Part- 9
The Raid on The Oaken Tankard
Evening drew on at The Oaken Tankard and the regular crowd began to settle in. The music bounced and trilled as it reached out from the stage to enchant the patrons whilst they laughed, and carried on in communal fellowship. A pair of burly travelers clasped hands across one of the tables engaged in a fierce arm wrestling match as onlookers shouted cheers and placed bets on the table- each hoping to collect a fair bounty once a winner emerged from the struggling pair. The fire crackled in the common room hearth filling the drinking hall with warmth and good cheer as it provided a reprieve from the cold. Every so often the wind from the gathering storm would catch the door just right and blow it open; allowing a chill to sweep through the drinking hall that nipped at many a traveler as if to remind them what was coming.
Dongan Cardell paused between his latest selections to refresh his pallet with a swig of golden ale. He gulped down the contents of his mug in but a few quick swallows, feeling mildly refreshed as the warm brew settled in his belly. The bard had forgotten how a good long round of playing seemed to drain him, especially the selections that were imbued with their own enchantments. Setting his flagon by his seat, he motioned for a nearby barmaid to refill his brew, and then, as she swept away the wooden mug in a swirl of long skirt and ginger-spiced hair, Dongan resumed playing.
The door swung open as a raw gust of cold wind howled through the streets of Valn. The wintry air swept through the drinking hall mingling with the heat of the fireplace and lent an icy touch to the otherwise homely feel of the common room. The fire shifted in the breeze, sending a shower of dancing sparks spiraling up the chimney and swirling into oblivion. Night had come to Valn, and with it came the opening flurries of what promised to be the worst blizzard of this age. Although it was the usual chaos of a night in the local tavern, a lethargic sense of peace had fallen over the patrons of The Oaken Tankard. A tell-tale clack of mugs meeting in cheers, accompanied by a resounding “Huzzah” piped up over the din of conversation in a brazen toast as the band of adventurer pledged their swords to another quest, one that would carry them into the heart of the untamed Wilds. Only their big, burly, bear of a companion, Barlough, did not join in on this merrymaking; for he was still indisposed as he had fallen into an alcohol induced hibernation. Even now, the low rumble of snoring contended with the dull roar of conversation, drawing more than a few curious glances and the mirth of those around him.
Without warning, the tavern doors flew open as though threw back by a savage gust, allowing a blast of frigid air to chill the warm tavern, and a disheveled villager stumbled in, beaten, bruised and looking as though he had been mauled by ruffians. He was screaming at the top of his lungs as he gestured wildly toward the night beyond the open doors- a commotion which brought a curious hush to the drinking hall as everyone turned to see what the clamor was about.
“Orcs…” he cried between breaths! “They’re attacking the town- killin’ ever’one in sight!” He expressed each word with the thrust of his blood-covered hands toward the still open door behind him. So distracted by the ranting villager were the patrons of The Oaken Tankard, that no one saw the massive black shadows gathering beyond the open portal. “We must go- must sound the al-arrgh-!” His pleas were cut short as a long blade sprouted from his chest. There was a gurgling scream that wrenched its way out of the skewered villager’s mouth as he was lifted from the ground and shaken by a massive form that had appeared behind him. With each shake, the pitiful villager flailed like a ragdoll as the man’s arms and legs spasmed violently in his death throes. From behind the grisly spectacle, a mob of murderous humanoids poured into the tavern as a icy cold gale swept through the drinking hall, robbing it of the very warmth that had provided sanctuary to so many on this coldest winter’s eve. With howls of hatred and bloodlust, orcs and hobgoblins alike fell upon any unfortunate enough to be caught in their path, hacking and slashing at them with reckless abandon.
In merely seconds, the peace and tranquility of the evening had been torn asunder- replaced in its stead by bloodthirsty war-cries, the screams of the injured, the scared, and the dying. As the initial shock of the invasion wore off, those who could- grabbed their weapons and retaliated against the overwhelming onslaught.
* * *
Sir Errc Rhudven met the attackers with a resistance they were not prepared for. A blur of motion brought the knight’s bastard sword across the belly of a charging orc, stopping it in its tracks immediately as it tried desperately to hold its innards in place. The orc howled in unbridled pain and fury, each breath screaming curses at the human who had hurt him so badly. Errc swept his shield to the side knocking away a bone-bladed sword with serrated teeth meant to rend and tear whatever it was used against as he launched a fierce counter offensive against its wielder- an orc garbed from head to toe in a suit of crude scrimshaw armor. The brittle bone-sculpted armor was no match for the finely crafted steel of Errc’s knightly blade, as he sheared through both the banded bone cuirass and the flesh beneath, felling the porcine humanoid.
Errc whipped around cutting, thrusting, blocking, slashing, and bashing, each stroke of his mighty weapon felling any foes who dared to venture too close. He risked a glance over his shoulder to see what had become of the young rogue, only to realize his folly in doing so. Not only was she nowhere to be seen, but the temporary distraction had allowed for a savage brute of an orc to rush in on the knight, pelting him with a barrage of attacks with its heavy club. Errc barely got his shield up in time to fend off the initial blows, a feat that left his shield arm throbbing and threatening to go numb.
For what seemed like eternity, the orc pressed the brutal attacks, with the full intent of crushing through the knight’s defenses. Errc stayed on his heels as he fought to gain some sort of ground with the brutish beast. Only the years of strict military discipline instilled by countless hours of knightly drills and pell training kept him from succumbing to the relentless onslaught. With a battle-cry of pure hate, the brutish orc lunged in with an overhead, haymaker-like blow that glanced off of the knight’s shield as he side-stepped to avoid the full brunt of that devastating attack. The cudgel’s momentum carried careened out of control until it sundered a nearby table, nearly tearing the knotted club from the brute’s hand and pelting Errc’s face with bits of broken wood and debris.
Though the orc didn’t show it, the impact had all but ripped the attacker’s arm out of socket, slowing its attacks immensely, Without hesitation the orc retaliated with a fierce backhand that the knight ducked more out of instinct than of deliberate action, allowing the heavy club to pass him harmlessly by; however the damaged arm could not stay the heavy truncheon before it crashed hard into its mortally wounded companion with a sickening crack, finishing the job that Errc’s sword had begun only moments before. The brief interlude was just what Errc needed to take the fight to the orc; he lunged in with a crisscross combination that opened the brutes exposed side, before driving the tip of his sword, deep, into the chest of his attacker, tearing through its lung and clipping its heart.
To the knight’s surprise the vile orc wheeled around whipping the club at him in a move so fast and hard that Errc was barely able to get his shield up in time to avoid being crushed by the might of the blow. He was thrown back several feet and was forced to scramble back on the defensive as the brute rushed him in a burst of raw primal fury. Within agonizingly long seconds the orc’s fatal wounds caught up with him, dropping the savage beast right as he bore down with a devastating smash that would have sundered the knight’s shield and left him broken.
Errc had no time to thank whatever gods had favored him at that particular moment, for as he scrambled to his feet, another host of murderous humanoids were gathering around him. Winded and his arm tingling as though it were about to go to sleep on him, the knight stared defiantly at the invaders. He renewed his grip on his bastard sword and saluted them as if to welcome their challenge.
* * *
A scraggly-looking orc staggered back uncontrollably into its mates, its nose a shattered ruin where the human warrior’s pommel had smashed it flat against the ugly thing’s face. The orc’s world exploded as a myriad of multi-colored starbursts sent shockwave after shockwave of nauseating pain coursing through the humanoid’s skull. Unable to see or control where it was going the orc toppled over its companions, handicapping their bum rush on the lone warrior that stood between them and the raised stage.
Cyan Krieger was on the host in a flash, not allowing any a chance to recover. His broadsword became a razor-sharp blur of death and destruction as he tore into their ranks. One orc fell away clutching its ribs where the unforgiving blade slashed through flesh and bone, ripping the lung underneath, another grasped at the gash where its throat used to be. A hobgoblin thinking to slip past the wicked blade found its hamstrings cut from beneath it, before the hard edge of Cyan’s shield bashed the side of its face, caving it in with a crunch of bone against reinforced yew. A second hobgoblin tried to flank the fighter with a short spear, catching him with a glancing blow that raked a nasty groove across his cheek- nearly taking an eye with it- only to have Cyan whip around with his sword, severing the tip from the crude weapon and driving his round shield into the creature’s gut, blasting the air from its lungs. Faster than the hobgoblin could react, the warrior grabbed the back of its head and slammed its face through a nearby, table.
As Cyan wheeled around to face his next wave of attackers, he saw the knight go down, pursued by a savage beast wielding a heavy club. He wanted to help the noble warrior, but he had his own problems to deal with at the moment. As if to make his point a rowdy hobgoblin with a pair of hand-axes ran up and leaped off of a nearby table with his weapons held high, ready to split the warrior’s skull. Cyan side-stepped to avoid the reckless if direct attack, countering with a swift stroke of his blade that bit through flesh and bone, and left the goblinoid little more than a crumpled heap, lying on the oaken floor. Grabbing a wooden flagon, the fighter dashed its contents into the face of a charging orc, temporarily blinding the green-skinned brute. The brief distraction gave Cyan all the time he needed to deliver a devastating three-stroke attack that opened the orc’s belly and hamstrung it before cleaving the side of its neck. He recovered from the offense, only to be forced into a diving roll to avoid being sundered by a hobgoblin that had flanked him with a wicked morningstar. Pain shot through his side and shoulder as he rolled over a broken chair, its sharpened pieces jabbing him like dull spear points as he passed over them. Thinking that it had the warrior on the run, the hobgoblin pursued- its weapon ready to strike the human down. Cyan came to his feet and thrust himself up, out of harm’s way just long enough to redirect his momentum. Seizing the opportunity, the hobgoblin whipped the morningstar around, pressing the attack. The fighter intercepted the assault with the blade of his sword, severing the hand at the wrist, while delivering a lunging hook that slammed the round shield into the goblinoid’s face that nearly tore its head from its shoulders. The hobgoblin toppled back, its feet struggling to catch its dazed torso as it struggled to remain standing. Cyan rolled his wrist over, using the momentum of his recoil to drive the point of his broadsword through an opening in the humanoid’s armor and into its chest, felling it in a swift well placed stroke.
Cyan withdrew his bloodstained blade from the spent body of his attacker, to see an inhuman brute of an orc maul a screaming barmaid with its heavy axe, and then cut down a traveling merchant with a fierce back hand. Taking the wooden mug that lay at his feet, he threw it hard at the green-skinned monster, hoping to get its attention away from those who had no means of self defense. The wooden tankard wasn’t heavy, but it bounced off of the big orc’s head with enough force that the burly brute stumbled forward from the impact. The husky beast reached up and rubbed its head, while turning to see whence the blindside attack came.
“That’s right you ugly bastard,” Cyan taunted the brutish orc with a cocky nod of his head, “I’m the one you want.” With a snort and a howl of pure hatred, the feral humanoid lunged at the warrior with a fierce backhand swipe that crushed the ribs of a terrified villager who just happened to dash between the combatants as it threw the man to the side where he landed in a crumpled mass as he fought to regain the breath that would never again fill his torn lungs. With a kick to the dying man’s injured side, the dark-skinned brute advanced on Cyan, the fires of hate, burning in his primal orbs.
* * *
Falgor was on his feet and ready as the hordes of chaos poured in through the tavern door. His keen sense of smell- honed like that of a wolf by years in the untamed wilderness of Gal-Land- had caught the scent of the bloodthirsty marauders long before they ever breached the sanctity of The Oaken Tankard. Eagle-eyed, he observed as the would-be heroes of the drinking hall rushed forward to meet the invaders, most of them half-drunk, exhausted, or full on meat and mead, but nowhere near prepared to face such a merciless onslaught of murderous humanoids. Most were cut down where they stood, while others took as many as they could with them. From where he stood, there were only a few who had a chance of surviving the ensuing chaos. The Engalean warrior could see the knight, felling his foes with every skilled sweep of his blade. His eyes then roved over to the dwarf, whose indomitable iron will nearly matched his own. The stout warrior of the dwarven folk hewed through the orcs and hobgoblins around him like a woodsman cuts down trees. A movement in the rafters caught his attention as a lithe and limber form moved with the grace of a jungle cat amid the trusses, stalking her prey. Near the stage a stout-hearted warrior cut down every foe that rose to challenge him while upon the stage itself, the bard whose music had soothed so many from the wear and tear of the day, now held his place valiantly as he searched for a way to escape his corner. These, the mighty Northman thought to himself, these were survivors- men and women who stood a chance for getting through this alive.
With a leap, the Engalean barbarian cleared his table in a single bound as he propelled himself into the heat of battle with a war-cry to Odin that chilled the blood of anyone who heard it over the raging carnage. He hit the floor running and plowed into a throng of humanoids, tearing into their ranks like a ravenous beast. Using the force of his momentum, Falgor thrust his leg up and out, kicking a hobgoblin in the gut with enough force to blast the air out of its lungs. The unsuspecting goblinoid was thrown back into its fellow invaders taking them to the floor with him as several others rushed by him to deal with the large warrior with the great axe. Falgor turned and swung the butt end of his war-axe like an iron cudgel, landing a fierce right hook across the jaw of an orc, shattering its teeth, and crunching the bones therein. The orc’s face exploded into a red ruin as the brutal attack all but tore the bestial humanoid’s head from its shoulders, laying him low and leaving him little more than a crumpled heap on the floor.
A hobgoblin wearing a dark blued-steel sallet attempted to flank the mighty barbarian with a vicious slash of his messer, only to find that his blade passed through empty air as Engalean warrior ducked the deadly attack. Falgor maneuvered under the blade as he stepped back and wheeled around to drive the blade of his two handed axe into the ribs of his attacker. There was a sickening crack as ribs were sundered by the devastating blow, doubling the hobgoblin over, breathless as wave after wave of mind numbing pain wracked its torso. The barbarian followed through, freeing the axe from the goblinoid’s side as he whipped it around and sheared the hobgoblin’s head from its shoulders.
A cry of anguish pierced the din of battle from somewhere close by, drawing Falgor’s attention away from the carnage surrounding him. He glanced up to see that an unruly gang of orcs had subdued the fiery tempered warrioress from the boisterous group of adventurers that had been sitting near the bar and had hoisted her up to make a bit of sport with her among the spoils of war; however, her fight was far from over. This was evident as she battered her accosters with the desperate throes of one who knew the wages of war. Falgor’s brief distraction was nearly a costly one as he barely managed to turn aside a thrust with a longsword at the last second. Even in his reflexive defense, he felt the blade bite into his flesh and rake across his ribs. With a wince of pained acceptance, he glowered at the hobgoblin and whipped his war-axe around, to lop off the attacker’s head. He returned the motion with a backhand that crushed another’s face with the flat of his blade, followed by a swift overhead chop that cleft a charging orc from head to navel.
The mighty Engale cut and slashed his way through his enemies; the burning pain in his side fueled his drive to overcome the black horde. As he laid an orc low with a sweep of his axe, he spared a glance to see how the raven-haired warrioress fared in her struggle, only to see the dire straits that she was really in. In her thrashing and fighting, she had failed to see the approach of a bestial brute of an orc behind her. With a bloodthirsty sneer on its ugly, scarred face, the brutish humanoid drew a long serrated knife and bore down on the struggling woman.
Falgor knew what was coming and that he had to do something about it or else the raven-haired woman would not live long enough to free herself. He used the flat of his blade to smack away a truncheon meant to crush his skull; he then used the momentum to whip the two-handed axe around in a ferocious chop that split the orc wielding it from shoulder to hip. Another hobgoblin wearing banded armor and a horned helm came at Falgor with a reckless barrage of cuts, slashes, and thrusts, with his messer, not realizing his folly until the mighty barbarian deflected one of the attacks and countered by grabbing the goblinoid by the throat, heaving him high in the air. The hobgoblin gasped desperately for air, before an explosion of pain sent him swirling into a world of blackness as Falgor slammed him head first through a table. Without any more time to lose, the great Northman made his way toward the gang of orcs and the endangered warrioress in their charge.
* * *
As the once tranquil evening fell into chaos, Erolas and his companions joined the struggle. The angular man, Selvis hopped onto a vacant table and began loosing arrows at the marauders breaching the entry. Orc and hobgoblin alike fell before the archer’s deadly barrage, however; in all the carnage he failed to notice the whirling bolas that whistled as their spiked balls tore through the air- launched at him by a bestial hobgoblin somewhere off of his right flank. The corded snare hit Selvis without warning, wrapping tightly around his neck the spiked balls slammed against his cheek with a painful crack. The archer staggered from the intensity of the blow as the room burst into a series of starbursts and then spun wildly out of control.
Erolas watched in horror as the angular Selvis toppled off of the table, only to have a host of orcs fall upon him with their hungry blades. The elven ranger whipped his blade into a blinding fury as he attempted to get to his fallen companion. There was a guttural cry of anguish as an orc tried to slip past his defenses with the thrust of a shorter sword, only to have his arm sheared from his body just above the elbow. Another orc fell as a swift slash hewed open his leg, with a turn of Erolas’ wrists he redirected the momentum of his blade into an arc that sliced through the humanoid’s throat.
The elven ranger was momentarily distracted as he heard a familiar scream from somewhere nearby. Narrowly ducking a slash from a heavy flamberge, Erolas plunged the blade of his sword into the chest of a well armored hobgoblin and the spared a glance to see whence it came. Zelinda was being “man-handled” by a throng of orcs who had lifted her aloft and was in the process of carting her away. She bled from countless wounds, yet the strong willed warrioress was far from defeated. As if to prove this point she wrenched an arm free and slammed a hard back-knuckle to one of the orc’s face, crushing its nose flat against its face with a sickening crunch. A thrust of a freed leg collapsed the windpipe of anther, felling the humanoid as it tore at its ruined throat, fighting desperately for the breath of air that it would never get. Zelinda’s body suddenly grew taut as a massive mountain of an orc wrapped his fingers in her hair and jerked her head back into a painful angle. With a snarl of bloodthirsty satisfaction, he drew a serrated dagger across her throat and began sawing it back and forth; cruelly admiring his work as her screams became blood-choked gurgle.
Erolas caught a brief motion out of the corner of his eye, as he saw the mighty Northman cleave the feral brute from shoulder to hip with a mighty sweep of his two-handed axe. He was thankful for the barbarian’s attempt at a rescue even if he was too late in his arrival, for by the time the elven ranger had mowed a path through the mob of orcs and hobgoblins to reach his fallen comrade, it was already over for Selvis- the orcs had hewn him to little more than a pile of mutilated remains. All at once something struck the ranger as he leapt into the midst of the orcs that had butchered Selvis; in Erolas’ hurry to race to the aid of the fallen archer, he had failed to note that one companion and the elf’s truest friend had escaped his mind. With the sudden realization playing on his mind, he dispatched two of the savage humanoids before they could react. His eyes roved the carnage frantically in hopes that he would spy a glimpse of his halfling friend. “Dunty,” he spat as he realized that his partner was nowhere to be found.
* * *
Beoric spat his mouthful of smoky tasting Grätzer- a shameful act for any dwarf to commit, but there was no other possible reaction to the sudden appearance of the ogrish bugbear that impaled the frantic villager and then dangled the hapless man from its sword like a grisly marionette for everyone to see. He quickly made up for the blasphemous act by quaffing down the rest of the smoky brew in merely a few gulps before setting “The Tower” aside; he then charged almost recklessly into the tide of rampaging humanoids. His axe appeared in his hands, almost as if by magic, just in time to bat aside a sword thrust meant to skewer the dwarven fighter. With a turn of his wrists, Beoric flipped the bearded blade of his axe around and drove it deep into the hobgoblin’s ribs. Yanking the axe free, the dwarf slammed the flat of his blade across the face of an orc who dropped his own battleaxe as the dwarven steel crushed bone and made a ruin of the humanoid’s porcine face.
Beoric grimaced and a grunt of displeasure escaped his lips as the sharp spiky ball of a morningstar clipped his shoulder and upset his balance. The pain in his shoulder was merely a nagging annoyance as he regained his footing, only to see the feral orc bearing down on him with the wicked bludgeon once more. Years of training with his kin had prepared him for such an encounter- he braced himself and then moved in, bringing his axe up at an angle to deflect the morningstar. As he intercepted the attack, Beoric used his powerful, stubby legs to propel himself, like a missile loosed from a siege engine, into a devastating head butt smashed the orc’s brutish face flat with a sickening crunch.
Starbursts exploded around the orc as he stumbled back, blinded by the force of the brutal counter-attack. The room spun a his eyes hazed over- he could feel the loose bones of his shattered visage shift in unnatural ways as he grunted mind-numbing pain. Almost as suddenly as he had felt the explosion in his face, he was ravaged by a white hot, searing blast as Beoric’s axe cleaved into his upper torso, tearing through armor, flesh, and bone to rend at the vital organs hidden therein.
As the orc sank to the gore-soaked floor, Beoric clambered up onto the bar and hoisted his bearded axe high. “Alright ya green-skinned mongrels,” he shouted at the invading horde, “ye come to me favorite pub wanting a fight- well there’s at least one red-blooded dwarf in this place that’ll oblige ye!” With his challenge issued, Beoric ran the length of the bar and launched himself into a throng of humanoids, swinging his axe in deadly arcs as he cut a swath through his enemies.
* * *
From his place on the stage, Dongan could see the terrible scene that unfolded before him. The savage horde slaughtered anyone who could not fend for themselves, and even some who could. As he surveyed the grisly spectacle he witnessed- the fall of a knight whose struggle allowed him to overcome certain doom, the fall of the angular man whose rain of arrows had felled nearly a score of the raucous invaders, and the brutal slaying of the strong-willed warrioress who fought her attackers to the very end. The bard barely had enough time to put away his elven lute before the surge of murderous marauders reached the stage.
Dongan had just strapped the lute to his back when a hobgoblin whose face bore a terrible scar that cleft its face from the corner of its mouth to the middle of its forehead, rushed the stage, brandishing a wickedly barbed blade. The attacker was repelled as the bard whirled around with the stool, using its heavy seat as an awkward cudgel that slammed into the hobgoblin’s face with a sickening crunch as it shattered the bones and sent bits of broken teeth flying. The sheer force of the blow threw the attacker back, his face a misshapen ruin, as he crashed into several of his fellow hobgoblins, knocking them to the floor as well. The recovering marauders trampled their fallen warrior as they fought and clawed to regain their footing.
The momentary distraction allowed Dongan to don his sword and brace himself for the imminent assault. The first two to recover scrambled to the stage only to find the bard waiting for them. As they swept in with nasty looking morningstars, he met their advance with a flurry of slashes, cuts, and thrusts that left one clutching its throat, and the other reeling absently as it nursed a punctured lung which quickly filled with the hobgoblin’s lifeblood.
An orc witnessing the fray from nearby charged the bard with his war axe held high. Dongan tried to prepare for the orcs attack, but the orc seemed to adjust to Dongan’s every move. Thinking quickly, he dropped the stool and at the last possible second, kicked it toward the orc. It tumbled awkwardly into the orc’s path, entangling itself in the brute’s feet. The confident, murderous glare became one of fear and confusion as the stool robbed him of his balance, but not of momentum. The charging orc fell hitting the floor of the stage hard, dazing the zealous savage long enough for Dongan to strike fast and hard, driving his longsword deep into the brute’s eye socket and finishing him quickly.
It didn’t take Dongan long to realize that he was in a dangerous place atop of the stage, so looking for the nearest person fighting back against the humanoid invasion, he began working his way through the onslaught. From what he could see, the warrior was engaged in an all out struggle against a barrel-chested hulk of an orc that seemed to match the warrior blow for blow as they laid waste to their surroundings. Determined that he would lend the warrior a helping hand Dongan began weaving a web of death and destruction around him as his sword became a razor sharp blur that cut down anything that ventured into his path. Just as he thought he would get to the embattled warrior and his nemesis, a huge club crashed through a table beside of him, knocking one of the visiting patrons through the air to smash into the bard’s side and knock him off balance. As Dongan fought desperately to maintain his footing, he was taken aback to see a massive bugbear tearing through the ruined table enroute toward him.
* * *
Selira’s lithe form glided easily among the narrow tresses above the common room, and the absolute chaos that was taking place below. To her horror, a man and woman were brutally cut down where they stood by a merciless host of orcs, and even as she watched the events unfold beneath her, she was quite aware that her only hope in survival was in fighting her way out. It wasn’t exactly what she had hoped for when she had taken to the rafters, but the steady flood of invaders told her that the raid was more than a rogue group of orc invaders from The Wilds, but something much bigger.
The young rogue scanned the skirmish below, searching for familiar faces amid those fighting against the humanoid marauders. Near the front of The Oaken Tankard, she spied the knight, Sir Errc Rhudven who had taken her in for the evening, even after she had attempted to pick his pocket; he was facing off against a group of orcs and hobgoblins. At first it seemed that the skilled young knight had everything under control, but then she spied an orc who was slinking up behind the noble warrior with his war club poised to brain the unwary knight.
Selira moved as quickly as she could through the rafters without revealing her location until she had positioned herself above the orc. Just as the snub-nosed brute was about to bring the club crashing down upon the pre-occupied knight’s head, Selira dropped from the rafters with her scimitar in hand. With expert precision, she plunged the blade down- through the orc’s collar and into the depths of its chest cavity, slicing and tearing anything in its path. The young and agile rogue used the momentum of her fall, as well as the position of her sword to swing her feet around where she planted the soles of her feet into the small of the orc’s back. With a shift of her blade, the nimble lass launched off into a swirling dive that brought the scimitar around in a tight arc which sliced through the exposed flesh of a neighboring orc’s neck.
The orc squealed as he clutched his cleft neck in order to try to staunch the flow of life blood that streamed between his fingers. Selira landed lightly on her feet and lashed out with a sweeping kick that stole the raider’s footing and brought it down, hard, upon a broken barstool. As the nimble young rogue rose to her feet, she found herself face to face with a well armored hobgoblin wielding a toothy warhammer. An orc who brandished a curved longsword sidled up next to the young lass in an attempt to flank her. Without taking her eyes off of her attackers, Selira surveyed her surroundings in hopes to find some manner in which to even the odds of her situation.
* * *
Mathon used an upturned table to shield himself from the ensuing carnage that was raging just beyond his meager cover as he muttered the vital words inscribed on the half rolled scroll beneath his breath. With the imminent danger that lurked just on the other side of a few inches of hand planed and stained teak wood, the process of uttering the incantation and maintaining his concentration throughout the chant was as laborious as it was agonizingly slow. A thrown axe blade dinged off of the side of the table and careened in an entirely different direction almost as if to remind him of the dire circumstances at hand.
The mage could feel the power coursing through him as he weaved the primal forces through word and gesture, as they gathered in the parchment in his hands. Arcane energy crackled like lightning over the surface of the scroll as he mouthed the final phrases that would unleash the magic held within. Mathon could not have spoken the command a moment too soon, for just as he stepped away from the table to release the spell, a heavy two-handed axe smashed through the protective barrier, pelting him with splintered wood fragments.
“…Viztsaldt,” the wizard cried as he thrust his open palm out in front of him, palm open and fingers spread wide. The scroll vanished in a bright burst of light and smoke as several spears of sizzling arcane energy rocketed toward the insurgent horde. The first struck home, as the orc who had sundered the table was blasted backward, the white hot missile leaving a charred black hole where hide armor and exposed flesh had been. The remaining arcane spears spread out. One slammed into the face of an advancing hobgoblin, nearly taking its head from its shoulders with a disturbing crack that dropped the goblinoid where it stood.
The last two magic missiles homed in on an orc brute who by the looks of him, had some ogre in his bloodline. The barrel-chested beast roared in pain and rage as a fist sized missile smashed into his back, nearly dropping him onto his ugly face. He fought to keep his footing, but found himself spitting dirt and debris as the final energy spear tore into his shoulder.
To the wizard’s horror, the burly orc clambered to his feet and turned to find him. Winded and battered by the magic missiles, the bestial humanoid roared a challenge as it slammed a ham hock sized fist into his chest. The spectacular display of raw, primal prowess made the blood drain from Mathon’s otherwise cocky face. The orc then hefted a warhammer that was large enough to squash a man like a melon and started toward the wizard. With each step, the monstrous humanoid built up momentum as he charged the smaller man with the force of a raging bull.
Mathon swallowed hard, tempering his nerves as he pointed his oaken staff toward the raging beast and shouted an arcane command. “Skirrakkt,” he cried as elemental energy gathered around the tip of his staff and arced into a streak of lightning that ripped across the rampaging orc’s arms, legs, and breastplate, leaving a smoky trail in its wake, but if the feral brute felt any of it, it didn’t show. Mathon’s heart sank into the pit of his stomach as the monstrous humanoid bore down on him, his warhammer poised for the kill. The wizard knew that he didn’t have enough time to cast another spell before the ogrish brute was upon him.
Mathon threw himself behind another table believing he was about to join the ranks of the fallen that now littered The Oaken Tankard’s floor. The wizard’s heart skipped a beat as the hulking orc smashed through the table that stood between him and the massive brute, exposing him to the savage orc’s attack. Just as Mathon saw the massive warhammer begin its final descent, someone tackled the big orc with enough force to knock the bestial humanoid from his feet. The dumbstruck mage could not believe his luck as hurried to regain his feet- it was then he got a good look at his rescuer. To his surprise, it was the same Northman who had bumped him earlier that evening. Mathon was taken aback at the strange barbarian’s actions, but he was far from ungrateful. As a slain hobgoblin collapsed just inches from his feet, Mathon made for the bar, hoping beyond hope that he might be able to find a place where he could stay in the fight, yet remain out of harm’s way as much as possible.
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In the echo of her final words, the
Night breeze took flight, disappearing back into the shadows from whence she’d
come. The moon and stars, too, had
returned to the heavens with a yawn and glance toward the eastern sky, and with
them the woodland spirits returned to the sanctity of the solemn boughs of the
autumn kissed trees. Only the wisened
old owl stayed behind for a moment as if weighing the night’s discussion in the
eternal balances of age and wisdom before regarding the man with a look and a
touch of his wing as if giving an approval he could not voice. With what seemed to be a nod, the owl took to
the air, leaving to find his place of rest amid the trees. Once more, the Obsidian Rose sat all alone with
his aching heart in the middle of the field surrounded by a myriad of
glittering tears which had fallen from the starlit sky. …and as he finally felt
the icy touch of the night’s chill, he dared to hope.
