hit. The dragon rose into the air, immolating the ground beneath it as it did. Sol, Xerxes and Wolsey were all caught in the flames. The agony was maddening. Wolsey collapsed, a smoking ruin, barely alive.

The dragon roared, and plunged at Sol. Again, they collided. But this time, Sol was the stronger. His feet on the earth, he called up its power and struck the dragon down, splitting its skull.

Xerxes had a far away look in his eyes, so Sol saw to Wolsey. There was only so much the infused tincture of the potion could do, but to the strange priests credit, he never once cried out in pain.

“The Hand have broken through. We have to hold the Dawn Way.”

*

The first wave of attackers fell easily. Xerxes wiped most of them out with a glance, leaving only shaken commanders and blood-hungry manticores, and they had fallen under Sol’s blade.

The second wave, Bugbear berserkers that the Hand had dug up in some unknown pit, had taken a bit more effort. Still, Sol single-handedly despatched half of them, the others falling to a combination of Xerxes’ chill stare, arrows from the defenders and their squad, and a manticore zombie raised by Wolsey.

Wolsey had disappeared during the third wave of attackers, muttering about the dragon. A wise choice. The barricade, and all the defenders had fallen. Captain Soranna had held out to the last, battling alone against one of the five dragon monsters that had blasted the road block with lightning.

It had been a massacre, and at the end only Sol and Xerxes survived. But they held the road. Held it against the best the Red Hand had to send at them. Goblin, bugbear, manticore, dragon. All of them fell before the pairs combined might. Nothing got past them. Or so they thought.

Halfway through a message recalling them to the Cathedral square, Lord Jarmaath abruptly stopped. The Dawn Way, choked with bodies of the Hand and defender alike, would have to be abandoned.

*

An assassin who had somehow broken through the lines of defence had laid low Lord Jarmaath. Lady Kaal was on her way to take command, but in the meantime, the Autarch of the True Law had been trying to maintain order in the army. She was a powerful woman, pale-skinned and red haired. There was also something familiar about her. Half the cathedral square was filled with chattering, panicking soldier. The other half was empty. Except for the bodies. Seven people picked off trying to get Jarmaath to safety.

When Sol and Xerxes had arrived, the Autarch – she answered to no name, only this title – had apprised them of this, all but commanding them to slay the assassin and bring back his head. They had agreed to this, as the forces being in such disarray as the Red Hand assailed Brindol was a death sentence for all. “In Nomine” the Autarch called after them as they moved off.

Quickly, they moved into the empty stretch, Sol in the lead. An arrow flew towards him and he moved his sword in a defensive arc, knocking the poisoned projectile from the air. It was come from the second floor window of a coffin makers.

Xerxes disappeared, returning a second later beside the assassin. It was a hideous monster, some blasphemous crossbreed dragon-man. Unhesitating, Xerxes focused the void energies of the Bitter Angel, freezing the creature. The monster gasped in agony, but dropped its bow in favour of a cruel looking sword and pressed the offensive. Xerxes found himself unable to respond. The creature would fade from sight, only to reappear and land a telling blow. Even when Xerxes could see it, he could scarcely harm it with his spear.

Below, Sol had been confronted by two sorcerous Hobgoblins. Fortunately, Wolsey’s zombie manticore had taken the brunt of their lightning bolts. Sol didn’t take time to reflect on how they’d managed to get into the square. He just hacked them apart, and bolted up the stairs. He registered Xerxes’s wounded condition, and the flickering horned dragon-thing, and leapt into the fray. With one bone-splitting strike, he finished off that threat too.

Sol hacked off the head, and the two of them staggered into the square. The Autarch raised their arms, making a bold speech, but at this point the two of them were too tired to listen, or care.

Then, Alexander rode in at the head of his band of Ruby Knights. He was bloody and battered, but he and his almost-red charger still gleamed with fervour. “Captain Ulverth has fallen, and our lines broken. The general of the Red Hand marches now to sack the Cathedral and finish the city!”

*

Clouds choked the light of the moon and stars, the first all through this abominable summer. They had formed over five minutes, an impossible space of time. Magic. Torches had been lit, but the advantage was to the Hand in these conditions. Frightened Brindol defenders formed uneasy ranks. The cruel sneer of the Autarch stilled any murmurs from her black armoured followers, holding the left flank. The Ruby Knights, led by Alexander, arrayed in their battered finery, stood on the right. Sol and Xerxes held the centre ground, stood alone. They waited.

They did not have to wait long. A steady drumbeat, underscored by the thump of booted feet. Down the Dawn Way they came. Giantkin, goblins and monsters. Down the Dawn Way came the Red Hand. At the lead were the cruel mystic Koth, the vicious hunter Saarvith, the cunning storm-witch Ulwai. At the lead strode General Kharn, a towering, muscular hobgoblin, encased in blood red scales, a thick shield and cruel hooked pick coated in blood. Down the Dawn Way came doom.

“Slay the weaklings! Crush their bones!” roared Kharn, brandishing his pick at the huddled defenders, “but those are mine.” The barbed red tip of the pick focused on Sol and Xerxes. Battle was joined,

“So, pup,” spat the general as he engaged Sol, sending his Giants to batter Xerxes, “I have learnt you stole the sword arts of the Mighty. Face me. See what power a true master can wield!” Sol felt his resolve falter before the general’s fanatical stare. The half-Orc and the Hobgoblin span about one another, Sol keeping his sword out level, the general facing him shield out, side on, the pick hanging almost casually behind him. Then they crashed. Sol’s blade connected first, a solid blow.

“Whelp,” Kharn seemed unfazed “A true master knows how to call on stone.” The pick came forward, avalanche quick, and smacked into Sol’s shoulder. He felt his collarbone snap, worried for a moment his shoulder had gone with it. Kharn ripped his pick from Sol, the ferocity of the action nearly pulled the warrior over. Blood spurted from the wound.

A wail from the crowd diverted all attention for a moment, as Wolsey, riding the still gore-slicked skeleton of Abithriax, dived into the battle, savaging Kharn’s Ogre guard. Xerxes desperately shot ice at Kharn, forcing him to back off from Sol. It cost the northerner though, as a massive club slammed into his breastplate, sending him skidding backwards.

The storm-witch screamed, and the heavy clouds poured their tears. The cadence of the rain mixed with the beating of Sol’s heart. A flash, as lightning struck the stones nearby, incinerating some men. This was no time to be weak. He had to fight through, win this. He had to.

Sol surged forward, slamming aside the general’s shield with his foot, and slashed Kharn across the face and neck. Kharn was knocked backwards, his feet scrabbling on the wet floor. A scream of pain was drowned by thunder. “My mistress gives me strength!” He roared like a bloodied bull, coming at Sol head on. Another swing of the pick, this time crackling with profane energy.

But the half Orc had the advantage now. Skillfully, he deflected the barbed weapon, turning it aside. Then, with a duck and a lunge, he slashed alongside the torn Hobgoblin, coming up behind Kharn. The hobgoblin, choking on his own blood now, turned in a daze to Sol. His vision was already elsewhere.

“You think… this is victory?” Through his bloody lips, his teeth were stained orange red. “This… is not… over. The High Wyrmlord will… bring my mistress… and… with her… hell.” Before Kharn could collapse, Sol ran him through.