Travels through the Wild West: Books V-VIII (Epilogue)
- Thread starter Lazybones
- Start date
Lazybones
Adventurer
Book VII, Part 17
“Who are you?” Cal asked, the same time that Benzan asked, “What do you want?” Despite having been healed, the tiefling’s throat was still raw, for the question came out more as a croak than a legible query.
The gnoll did not respond to either, but then Lariel stepped forward—careful to keep his bow lowered and his other hand away from the hilt of his sword—and offered a slight bow to the creature. “Salvete, custos silvae, ministrator Silvani,” he said, the words flowing off his tongue with a soft, lilting accent.
Cal shot a glance at Dana, but the priestess shook her head.
The gnoll nodded, as if weighing them anew. “Ego vos video,” he said, somehow forming the same accent with that animal mouth. “I am Zev Darok, druid of the Wood.” While he kept the spear up, holding it like a walking stick, his wariness did not noticeably ease, and the badgers seemed like tensed coils waiting only for the slightest prod to leap to the attack.
Lariel introduced himself and his companions, giving only their names. The only evidence that the gnoll was paying heed was a shifting of his eyes with each name, but it was clear that he missed nothing.
“I see you and your companions, Lariel arcane. You come into the Wood armed with skill and spell and blade, but lacking in lore.” He shot a meaningful glance at the copse behind them, and the remains of the assassin vines.
“We seek the ones who raided the caravan,” Cal said. “Our intent is not to trespass, or offer injury to the Wood.”
“Injury...” the gnoll said, shifting his jaws as if tasting the word. It added a rather unsettling effect to his already harsh expression. He barked, a bitter sound. “Even if you did seek to injure the Wood, I doubt you could inflict worse damage than has already been suffered. Evil stalks the Wood, a great and powerful Evil that corrupts the Wood by its very presence.”
“The dragonkin... they are part of this Evil?” Cal asked.
The gnoll nodded. “They are part, but they are only the arms, the eyes, of a presence most dark, most deep. It has taken control of that place that is called Nar’dek’alok, the Weeping Stones. A place of great power, once, deep within the core of the Wood.”
The companions exchanged a look. “Can you tell us more about this... presence?” Cal asked.
Zev shook his head. “I have not seen it, and none of the children of the Wood will go near. Several of my order have confronted it, but it has slain them all. I have watched from hiding, and listened to the dragonkin, and they speak only of the ‘Undying One’. No ordinary creature now lives within a half-day’s trek of Nar’dek’alok, nothing but its minions.”
“The ‘Undying One,’” Benzan said, his voice now slightly stronger despite the bleak look on his face. “No matter what that is, it can’t be good for us.”
“Dragon, maybe,” Gorath said, his voice as neutral as if he’d just said it was going to rain again. Benzan looked at him with disbelief, and opened his mouth to retort, but Cal interrupted him, drawing their attention back to the druid.
“Well, we weren’t looking for this kind of trouble, but it always seems to find us nonetheless,” Cal said. For a moment he looked tired, but then he straightened, and despite his small size he suddenly seemed to command the small clearing. “I don’t know if this evil is connected to all the disasters that have tormented the West in recent months, but whatever it is, is cannot be allowed to continue attacking caravans and destroying the natural order of this forest. If you can guide us to this place, Zev, this ‘Weeping Stones,’ then we will do our best to find out the nature of this threat, and, if it is within our power, deal with it.”
Lariel and Gorath exchanged a quick look, but after a moment, the elf nodded, adding his assent. Lok and Dana wore stares of equal determination, and although Benzan shook his head and mumbled something inaudible, he did not offer further dissent.
The druid masked his own feelings, fixing them all with an intense look that they returned unblinking. Finally, he nodded.
“I will take you there.”
Benzan groaned.
“Who are you?” Cal asked, the same time that Benzan asked, “What do you want?” Despite having been healed, the tiefling’s throat was still raw, for the question came out more as a croak than a legible query.
The gnoll did not respond to either, but then Lariel stepped forward—careful to keep his bow lowered and his other hand away from the hilt of his sword—and offered a slight bow to the creature. “Salvete, custos silvae, ministrator Silvani,” he said, the words flowing off his tongue with a soft, lilting accent.
Cal shot a glance at Dana, but the priestess shook her head.
The gnoll nodded, as if weighing them anew. “Ego vos video,” he said, somehow forming the same accent with that animal mouth. “I am Zev Darok, druid of the Wood.” While he kept the spear up, holding it like a walking stick, his wariness did not noticeably ease, and the badgers seemed like tensed coils waiting only for the slightest prod to leap to the attack.
Lariel introduced himself and his companions, giving only their names. The only evidence that the gnoll was paying heed was a shifting of his eyes with each name, but it was clear that he missed nothing.
“I see you and your companions, Lariel arcane. You come into the Wood armed with skill and spell and blade, but lacking in lore.” He shot a meaningful glance at the copse behind them, and the remains of the assassin vines.
“We seek the ones who raided the caravan,” Cal said. “Our intent is not to trespass, or offer injury to the Wood.”
“Injury...” the gnoll said, shifting his jaws as if tasting the word. It added a rather unsettling effect to his already harsh expression. He barked, a bitter sound. “Even if you did seek to injure the Wood, I doubt you could inflict worse damage than has already been suffered. Evil stalks the Wood, a great and powerful Evil that corrupts the Wood by its very presence.”
“The dragonkin... they are part of this Evil?” Cal asked.
The gnoll nodded. “They are part, but they are only the arms, the eyes, of a presence most dark, most deep. It has taken control of that place that is called Nar’dek’alok, the Weeping Stones. A place of great power, once, deep within the core of the Wood.”
The companions exchanged a look. “Can you tell us more about this... presence?” Cal asked.
Zev shook his head. “I have not seen it, and none of the children of the Wood will go near. Several of my order have confronted it, but it has slain them all. I have watched from hiding, and listened to the dragonkin, and they speak only of the ‘Undying One’. No ordinary creature now lives within a half-day’s trek of Nar’dek’alok, nothing but its minions.”
“The ‘Undying One,’” Benzan said, his voice now slightly stronger despite the bleak look on his face. “No matter what that is, it can’t be good for us.”
“Dragon, maybe,” Gorath said, his voice as neutral as if he’d just said it was going to rain again. Benzan looked at him with disbelief, and opened his mouth to retort, but Cal interrupted him, drawing their attention back to the druid.
“Well, we weren’t looking for this kind of trouble, but it always seems to find us nonetheless,” Cal said. For a moment he looked tired, but then he straightened, and despite his small size he suddenly seemed to command the small clearing. “I don’t know if this evil is connected to all the disasters that have tormented the West in recent months, but whatever it is, is cannot be allowed to continue attacking caravans and destroying the natural order of this forest. If you can guide us to this place, Zev, this ‘Weeping Stones,’ then we will do our best to find out the nature of this threat, and, if it is within our power, deal with it.”
Lariel and Gorath exchanged a quick look, but after a moment, the elf nodded, adding his assent. Lok and Dana wore stares of equal determination, and although Benzan shook his head and mumbled something inaudible, he did not offer further dissent.
The druid masked his own feelings, fixing them all with an intense look that they returned unblinking. Finally, he nodded.
“I will take you there.”
Benzan groaned.
Black Bard
First Post
Part 17...
Lazy, you`re mean!!! Such a teasing short post is the ultimate cruelty!!! Grrr!!!
But I would like my post to be accompanied with the most sincere "Merry Christmas" votes for all of you!!
Lazy, you`re mean!!! Such a teasing short post is the ultimate cruelty!!! Grrr!!!
But I would like my post to be accompanied with the most sincere "Merry Christmas" votes for all of you!!
Lazybones
Adventurer
Happy holidays to all my readers, and may peace be with you all.
And since nothing says "Merry Christmas" better than summoning demons, here's another seasonal holiday update:
* * * * *
Book VII, Part 18
Guthan stood in the mouth of the opening that was bored into the face of the cliff, and looked out over the valley. He thought of it as his valley, had developed a sense of ownership over the long months since the dreams and messages had led him here. The remains of the camps were still visible; the presence of that many creatures could not be removed quickly or easily from the land. Now there were only a handful of hobgoblins left, the bulk of them having departed the day before along with the trolls and giants. Guthan felt well rid of them, particularly those infuriating beasts who had the temerity to call themselves “clerics,” and think themselves his equal.
Guthan snorted and turned away from the valley, toward the dark maw that penetrated some distance into the solid mass of the cliff. He’d been tempted to disabuse them of that notion, to put them in their place, but he needed them, and so he’d had to accept the limited deference that his standing gave him.
Soon, though, things would change, and all would grant him the respect that he deserved.
His bootsteps echoed through the dark, empty space. He needed no light to guide him, not in this place. He felt a tingle as he passed through the protective wards—some his own, and some more ancient—and traversed the long stair that gave way to his destination.
Here he could see clearly, although there was no light to speak of, but rather a black haze that somehow outlined every tiny detail to his senses. He didn’t bother to try to understand how it worked or why; asking too many questions here, even in the privacy of one’s own thoughts, could be dangerous.
The chamber was spacious, and seemed even larger than it was. Perhaps it was because it had a way of making him feel small, insignificant, no matter how many times he came here. Guthan had no idea if that was a magical effect or just a byproduct of what he knew about this place, but as always he merely steeled his thoughts and stepped forward toward what he sought.
His eyes were drawn inevitably toward the thing that dominated the chamber, across from him near the wall opposite the entry. The stone archway was freestanding, a good ten paces away from the wall, formed of stones piled one atop the other until they met in an uneven curve twenty paces above the ground. There was no way that the arch should have remained standing, not with the way that the stones fit together so precariously, as if carelessly stacked by a child. The arch was filled with a perfectly flat plane of what looked like gray stone, marbled with dark red striations that formed a web of interconnecting lines. There was no pattern to that web, only a chaotic and twisting maze that seemed to draw in the eye, promising a headache if you stared too long. Perhaps most disconcerting, if one walked around the arch one would find that the gray surface appeared identical from the far side,set deep within the arch, although that would mean that the surface could only be at best a finger’s thickness throughout. Before the arch, easily missed unless one looked for it, a squat pedestal of plain black stone rose up out of the floor, at most a foot square and coming up to just above a man’s waist in height.
Guthan tore his gaze away from the arch and looked down at the floor before him. The black stone stretched before him in a smooth plane, but in the center of the chamber, glowing in the strange sight granted by this place, there was a circle cut into the floor. Its purpose was immediately visible in the runes that outlined the circle in twin rings, in the lines that intersected to form a five-sided shape five paces across in its core.
A summoning circle.
The circle was perfect, burned into the stone itself, but Guthan still spent long minutes examining it carefully for the faintest blemish. Finally, he returned to the place at the head of the circle—though there was no apparent way to distinguish one part of the ring from another, somehow he just knew where he must stand—and began to incant. The darkness around him began to pulse with his words, twisted syllables that seemed torn from his lips, words that no mere mortal man were ever meant to speak. The ritual went on for long minutes that each stretched on endlessly, but Guthan, lost in the power that swelled through and around him at his call, was unaware of the passing of time until the final word had faded into silence.
When the spell was complete, he stood there, panting, feeling as if he’d run a mile in armor. Not that he could, not any more; he’d once been strong and hale, but his new... calling had demanded a heavy physical price. A worthwhile trade, for the power he now commanded.
The air within the circle began to coalesce, forming a blackness that seemed to pulse in harmony with the dark aura of the chamber. Then it took on form, roiling in a fetid cloud that drew itself ever tighter until it solidified into something tangible.
Guthan drew in a breath as he regarded the thing that stood there, facing him. It loomed over him like the vulture that resembled, flexing its wings within the limited space enclosed within the summoning diagram. A dark and alien intelligence shone within eyes that bored into Guthan the way that a bird might look at a worm it had uncovered in the dust.
A vrock. He’d never summoned anything so powerful before, and the sense of it filled him both with excitement and fear that surged through him in an exhilarating rush.
“Release me,” it said, its voice cutting through his head like a hot blade.
“A moment,” Guthan said, glad that he was able to speak despite the cascading emotions he felt within him. “First, demon, we must confirm the bargain between us, the commands of He that we both serve...”
“I know who I serve, thrall, and I understand my purpose in being sent to this flyspeck of a plane. Now, release me, before I grow impatient.”
Trying—and not succeeding—to remain calm, the priest stepped forward, placing his boot across one of the outer lines of the circle. As soon as the leather touched the line etched into the stone, the demon surged forward and loomed over him, close enough so that its fetid breath poured over him like a wave. To his credit, Guthan stood his ground, but it was more because he was paralyzed with fear than anything else.
But the demon did not touch him; in fact, it laughed, a warped chuckle that sent tremors down his spine. “Perhaps some day we can meet on my plane, manling,” it said, chuckling again before it turned toward the exit. It had barely covered five paces, though, before it turned and regarded him once more.
“I am charged to give you a message, thrall. In three days’ time, you will conduct another summoning. You will call upon the succubus G’hael, who will give you further instructions.” For a moment, the demon shifted its gaze, to regard the silent stone arch, but it snapped its eyes back on Guthan before the priest could look away. The demon laughed again, a soft chuckle, then turned and spread its wings, vanishing before it had even taken a single step.
Guthan let out a breath that he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. He trembled with the intensity of feeling unleashed by what he’d just experienced, and when he took a step toward the exit his legs gave out, dropping him unceremonially to the hard stone floor. For a time, he just sat there, until a laugh broke his lips, a sound that grew into an uncontrolled torrent of laughter and tears that went on for a long time.
Somehow, it sounded even worse than the demon’s otherworldly chuckling.
And since nothing says "Merry Christmas" better than summoning demons, here's another seasonal holiday update:
* * * * *
Book VII, Part 18
Guthan stood in the mouth of the opening that was bored into the face of the cliff, and looked out over the valley. He thought of it as his valley, had developed a sense of ownership over the long months since the dreams and messages had led him here. The remains of the camps were still visible; the presence of that many creatures could not be removed quickly or easily from the land. Now there were only a handful of hobgoblins left, the bulk of them having departed the day before along with the trolls and giants. Guthan felt well rid of them, particularly those infuriating beasts who had the temerity to call themselves “clerics,” and think themselves his equal.
Guthan snorted and turned away from the valley, toward the dark maw that penetrated some distance into the solid mass of the cliff. He’d been tempted to disabuse them of that notion, to put them in their place, but he needed them, and so he’d had to accept the limited deference that his standing gave him.
Soon, though, things would change, and all would grant him the respect that he deserved.
His bootsteps echoed through the dark, empty space. He needed no light to guide him, not in this place. He felt a tingle as he passed through the protective wards—some his own, and some more ancient—and traversed the long stair that gave way to his destination.
Here he could see clearly, although there was no light to speak of, but rather a black haze that somehow outlined every tiny detail to his senses. He didn’t bother to try to understand how it worked or why; asking too many questions here, even in the privacy of one’s own thoughts, could be dangerous.
The chamber was spacious, and seemed even larger than it was. Perhaps it was because it had a way of making him feel small, insignificant, no matter how many times he came here. Guthan had no idea if that was a magical effect or just a byproduct of what he knew about this place, but as always he merely steeled his thoughts and stepped forward toward what he sought.
His eyes were drawn inevitably toward the thing that dominated the chamber, across from him near the wall opposite the entry. The stone archway was freestanding, a good ten paces away from the wall, formed of stones piled one atop the other until they met in an uneven curve twenty paces above the ground. There was no way that the arch should have remained standing, not with the way that the stones fit together so precariously, as if carelessly stacked by a child. The arch was filled with a perfectly flat plane of what looked like gray stone, marbled with dark red striations that formed a web of interconnecting lines. There was no pattern to that web, only a chaotic and twisting maze that seemed to draw in the eye, promising a headache if you stared too long. Perhaps most disconcerting, if one walked around the arch one would find that the gray surface appeared identical from the far side,set deep within the arch, although that would mean that the surface could only be at best a finger’s thickness throughout. Before the arch, easily missed unless one looked for it, a squat pedestal of plain black stone rose up out of the floor, at most a foot square and coming up to just above a man’s waist in height.
Guthan tore his gaze away from the arch and looked down at the floor before him. The black stone stretched before him in a smooth plane, but in the center of the chamber, glowing in the strange sight granted by this place, there was a circle cut into the floor. Its purpose was immediately visible in the runes that outlined the circle in twin rings, in the lines that intersected to form a five-sided shape five paces across in its core.
A summoning circle.
The circle was perfect, burned into the stone itself, but Guthan still spent long minutes examining it carefully for the faintest blemish. Finally, he returned to the place at the head of the circle—though there was no apparent way to distinguish one part of the ring from another, somehow he just knew where he must stand—and began to incant. The darkness around him began to pulse with his words, twisted syllables that seemed torn from his lips, words that no mere mortal man were ever meant to speak. The ritual went on for long minutes that each stretched on endlessly, but Guthan, lost in the power that swelled through and around him at his call, was unaware of the passing of time until the final word had faded into silence.
When the spell was complete, he stood there, panting, feeling as if he’d run a mile in armor. Not that he could, not any more; he’d once been strong and hale, but his new... calling had demanded a heavy physical price. A worthwhile trade, for the power he now commanded.
The air within the circle began to coalesce, forming a blackness that seemed to pulse in harmony with the dark aura of the chamber. Then it took on form, roiling in a fetid cloud that drew itself ever tighter until it solidified into something tangible.
Guthan drew in a breath as he regarded the thing that stood there, facing him. It loomed over him like the vulture that resembled, flexing its wings within the limited space enclosed within the summoning diagram. A dark and alien intelligence shone within eyes that bored into Guthan the way that a bird might look at a worm it had uncovered in the dust.
A vrock. He’d never summoned anything so powerful before, and the sense of it filled him both with excitement and fear that surged through him in an exhilarating rush.
“Release me,” it said, its voice cutting through his head like a hot blade.
“A moment,” Guthan said, glad that he was able to speak despite the cascading emotions he felt within him. “First, demon, we must confirm the bargain between us, the commands of He that we both serve...”
“I know who I serve, thrall, and I understand my purpose in being sent to this flyspeck of a plane. Now, release me, before I grow impatient.”
Trying—and not succeeding—to remain calm, the priest stepped forward, placing his boot across one of the outer lines of the circle. As soon as the leather touched the line etched into the stone, the demon surged forward and loomed over him, close enough so that its fetid breath poured over him like a wave. To his credit, Guthan stood his ground, but it was more because he was paralyzed with fear than anything else.
But the demon did not touch him; in fact, it laughed, a warped chuckle that sent tremors down his spine. “Perhaps some day we can meet on my plane, manling,” it said, chuckling again before it turned toward the exit. It had barely covered five paces, though, before it turned and regarded him once more.
“I am charged to give you a message, thrall. In three days’ time, you will conduct another summoning. You will call upon the succubus G’hael, who will give you further instructions.” For a moment, the demon shifted its gaze, to regard the silent stone arch, but it snapped its eyes back on Guthan before the priest could look away. The demon laughed again, a soft chuckle, then turned and spread its wings, vanishing before it had even taken a single step.
Guthan let out a breath that he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. He trembled with the intensity of feeling unleashed by what he’d just experienced, and when he took a step toward the exit his legs gave out, dropping him unceremonially to the hard stone floor. For a time, he just sat there, until a laugh broke his lips, a sound that grew into an uncontrolled torrent of laughter and tears that went on for a long time.
Somehow, it sounded even worse than the demon’s otherworldly chuckling.
Broccli_Head
Explorer
I think that's the next summoning!
Summonings are good for holydays, keep on, Lazybones...
BTW, I'm back
Some people has asked me why I had left my beloved Story Hour forum. And I think you deserve an answer, specially authors like Wuld, who has given me lots of wonderful moments with their stories. So, for those interested, that's a brief explanation
[warning: this story maybe won't interest you, so feel free to skip it]
Well, let's say I just passed some bad moments, I had some painful decisions to take, and I was on the edge of a depression.
So I took a break. I was also postiong a lot in Meta forum, with a bunch of EN Worlders know as Hivemind. And in a way, they saved me from depression. Oh, it sounds like a film line, maybe, but it did. Because I met very special people, people that today I call friends, more close friends that most people I've met in real life. And Because... well, I'll never tell... but anyways, I took some resolutions, and I'm working to archieve them.
Life is still messy, and I have some strings to tie before beginning anew, but now I know I have to do it, and that I'm doing it.
[/end of story]
BTW, I'm back
Some people has asked me why I had left my beloved Story Hour forum. And I think you deserve an answer, specially authors like Wuld, who has given me lots of wonderful moments with their stories. So, for those interested, that's a brief explanation
[warning: this story maybe won't interest you, so feel free to skip it]
Well, let's say I just passed some bad moments, I had some painful decisions to take, and I was on the edge of a depression.
So I took a break. I was also postiong a lot in Meta forum, with a bunch of EN Worlders know as Hivemind. And in a way, they saved me from depression. Oh, it sounds like a film line, maybe, but it did. Because I met very special people, people that today I call friends, more close friends that most people I've met in real life. And Because... well, I'll never tell... but anyways, I took some resolutions, and I'm working to archieve them.
Life is still messy, and I have some strings to tie before beginning anew, but now I know I have to do it, and that I'm doing it.
[/end of story]
Lazybones
Adventurer
I hate mid-week Christmas; when you work the day before and the day after it hardly seems like a holiday at all. And same thing next week, for New Year...
In any case, I hope you all had a happy holiday. And welcome back, Horacio! There'll always be a chair by the fire for the Story Hour Addict in the Travels thread.
The story continues:
* * * * *
Book VII, Part 19
Idron Sahrek reined in his horse, casting a sharp gaze along the sharp edges of the ridges that rose up like walls to either side of him. His tunic was plain wool covered by an unadorned steel breastplate, and he wore no emblem or sigil, but the red cloak that hung over his shoulders and down over the rump of his horse was identifier enough, to one who knew the Western Heartlands. A flail, shortsword, and light crossbow hung with easy reach. Behind him, another dozen men clad in similar fashion stretched out in a double line. All veterans, seasoned warriors who were among the best in an already storied company. The Riders in Red Cloaks had protected Asbravn for hundreds of years, and although they called themselves a “militia,” traditionally included mercenaries, adventurers, and retired soldiers within their ranks. Sahrek was one of the latter, having served fifteen years in the Purple Dragons of Cormyr before he had come west, leaving the land of his birth following the death of his second wife in childbirth. He hadn’t been young then, but now he truly felt the weight of his years on him. Next year would be the twentieth since he’d arrived in Asbravn, and donned the Red Cloak.
His men rode tall in the saddle, aware that they bore a special responsibility. The patrol routes that led into the Far Hills east of the town were by far the most dangerous, for nasty things sometimes wandered down from the Sunset Mountains, looking for easier lowland prey. Thus far, in the second day of their patrol sweep, things had been quiet, very quiet. A storm had blown through in the last tenday, not wet enough to make their travel impossible but draping the sky in a thick gray sheet that had not broken since. A darker line of gray lay along the western horizon, promising more wet before they completed their circuit, but that was not what gave Sahrek pause. His hands tightened on his reins. There was something in the air, besides the omnipresent wind.
Trouble.
Tordan, his second, prodded his horse forward. “What is it, sir?”
Sahrek opened his mouth to respond, but before he could, they both caught sight of a mounted man who appeared from a break in the ridge ahead, riding hard. One of the outriders—Jarem, Sahrek recognized as the man drew closer. The man rode as if half the demons of the Abyss were chasing him, and the reason for his haste was revealed as soon as he was close enough to shout a warning.
“Trolls! At least a dozen, moving fast through the defiles in this direction!” At the final words he reined in, scattering small rocks as his horse’s hooves dug into the trail, the tired animal heaving from the exertion of its run.
“Did they see you?” Sahrek asked.
“I’m not certain,” Jarem said. “They were moving this way already, and I did not pause to see if they were following.”
Sahrek nodded. Smoothly turning his mount to face the rest of the patrol, he said, “We’ll backtrack to Thunder’s Gap, and make our way back down the ridgeline to Asbravn.” His men nodded calmly, though hands were tight on reins and weapon hilts. The Far Hills were not an easy ride, even in the lower reaches, but they should be able to outpace the trolls. If not...
“Ride!” he shouted, and the column launched itself back down the trail it had spent the morning riding. Sahrek felt a twinge for Corel, the other outrider who had not yet returned, but his duty to the town was paramount. Twelve trolls were a considerable threat. Even if it was unlikely that they would actually assail the town, they could easily wreck havoc on the caravans that rode the eastern road through Sunset Vale.
He was already thinking of oil, and mages, and how to use the mobility of horses, when a shout from ahead snapped his attention back on the present.
The trail ran around the base of a steep hill that squatted like a drunken giant across their path. To the right side of the hill the trail ran up along the length of a stony weir, unsuitable for horses, a watershed that would become a raging torrent with the coming of the spring thaw. To the left the trail descended along the route they had come earlier, paralleling the ridgeline until it reached Thunder’s Gap and the best route back down to Sunset Vale and Asbravn.
With vicious cries a wave of hobgoblin warriors crested the hill and came charging down the steep slope, waving a variety of weapons. Sahrek quickly tallied their numbers in a single look, at least three score, with more still just cresting the hill. Almost incidentally he noticed that all wore surcoats of faded blue cloth over their armor, showing the sign of a black fist in the center of their chests. There was no time to ponder the significance of that, however.
“Tordan, Maldek, ride for the Gap!” he cried. “The rest of you, on me! For the Vale!”
“The Vale!” came the cry, as the horsemen drew their weapons and spurred their horses into a full charge. None wavered, knowing that the only chance was to buy the two riding for the gap a chance at escape. One man cried out and fell from his saddle, a long arrow buried to the feathers in his throat, and several other missiles hissed through the air, narrowly missing or glancing off the Riders’ armor.
Tordan and Maldek broke off from the rest and rode hard toward the trail. The charging hobgoblins were nearly at the base of the hill, but Sahrek and his riders rode hard into them. A swirling melee erupted. For a moment the knot of horsemen remained intact, the momentum of their charge carrying them into the midst of the hobgoblins, and then Riders started to go down, their mounts crashing to the stones as blades tore into them.
Sahrek smashed a hobgoblin’s face with his flail, and the creature crumpled. He spun to swing at another coming up from his left, but suddenly he felt pain explode in his back as a spearhead stabbed deeply into his torso. Staggered, he managed to bat away a hobgoblin’s sword before his flail slipped from his fingers. All around him, men were dying; hobgoblins too, but they had numbers to spare. The last thing he saw, as his horse collapsed from under him, was the two riders, vanishing around the side of the hill, riding hard.
* * * * *
Tordan rode with determination, forcing himself not to listen to the cries that filled the trail behind him. Maldek rode a few lengths back, clutching to his reins and swaying in his saddle. A long arrow jutted from his side.
The man would have to keep up, or not. Tordan knew that it was too much to be a coincidence, those trolls and now the hobgoblins. He’d seen the livery too, and had lived in the shadows of the Sunset Mountains long enough to know what it meant. This was no mere raid, and his warning might be the only thing that stood between Asbravn and disaster.
The hill fell behind them, but Tordan did not ease his pace. He knew it was dangerous, riding so quickly over the uneven surface of the trail, but he balanced that danger with the need for speed. It would be dark in just a few hours, making the already difficult route impossible.
Suddenly a dark figure rose up out of a cluster of rocks along the side of the trail, a good hundred yards ahead. A cloaked figure, drawing a bow...
Tordan bent low in his saddle, urging his mount forward, pushing for even more speed. He drew his sword as an arrow flashed by him. For a moment he felt relief, then he heard the impact as Maldek fell hard from his saddle to the packed earth of the trail. He’d already covered half the distance to the archer, but the hobgoblin was already drawing a second arrow, aiming and releasing in one smooth motion.
Tordan felt pain as the arrow caught him in the shoulder, but he held on, and the horse did not skip a pace as it hurtled forward. The archer would not get another chance to shoot again. Tordan nudged the horse to the side, toward the archer’s perch, switching his sword to his other hand. The hobgoblin did not try to evade, only calmly drew another long arrow from the quiver at his hip.
Tordan lunged, realizing even as he did that he’d misjudged the distance. The blade cleaved empty air as the hobgoblin ducked back, and then he was past, clinging to his horse’s neck as the beast drove down the trail. Ahead lay a turning that he recognized, and beyond, Thunder’s Gap.
Pain exploded again, this time in his back. He tried to hold on as the horse neared the turning, but his sword clattered from his hand, falling away in a spiraling arc that seemed to hang there in the air for a long moment. The sound of it hitting the stones seemed to come to his ears from a great distance, and then it was he who was falling, falling into a vast darkness that swam up around him to engulf him.
The archer watched as the rider fell, then stepped down from his rock to the trail. Horses were too valuable to kill, if there was no need. He glanced back down the trail, to make sure no other riders were forthcoming, then trotted after the second rider’s animal. The mount had eased off its charge with the death of its rider, and he didn’t expect any trouble recovering it; he’d always had a way with animals.
There would be no warning for Asbravn.
In any case, I hope you all had a happy holiday. And welcome back, Horacio! There'll always be a chair by the fire for the Story Hour Addict in the Travels thread.
The story continues:
* * * * *
Book VII, Part 19
Idron Sahrek reined in his horse, casting a sharp gaze along the sharp edges of the ridges that rose up like walls to either side of him. His tunic was plain wool covered by an unadorned steel breastplate, and he wore no emblem or sigil, but the red cloak that hung over his shoulders and down over the rump of his horse was identifier enough, to one who knew the Western Heartlands. A flail, shortsword, and light crossbow hung with easy reach. Behind him, another dozen men clad in similar fashion stretched out in a double line. All veterans, seasoned warriors who were among the best in an already storied company. The Riders in Red Cloaks had protected Asbravn for hundreds of years, and although they called themselves a “militia,” traditionally included mercenaries, adventurers, and retired soldiers within their ranks. Sahrek was one of the latter, having served fifteen years in the Purple Dragons of Cormyr before he had come west, leaving the land of his birth following the death of his second wife in childbirth. He hadn’t been young then, but now he truly felt the weight of his years on him. Next year would be the twentieth since he’d arrived in Asbravn, and donned the Red Cloak.
His men rode tall in the saddle, aware that they bore a special responsibility. The patrol routes that led into the Far Hills east of the town were by far the most dangerous, for nasty things sometimes wandered down from the Sunset Mountains, looking for easier lowland prey. Thus far, in the second day of their patrol sweep, things had been quiet, very quiet. A storm had blown through in the last tenday, not wet enough to make their travel impossible but draping the sky in a thick gray sheet that had not broken since. A darker line of gray lay along the western horizon, promising more wet before they completed their circuit, but that was not what gave Sahrek pause. His hands tightened on his reins. There was something in the air, besides the omnipresent wind.
Trouble.
Tordan, his second, prodded his horse forward. “What is it, sir?”
Sahrek opened his mouth to respond, but before he could, they both caught sight of a mounted man who appeared from a break in the ridge ahead, riding hard. One of the outriders—Jarem, Sahrek recognized as the man drew closer. The man rode as if half the demons of the Abyss were chasing him, and the reason for his haste was revealed as soon as he was close enough to shout a warning.
“Trolls! At least a dozen, moving fast through the defiles in this direction!” At the final words he reined in, scattering small rocks as his horse’s hooves dug into the trail, the tired animal heaving from the exertion of its run.
“Did they see you?” Sahrek asked.
“I’m not certain,” Jarem said. “They were moving this way already, and I did not pause to see if they were following.”
Sahrek nodded. Smoothly turning his mount to face the rest of the patrol, he said, “We’ll backtrack to Thunder’s Gap, and make our way back down the ridgeline to Asbravn.” His men nodded calmly, though hands were tight on reins and weapon hilts. The Far Hills were not an easy ride, even in the lower reaches, but they should be able to outpace the trolls. If not...
“Ride!” he shouted, and the column launched itself back down the trail it had spent the morning riding. Sahrek felt a twinge for Corel, the other outrider who had not yet returned, but his duty to the town was paramount. Twelve trolls were a considerable threat. Even if it was unlikely that they would actually assail the town, they could easily wreck havoc on the caravans that rode the eastern road through Sunset Vale.
He was already thinking of oil, and mages, and how to use the mobility of horses, when a shout from ahead snapped his attention back on the present.
The trail ran around the base of a steep hill that squatted like a drunken giant across their path. To the right side of the hill the trail ran up along the length of a stony weir, unsuitable for horses, a watershed that would become a raging torrent with the coming of the spring thaw. To the left the trail descended along the route they had come earlier, paralleling the ridgeline until it reached Thunder’s Gap and the best route back down to Sunset Vale and Asbravn.
With vicious cries a wave of hobgoblin warriors crested the hill and came charging down the steep slope, waving a variety of weapons. Sahrek quickly tallied their numbers in a single look, at least three score, with more still just cresting the hill. Almost incidentally he noticed that all wore surcoats of faded blue cloth over their armor, showing the sign of a black fist in the center of their chests. There was no time to ponder the significance of that, however.
“Tordan, Maldek, ride for the Gap!” he cried. “The rest of you, on me! For the Vale!”
“The Vale!” came the cry, as the horsemen drew their weapons and spurred their horses into a full charge. None wavered, knowing that the only chance was to buy the two riding for the gap a chance at escape. One man cried out and fell from his saddle, a long arrow buried to the feathers in his throat, and several other missiles hissed through the air, narrowly missing or glancing off the Riders’ armor.
Tordan and Maldek broke off from the rest and rode hard toward the trail. The charging hobgoblins were nearly at the base of the hill, but Sahrek and his riders rode hard into them. A swirling melee erupted. For a moment the knot of horsemen remained intact, the momentum of their charge carrying them into the midst of the hobgoblins, and then Riders started to go down, their mounts crashing to the stones as blades tore into them.
Sahrek smashed a hobgoblin’s face with his flail, and the creature crumpled. He spun to swing at another coming up from his left, but suddenly he felt pain explode in his back as a spearhead stabbed deeply into his torso. Staggered, he managed to bat away a hobgoblin’s sword before his flail slipped from his fingers. All around him, men were dying; hobgoblins too, but they had numbers to spare. The last thing he saw, as his horse collapsed from under him, was the two riders, vanishing around the side of the hill, riding hard.
* * * * *
Tordan rode with determination, forcing himself not to listen to the cries that filled the trail behind him. Maldek rode a few lengths back, clutching to his reins and swaying in his saddle. A long arrow jutted from his side.
The man would have to keep up, or not. Tordan knew that it was too much to be a coincidence, those trolls and now the hobgoblins. He’d seen the livery too, and had lived in the shadows of the Sunset Mountains long enough to know what it meant. This was no mere raid, and his warning might be the only thing that stood between Asbravn and disaster.
The hill fell behind them, but Tordan did not ease his pace. He knew it was dangerous, riding so quickly over the uneven surface of the trail, but he balanced that danger with the need for speed. It would be dark in just a few hours, making the already difficult route impossible.
Suddenly a dark figure rose up out of a cluster of rocks along the side of the trail, a good hundred yards ahead. A cloaked figure, drawing a bow...
Tordan bent low in his saddle, urging his mount forward, pushing for even more speed. He drew his sword as an arrow flashed by him. For a moment he felt relief, then he heard the impact as Maldek fell hard from his saddle to the packed earth of the trail. He’d already covered half the distance to the archer, but the hobgoblin was already drawing a second arrow, aiming and releasing in one smooth motion.
Tordan felt pain as the arrow caught him in the shoulder, but he held on, and the horse did not skip a pace as it hurtled forward. The archer would not get another chance to shoot again. Tordan nudged the horse to the side, toward the archer’s perch, switching his sword to his other hand. The hobgoblin did not try to evade, only calmly drew another long arrow from the quiver at his hip.
Tordan lunged, realizing even as he did that he’d misjudged the distance. The blade cleaved empty air as the hobgoblin ducked back, and then he was past, clinging to his horse’s neck as the beast drove down the trail. Ahead lay a turning that he recognized, and beyond, Thunder’s Gap.
Pain exploded again, this time in his back. He tried to hold on as the horse neared the turning, but his sword clattered from his hand, falling away in a spiraling arc that seemed to hang there in the air for a long moment. The sound of it hitting the stones seemed to come to his ears from a great distance, and then it was he who was falling, falling into a vast darkness that swam up around him to engulf him.
The archer watched as the rider fell, then stepped down from his rock to the trail. Horses were too valuable to kill, if there was no need. He glanced back down the trail, to make sure no other riders were forthcoming, then trotted after the second rider’s animal. The mount had eased off its charge with the death of its rider, and he didn’t expect any trouble recovering it; he’d always had a way with animals.
There would be no warning for Asbravn.
