Contents

[12.1] Skirmish

The Cavalry attacks and routes the goblins. Sirilyr gets a peak at a human directing the creatures.

The Cavalry reaches the militia's camp to find a villager gone murderously berserk, and Orinden gone.

[12.2] Night of Terror

Lizard men attack the pilgrims. They flee west, fearing pursuit from the lizard creatures.

Delak returns to camp to warn of an army of orcs bearing down. Orcs attack the militia.

[12.3] The Bridge

The pilgrims find the ancient stone bridge, sturdy but cracked.

[12.4] The Tower

The pilgrims find a lone stone tower to be the destination of the map. Surrounding the structure, mixed with the fallen leaves are hundreds of small animal skeletons.

 

[12.1] Skirmish

[a]

            Judging that the Sirilyr's horse was is not critically injured and that the bandages were adequate, Sleene turned to the captain.  "And soldiers normally stand around talking when there is a battle to be fought?" the druidess asked icily.  "Let us find Sirilyr and Spencer.  THEN we can discuss the goblins blocking the remainder of the trail."

            Stargt looked at her incredulously, then smiled. "Soldier's make a battle plan, and if you choose to be in it, here is what it is." Star looked awfully scared. "Sirilyr is wounded, but okay. He is climbing that hill ahead to come on their flank. The goblins are using trees between the steep hill and ravine yon stream makes," he nodded south. "I'm sending five on foot along it. Ten mounted with me in a shield wedge. Three mounted on my north flank. Two will stay here with the horses and those of you that stay behind. My horn means I need my last two. If you come, stay behind our shields until the battle is joined. They've jav'lins and bows."

            Sleene gave a little smile, one that did not fit her beautiful features.  "I think I'll come along," she said.  "I may have a little...surprise...for them..."

            "I'll come with you but I'd like to ride double with someone till we're on them. I fight on foot and I don't want my horse wandering through a battle," Georan said getting off his horse and walking it toward the other soldiers'.

            Stargt glanced at Star and William, but did not wait for their replies before saying, "Careful, we leave as soon as we're ready." He spurred his horse back to his troop. Star looked to William thinking that the glance was Stargt's way of telling them that he wanted them to remain behind. She didn't mind the idea. After all, she was no soldier and as a warrior she lacked many of the skills needed. Besides, she was one that liked to sneak up on her foes. Still, there were lots of goblins ahead and the horses needed protection too. She would rather be with the animals anyway; they wouldn't treat her like a child. True, she was inexperienced, but still there was no reason for them to continuously treat her like a child. Star sighed at the thought. Being free to begin her life was not what she thought it would be like. She jerked her eyes away from William she didn't want him to get the wrong thoughts about her looking at him. Leaning down, she patted her horse and whispered into its ear. The horse neighed in response. She looked back to William.

            "I guess we're staying here for now. Be ready to move when we have to. Keep alert. Just because there are a bunch of those nasty goblins ahead of us doesn't mean there aren't any backtracking to catch unaware travelers." Star pulled out her shortbow and nocked an arrow just in case. She listened intently for anything that seemed out of the ordinary. She was not about to let the disgusting creatures get the drop on her.

            "Yeah. I'm worried about Spencer," William stated looking through the woods behind them.

            Five soldiers jogged off to the south. The wedge formed, Stargt motioned them over. "Come along Georan," Sleene said skooching forward in her saddle to allow him room. "Nip, Snap, come along!" They looked at her lazily, as did little Feint. She rolled her eyes at their feigned indifference. Sure enough, they followed. Inside the wedge they waited nervously, listening to the few sounds of this forest, wind mostly - shivering through the bare branches. The cavalry were quiet, but the horses anxious. Stargt, straight in his saddle, silently counted, giving his soldiers time to advance. Finally, he raised his arm. His men shifted, clanked as they hefted shields and gripped flails more tightly. The arm dropped and they surged forward roaring.

 

            Sirilyr had climbed the hill and was circling around through the rocks and thinning tree cover when he heard the battle cry. Stargt was making no secret of his advance. Sirilyr peered down the slope, but could not catch a glimpse of any goblins. The pounding hoof-beats echoed up the slope. No secret at all. Sirilyr would have to start moving in closer. He was fairly sure he had not been seen thus far. He began a stealthy descent. The charge was nearing, and Sirilyr noticed a fog developing in the thicket the goblins had claimed. It was out of place on this cool afternoon; soon it was billowing out.

            Before obscuring the ambuscade, Sirilyr did catch glimpse of several figures, one twice the height of the others. Stargt's charge definitely had their attention, but Sirilyr would now have to go into the mist to sneak up on them. Pulling his waterskin and taking a long pull, he then spilled a third of its contents. Deftly mixing his water with the earth at his feet, Sirilyr rubbed the muddy paste over his exposed skin and tunic, before splashing his clothing with what was left in the skin. "No sense in makin' it easy fer thar damned eyes," he vehemently whispered as he rolled over the crest of the sparsely wooded hill to make as small a notice or target of himself as possible.  Grass, dirt and leaves randomly stuck to his wet shape. The gray shroud-like cloak helped to render him formless.  

            Rising into a crouch when he had dropped below the line of the horizon in the cover of a fallen log and stump. The lean ranger slung his bow by it's dark string over his left shoulder and drew his deadly sharp longsword and wicked looking handaxe. Sirilyr exhaled slowly and set his eyes, gleaming from under the shade of the graymantle, on the foe's doom filled place with vicious intent. Once more he carefully scanned the ground ahead. Spotting no movement he zigzagged forward to the nearest cover in a low running crouch. The veteran soldier closed on the fog quickly and silently as was possible in the damp grass.

            "Tha's it stick inta 'em!" He panted to himself as he heard the sounds of the Bilcoven cavalry's fight grow louder, drowning any sound his movement may have made. Slowing to a determined long gate, the silent ranger stalked through the fog expecting soon to find his first victim. By uncanny direction sense, Sirilyr dead reckoned himself around the fight's center to a point where he should come up behind the large figure he had seen from the hill's crest above. His icy eyes shifted hawkishly as he strove to reap his prey in the fog's smoky gloom.

            Nearing the combat, the sickening fear that always accompanied him into a fight now threatened to take away his strength and replace it with the old desire to flee. The veteran's will converted this fear into a deep smoldering anger and the desire to run away into a determination to slay all who would dare come against him. In battle, he knew, there was no second place for the loser. Only death. Life and death, the natural cycle of living. His mother would not have known him had she seen his face at this moment.

            Peering around and up from the base of a gnarled trunk, Sirilyr spotted a victim. One of the goblins, there were others just beyond barely visible in gray mist. His true target was obscured, but must have been just beyond surrounding himself with the goblins. The one nearest Sirilyr was turned toward and listening to the sounds of battle. The galloping had stopped, and the clang of steel on steel was sharp above the din of shouts and cries. He could only assume the others were similarly occupied. Sirilyr prepared to spring around the tree, make a quick lunge the six or so feet to the goblin.

            One, two, three, go! Sirilyr leapt. With a whispered swoosh he sliced both sword and axe across the greenskin's cloaked neck. It fell as Sirilyr dropped and rolled back into the fog, but not before it squealed. The other goblins were startled and twittered a few unintelligible words. Then Sirilyr heard an unmistakably human voice curse, "Damn! Form up pests, they've a rogue."

 

            Sleene and Georan's mount had to strain to keep up and dodge the occasional tree that passed through the speeding wall of soldiers with no warning. Before they even knew what was going on, another battle cry erupted around them. Suddenly, there was a hail of dark wood shafts tipped with crude metal spikes. Soldiers cried out, there was a high-pitched answering cry. The horses stopped. More javelins hurled in. Georan slid off the horse, bringing Sleene to focus on the battle.

            A thick white mist was rolling in around and under the horses. The trees were gone, obscured. The soldiers were flailing at short dark forms that ran out of the mist baring swords. The warhorses stayed amazingly still as the goblins banged at them and their riders. Georan faded into the mist, Sleene looked down to see the canines looking nervously at the chaos around them.  They had a better view of the goblins under the lightly armored horses. Sleene could barely make out the nearest soldiers, let alone the goblins that stabbed at them.

 

            Georan moved around the end of the cavalry's wedge. They had stopped as the trees grew denser - where the goblins had laid in wait.  He could not see far through the fog, but he could hear the goblins' war cries as a second rank came out of the copse to join the battle. Georan went by Tulane, guarding the open rear of the formation. "Careful, they could come from anywhere," he said; his voice youthful, no older than Georan, and excited. Georan nodded, then went from tree to tree north of the cavalry. He wanted to flank the approaching goblins - and not become a target himself.

            Hiding behind a sizeable trunk, Georan listened as a group neared. The sweat of anxiety dripped down his temples. This was the emotion Licyn taught him was the most important to control; a mage was ill-prepared for battle with weapons, but to bring his powers to bear he would have to stand up to the danger. He had been terrified when facing the gnolls, but managed not to panic, fumble, or stutter. Now his heart beat heavy, there was fear, but also excitement - he suddenly realized. A smile crossed his lips, he couldn't wait to unleash the spells. Shouldn't wait.

            The goblins were close, probably trying to sneak around and come up behind the cavalry. Georan spun around the tree to face at least four short dark goblins and more in the mist behind. Without missing a beat, Georan threw the colored sand at them with a twirling hand and brought the grains to life with short series of syllables. The grains began to glow and swirled into a chaotic cone of clashing colors that washed over the shocked goblins in an instant. The front two fell to the ground, those behind seemed stunned, but the wispy fog kept Georan from judging the effect accurately. Suddenly Georan was aware of a noise that had been in the background becoming thunderously loud; hoof beats.

            Three horsemen charged right by on the other side of the tree and a tremendous pace. They ran right through the clump of goblins and were gone into the mist followed by eerie streamers of gray cloud. Georan saw a goblin standing there headless, then the corpse slumped to the ground squirting blood. The rest of the goblins were on the ground or dispersed. The two Georan's color spray had felled were still there; he knew they were not dead, just blasted unconscious by sensory overload. Georan looked around, knowing he had to finish the creatures off. He seemed alone despite the nearby sounds of weapons. Drawing his dagger, Georan stepped toward the fallen goblins.

            He knelt at the closest and pressed the sharp blade at its throat then to its heart. The mage was suddenly cold and nervous. Was their heart even there? Thoughts he must banish. Gritting his teeth, Georan shoved the blade into the goblins chest using his body weight. The thing bucked and jerked, crying out briefly. Warm blood gushed up to Georan's hands and he backed off leaving the bloody blade embedded. Gathering himself, Georan went to pull the blade out. It was stuck. "Damn!" Georan whispered a bit too loudly.

            He looked around as he pulled harder. The blade moved. He wiggled it out, but two goblins appeared from the fog that seemed to be getting lighter. They saw him with the bloody dagger kneeling over the several goblins. After that instant of recognition, Georan scrambled to get at the colored sand that would put these creatures down. They were running at him with swords high, but Georan's hastily incanted spell flashed before they got to him. Their unconscious bodies lunged forward and face down in the leaves in front of Georan.

 

            William and Star were sitting quietly atop their mounts and nervously listening to the out of sight battle. The soldiers responded to the sounds of a galloping horse from the east; they met Spencer weapons drawn, but backed off when they recognized him. "Why do you loaf about?" Spencer yelled ahead as he approached. He slowed Praedarus to a trot, but did not seem to want to stop riding.

            "What do you mean, 'Why are we just lolling about.' Stargt told us to wait here until he called for our aid." She rode over to Spencer getting close enough to reach out for his horse. "What happened? Where were you?"

            "Care you not that your friends may be slain?  Let us go!"  Spencer whipped Praedarus to a gallop again, riding towards the battle.  "Come, Moppet!"  He yelled behind him.

            William looked embarrassed and annoyed at the put-down. He scowled, not meeting Star's eyes, but not following the bald man.

 

            Sirilyr scrambled carefully to a thick fallen tree. He sat there listening to the man bark commands at the goblins around him. Allowing the voice to be his guide, Sirilyr mentally marked his target as he retrieved a flask of alchemist's fire from his pack; he hadn't exactly asked Durrant for it - hadn’t exactly told Durrant he knew about them either. But Sirilyr had nabbed a couple flasks from the stash on Durrant's wagon, and now one of them was coming in handy. There was silence around now; the man had shut up and only the sounds of the raging battle drifted to Sirilyr's ears. No matter, he had a mental lock on where those goblins and their cur of a leader were. Sirilyr stood and threw the flash into the fog at the milling goblins.

            Bearing his teeth in a silent fierce snarl, he redrew his sword and axe and made to follow the flask over the log and into the flaming and screaming mass of mottled green flesh.  But no sooner had he a foot upon the log, when three bushes suddenly leapt upon him! He felt their sharp thorns dig through fabric and seams to hit skin. Two had clutched onto his upper arms, and one clung to his chest. His first thought was that someone had thrown them at him, and he rapidly scanned the surrounding fog for his assailant. But suddenly a sharp sting across his chin and lips forced his eyes upon the mass stuck to him. It had arms! And one of them had reached up and grabbed his mouth and chin with strong, sharp wooden fingers.

            Sirilyr backed off the log and stood arms still outstretched and bearing the clinging, clawing thorn-bush monsters. He stared with fear down at the thing on his chest. It was densely packed with branches, he could swear the shadowed vacancies of the knot of twigs he was looking into were eyes. These things disturbed the ranger deeply. He did not recognize the wood and could not tell if this was some sort of magical construct or sentient plant, but he did recognize that it was trying to rip his lower lip off. Frantically, Sirilyr abandoned his sword and grabbed the small creature clawing at his face. He snapped the branch arm easy enough, but the densely packed sticks of its body proved resistant to crushing and bending. 

            Flinging himself and his assailants hard onto the ground. The ranger rolled violently in an attempt to crush the beasties still clinging and clawing at him. He noted with satisfaction the sounds of crackling twigs as his full weight crushed the sneaky buggers, despite the sharp pains as thorns were driven deeper into his skin. Sirilyr brought his hand axe to bear, chopping savagely at their struggling, spider-like forms, turning them quickly into kindling. Still the sticks twitched causing a cold shudder through the ranger. Sirilyr grabbed his sword and got away from the horrendous stickmen to quickly circle a bit to the right and toward the fiery glow in the fog. Taking a mere moment to peer into the flames, he noticed the fog beginning to fade. He targeted the blurry goblins trying to reform.

            He cast his gaze about and listened hard for the voice of his intended target. Slowly he moved and listened, watching for a sign of the mantled mage. Sirilyr also kept one eye over his shoulder in case more of those foul creatures turned up. The man was gone; opportunity eluded him. Sirilyr sheathed his longsword and stuffed his axe into his belt so he could unsling his longbow with a well-practiced motion. As the soldier flitted through the fog from vantage point to vantage point in his search, he began to shoot down and scatter any forms silhouetted by the flame's eerie glow. The soldier carried twenty razor sharp broadheads in his quiver. He emptied it in less time than it takes to boil a kettle, never having fired from the same spot twice. 

 

            Sleene spun on her horse trying to decide what to do. She was afraid. Everywhere she looked were dark forms flailing heavy weapons. The air was full of shouts and curses, as foul from the men as from the goblins. The wall of horses stood against the attack. Sleene had no line of sight beyond them where she may be able to bring forth nature's magic to bind the monsters with entangling plants. She waited and watched, seemingly useless. There was a thundering of hoof beats from the northeast; the flank attack. Then suddenly a horse reared up and cried out in pain. Sleene spun her horse around to see the wounded animal on the south side of the wedge up on its hind legs, a hideous shower of blood raining from a deep wound to its belly.

            Its rider was spilling off head first, but the horse too was falling. Sleene looked at the wicked goblin that had stabbed it from below. It called out in glee, and brandished its bloody sword. The soldiers nearby were calling out too, but Sleene was not paying attention to their words. She could make out more goblins coming toward the gap in the soldiers' formation. She could stop them with her spell. She sent her command to the plants like a shout. Immediately, the goblins were yelling in fear as roots and weeds sprung through the mat of newly fallen leaves to entwine and hold them fast.

            The nearby soldiers wasted no time bringing their long chained flails to bear on the trapped goblins. The horses skipped a bit as the plants grew around them as well, but the riders did not notice as they inflicted quick, bloody death upon the trapped goblins. Hearing their death cries, the other goblins on that side lost heart and backed away from the soldiers. "They flee!" a soldier to Sleene's left exclaimed. "Pursue!" Stargt called back.

            The downed soldier had regained his feet and was seeing to his horse. The fog was thinner, but still obscuring the retreating goblins. Not knowing about Sleene's spell, a few of the horses became trapped as they neared the enchanted area. The other side of the battle was concluding as well. The flanking cavalry had come in behind the attacking goblins and isolated the front line. Surrounded, the weak goblins ran into the fog and most were rode down or hit with javelins as they fled. Sleene dropped from her horse and headed for the wounded animal lying on the forest floor. Nip and Snap jumped around her nervously. The horse's eyes were glazed and breathing very light. "She's gone," her rider said solemnly.

            A brief eruption of combat clatter from the southwest, and the forest was suddenly free of the chaos. Then more hoof beats approaching from the east. Sleene looked, the fog was almost gone, and saw Spencer galloping toward them looking around astonished. Sleene followed his gaze and took in the clearing battlefield. Georan was north of the now mingling cavalrymen, standing next to a tree looking around. He stood near eight or so goblins bodies, a dagger in hand and blood soaking his garments. The cavalry that charged up the flank had killed several goblins that had been waiting to get at the main cavalry formation.

            Between them the north, upward slopping field was littered with at least twenty goblins. Soldiers were now pulling their javelins from the backs of several of the corpses. Sirilyr was in the trees northwest of the battle. There were several goblins lying dead near him as well, many with an arrow or more protruding. Actually, there were arrows stuck in the ground and trees as well as goblins all around where the ranger was now kneeling and studying the ground.

            To the southwest, the soldiers on foot had mopped up the retreating goblins. They were walking toward Captain Stargt, each swinging a couple goblin heads. Sleene noticed the couple horses still entangled by her spell, their riders dismounted and trying vainly to pry the plants off. She released the spell with silent gratitude, and the magic energy faded, the gripping plants suddenly easily removed from the horses' legs.

            Spencer guided Praedarus north towards Georan, keeping an eye out for injured men.  Reaching Georan, he dismounted and jogged towards him.  "Georan, man!  Are you alright?" 

            "Yeah." Georan sighed rubbing his temple with the back of his hand, managing only to smear more blood on his face. Looking at his hands, clothes, the goblins and back at himself he added, "What I really need now is a bath."

 

            Sirilyr wiped his blades clean on the corpse of a rather large fallen brute sporting one of his shafts through what had been it's left eye. Sheathing his weapons, the ranger worked the shaft from the beast's head with a grunt of effort. He retrieved only ten of his arrows that had not been broken by the falls of his victims or the hardness of the targets they had shattered upon. The soldier kept his dagger in hand as he searched through the dead for those who may not be what they seemed. One or two of the goblins he visited had to be helped on their way to their god. He tallied his dead, six in all had fallen to his flanking attack. But, he frowned sourly, he had not gotten the black hearted mage. "Soon laddie, soon..." He whispered in venomous promise.

            When he had finished this sobering task, he began a methodical search of those dead which looked to be of some status among their kind. There were a few silver coins among the common coppers; all of Brendil minting. These goblins were dirty, but not as filth ridden as those that had come from the sewers. The ranger determined the mage came from and probably left in a southwesterly direction before he headed to Sleene.

            Most horses had taken light wounds, and a few soldiers had too, but nothing serious. Stargt blew his horn three times quick, then sent some men to pick through the dead goblins, taking their pouches and weapons if not in too bad shape. Sleene noted them killing the wounded as well.  Sirilyr had come down the slope to her, smiled, and quietly greeted her with a cheerful, "Always the gentle one with the critters, 'ave ye got time fer one more?" With a grimace he pulled off his stained leather jerkin and shrugged off his mail hauberk exposing his wounded chest.

            The sweat matted and bloody hair stuck to the torn rough woolen tunic as he gingerly lifted it from his wound. The heavy javelin points had torn into the tight muscle of the man's left breast and had bled profusely from the shafts earlier removal. The ranger's armor, fit physic and a thick rib had prevented the weapons from penetrating too deeply. Inspecting the wound with blood and dirt stained fingers, "another fingers breadth up or down an' I might a been questionin' me luck eh?" He joked with the druidess. Georan and Spencer came over through the field of dead goblins, walking Praedarus. They eyed Sirilyr baring chest wounds to Sleene and asking her, "Ave ye seen me 'orse? 'E 'ad a bit o' a lessen today as well." Spencer greeted Sleene by clasping her shoulder lightly.

            Pausing for a moment, Sirilyr said, "I'm glad yer safe Sleene. The black mage led these scum."

            "I've got some herbs that should help with the wounds," Spencer announced more interested in the wounded than Sirilyr's tall tales. Sleene looked annoyed, she crooked her eyebrows at Sirilyr then Spencer and the blood smeared Georan.

            "Then you should be in good hands with Spencer," Sleene told the tall, young ranger. "They don't look too bad, but should be bandaged. She patted Spencer on the arm and walked away to busy herself with the horses.

            Spencer reached for his wineskin and handed it to Sirilyr.  "Clean it up," he instructed. As they spoke, Spencer opened his pack and rummaged through it.   After half a minute he produced a sealed tin box, oblong and about the size of his hand.  He released the clasp and opened the lid to reveal some folded cloth inside.  "This stuff isn't exactly common, especially around here," he said angrily as he unraveled the smooth material.  Inside were a few green leaves that looked as though they might have been picked yesterday.  He then reached into his pack again and unfurled a length of clean cloth into his lap.  He lifted one of the leaves from the box and placed it onto the fresh cloth, which he then squeezed and rolled in his hands.  The leaf released a translucent juice.  "Why I'm wasting this on you is quite beyond me," he mumbled as he stood and approached Sirilyr.  "This may sting a little," he said, then rubbed the leaf vigorously into Sirilyr's chest wound, squeezing every drop of juice from the leaf.

            Hawking and spitting on the ground by his feet as Spencer worked on the bloody chest wound with a grimace and not a little consternation. The ranger asked," Spence, could ye or Geo make a man remember any o' the men 'e saw in tha' black an scarlet bunch? I was thinkin' maybe, if we catch this scum, ye or tha' damnable priestess could find a way ta grant clarity ta tha' crazy mercenary tha' was 'ired by tha' lot and who was controlled by tha' black cloaked mage ta force 'im ta kill his fellows?"

            Spencer wrapped the salve-soaked tourniquet tightly over Sirilyr's shoulder and around his chest. Sirilyr yelped a bit as Spencer tightened the bandage with perhaps a bit too much enthusiasm for his work. "Incoherent...as...ever, I see," says Spencer between tugs on the bandage. The comment drew a halfhearted scowl from the seated ranger, and then a long low chuckle. Spencer then began carefully replacing his equipment in his pack. Georan finally deciphered Sirilyr's speech and said, "Nothing I can do. Sounds more like a task for a priest."

            "Black mage?" Tulane awkwardly walked his mount up the others.

            "Aye," answered Sirilyr. "When I sprung thar lil' trap they had set fer us, I saw the bugger tryin' ta 'ide 'iself 'ind a tree. 'E forgot 'is cloak tailin' be'ind 'im." A look of disgust crossed the soldier's face as he said, "I got a brief clue on 'im when I went 'round thar flank. 'E set three wooden creatures upon me, o' the type I saw that rainy night in the stones above Tir, only they be lil' ones." Spencer's looked up from his pack, his expression showed as much confusion as incredulity. "I managed ta break 'em up. But, they kept me busy while 'e escaped. I found 'e's track an got a good line on 'is direction though. "E's runnin' towards yonder," Sirilyr spoke with easy assuredness. "An if 'e's movin' at 'is best speed, 'e'll be easy ta track."

            Spencer sighed and stood.  "It may lead us somewhere important, but not if it knows it's being followed," Spencer said.  He looked around the clearing at his companions; many of them he did not know, such as Tulane.  But he was well aware that he and Sirilyr naturally walked light of foot, while most of the others were very conspicuous.  "Sirilyr and I could trail it in secret. But not with a cavalry at our backs." They all heard the loud approach of the reserve soldiers with the riderless horses, and Star and William who headed straight to them.

            Thinking upon Durrant's charge, and the opportunity presented, Sirilyr said to Tulane and Spencer. "I'd be willin' to track 'em, as I think the Black Mage be another force with a part in all o' this. An evil force tha' need's to be stopped. It be likely tha' we all will end up at the same ending regardless o' the path we take ta get thar."

            "Orinden? Did you see Orinden?" Star asked Sirilyr a bit accusingly.

            "Why would Orinden be leadin' gobbos in an ambush 'gainst Marchy troops?" The blood splattered ranger replied to the Tir woman with a slow turn of his head and a hard cold look as he shrugged his clothes and armor back on.

            She looked confused, and relieved, then turned and sought out Stargt with her eyes. He was signaling for everyone to wrap up and prepare move out. Before they leapt off again, Spencer went to Sleene and they walked among the company, helping to mend any injuries and offering such therapeutic herbs as they had. Sirilyr sought out his wounded mount among the several Stargt's reserves had brought up. Sleene had already redressed Shroud's wounds, so the ranger rubbed her and soothed her with gentle words. He noticed the wolves and his hound lounging, panting near the fallen horse. He went and offered drink and dried venison to them. His left arm was stinging, itching, where the stick creature had scratched him.

            "Spencer," called the ranger. "This arm wound feels fey... Not right fer a mere scratch." Exposing his left fore arm; the wounds were not deep, but already swelling red with a foul reaction. "One o' them magical wooden creatures left me somethin' ta remember 'im by. I think it might be a venom o' sorts. Cut the wound open fer me an see if it left anythin' in there." Sirilyr pulled his razor sharp dagger and offered the weapon hilt first to the cantankerous mapmaker. "Go on, it needs doin', ye canno' leave the wound foul. An if'n ye won't do it, I'll 'ave ta dig it out myself..."

            "Don't mutilate yourself yet," advised Spencer after quickly inspecting the scratches.  "Hurry, give me your shirt."  Then he summoned Sleene with a yell:  "Sleene!"  When the ranger had his shirt off, Spencer tied a sleeve as tightly as he could around the left arm, just above the elbow.  "No blood, no poison," he reassures Sirilyr.  "Show me the branches that did this."  Sirilyr nodded and began to walk northwest when Sleene intercepted. "Do you recognize it?" Spencer asked her, pointing to Sirilyr's scratches.

            Sirilyr nonchalantly let her examine him. She looked closely and shrugged, "Does not look serious, but for the sudden infection. A few leeches would probably help." They headed up the hill a ways, beyond a circle of burnt and still smoking char, dead goblins, and to a fallen log. There were three clumps of thorny sticks on the ground, gray and aged, but knot-like heads were still discernable. Spencer stared at the remains, mouth agape, not knowing what to make of them. 

            "'Ere they be. Vicious lil' buggers too. I'm glad I did no' 'ave ta tangle wit' their mum tha' rainy night in the rocks up above Tir." Looking at the now red angering wound, "poisonous are they? I best open it up an let it bleed fer a bit like a snake bite. No?" Fatalistically continuing, "an I sure should no' be walkin' 'round like some farmer at faire. Where's me bloody 'orse?" A murderous continence came on the soldier as he finished his line of unpleasant thoughts with the dire rant "I REALLY need ta 'ave a word wit' tha' black 'earted 'eathen o' a greenskin lovin', stick throwin', foulness spreadin', murderin' worm destined blaggard o' a mage..." The low toned mutterings continued as the ranger pressed the sharp silvered dagger in his gauntleted hand to his wounded flesh and awaited Spencer's answer as to draw or not.

            Sirilyr's ranting returned Spencer to attention. He took the knife in hand and glanced at Sleene. "I've never seen anything like them. Get out the bits and bleed out the poison," she agreed. Spencer proceeded to work at the swelled skin; avoiding the veins, he scraped at the abrasion in search of thorns like the ones he saw on the ground. When this was done to his satisfaction, he mended this wound as he had the last one, though he did not really know how to effect any positive change in this case.  Sleene asked Spencer to wait while she dug into one of her belt pouches and, a moment later, came out with two dried leaves which she crumbled and sprinkled on the cloth before the wound was bound.

            "In case it is naught more than an allergy," the young druidess said.  Spencer untied the ranger's shirt from his arm, the fore of which had by now taken on a purplish hue, and which was no doubt very cold after being exposed to the autumn air for so long a time. This done, he bent examine the remains more closely.

            Georan was already there, "If these things were magical, they are no longer." The sticks, mostly broken, were not rooted to the ground and did not seem to match the wood of the nearby trees. In fact the wood looked dry and brittle. With gloved hands, he managed to get a hold of a few pieces by the broken ends without pricking himself on the venomous thorns. The wood was light, desiccated, and would probably crumble; except the thorns looked smooth and dark, reddish brown. He dropped as many as he could as he could into the tube in which he kept his rolls of parchment, his maps, notes and sketches.  He would need to take care in opening it from now on.  He put one of the strange, face-like knots in his pack as well.

            Sirilyr shivered involuntarily at the thought of carrying one of those things around in his pouch. To Spencer he asked, "are ye sure it was no' birthed? Are ye no' worried 'bout whether or no' tha' thing's mother can follow it by scent. She's a rather large lady don't ye know." He said matter of factually.

            "He's right," Georan answered as he extracted some of the twigs also.

            Sleene then squatted and carefully got a hold of one of the knotted heads, "I should show this to Dricka. I've not seen anything like it; they are definitely plants of some sort."

            A thought occurred to Georan as he stood with a twig in hand. He pulled out the amulet the old hag had given to him and examined it next to the stick. "Sirilyr are you wearing one of these?"

            Pulling the leather lace which held the hag's amulet around his neck. Sirilyr answered, "Aye, but it gave no warning these creatures were 'bout. An it 'as ne'er given warning o' evil or other danger. Although, I 'ave 'ad me share o' luck since I put it on." Grimacing as the applied leaves began to make his arm wound itch, "Tha' is, until now..."

            "That, I'm afraid," Georan said as he looked up from the amulet, "may be because the magic is fading." Stargt's troop was starting to mount up. "We better get ready," Georan said and they headed back down the slope to their horses. As Spencer mounted, he remarked, "If goblins were as strong of arm as weak of mind we'd be in dire straits indeed." He looked glanced at William, who had stayed astride his nag looking around in awe. "Our valiant protector from Viatteni certainly did nothing to alleviate the situation," Spencer said to Georan.

            The young priest lowered his brows and shuffled. "Perhaps it is not your life Viatteni asked me to protect." He went back to counting the dead goblins, more monsters now roaming Arawn's land.

            "No?" retorted Spencer.  "Then what aspect of my being were you to protect?  The cut of my hair perhaps? Indeed it comforts me greatly to know that my locks shall go properly shorn should I be struck dead this day!" he finished in an angry tone.  "Pray tell, Moppet, what did Master instruct you to do, exactly?"

            William looked back at him, "Just to go with you. You saw something that has him nervous. A prophesy coming true."

            "Then he spoke differently to you than me," Spencer told the boy.

            Distracted from darker broodings, Sirilyr asked William, "I did no' know yer name was Moppet? I thought ye be known as William." The priest gave him a hard stare; the ranger winked at William. "What prophecy would tha' be lad?" Sirilyr fought the urge to scratch his hurt arm.

            Spencer listened to Sirilyr's question, but suspected William would have little to say in answer.  "It's nothing," he interjected gruffly before the lad could begin.

            "The guardian of the city would appear to the one who would see the dead released," William said anyway.

            "Well now, tha's bloody wonderful, I'd say now we know what Orinden an tha' Black Mage be after..." replied the battle begrimed soldier glumly, "more undead an their bleedin' chaperone. I'll take the gobbos anyday." He continued glumly rubbing his arm.

            "It may not be bad. The place was used for foul magics in the past, and many spirits are trapped there. The prophesy may be that one of this world, chosen by the guardian, would see these souls freed from their bonds and able to seek Annwyn for their salvation. Or, it may mean that evil spirits are released into our world," William concluded confidently. "Either way, it is Spencer that saw the guardian, and he that I must follow while Master Viatteni deciphers the writings."

            "Aye, well the dead have barricaded themselves fairly well in their tombs, as Georan and I discovered," Spencer remarks.  "If I'm the one to get them out then I'm afraid I've failed."

            Stargt came over to the group of civilians, looked at each of them, then said, "The treat is indeed real. I fear for your villagers," he nodded at Star. "These filth were probably buying some time for the attack on them; we must hurry on, but cautiously. Stay together," he added firmly. He turned to Sirilyr, "You have battle experience, you are welcome to scout if you are well."

            "Stargt," Spencer says without looking at the captain.  "Sirilyr, tell him."

            With a brief glance and an arched eyebrow at the imperious codger, Sirilyr turned his attention to the mud splattered Captain of Horse, whose fine cloak and tunic now sported a fine battle earned tear or two. "The black cloaked mage o' which the addled merc now 'eld in Tir's tower spoke led these gobbos," said Sirilyr as he used his boot to roll a gutted greenskin down the slope of the hill. I'm bettin' 'E's 'eadin' fer the same place Orinden and, by default, you now are." Nodding his war helmed head at Spencer and Georan, before shifting his pale blue gaze back to Stargt, "Spencer, Geo, an I should track 'im while you go on after Orinden and whatever is left o' the Tir militia. I've a feelin' we'll meet up again soon. And it'll probably be better if'n one o' our groups was in a position ta act as a flankin' force fer the other."

            Seeing the Captain's appraising eyes move over his poisoned wound, he answered the unasked question. "I'll be ridin' fer the most part. All that can be done 'ere as been. I'm a good 'unter an there be a bad man ta be tracked. That's the 'eart o' it." Pointing a dirty looking finger down the road in the direction the goblin forces broke and the Tir militia had marched. "They'll no' reform till ya push 'em back ta where they've corned the militia. Then they'll either fade away or stand. No way o' knowin' which it'll be till ya get thar. Yer action 'ere was well fought, ye've some good men," the veteran spoke loud enough for the other soldier's to hear. "You'll do well either way." Extending his heavy veined and sun bronzed right hand the exchanged a Warrior's grip, "good 'untin' Cap'n. We'll be along shortly."

            "Careful then," Stargt said. He looked around at the others to check their intentions.

            Seeing Star looking unsure, Tulane answered, "Me an' star will stay with the cavalry; case we find Orinden." She seemed to relax at that solution.

            Sleene looked uncertainly from one group to the other, finally shrugging.  "I have no preference," she said.  "Fighting is not my strong point.  I will go where needed." Spencer did not take his eyes off of Sleene for some time after that, with a contemplative look on his face.

            "I'm going with Spencer, like it or not," William stated, obviously bothered that Stargt stole his limelight.

            Spencer, hand clawed in frustration, shot an angry look at Georan, as if to say, 'If you don't do something about him, I'm going to!' "We cannot be many on an errand such as this.  Stay with the cavalry," he told the boy.

            "I don't give a shit," Stargt spun his horse and went off assigning his men.

            William stared at Spencer with dislike. "Look around at these dead goblins. Their souls are lost in the Netherworld, they have no hope there as they have no hope here - Arawn only grants passage to Annwyn to the righteous and strong. If this 'Black Mage' or, forbid, Orinden, have called upon magic to bridge this world and the next we are all in great danger. But you, you were called out by the Guardian," he pointed at Spencer, "for good or ill, the eyes of the dead are upon you! I have Arawn's blessings and protection, offered to you by Master Viatteni, yet you scoff at me. May the dead tear at you 'Chosen One'. I'll stay with Lady Star and seek Orinden." He nudged his workhorse over to her and Tulane. "And don't think his spells will protect you," William nodded at Georan.

            Captain Stargt was definitely changing his approach. He sent out all but three soldiers to their front or to the flanks. Tulane, Star, and William accompanied those three through the copse of trees and out of sight. Sirilyr, Spencer, Georan and Sleene stayed back while they left.  "For someone who talks so much about protection and was assigned to protect, he does an awful lot of standing around while I almost get killed and you lot get waylaid by goblins," Spencer observed after William has ridden off.  "Good riddance. I don't trust him and I don't trust Viatteni."

            Georan shook his head, "Maybe you should give the lad a chance," he said.

            Spencer shrugged, obviously unconvinced.  "We'll see..."

            Sirilyr lead Shroud and the others with their mounts to the burned circle up the slope. He quickly relocated the tracks he had spotted earlier: one man, five or six goblins.  The followed Sirilyr southwest, down the slope, across the path of the militia and the cavalry, already almost out of earshot. He picked up the trail easily after its disturbance by the soldiers. The small party head straight away from the battle, down the hill diagonally to the stream. They made a mess of the muddy banks at both sides, as did the horses negotiating the drop. Sirilyr stopped just beyond the southern bank of the stream.

            With a whispered curse, Sirilyr called softly. "Damn-it! No common man can do this. It's gotta be magic... Feint boy, come 'ere lad." Stepping down from his horse, the ranger told the others quietly, "Watch the surroundin' forest fer movement." Everyone was on edge anyway, even the canines seemed sensitive to the now quiet woods. The ranger walked carefully back across the stream and picked up a piece of earth. Spencer dismounted too, laying his index finger over his lips to indicate he wished his companions to be as quiet as possible.  He walked some short distance into the woods and there stood listening.  He was motionless except for occasionally cocking his head. Meanwhile, Sirilyr re-crossed and knelt down and whispered to the attentive hound while holding the muddy bit of ground to the beasts nose. The others heard the gentle command to "find 'em".

            Feint sniffed around the area, wagged his tail, and returned to Sirilyr with a sharp bark and hopped up on him with muddy paws. Sirilyr stood and turned to the young mage astride his horse,"Geo, 'e's usin' magic ta 'ide 'is trail. It should slow 'im and the 'alf dozen gobbos 'e's got wit' 'im down some. Thought the 'ound a chance o' pickin' 'em up by scent. We can start a circle ta pick up 'is tracks when 'is magic gives out. Odds would be better though, an quicker, if'n there was a way ta dispel the Black Mage's trickery. That'd be in keepin' wit' yer line o' work, would it no'?"

            "I could," mused Georan, "but I've only got one scroll and I'd rather keep it for a more life threatening situation." With an understanding nod, but disappointed look, the ranger turned away.

            Sleene, looked to Nip and Snap wishing, not for the first time, that she had a way of communicating directly with them.  Nevertheless, she dismounted, and beckoned Nip and Snap to accompany her, made a show of looking at the trail, crossed the stream, and tried to pick up the trail on the other side, doing all she can to indicate to the wolves that she wanted their help.  "Come on friends," she muttered quietly to her companions, "I need your help here."  They followed her, but had no interest in hunting. They looked at her like she was nuts. Giving up on them, she moved to the thicker brush in the area in hopes of uncovering a track, or other sign, that the magic has failed to cover. But there was nothing; they disappeared without a trace.

            Seeing the Ranger watching her antics, Sleene shook her head slowly and said softly, "I have some skill in tracking and some knowledge of the woods.  I may be able to assist but if you couldn't..." She shrugged and went back to the futile inspection for a minute longer then straightened and began thoughtfully examining the foliage and branches one to two feet above the ground.  Perhaps, just maybe, they got lazy and the masking magic works only near the ground, she thought quietly. Spencer took one last look around before walking back to his three companions.  "Any progress?"  He wished he could help, but he could see nothing in the brush.  He looked up, appraising his chances of seeing anything from the top of a tree.  He didn't want to waste the time if Sirilyr could lead them onwards, though.

            Chuckling deeply and lowly, Sirilyr cocked his shaggy head to one side and with an eyebrow arched at the druidess said, "We all do as we can." Turning to Spencer, "Our lil' bird's not gone fer long. We split into pairs and follow the stream fer a quarter mile, then we turn again toward the direction o' this road an ride another half mile, then we angle back into the road an meet. If one pair crosses their tracks, one o' 'em rides 'ard ta find the other pair. The other 'ides 'isself from site an waits ta see if they check their back trail until the rest join 'im. We'll find 'em again. No-one 'ides ferever, no-one. It won't take long we'll find 'em." The ranger's face had a determined set to it, as if he were making a promise to someone unseen. Sirilyr asked with an interested but slightly humorous, "Well good mapmaker, what say the wind?"

            "The wind, the trees, the water...they have many things to say," said Spencer. "Unfortunately, they speak too loudly today."  He paused before continuing.  "If we're to separate, you two should each lead a pair," he indicated Sirilyr and Sleene, "since you be good trackers." Spencer turned and walked back to his horse; his demeanor suggested that all was not forgotten between he and Sirilyr.  Now that the demands of battle were through, his previous manner with the ranger was slowly returning.

            Sleene shrugged and said, "I don't like the idea of splitting up but, I am not the military leader.  Which direction do I go?"  While waiting for an answer, she continued to study the bushes, thinking hard about how she might track something magically hidden. The druidess stopped suddenly and looked sharply at Sirilyr, and then at the others. Quickly she moved over to the ranger and spoke in soft tones, "Sirilyr," and looking suspiciously around at the trees, "have you seen any evidence of nature magic in your battles with the creatures?"

            "Well, I'd 'alf ta say the lil' wooden buggers could be a bit o' 'un-natural' nature. An' by all o' the gods the gobbo's used shamanistic magic, which is 'natural' fer the most part. The Black Mage most assuredly uses elemental magics, which from what me mother taught me, are dabbled in by those who favor 'natural' magic types... What are ye gettin' at girl?"

            When the ranger looked perplexed, she shook her long hair and continued, still softly, but talking more to herself than to him.  "Of course you have. The stick men...and the fog.  And then there was Nip and Snap that night...and the strange darkness..." Remembering the ranger, Sleene returned her attention to him.  "I think I know what they have done.  I have the ability to make it so that one, probably two people could move through any type of terrain for perhaps a third of an hour - and leave no trace at all. No tracks, no sound, no scent, nothing.  Even the magic user would not be able to track me because the spell would be on myself, and not on my surroundings.

            "Now, assuming that they are a bit stronger than I am, say, we travel out about a quarter of an hour along the stream and then another quarter of an hour angling away from where we are now and away from the stream before looping back to the road, we should almost certainly find them." She paused, half waiting for a reply before continuing, worried, "But...if that is true...is it another faction of druids we face in addition to Orinden?"

            "Aye, the Black Mage could be a druid. But, don't ye know all o' yer kind 'round the Marchy?" answered Sirilyr.

            On his way to Praedarus, Spencer took note of his own tracks. Then protested to the ranger, "Sirilyr; tracks are tracks.  Look:  we're leaving them plain as day. Don't make excuses."

            With a gruff guffaw, Sirilyr quipped, "ye 'ave a gift fer the obvious Spencer. It be a shame ye don't 'ave an answer as well..."

            "I don't purport to be a tracker, do I?" retorted Spencer.

            "We've got ta move. Geo you do me the 'onor o' ridin' wit' me, Spence, can ride wit' Sleene." He called to the two men, then turned to the druidess. "We follow the pattern. We'll ride west fer fifteen minutes, you go east down the stream. We'll both swing south and meet on the trail a couple o' miles down the road. When we find the tracks, one stays 'id an watches while the other fetches the rest. Good luck!" Mounting, Sirilyr quipped a command to the brown hound to follow as he and Georan made their way up the earthen bank. With a wave of farewell, they were swallowed from view by the forest growth.

            Spencer mounted Praedarus after helping Sleene onto her horse.  "Spencer," Sleene said as they moved off.  "Keep an eye on the far bank and let me know if it looks like they re-crossed the stream." After convincing Nip and Snap let Feint go and follow, they rode east. 

            Spencer asked about her revelation a few minutes ago. "What was that about?  Anything in particular I should be looking for?"

            Sleene considered her answer.  Remembering the mapmaker's promise to teach reading and writing and some of his most useful art, Sleene decided to explain, "I was explaining to the Ranger something of Druidic magic as well as making a guess about our adversaries."  Sleene paused a moment to examine the brush before continuing.  "I have the ability to do something quite similar to what the Goblins have done.  I estimated the time it would have lasted for me and thus the time we should travel."  She paused again, "As for what you should look for, I think it will probably be fairly obvious.  Once they invoked the magic, they probably opted for speed knowing that it would take us some time to catch up.  Look for crushed grasses, mangled bushes, and the like."

            Only a couple minutes away the bank on the northern slope was marked up, probably by the soldiers that flanked the goblin ambush. About five minutes further must have been where they had got into the stream. There were no further signs as Sleene continued east, not paying too much attention for tracks. After about fifteen minutes, Sleene angled southeast and slowed down to pay much more attention for signs, dismounting often. Still nothing after another fifteen minutes. Spencer road contentedly, lookout out for activity and wary of ambush. Sleene then headed south, but began a slow arch back west. After a half-hour, they had completed the quarter circle, and had seen no signs of goblin or mage. All along their path, the forest was fairly thick with undergrowth, but the ground was not as hilly as it had been becoming north of the little stream.

            They continued west until they estimated they reached a point straight out from where they started. They did not see Sirilyr or Georan.  "By the Hills I knew that separating was not a good idea," she said sharply.  They both fell silent and listened for any sound that might indicate where the others are. Turning to Spencer, she asked, "Do you hear anything?"

            "No, but the wind is picking up." And it felt cooler too.

            Sleene sighed and turned to Nip and Snap, "And I don't suppose the two of you know where your new friend is?  No.  You probably wouldn't tell me anyway." They cocked their heads interestedly.

            "Well, we certainly don't want to split up any more but we could spend a long time searching for each other..." Sleene trailed off in thought, thinking of, and discarding, several ideas in rapid succession.  "Well," she finally said, turning to examine the surrounding trees, "I guess one of us is going to have to climb.  You or me?"

            "I'll do it," Spencer volunteered, he apparently liked climbing and getting as good a view as he could. He easily scaled a tree atop some high ground and began scanning the area. Several minutes passed, Sleene smelled rain on the cool breezes starting to gust. She was sitting scratching Nip and Snap behind their ears.

 

            "Bah! They've no' gone down this way." Sirilyr reported not hiding his frustration. They had been traveling slowly south for about an hour. "Let's find the others an return ta the ford. Smart bet is, to ride west along the river on this side an see if'n they are runnin' parallel with the cavalry. I'll bet a weeks pay they are." The ranger was grim as he calculated, "we did no' ride far enough ta the west on our first go 'round. An' if we should lose them, we can still link up with the cavalry further down the stream." Sirilyr, swiveled his helmed head to the mage, "What're yer thoughts on the matter?"

            "First of all," Georan grinned, "it's easy for you to bet a week's pay seeing as none of us are getting one." In a more serious tone he continued, "As for tracking you're the one who knows what he's doing here."

 

            Suddenly Nip and Snap snapped to attention, alerting Sleene who was on the verge of a nap. Before she could get on her feet, the wolves ran off west. "Yep, its them," Spencer announced from high in the tree.

            Spencer watched their approach, and the line of boiling clouds on the northern horizon until Sirilyr and Georan got close, led by Feint, Nip, and Snap.

            Sleene related that they had only seen a couple spots where the stream bank had been crossed, she assumed it was the flanking cavalrymen.  She looked north carefully, "I don't like the storm. These creatures have too much control of nature.  They charmed Nip and Snap once, created unnatural darkness, created fog, and have stick men working with them.  I trust not this new weather."

            After studying the sky for a minute, she shook her head and turned to Sirilyr, "You have the knowledge of things military, but it troubles me that neither of us has found signs of the goblins.  It seems that it may be better to rejoin the Calvary.

            A deep furrow lined Sirilyr's brow as he replied, "Aye, but let's do it by way o' this side o' the river bank. We can find a crossing after we spot the troops. And this will still allow us ta follow the most likely direction o' the Black Mage. 'E's followin' the troops. 'E has ta, they're goin' where 'e needs ta be an we may well come up be'ind 'im." Eyeing the darkening skies he continued, "if'n it starts ta rain 'eavy we'll cross at the next spot we come ta though. I'd no' like ta be stuck on this side if she rises." Turning to view his three companions, "not, enough o' us, agreed?"

            Spencer and Georan nodded assent. "Agreed," Sleene said,  "We should angle back to the stream, just in case.  Maybe we can still pick up the trail you so want to find."  Sleene mounted and followed Sirilyr, saying to Spencer, "You watch for ambushes, I'm going to watch for the trail."

            "I'd appreciate ye watchin' the woods to our flanks. One watch left, the other right. Sleene, double check me as we go along in case I miss sometin', but keep an eye on the trail behind us. I'd hate ta be the ones bein' followed... Everyone watch for movement, the soldiers will have flankers out. And ye already know 'bout the gobboes." The ranger spoke without taking his eyes from the damp forest floor. Sirilyr had his borrowed gray mare moving along at a slow trot, the gut sloshing motion not bothering him to much as it had been a while since they had last eaten. His eyes were focused on the ground ahead of him as he rode. Sirilyr swept the way from side to side with his appraising gaze in a great effort to find the tracks of their quarry.

            Every four or five minutes he would lift his field of vision and carefully scan the way ahead for anything that might be out of place or to spot movement. The soldier's ears were attuned to the forest noises, straining to hear beyond the small party's four horses plodding, the panting of the hound and wolves as they took the miles in stride using the age old canine lope, to those sounds in the distance. Sleene kept half an eye on the weather and the rest of her attention on the ground, looking for the trail.  Whenever she found anything that could be the trail, she quickly dismounted to inspect. Spencer and Georan rode on quietly, alert for danger.

[12.2] Night of Terror

[a]

            "Either this beast was sent here to attack us or the noise of battle has attracted attention," Brian said as the dread sounds warbled on. "We had better move on, quickly!"

            Throwing knife at the ready Rasoric stood up, "Let's get out of here. Lady can we move Feorik, leave this place soon before those nightmare beasts return?"

            "I'm alright, Ras," Feorik repeated.  "We must…keep together.  And leave quickly." Feorik said the last through gritted teeth as he stood.  He passed a thankful glance at Mellody as the girl had deftly bound large half-closed cuts in his legs, which were still quite sore. 

            They heard Linda nervously asked Storn, "Where to?"

            Feorik retrieved his blade and walked to the dead badger.  He wished he had time to flay the beast or take a trophy.  Such a size!  As it was he quickly wiped his sword clean on some moss as he looked to Brian or Storn.  Was there something else out there? Considering all of the blood of the badger, and the blood of his wounds any nearby predator could smell this area from a fair way off.

            "Back to camp," Storn said, making a curt order.  "Gather everything and then move off.  Away from the carcass."  Feorik nodded, exactly the right thing to do.  But where to move off to - it was dark and who could tell if the badger's burrow was in the direction they would move.  Fate could be cruel if its mate, perhaps of similar size, was in the vicinity.

            "To the bridge," Darvian suggested. "This badger was chasing us from the campsite of the dead clerics. If we increase our distance from that dreadful place we might be better off. There is no point in heading back there, so I suggest we move onwards, using the map we have. The bridge is the next discernible feature. It might be easier to defend ourselves there, as a potential foe could only attack from one of two sides…or the air," the mage added in a frightened voice, as the sound of fluttering wings from the swamp continued.

            They quickly returned to the camp across the small stream. They were stomping out the fire, when an uneasy voice sought their attention, "Uhh…Uhh…" Rasoric was standing on the slope above the camp, barely visible in the weak torchlight in Mellody's hand. He pointed at the stream. Three figures were standing the stream watching them. It was dark, but they could see that they were not human. Tall, but oddly shaped - reptilian. Storn was quickly on guard and moving toward them slowly putting space between himself and Linda, Mellody and Brian. Feorik and Karod drew up too, even though hurt and still pained.

            They stood there, each group sizing up the other: Bipedal lizards, with shields, bigger than any one of them. Their eyes adjusted with the torch now behind them, its light reflecting from moist scaled skin and an occasional flicking tongue. Tension. The creatures studied them back, menacing, emotionless visages. Then they snarled, almost in unison, baring sharp teeth, and bringing sharp claws up.

            "Maybe we can talk to them," Feorik muttered to group as he stood there watching the reptilian humanoids, but he knew this was not good. It seemed the entire wilderness was moving against them this night.

            Darvian, standing between the fighters and pilgrims, agreed with Feorik; talking might indeed be the best course of action for them right now. But would those lizards understand them? Tentatively Darvian raised his voice addressing the lizards. "Hello there, sorry if we disturbed you. We did not intend to trespass on your territory, and we mean no harm to you. If you don't mind we would just be on our way and leave you in peace." Darvian fell silent.

            If anything his words sparked the lizardmen into action. They ran at the three fighters. As they charged, the three fighters brought their weapons up and steeled themselves to meet their foes. One of them fell over as he ran at Karod. The other two kept on and slammed into Feorik and Storn with claws racking and grasping. Despite his wounds, Feorik managed to slip his blade under the creatures poorly used shield. The Warder reacted on pure instinct.  It was easy getting past the thing's reach, despite the claws.  It was like fighting untrained men, those who got drunk and harassed the women in Dir.  Except against them you use the flat of the blade.

            Karod, without an opponent, swung his heavy sword against the beast attacking Feorik. It roared in pain until Feorik's blade through its chest silenced it and it slumped down. Storn too had managed to push back from the charge and land a solid blow with his mace, but not without a rending wound from the thick claws. Storn was much faster with the heavy end of his weapon than the lizardman. It was obvious these creatures were not experienced fighting against the arms of men. He dropped it with a couple crushing blows. Beyond those two, the third still lay face down half in the stream, half out. Rasoric came running down the slope, he bent over the lizard, "I knew I hit it!" He proudly pulled, with some difficulty, a knife from the side of it.

            Feorik tried to keep the horror of walking lizards from his mind.  He was dulled to it all now...dark goblins, Shamhat spirits, badgers the size of bears.  The world seemed surreal and insane.  The darkness pressed all about.  Trying to keep a tone of normality in his voice, Feorik moved to the downed one as he said, "This one just collapsed..." He prodded it experimentally with his toe.

            Darvian's eyes widened when he realized what Feorik was doing. "Kill it! Quickly, chop off its head, before it wakes up" Darvian exclaimed!

            Feorik jumped backed startled. Then his eyes also widened, with understanding.  Sorcery!  Not dead, just ... asleep! He raised his sword high and brought it down across the back of the thing's scaly neck. Its hide was tougher than expected. The blow cut deep, but was far from severing anything. The creature screamed inhumanly at the pain and began writhing around, whacking Feorik with its tail.

            Brian went to Mellody and hugged her to him, shielding her from the sight. "Finish it!" he yelled at Feorik over its death cries.

            Feorik reared back and, as the confused creature finally started to right itself he gave it a powerful slash through the throat ending its sounds and life. Clutching its torn flesh, it toppled over. The stink of blood was high in the air again as dark gouts flowed freely from it and the other lizard-things.  The beasts smelled of wet wood and bracken water.  Feorik stepped away and wiped his sword on moss quickly.

            Darvian sighed heavily. First the badger and now lizardmen, this area was severally corrupted. The animal life was affected by some vicious power. Darvian knew that they had to press on and finally find a save place to rest. They all looked distinctly winded. Both mental and physical stress was tearing on them all. He at least would need a few hours of sleep or he soon would collapse and be of no use to anybody.

            "Let's keep moving on," Feorik growled.  "Storn, are you alright?" he asked.

            "Just a scratch," the paladin said inspecting the bleeding claw marks down his left arm. He went to the stream to wash it off.

            "Brian, keep an eye out," Feorik said, and he lightly stepped forwards, away from the others, to make sure no more of the things were coming.  He had suddenly gotten the feeling that these ... things ... were just scouts for a larger number. Coming back, he looked at Storn, and then to Darvian in the gloom, and then the women, Feorik could tell they were all on the limits of their nerves and endurance.  "One hour more, then we rest," he said, and the way his voice cracked somewhat, it sounded like an entreaty more than a promise. 

            Rasoric seemed to have energy; youth was like that,  "Let's get away from these lizards ... now," he said, an urgency in his voice.

            "Alright, I'll stay five paces ahead.  Keep quiet.  In the darkness, use your ears first," Feorik quickly stepped into the night, heading west.  One hour more, he told himself. Everyone else followed: Rasoric, then Brian walking just ahead of Linda and Mellody with Gert in tow, then Darvian and Karod, and Storn trailed them all. The trees absorbed the small troop and the weak, swaying light of the lantern Mellody carried.

            As they progressed, so did the sounds of the swamp. No one could shake the feeling of pursuit. They kept going, stumbling and tripping through the dark wilderness. If they walked an hour, it was longest hour they'd every experienced, but fear kept exhaustion at bay. The woods were becoming hilly, rocky; too tough to navigate. "Please, tell him to stop," Brian told Rasoric as he helped Mellody, then Linda and Gert up a slope.

            Feorik had already come to that conclusion before Rasoric's voice reached him. They had climbed up a small hill with fairly steep slopes all around, and several sturdy trees. Feorik was seated on a fallen tree, probably a lightning strike, listening. The swamp sounds were distant; his companions were making most of the noise he heard.

            His feet were heavy and his mind was numb. Darvian stumbled the last few steps up the steep slope and sat down heavily next to Feorik. Panting as he was, Darvian nevertheless managed a small smile. "Clever idea to come up here, Feorik, this place can easily be defended. But you will have to do so without me for a while. I am barely able to stay awake. If it is at all possible, without endangering my life, please let me sleep for six hours." Feorik just grunted and nodded.  He could stay up a few hours more.  It felt good just to sit.  Choosing a comfortable spot for himself, Darvian made a few last preparations and then curled up and quickly fell asleep.

            While the others settled about the place, Feorik looked at his wounds, testing the rents in his flesh with his fingers tentatively in the moonlight.  He poured some water on them to give them a rinse, and then shrugged.  It would have to do.  Scars were the least of his worries. Stepping to Storn, he saw the outlines of the others, already more or less asleep, except for Brian who lay quietly, lost in some thoughts.  In a tired voice, Feorik said: "I'll keep a guard up.  When I get tired I'll wake you," and he walked a little ways off. 

            Crouching down somewhat painfully, he listened for any signs of pursuit from more lizardfolk ‑ of anything at all.  He wrinkled his nose at his own stink, and tried to shift with the breeze, so he stayed upwind of anything approaching the camp. Eventually Feorik stumbled back to where Storn lay, and gave the fellow a shake.  "I'm dead on my feet.  Two hours, or until dawn, whatever comes first," he said, and then went to sleep with little preparation on the hard ground.

[b]

            A soldier greeted them with a cocked crossbow bolt from across the clearing. Finally they had caught up. The forest had revealed nothing and it was getting dark. The stream led them west, but ended at its source, a small, spring fed pond. There was some debate about where to go, but in the end they headed north to pick up the militia's trail, easy to find, easy to follow, and some protection from sarcasm. Just through the trees the soldier was guarding, the villagers had made their camp. It was a shambles. Grim villagers looked on as the four came out of the trees.  The place was smoky from smoldering fire pits. Mounted soldiers ringed the encampment, and there was a group about the central tent.

            They dismounted and walked to find Stargt. Two bodies, covered, lay to the east of the pitched tents. Captain Stargt was talking with the villagers, who looked frightened. "Any luck?" Stargt asked them, breaking his attention from Elgend. Sirilyr grumbled nay. "Orinden's flown too," Stargt told them, "and one of 'em killed two others. But they've seen no goblins."

            "Lorren and Jeein," Star stated obvious upset with the course Captain. "Semm attacked them in their tent....I...I think it was the same thing that happened to that mercenary. William is with him now."

            Sirilyr was quiet. He looked crushed, frustrated, and defeated. Spencer asked the obvious, since nobody else was doing so.  "Have you asked them where they were headed?"

            Elgend turned around and gave Spencer an angry look. "Of course we told him what we know."

            "...and?"  Spencer asked this stranger.  "Where is it you were going and why?"

            Elgend turned back to Stargt who just said, "We all leave at first light."

            "Prick," said Spencer to the abrasive man before turning to walk off.

            Star came over to them and quietly explained, "They do not know where, or when he left. Let's get your horses taken care of."

            Sleene said, "I should see..." She looked at the covered bodies, and went to them leaving her horse with Star. She looked under the blankets, shivering to see men she knew, not well, but had spoken with, dead. They had been stabbed several times, and choked judging by the bruising on their necks. Fighting down her revulsion. "It is, after all, just meat," she thought as she examined the bodies.

            Star led the others to where the horses were corralled and told them, “Orinden was here when they subdued Semm, after midnight. He was gone at daybreak. Delak has not come back either, he was supposed to back this morning." They left their horses with the cavalry's, but Sirilyr led Shroud away, picketing her under a maple tree off on his own.

            Sleene came over looking shaken. Spencer eyed her, asking without words if she was okay. She gave him a strong look. He turned to Star and asked again, "They knew not where they were going?  What did Orinden tell them?"

            She looked at him funny, then realized what he was asking, “They came here to get rid of the goblins. When he heard about attack in Bilcoven, Orinden was convinced it was such vermin that had captured our hunters.” She took a deep breath and looked about to tear up, “They all came to show, to prove, Tir could handle its own without the likes of him.” She looked in Captain Stargt’s direction then back at Sleene with a worried look, “I think we’re in danger.” She was whispering, starting to tremble. “He wouldn’t leave…If he did, it’s because…its true. He’s mad, he’s got to be!”

            "Shh, all right,"  Spencer said, trying to make the woman calm down.  As usual, the tone of his words was not mild, regardless of their intended meaning.  "Don't worry, we'll learn what's happened soon enough." Spencer had expected Sirilyr to be skirting the camp in search of tracks.  He was surprised to see him sitting alone. After caring for Shroud, Sirilyr had silently arranged a lean-to next to her, and was setting a small smokeless fire to going. "Has anyone searched for Orinden's trail?" he asked Star.

            "Probably not well. No one wants to really admit what's going on."

            "Sleene, could you see to Orinden's tracks?  Or is it too dark?"

            “Not yet. Lend me one or two for protection and I can make a quick circuit of camp while there is light."

 

            Spencer went over to where Sirilyr was idle and alone, now settled back against a pulled up log to block the flames from view across the field.  With a frown on his face, he sighed, "Sirilyr," he began, "I did not mean to question your skill in tracking.  Clearly you hold it in very high regard, and I don't doubt your ability.  But none of us is perfect.  It may have been Sleene's error; doesn't matter.  Don't be distressed over it, man.

            “Here there's a chance to redeem yourself, anyway; Orinden's flown and our purpose was to find him. Won't you help to hunt him down?"

            The ranger watched his tea, oats and venison seasoned with leeks bubble as he thought in a brooding silence. He granted the mapmaker the briefest of glances and replied, "We'll get 'im," before returning to his thoughts at the fireside.

            "Bah," Spencer waved his hand at the ranger and turned to walk away, already regretting his attempt to talk to him. "It is getting dark," he said over his shoulder as he returned to where he had left Star, Sleene and Georan and began to pitch shelter and build a fresh fire for them.

            Sirilyr called, "Sleene, spare a moment?" He lit his briarwood as he awaited her response. The young druidess looked up with surprise, and then some suspicion.  It was not like the gruff woodsman to be this...polite.  Warily, the druidess nodded, grabbing her food and moving over to the ranger's lean-to.  As an afterthought, she encouraged Nip and Snap to accompany her, figuring, if nothing else, that they have managed to form a slightly larger pack with Feint.

            Reaching the lean-to, Sleene sat down across from the ranger, reached into her pouch of dried fruit and nuts, and, taking a small piece of fruit in her mouth, nodded and waited for the ranger to open the conversation. Exhaling a long billowing plume of blue gray smoke, which lovingly wafted round his helmed head before meandering off in the still air, the ranger offered "Tea?" Surprised, the druidess accepted, holding the warm cup in her hand and listening.

            Taking his pipe from his mouth, he asked the druidess "I need ta understand more o' the way in which the magic the Black One uses works in order ta find 'im, tell me what ye know o' this spell ye spoke of... the one that allows ye to pass without a trace. What components be needed? What is it's duration? And share o' the toll this kind o' magic takes o' those who use it?" Sirilyr's face looked worn, his eyes vaguely haunted as he stared into Sleene's eyes. "I must 'unt this one down before 'e does more 'arm ta good folks tha' don'' deserve such treatment. If 'e be a druid... you must 'elp me ta understand this man Sleene.” Sleene eyed the ranger, considering.  It was not their way to discuss the mysteries with outsiders.  Yet, he was a ranger and was trying to correct an evil...

            “Even one only slightly washed in the knowledge o' the way such as I knows that the balance is upset by a madman such as 'e. By the gods that be, 'e could o' been disguised as a bloody tree or traveled through one fer all we know like is told in the wive's tales ta the young!" The ranger's brows crushed together as he pleaded his passionate words in a hush to the lithe druidess. Feint nuzzled Sirilyr's hand in a reminder that it was dinner time. The ranger filled the wooden bowl and set it down for the hound. He tossed Nip and Snap a bit of the cooked meat before taking a sip of the brewed herbal tea and studying the druidess. He blushed as his thoughts of the young woman took him from where he needed them to be. Flustered, he asked her "join me fer supper? It be mostly oats an leeks."

            The druidess made up her mind and said, "I'll tell you something of the magic, but I will stick to tea and my own food."  The druidess put a few nuts in her mouth and chewed a moment before continuing.  "The magic you ask about is nothing special,” she smiled gently at the ranger, “In fact, I believe that it is common for Rangers to be able to work this magic quite easily once they become sufficiently attuned to the world around them.  In any case, it needs no material components.  Just words, gestures, and the ability to focus the mind.  The number of creatures affected and the duration of the magic both increase as the experience of the druid.  I am not so very strong as of yet so I could affect probably two creatures for, perhaps, a third of an hour.  That may not sound like much but a powerful druid, or many nature shamans, could very well hide a dozen creatures for several hours in this way.”

            Sleene paused and took another sip of tea and another piece of fruit, staring aimlessly into the falling night before continuing.  "As for the nature of the magic itself...aaahhhh....you are probably close to the understanding but not quite there yet....not quite....  The magics vary somewhat.  Think of it as working with Feint.  Most of the time, you work together.  You don't so much command your friend as request his help. Sometimes, however, you must issue a command, bend him to your will.  Most nature magic is similar.  I do not command, I ask.  I can ask the roots to run wild or the bushes to move aside.  Some of the magics involve me bending energies to my will, such as creating a bright light or bringing fog into being when none existed before.  I...."  The lovely druidess shrugged, "It is hard to explain.  Was that adequate to our needs?"

            Sirilyr's furrowed brow smoothed a bit as he digested her words. "Almost, what would turn a druid to side wit' the likes o' the gobboes an dabble with things best left undisturbed?" He looked to Feint as the hound pushed the now empty bowl against his booted foot with the force of his warm rough tongue as it polished away the last morsel of his meal.

            Sleene looked at the ranger in surprise.  "Only the most powerful of our order are truly neutral.  So long as a druid retains some neutrality, however, he retains his powers.  Remember, there are many forms to the balance and good and evil are only two of them.  There is order and chaos, freedom and slavery, strong and weak, many, many forces to balance.  A druid could be partial to the evil creatures of the world but still maintain neutrality in other ways.  He would never achieve either great knowledge or power, but he would gain enough.  Oh, don't look so surprised at this admission.  It is hard to achieve true neutrality.  Do you think I befriended Nip and Snap by being detached?"  The Druidess smiled at her friends.

            Smiling for the first time that evening, Sirilyr picked up the bowl and refilled it from the small kettle on his fire. Removing his right gauntlet he began to eat with his fingers from the bowl, "got ta make meself a proper spoon one o' these days," he said as a bit of the thick mixture clung to two of his fingers. "I thank ye fer yer time an trust druidess."   

[c]

            Spencer stared over at the two, then dropped what he was doing and looked around.  "Georan, dusk is nigh; if we're to trail this fellow we need to start now.  The rain will ruin our chances."  He paused for a moment, staring skyward.  "Stargt and the leader of these folk don't like me much.  Could you talk to them and find out what you can?  If you distract them for a while, I could inspect Orinden's tent for clues. Hopefully by then these two will decide to seek his trail," he gestured towards Sirilyr and Sleene.  "Come on, the sooner we catch the bloke the better."

            "I don't agree." Georan stated, "I think we should start in the morning. It's too late to go on a wild goose chase."

            "I'll stay with Stargt and Elgend. I am sure Elgend looked for anything Orinden left behind," Star said then headed back to the center of camp.

            Spencer looked at Georan, "We'll not have an opportunity like this later.  Look, they're gathered and distracted; if there's anything good to be seen in and around that tent now's our chance.  These folk are brave, but they're stricken by losses and confused by a leader who is not what he appears.  They resent the Bilcoven militia and us, no doubt.  They could be hiding or overlooking something for any of those reasons."

            "There's too many other villager's loitering about. They'll see you," Georan said continuing to prep their shelter. Spencer looked around the encampment. Dirty villagers in twos and threes sat glumly around smoky cook fires. They appeared indifferent, but were they? Spencer began to feel eyes watching him. Impatient, but thwarted, he and Georan finished up.

 

[d]

            Sleene nodded as she stood, "I have volunteered to scout the perimeter for tracks.  Help would be welcome." She did not wait for an answer but moved off towards some of the villagers at the edge of camp. Licking the dinner from his fingers, Sirilyr's eyes followed the gentle sway of the druidess's comely hips as she slowly walked away from the fire. Smiling and ruefully shaking his head at his thoughts, he pulled on his gauntlet, dropped the bowl by the fire next to Feint and picked up his sword, and shield.

            The ranger lengthened his stride and silently walked up to Sleene. She was asking a couple of the villagers to come with her while she sought to find which direction Orinden had gone. They exchanged worried glances, but Sirilyr watched them agree with a bit too much appreciation for Sleene's appearance. She certainly stood out from what Sirilyr had seen of the young girls of Tir. "Follow behind and watch for movement," she told the men. She looked at Sirilyr, but said nothing. The ranger fancied he saw a hint of a smile.

            They walked back east they way they had come, if the man left the way they had come, they'd have no chance of spotting his trail among the militia's and cavalry's. So they made their way a long bowshot from the camp and began their circuitous route counterclockwise around the encampment. The perimeter guard eyed them curiously, but said nothing. Sirilyr must have garnered a measure of respect. The three villagers however made some quiet, unpleasant comments as they passed by.

            Sirilyr began to sweep his gaze through the foliage. He quietly enjoyed the nearness of the druidess, and the surrounding sounds of the cool thick forest enveloping them. Despite the concealing layer of soggy fallen leaves and growing shadows, Sleene discovered something. Calling Sirilyr over, they ascertained someone had spent sometime behind a gnarled tree. He had sat against it, and stood behind it watching the camp directly to the south. Sirilyr circled the tree and found enough signs to be confident to say the man came from the north, rested and spied on the camp from behind the tree - the villagers were not guarding this far out - then approached the camp.

            Sirilyr told Sleene very seriously, "And he returned from the camp with someone." He walked with Sleene north of the tree. "It must have been dark," he pointed out an impression where one of them had tripped over an upraised root, and the prints of the other helping him up. "Our friend behind the tree there wasn't just watching the camp, 'e was waiting fer this second fella. This was a prearranged rendezvous. They both knew ta meet 'ere, an when ta do it. The village o' Tir 'as 'ad bad people workin' from within their own town. It may 'ave even been the Dark Mage."

            Sleene followed the explanation, looking at what the ranger had found with grudging respect and filing it all for future use.  "Can you tell size?  Weight?"

            Not taking his eyes from the ground, the ranger nodded. "Aye, a male. 'Bout 170 pounds, from the size o' 'is feet an length o' 'is stride, above average 'eight." Pointing a gauntleted finger to where the man had sat at the base of the gnarled tree, Sirilyr said, "See there? No indent from a 'aversack or pack, so 'e wasn't carryin' much. Good sized lad 'e is. It could be the Black Mage, not sure though as I 'aven't got a real good look at 'im yet..."

            Arching an eyebrow and looking questioningly towards the three villagers accompanying them. He stepped to them asking, "Why? What 'ave ye got tha's worth wantin' to go ta all this trouble fer? Is it what ye guard in the cistern cave?" His other eye squinted at the three from Tir in speculation as he awaited an answer.

            "What'r ya talkin' about, southerner?" One them, the oldest, asked back defensively, mocking Sirilyr's accent.

            "Sleene, I think we need ta take these rascals and the other Tir folk before Stargt. I'm sure 'e'll know 'ow ta loosen some tongues. But then, there's always that special spell o' yers... Ye know, the one tha' unveils all o' a persons most dirty an intimate secrets." There was a serious mischief in the ranger's hardening eyes.

            "She'll cast no spell on us!" Another spoke up and was hit by the older to shut him up.

            "We've nothing to do with Orinden disappearance. She was there," he indicated Sleene. "We came here to kill goblins and avenge our brothers! I'll kill the man if I see him again! I don’t need no southern stranger accusing me and mine. You found his trail, git off after him." He turned back to camp and motioned his fellows along with.

            Sleene's eyes flashed with anger and she stepped forward, barring his way with her staff.  "This southern stranger is here trying to save you from yourselves.  Dornen, if you are keeping something from us that may be of use in tracking this one, or the leader of the goblins, down, I WILL find a suitable spell for you if it takes me ten years!"

            Dornen stopped and stared at Sleene, angrily but eventually respectfully, "There is nothing we know about Orinden. He was all excited yesterday, even wanted to keep going, but Delak stopped us here and went off to scout ahead. Semm scared us all, Lorren and Jeein was his friends. Something evil's in this place, and Orinden brought us here. All of us just want to get home." He looked disapprovingly at Sirilyr, "and nothing in that cave has anything to do with this!"

            "Ye damn fool ye think this be jes' 'bout gobbos! Ye 'ave no idea 'bout what 'THIS' even is..." growled the ranger. "Ye'll tell me 'ere an now o' the cave or I'll go back ta yer stinkin' hole o' a town an tear that bloody stone ridge apart if'n I 'ave ta wade through unholy fire, blood, an steel ta do it till I 'ave my answer! There be more then the folks o' Tir in the balance 'ere. An yer thoughts o' southrons," he stuck his leather clad finger in the air an jabbed it at the Tir men for emphasis, "Dornen," Sirilyr said the man's name as if it were foul to the palette, "show ye've been left ta yerselves an cut off from the world far too long." Sleene turned to scowl disapprovingly at Sirilyr without taking her staff from in front of the villager.

            The older villager scowled, "Its you southrons that brings problems to us. I told you, the cave's just that. Our water, other stuff they don't want goblins to grab."

            The ranger scythed his clear iron gaze across the three men, pausing to lock eyes with each woodsman in turn. "Look o'er beyond the hardby ridges surroundin' yer vision men o' Tir. If ye don't, ye aid the blackest devil in 'is darkest deeds. And the wailin' o' yer own kinsfolk may well be the last thing ye ever 'ear as ye rue this moment when it's too late... if ye don' 'elp us now. Please, tell us what we must know... tell us o' what lies within the cave and why ye guard it by day an no' by night. 'Elp us ta 'elp you, those poor missin' folks, an the other innocents o' this Marchy. All depend upon yer good an true 'earts now. Give 'em a chance by yer good service. Speak to us while there be time ta spoil the plans o' the Dark Mage an the likes o' tha' necromancer Orinden... 'E lived among ye, an yet, ye still did no' see 'im fer what 'e was. Trust in the good druidess an meself, we too are of the wood."

            All three were definitely confused, looking among themselves to see if the others understood what the young ranger was telling them. Dornen answered, "Orinden's been funny since, but we got nothin' to do with any dark magics. We don't know where or why he left. He was watching Semm last anyone knew. If someone was out here," he indicated the tree, "he wasn't one of us. Two dead, boy. We know it ain't no goblins out here, and Orinden brought us here, and left us. All I want is to get home. You go after the bastard if you want; hell can have him."

            The druidess turned from the ranger and looked at the villagers with something like grudging compassion.  She removed her staff from blocking the trail and said to the older villager, "You trust not the southerner and I cannot say that I completely blame you."  She shifted her attention to the ranger.  "You see what else you can divine from the tracks for a moment."  Again, she returned her attention to the villager, "Come.  Let us go off a few paces.  Tell me in such detail as you know what is in the cave and trust me to decide if there is anything of importance.  I will share with yon ranger only what is necessary.  Acceptable?"  She drew the older villager off a bit to where they can talk but still remain within safe calling distance of the others.

            The ranger turned and began to follow the trail of the two fugitives. "There ain't nothing there unless they just put it there," Dornen told her. Sleene eyed him intently. "It's just a rumor, but I've heard they may have found something in the old mine tunnels, gold or gems or something," he fest up.

            "Gold and gems?!" the druidess said showing some disgust. "No!"  She helds her hand up to stop him from saying anything, "No. I know what you think such things could do for you. Tell me all you know and tell me where the old tunnels are."

            "Only the guards are go in the cave and those the council allows."

            "I do not know if the Ranger values these things but I will protect what you think is yours."  Sleene eyed the villager before continuing more sternly, "However, did you not consider that perhaps others had heard these rumors as well and that, perhaps, somebody else may be out here searching for this 'wealth'?"

            "I don’t really believe it," but a look dawned on his face. "If we're out here chasing goblins … we’ve got to go back! Come on," he called to his son and the other rather urgently.

            Sleene looked at Dornen and sighed.  "Sirilyr," she called as the villagers converged.  He did not answer. Glancing around, Sleene did not see him. Dornen was not waiting for her either. "By the Hills," Sleene swore to herself.  Looking quickly at the villagers, Sleene called loudly, "Sirilyr, get back to camp quickly."  Shaking her head and wondering at how everything could go wrong so quickly, she set up a howl that coaxed Nip and Snap to join in, and quickly took off following Dornen. The howling got his attention as he was casually following the two men's easily discernable trail. He was off at a long stridden run for the camp with his weapons drawn.

[e]

            As their fire came to life, a murmur rolled through the encampment. Villagers were getting up and heading to the west side. Spencer and Georan had set themselves up on the east side. They go up to see what the excitement was about. Mingling in with the villagers, they heard the news; Delak had returned. The villagers nudged into two lines allowing the man to walk like a hero to the center of camp where Stargt, Elgend and the other militia 'leaders' stood along with Star and William. Delak was bedraggled, dirty, but walking proud. He was dressed much like Feorik had been, a Watcher, but older. His leather armor had a few rips, stained with dried blood.

            He looked suspiciously at Spencer and Georan as he made his way through the lines, clasping hands and getting slapped on the back by his fellow Tirans. But this man was not happy; something had him very worried. The lines flowed into a circle ringing the central council. Georan and Spencer jostled their way to see and hear what the Watcher had to say. "I am glad you are here Captain," Delak started, "but however many you have are not going to be enough. Where is Orinden?" The looks he got answered him. "What the hell?!" He groaned, "Sleene? Did she come with you?" He asked Star.

            "Yes, and some others from that merchant," she looked around, but did not spot Sleene, or Sirilyr, Georan, or Spencer for that matter. "I don't see her, she went off to track Orinden with that ranger."

            The statement did not register; Delak pulled a dagger from his belt and handed it to Stargt. "Orcs … with steel like that."

            "No orc can make this," the Captain said studying the weapon. From what they could tell, it was a polished, sturdy blade.

            Delak nodded and whispered something that elicited a deep look of concern from Stargt and those around him.

            "How far?" Stargt asked.

            "We have to leave now," Delak said seriously and turned and told the thirty some villagers gathered around, "Go, pack up. Make some torches, we are leaving." The group stirred, but did not break. "They come. They'll be on us this night!" Delak told them with authority.

            The villagers mumbled, then someone called out, "We're not cowards!" and "We stand!"

            Confused Delak looked around at his fellow Tirans. "They outnumber us," Delak explained, "and they're coming for war! Not some hunting band."

            "Nor are we! We came for this."

            Stargt stood, "I've no doubt we will defeat them, but with many casualties. Now is not the time for this battle! If they come for war, we'll meet them with the March's might."

            "But not before they'll be on Tir," Koll conceded quietly sitting next to Delak who looked down on him with frustration.

            "And what if they come upon us with out tails between our legs, unprepared, in the night?" The outspoken villagers asked sarcastically. "Let us fight here!"

            Georan got the sinking feeling there would be more bloodshed, and before he had a chance to rest and restore his powers. He glanced to Spencer, only to find him missing. He had slipped away quietly. Georan looked around to see if any of the others were around, but mostly looked in the direction of Orinden's tent; hoping Spencer wasn't doing something that would get everyone even more edgy.

[f]

            Sirilyr got to the edge of the encampment's clearing to see Sleene, the three villagers, and the canines hurrying to the center of the camp where everyone but the soldiers patrolling the perimeter were gathered, encircling something of great interest on the west side of the central tent. The ranger sheathed his weapons and walked over to see what was going on, eyes first checking the camp's surrounding high ground for tell tale sign of a scout. He caught up with Sleene, who eyed the ranger strangely for a moment as they approached the ring of villagers and then whispered, "I have news for you about the cave.  Later though." The ranger returned a barely perceptible nod.

            Nudging their way into the ring of men, they saw that Delak had returned. A few moments of listening revealed the conversation was a debate about whether to leave or stay and fight. Suddenly worried about what was afoot, they looked around at Tir's militiamen and caught sight of Georan at the opposite side; he was mouthing something. It took a few times, but he was asking, "Where is Spencer?" Apparently the bald cartographer had wandered of again. Sirilyr answered with a silent shrug of his shoulders.

[g]

            Spencer had backed away from the crowd.  Letting the mob decide one way or another.  But he was thankful for the momentary distraction.  He walked quietly and casually to the opposite side of the central tent from where the crowd was gathered.  When he was out of site, he quickly ducked inside. There was not much there: two crude cots, one with a not-so worn heavy blanket (quilt actually, Spencer noticed), and a full backpack leaning on it. He looked under the cots, on the ground, quickly ruffled the quilt revealing a couple warmings, lifted some flaps on the backpack and glanced at the contents - typical gear. The other cot, Orinden's presumably, was not covered, nor were there any personal effects nearby.

            "If we stay, we must prepare," Stargt told the crowd. "And Delak says the orcs will be here this night. Sharpen your weapons, rest, but leave us now so we can plan - we may move to more defensible ground."

            Seeing some hesitation, Delak spoke again, "There are many coming, but we will fight hard - and stop these beasts from reaching Tir! It will take a good plan, and Stargt and I will make it now, but we need room to think." The villagers started to filter away, muttering amongst themselves, unsure of what to go and do. 

            "You," Stargt called eliciting a bout of head turning. Spencer froze in the nearby tent, but quickly realized Stargt had not caught him, but he heard the crowd dispersing so he hastily ducked back out of the tent the same way he came in and wasted no time in standing erect and walking towards his camp, as if he had simply passed by the tent on his way.

            Stargt was talking to Sirilyr who had turned and was walking away sullenly. "Get him," Stargt said pointing impatiently at Sirilyr. A villager nudged his arm and indicated Stargt's interest.

            "Sleene!" Delak called excitedly when he noticed her. Spencer heard the exclamation and turned to see the druidess and the ranger heading to the other side of the tent toward Delak and Stargt.

            Sleene muttered to herself, "Goblins, now Orcs." 

            "Good to see you've come. Here by the fire!" Delak was worse for the wear since he left the day before. As Sleene came over the druidess said sharply, "I leave to scout for Orinden and come back to some story about Orcs and attacks.  What orcs?  Where?  And, by the hills, how did we find out about them??"

            "I came across a battle, a slaughter. Orc and human, I can only assume it was Heldrek's band; they were but skeletons. It cost them many lives, so the survivors hung the dead orcs in the trees. I can only assume that has enraged the beasts that found them. I tracked them into the foothills. There were many camps. It seems they've gathered many tribes for their revenge. What scares me most is this," Delak produced a fine silvery dagger and handed it around. "I stole this blade. No orc made this, it may even be magical. Many orcs had weapons like this. From what I could tell, whoever is organizing this army, is giving these weapons to the tribes. We won't be fighting weapons of wood and stone." When the blade came to Sleene, she examined it carefully, but passed it on to Georan with a frown.

            Without warning the young mage began to quietly utter something. His eyes started to glow with a golden light as he beheld the dagger, spinning it in his hands. The conversation stopped around him, and those silently watching from the darkening campsites surrounding crossed themselves. Georan shook his head and muttered something under his breath. Those close enough could catch the words, "...using too much..." and "...time to recover..." Looking at the others with his shining eyes he said, "Not magical, just well made." The glow slowly faded as Georan passed it along.

            Silence lingered a moment before Delak continued, "They chased me so I went south to lose them. I am afraid they were not overly interested in me, the army is on the move toward the Marchy. I counted at least ten bands of ten to twenty, and there could be more behind them." Finally realizing he was not present, "Where is Orinden?"

            Star shook her head sadly, "He has gone. And Semm killed Lorren and Jeein last night."

            "What?!" Spencer approached the meeting from the shadows.

            "Semm has no memory of it," William answered quietly.

            "Who are you?" Delak said accusingly to the black robed youth.

            "Master Viatteni sent me, name's William sir. I've been with Semm all evening. He cries, says he did not do it, claims it was some monster."

            "And Orinden gone?" Delak looked to Star who had breathed in deep.

            "He may have something to do with Semm. He is doing magic, black magic. That Watcher, from Dir, found his shop guarded by dead bats. Animated dead bats," she looked angry but about to cry. "Damn him. I don't know what he is doing!"

            Sleene listened to all of this, trying to make sense of a situation that seemed to rapidly be spinning out of control.  "Why are you sure that Semm killed them?" Sleene asked. "We've seen strange things recently.  Did anybody actually see the killings?"

            Elgend nodded his head, "They were killed in the tent; Semm turned on us as well and it took five to put him down. He has lost his mind."

            "Like the mercenary," Star said quietly at first. She told Delak and Elgend what had happened last night at the Rabbit.

            Stargt cut her a bit short, "Semm is not a danger now, and Orinden's gone. We need to worry about two score orcs on the warpath! Sirler, you know warring. Goblins out west I'm sure. I need you take the villagers and help my men find and prepare some high ground for defense back along the trail. We'll leave the camp here, with a few tough men to keep 'watch'. These orcs'll surround the camp and storm in. A horn call will bring us charging in to this open ground.

            "'Fore our losses are too great, we'll lead the pack back - into your ambush," he looked at Delak, "We'll then come round, dismount, and protect the hill's flank. One side's got to be naturally sound, a cliff, firebreak or something. And a few men need to get or horses up that hill and guard the rear. We defend the hill 'til morn, orc's won't fight in the light of day, and the survivors get to back Tir on our mounts."

            Silent until now, Sirilyr at last spoke to Stargt. "Ye 'ave but one line o' possible survival 'ere Capn'. And there be no room fer pride in it or ye'll die as sure as the sun's risin' in the mornin'. If'n ye leave in the dark without knowin' where the enemy scouts be, ye'll be ambushed an caught in column unable ta defend yerselves an slaughtered. I 'spect many o' the missin' were caught tha' way." He paused in thought a moment.

            Delak answered though, "I'm ahead of them. Not far, maybe three hours at most. There are no orcs here yet, I'm sure. Whatever tribe is in charge is keeping them together, and it's slowing them down."

            "Well, anyone left 'ere ta fend fer themselves are as good as dead an won't buy the rest o' us the time it takes ta loot their bodies. The 'igh ground on the ridge where we fought an broke the Gobbos is where we need ta make our stand.

            "Goblins?" Delak interrupted looking first to Sirilyr, then to Stargt.

            "Those from Bilcoven. The little beasts tried an ambush as we followed you here."

            Sleene's frown deepened as she listened, "Orcs and goblins rampaging together, strong nature magic being used against us, a necromancer."  She shook her head.  "There just has to be something we don't know yet.  Why is everybody converging here?"

            "I saw no sign of goblins among the orcs. They'd be slaves. You're right, something else is going on, but these orcs are coming now."

            "We must 'old the 'igh ground where I came down inta their flank," Sirilyr continued. "There's good cover there fer a defense and an open killin' field lay before it which they will 'ave ta cross with there main force. We can 'old our flanks with a few militia spearmen and 'ave a line o' militia spear be'ind rocks an a breastwork o' felled trees as our front supported by a line o' archers on the higher ground just be'ind 'em. We keep a small force o'cavalry, yer best riders, as a mobile mounted reserve in the middle o' our position. But, they keep be'ind the crest o' the ridge so's they canno' be seen from the main thrust o' the Orc attack."

            "That is what we need, but we're hours away. And it will be dark," Stargt said to Sirilyr, "not a problem for orcs. You must go find a similar hill nearby before we lose all light. The orcs will move fast once the sun is down."

            Firing 'is worn briarwood from under a cupped gauntleted hand and not dropping a match, the soldier absently continued. "O' course the best laid plan is worthless if we canno' get there. We need deception 'ere. Let us 'ope Delak is true, and they 'aven't got scouts this far forward yet." A sudden smile creased the ranger's stern face, "Let's give the greenskins wha' they want more then anythin' in the world, a sleepin' camp! Build the fires high so's they burn fer a few 'ours without tendin'. Place scarecrow sentry men in places they can be seen around the perimeter an' throw blankets o'er piles o' rolled long grass an branches with stones fer heads 'ere an there ta look like sleepin' men. They'll slaver at the sight o' it and try ta take there time ta surround the camp an charge in before dawn when we'd be at our worst. That'll buy us more time an save us more men than any heroic rear guard."

            Stargt turned to Elgend and Delak, "I don't like it - we won't have a heroic rear guard. But a few have to stay behind. The orcs must see a few men about the camp, or they'll see through the ploy. These are your friends, please find a few who will stay." They nodded solemnly and stood. Star looked ashen in the orange glow of the fire, now brighter than the lingering light of dusk.

            Sirilyr pressed Stargt, "We do this quickly. Then we wrap the 'orses feet in rags o' spare clothin' ta muffle thar sound an soften the ground vibration an tracks the beasts make as we sneak out, back ta the battle ridge. That'll give us four or five 'ours ta prepare the defense at a place where we can 'old an win by breakin' 'im like a green tide 'gainst a 'ard rock."

            "No, the orcs would be on us halfway there, unprepared in the night. It's got to be close, there are many hills about, take my men on horseback and find a place back along the trail. Send a rider when you've found it and the rest of us will follow." He whistled a signal to his troops, still patrolling the camps perimeter. After a few hand signals, they headed for the tied horses. "We'll prepare the camp. Hurry, the sun goes fast."

            "Star," Stargt got her attention from the flickering flames, "you take someone and head back to Tir. Warn them, and get word to the March. If we fail here, the orcs will be upon Tir, and the March must have his men there."

            "Someone 'ad come here and collected Orinden and 'eaded north," Sirilyr told her. "Like as not, 'e as set the Orcs upon us ta delay us from gettin' back ta Tir too soon ourselves. Watch an be wary goin' inta town as thar may be traps."

            Star looked sadly at the men. "No. I'll stay. I must go after Orinden."

            "No Star," Elgend spoke up suddenly. "Please go. Be safe."

            "I'll find some to go," Star said firmly with a flick of anger at Elgend in her eyes. Standing, she set her sword and walked among the camp, seeking riders. Sleene held Elgend back from arguing.

            "Sleene, yer needed," Sirilyr called to the druidess. "Will ye ride wit me ta find a proper place ta 'old 'gainst Old Nick 'isself? I can find a ridge, but it would be better an' faster if'n ye can show me the closest likely spots as I've described 'ardby this camp. Say all meadowed woody ridges within an 'ours 'ard ride twixt 'ere and Tir?" The cherry red coal of the ranger's pipe danced and bobbed merrily in the early darkness as he spoke.

            "I'm sure you're well outside any known land o' hers," Elgend said a bit sarcastically.

            "And yours too," Delak answered him smartly. "The best of our hunters and trappers knew these parts well enough, and they're lost to it now," the Watcher told Sirilyr. "I know the land, but nary all its hills and dales. We'll go, all three," he clasped Sleene's small shoulder who nodded and walked away from his grasp toward her camp. The rest followed. Sirilyr walked slowly back to the low flames of his separate campfire. Feint roused himself from the warmth of the wool blanket and padded over to lie beside his human's thigh. Sirilyr checked the fasteners on his armor and packed his meager belongings on the resaddled horse.

            Arriving there, Spencer addressed Georan and anyone else within earshot, "Why did we leave Tir against all better judgment?  Bah, that I had never come North at all!  Blasted Durrant...now we'll be killed."  He made fast what armor he had and helped his companions do the same.  He then ate some dry provisions (he had not taken food since the morning) and awaited what was to develop.

            Sirilyr's ominous silence countered the tumultuous anticipation that permeated the camp. The hound watched the shadows now surrounding the camp as he settled near his master. Feint's lips curled in a low silent snarl, showing well his white fangs as he lay, golden eyes glittering in the firelight. He sensed the coming trouble as did the battlewise ranger. Slinging the dark yew longbow across his back, he eased his tawny northern targe over it and left the shield to hang by it's leather strap. Satisfied, hound and man, quietly and still in the shadows, sublimely made peace in the fire embers glow.

            He mounted and headed back east, Feint prowling behind. Sleene and Delak, mounted, joined him and the cavalry fell in behind along with a young and an older villager headed to warn Tir. Georan huddled next to fire; eyes closed. Spencer could see the worry behind the lines in his forehead. Whatever he was doing, whatever powers he thought were seeping into him, Spencer didn't see them. But he saw the mage as he had this afternoon: blood spattered and quietly intense with the excitement killing. Time for killing was coming again.

            Spencer was disquieted by the look about Georan;  he turned away. Though they sat together, yet Spencer felt alone on account of the strange man's distant reverie.  He took this interlude to recover from the day's labors and think upon the situation.  He considered earnestly the prospect of fleeing with Georan and anyone else who would come.  But he did not even voice his idea to Georan, who seemed quite resolved to stand with Stargt.  Sleene was resigned to it, though Spencer suspected she would rather not be involved.  He did not suppose any of the others would abandon the party.  Alone the prospects of escaping south seemed grim.  The distance was great, the roads unsafe and the country was frequently rough and slow.  And who knew how many towns might be occupied on the way back, and by whom?  Nobody had even mentioned  Cinclair since the caravan had passed through.

            Spencer could not decide which course offered the best chances.  But he thought that at least he stood some chance of flight if the approaching battle turned ill, so he may as well adhere to the group. Returning from his own reverie, he noticed Stargt stalking about. Spencer arose with a slight jerk, as his muscles had stiffened with their first repose of the day.  He limped slightly as he made his way towards the Captain.  Perhaps it was Spencer's recent troubles haunting him; or the pale dusk light playing tricks; or the haze of rising quickly after a rest.  But as he looked at Stargt, with his black on black adornments over pallid skin, he seemed a mystical, ghostly wight, perhaps come to survey the souls soon to be liberated to the hereafter. 

            Spencer drew near and had to look around to dispel the illusion. The villagers had stopped eating their final meal and had begun the preparation of the false encampment. They were stuffing branches, leaves, whatever, under blankets around fires. The trappers were setting snares. Stargt roamed around confidently, brusquely, but successfully, inspiring the villagers. Large and imposing as he was, he was what they needed, the strong arm of the March behind their efforts.

            "Have you need of a scout, captain?"  Spencer asked.  "To remain by the camp and to ride hard to the ambush with word of the enemy?"

            The captain looked hard in the direction Sirilyr had taken his cavalry; obviously not happy it was taking as long as it was. Without looking at Spencer he answered, "Nah, we'll be making enough noise to let 'em know we coming." The captain looked at the sky, the last bits of twilight fading fast, then to Spencer then around the camp. The man was unusually pale. "It is almost done. If you want, head a bit into the woods and judge whether we can pull this charade off. I'll get them pulled off there," he nodded east.

            "Okay men! Wrap it up! Lets get ready to move. Who's staying?" The Captain went back to commanding. Star came up with two older, stout villagers. Mean looking in contrast to the woman. Stargt spoke to them then walked to their muster point east of the camp, waving his arms and calling the villagers over. Spencer walked back over to Georan, stretching his limbs as he went.  He clapped Georan on the shoulder to indicate the imminent departure, but said nothing.  Georan remained by the fire with his eyes closed a few moments.  Spencer finished packing up and sat to wait for his friend.  Georan slowly stood up. When Georan was prepared they started quietly moving towards the muster point where they mounted Praedarus and rode. The group of villagers seemed small all clustered together. Tulane and Georan had given their horses to the village bound riders; Star's to Delak. That left Stargt, Spencer and Georan, and William the only ones on horseback. William's nag had a rope tied to her saddle leading the heavily bound Semm; the man was wide-eyed and mumbling; everyone gave him wide berth.

            They surveyed the faux campsite. The two decoys walked their fake patrol, brave but doomed men. Spencer had to admit to himself that despite the hurried plan, the camp looked full of sleeping men. The campfires danced about in the evening breeze casting their own odd shadows and disguising any unnatural lumps and protrusions from the blankets. "You've done a fine job men!" Stargt announced. Glancing east over their heads into the full dark, "We'll move on to now." He was obviously bothered his cavalry had not returned from Delak and Sirilyr's venture.

 

            Riding a direct line of march from the camp, Sirilyr had purposely bypassed the nearest likely spots in silence, ignoring the stray comments. A full hour at a trot, the sun was set leaving a colorful pink sky. “They’ll be marching in the pitch dark,” Sirilyr heard. But the place had just been found. Delak and he circled the bulge on the ridge, checked the thicket opposite the gentle slope. They finally sent a couple of Stargt's good riders back to lead the villagers here.

            The slope was defensible, but had not enough cover to hide an ambush. The trees and rocks on the west end of the ridge would channel the riders and orcs away from the north end and between the thicket and the southern slope. It took some argument to settle on a plan, but at last one was formed. A force of tough villagers would hide in the trees and rush as the orcs pursued the cavalry, battling through to the slope where villagers, armed with the cavalry’s crossbows would emerge from the rocks on the east and west ends of the clearer central ridge. The cavalry would stop and charge back to the villagers on the ridge where they would all defend until morning.

            Sirilyr spoke to Delak, "When the militia arrive, 'ave the men on yon ridge dig a series o' stewpot holes deep as their fingertips ta elbows go. T'ree lines o' em on each flank o' this position. The ground be soft, won't take 'em long. Then they'll plant a line o' sharpened stakes the thickness o' a man's arm right be'ind 'em leg snappin' holes. Tell 'em ta also dig a single line o' holes ta hold a stake just this side o' the crest o' the ridge an lay a stake over it, ready ta be placed when needed after what's left o' our cavalry reforms be'ind 'em. It'll protect 'em like a spearpoint an no' be seen till it's needed. The hole's too narrow an' covered ta be overly dangerous ta a 'orse. When they be through, 'ave 'em form a line behind the crest. When they 'ear us attack they can move up to the stake line ta shoot us in. I'll mark 'em out while yer gone ta bring the men up. Tell 'em a bit o' sweat saves lots o' blood if they bitch about it Delak."

            The grim veteran was gruff in his assurance to the Tiran woodsman. "Gather any oil we 'ave an ready it on the west end o' the ridge be'ind the stakes an holes. The buggers will push us out an’ filter through the cover there. We'll want 'em ta gather fer their rush in tha' cover before we toss flamin' oil down on 'em an set the wood alight. Start wit' these." Sirilyr gave Delak two full flasks, keeping the last for himself. "We'll give 'em a 'ot reception eh?" A wicked grin slyly crept across the serious soldier's young worn face, warming his old eyes.

            But their unspoken hope was that the trained soldiers would inflict enough damage on the ruse at the camp, and that the villagers would surprise the beasts off guard to let another charge take its toll. The future blood on the hill already smelled. The soldiers headed back with Delak. Sirilyr and Sleene secured their horses among a small rock out cropping hidden behind the ridgecrest, then set to marking out the locations of the holes and stake lines. Sleene disappeared into the woods, leaving Sirilyr and Feint to work. In his wandering around the battleground, he saw the slight druidess unite with her sneaky wolves; Sirilyr had not even sensed them shadowing, nor feint for that matter. When finished Sirilyr watched the cloud studded night sky. The storm had stalled on the northern horizon, leaving a chaos of grays. He thought on all those of his line gone before him. He also listened to the sounds of the remote forest night: the music of insects, birds, amphibians.

 

            Stargt found a thick copse far enough from the campsite to conceal his troop, but well within range of horns that would signal their charge. He but some hands to work clearing the undergrowth and filling in gaps with the torn weeds. He paced, rode slowly back to the camp making sure the way was clear of snares and trip hazards, he grumbled. Finally, and it was not that long, they heard the cavalry approach, not too loudly. Delak lead them through the dark at a walk. Stargt ordered his soldiers to give their crossbows and quivers to the villagers, after that it did not take long for Stargt to send the villagers along with Delak while his men dismounted and rested their horses and themselves.

            Delak lead them in a column three abreast for about an hour, only allowing a couple torches in the front. Pradareus followed so Georan could keep watch behind, and Spencer to the sides. The forest was very quiet as they passed through the trees. No one said much and at no more than a whisper. It was obvious Stargt had spread his impatience though. When the militia arrived the silence of the night creatures has announced them as Sirilyr had experienced too many times for a kid his age. Was that regret for the bloodletting? Shaking his helmed head from side to side as he whispered, "better them than me..." Delak was keeping the militiamen sort of quiet. Sleene joined him to watch them pick their way through the trees, lead by a couple torches.

 

            They were obviously tired and scared, but willing; it was not a rest they had walked to. Sleene and Sirilyr met the column. Delak broke them into two groups: the strongest with the heaviest weapons to hide in a thicket south of a somewhat clear ridge, and the other, about thirty combined with hunting bows or the cavalry’s crossbows, and any oil they had, to the ridge. Delak took the men up the slope broke them into three: east and west groups in the trees with clear lines of fire down the clear slope toward the thicket, and a north group with the oil just over the crest. Those positions set, he bid them leave their bows and come back to the clear slope.

            Sirilyr had likewise shown the men in the thicket their plan to lay in wait, then charge into the pursuing orcs, across the path, and onto the hill. The entire militia gathered after their instruction for the next part: half the men were set to gathering cutting and sharpening stakes from the woods over top of the ridge crest; the other half to digging lines of sapping holes in positions marked along the ground: three lines of holes with the stakes behind to protect their flanks and a line of stakes atop the ridge.

            As the preparations were being made, Spencer approached Sirilyr.  "I've an idea which may offset their numbers a mite."  He explained that he wanted to tie a line to a tree in the southern thicket and lay it across the path, concealed by leaves and brush, with Spencer hidden to the north.  When the enemy approached, he would let a few pass before raising the rope to trip and stall the remaining forces.  "On that mark, our attack will begin.  It should buy you a little time while they recover.  The ones that are separated should be easy fodder for the archers or cavalry."

            The soldier listened attentively, arching an eyebrow as he saw an opportunity. "The devilment in yer scheme 'as merit, I'll grant ye that!" Sirilyr said with a nod of his helmed head. "But not ta start us, ta cover us!" His leather gauntleted finger pointed out and invisibly traced what he believed would occur to the wizened mapmaker.

            "They'll come from that a way, hard on the heels o' the cavalry headin' across the far end o' this glade over yonder. Now thar skirmishers will be ahead o' the main body by a good slingstone's distance. When the gobbo main battle arrives, it will use this meadow ta reform it's ranks upon hearin' the cav turn and press thar skirmishers. Tha' leaves thar flank in the air ta me an my boys 'idden in yon wood. Tha's our signal ta charge.     Now..." Lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, "these lads is herders an tradesmen, not soldiers. We'll go in an give the greenskins a hard blow, simply cause the lads don't know what's comin'. They'll hit hard and may stand toe ta toe fer the time it takes a birthday cake candle ta burn down. Then those still standin', well, they'll 'ave become veterans, and they'll break off from the pressure o' the gobbo's counter attack an make fer the ridge as fast as most can go!"

            Sirilyr fixed the cartographer with a steely stare, "yer idea with the rope could go a long way ta 'elpin' a few more get back, if'n ye got the stones ta wait ta pull it until me and my lads go by in our withdrawal. Pull it an drop thar front formed rank a followin' us, rackin' up the others in disorder behind it. Do ya still 'ave the stomach fer it Spencer? "

            "Don't worry about me," snapped Spencer, "just worry about your tactics, Sirilyr.  Sounding a retreat when the battle's been joined is likely to earn you some pointy things in your back," he finished with a thumb over his shoulder.  "I'm going to find some rope while you consider carefully where you want me to place it."

            "Thar'll be no retreat sounded man! They'll take it upon themselves when the time comes ta go. The confusion of the melee won't be givin' the gobbo's a whole lot o' time ta shoot much o' anything when the break comes. Not that thar known fer thar accuracy..." Stabbing a finger and slashing a line through the air, "run yer hemp 'ere, a stone's throw back from where we'll engage."

            "And what about sparing a little of that oil?  We could use some light before the slope. As you said, the darkness is their advantage, not ours."

            Sirilyr nodded, "When ye've pulled it taunt, I'll light 'em up with a flask o' oil in thar center so's the boys on the ridge can see 'em well. Then get the Hell out o' it an up the ridge!" Sirilyr returned to his men mumbling something to himself about a cantankerous old bastard and smiling at the man's balls.

            Spencer went among the men requesting rope.  There was plenty to be had. He needed a good tree to the north for cover and against which to brace the line when the time came to raise it. He went to Sirilyr's chosen spot and located a pair of trees nearby which would suite the purpose.  Securing one end to the south, he extended the rest across the path and around a good thick trunk, on the side from which the hostiles would approach.  Then he summoned a few men to help him practice the maneuver and test the rigging.  When everything was set he set about disguising the rope with leaves and branches and dirt, making it match as best he could the surrounding floor.  About the base of the southern tree he lay some bramble to hide the rope which encircled it.  His remaining time he spent studying the land, learning what paths to run when the time came and where best to hide if needed. 

            When he could spare himself from preparations, Spencer found Sleene atop the ridge behind the hole digging villagers near the horses. She was seated against a tree petting her wolves who watched Spencer with eerily intelligent eyes.  Spencer approached her and took her hand. "Take care," he bade her.  "When I leave this place for other lands, I want you to be with me."

            Sleene gave him a surprised look, like she had not considered leaving for other lands. His comment obviously made her uncomfortable; her response was a half-smile, slight nod and squeeze of his hand, "You watch out too."

            Georan was nearby but standing against his tree. Spencer quietly asked him, "Will you again summon lightning to your hands to blind our enemies?"

            "If I could call lightning I'd do a lot more than blind them." Georan shook his head, "For now all I can do is blind them." The mage sounded upset about that, but it was more than Spencer could fathom. Spencer climbed back down the dark path that would serve his retreat sometime later that night.

            With so many hands, the work did not take as long as expected. It was time to hide. Sirilyr and Delak helped them to conceal, knowing full well the orcs’ keen night vision. "Use a third o' yer water ta moisten a patch o' dirt an rub it inta yer exposed skin. It'll cool yer body an make it a bit 'arder fer the greenskins ta put an arra' in ye," quietly called the young veteran. The men had to be spread out, low, under thick brush and behind trunks. High grass and brush had been taken from the exposed approaches up the ridge and freely used to conceal the men in the small copse. It would also make for a fine fuel later.

            The mud-smeared soldier stroked a gauntleted hand along his hound's soft ears. "Ye lay quiet an stay 'ard by, ye 'ear." He whispered to his companion in the hide he had fashioned among the men in the cover of the sparse wood. A large stone and two logs laid out in a V provided some hard cover to act as a bulwark for the concealing brush and soft cover. He had a half dozen arrows laid out at his feet. The ranger watched the far woodline for movement. "Game will be a runnin' across the glade before they come. That'll be yer sign ta ready yerselves. Don't move an shut yer mouths when ye see that or ye'll give us away." He lowly spoke to the men with him that soon to be bloody night. Sirilyr was glad when they had all settled and the peaceful sounds of the night returned. Then it was just to wait.

            As predicted, the forest warned them with silence and scattering animals soon followed by the low drone of the cavalry's horse beating the ground. The sound grew and was joined by the clank and shuffle of the armed men atop; they led the enemy with their noise. And the enemy brought its own clamor as well: crazed war cries and an awful asynchronous beating of out of tune drums and sticks. The soldiers galloped by, actually loping to keep their speed down and noise up. In the starlight, it was hard to count as they passed; but they did seem to be shy of twenty.

            Sirilyr felt the tension build among the ambuscade despite their silence. Weapons were gripped, tired minds alert. Their battle was at hand. The first of the shadowy orcs came along the trail, uncautious and practically running. The throng was ahead of the rest, perhaps too far; there were not enough to make the ambush worth a damn. Sirilyr held his breath as they passed, fearing they'd spot the hiders or one of them would spring the trap too soon. But they held, and soon the nearby silence returned, backed by the war music looming nearer. The soldiers should be facing off with their pursuers at any moment; the sound of that engagement ought to bring the nearest ranks running.

            Just when Sirilyr began to worry that they had headed away in full retreat, the Marchion's battle cry erupted and was met by the orcs'. Before the clash of weapons began, the orcs beyond joined their brethrens' in an uproar of victorious exultation. The hunting of the horsemen had been a sport. Gray dread sunk into Sirilyr's heart though; he heard such a uniform, immense outcry before: just before hundreds of goblins had charged at the formed ranks of the King's infantry. It was one of the final battles of the war, only earlier this year - it seemed so long ago. Sirilyr's unit watched the battle in the valley from its wooded slope - the woodsmen were to keep back or warn of any flanking maneuvers. There were none; it was a suicide attack by the defeated and scared goblins driven back from their homes into the lands of more ferocious tribes of orcs, gnolls, and other filthy half-animals that would as soon eat, enslave, or slay a puny goblin as a human.

            There were more than a hundred Sirilyr was sure. And they twenty-less trained cavalry, twenty-some untrained villagers, and Sleene? Georan? Weakened by their earlier battle. Spencer? No comment. Time to put fear aside and let fate work. The sounds of many, many orcs running toward them became predominant. "Steady lads, steady... Wait fer 'em to be whar we want 'em ta be... " The veteran lowly spoke to the ranks of men. "I'd rather 'ave the twenty or so o' you boys wit' me 'ere tonight than score o' veterans!" Sirilyr grimly smiled to himself as he thought, that's cause veteran's'll balk at the things new soldiers 'll unflinchingly face an charge, simply cause they don't know what they're in fer! And that is why they sometimes pull off what some would say can't be done...

            He continued his quiet whispered encouragement, "Don't fret o'er thar number, tha jus' means thar be more for us ta kill!" Sirilyr saw that there had been a distance of thirty to forty feet between the greenskin skirmishers chasing the cavalry and the more rigid, closer packed battle column of the main Goblin body. This had now doubled and was widening as those of the main body paused as they reached the far center of the glade and began, under the bellowing orders of the large leader orcs, to form a crude line of battle to better face the cavalry fight to their front from their faster moving column formation. All was a jumble of confused motion in the momentarily halted green tide.

            "They never was much good at drill..." Sirilyr said as he drew back and let fly into a high arc with first one of the laid out shafts, then another, and another in rapid succession, until all six arrows were in the air. The first shaft sank humming out of the dark sky into the teaming horde, tearing a long bloody furrow into the posterior of a particularly loud, gesticulating orc just as the last arrow was being released by the ranger. "Thar disordered and thar flank's exposed boys! Now's our time men o' Tir!" Sirilyr called to his twenty. The soldier's bow was slung and his silvered longsword gleamed in the moonlight as it arced forward towards the milling mass in the meadow. "Fer faith, Tir, and yer families! ForWAaard!" Roared the young veteran.

            Giving a bear like growl, Sirilyr leapt over the disguised breastwork gripping his worn wood and leather targe, it firmly strapped to his left forearm and faced to his front with his hand axe clasped in his gauntleted left hand and carrying his heavy bladed long sword held low near the base of it's steel banded rim in the other. He hoped his call and example would hearten the militiamen into making this one good charge to buy time, disrupt, and frighten the foe. After that, he knew it would be a quick withdrawal and then a long holding action on the ridge. The bolts and shafts whistling unseen above him gave scant comfort in the knowledge that the men on the ridge were in fact shooting them in to their attack. 

            The old fear returned to the young ranger like a despised relative to a funeral as he trotted forward. He unconsciously converted it into rage, the fury that would sustain him in the coming vicious hand-to-hand battle. "Funny how the gobbos seem ta grow as ye get closer to 'em." Sirilyr absently thought just before he increased his speed into a dead run and leapt into the side of a large orc too slow in turning to recognize it's danger as it's attention was held on trying to get his part of the chattering mass into some semblance of a line. The round shield slammed into the mottled green beast as the sharp pointed thrust of the soldier's sword slid easily between it's ribs. The momentum of the blows knocked it from it's stumbling feet and into it's smaller brethren. The berserk soldier stepped onto the downed and flailing orc's back and used it as a spring board to carry him into the breaking middle of the half column, half line, unformed green mob. Green goblin blood and ichor sprayed and squirted as sharp blades and heavy blows flew. Sirilyr did not hear the screams of the butchered and dying.

            Spencer watched from hiding, listening to the weird drumming to his right and the clash of weapons erupting closer to his left accompanied the click and whiz of bolts and arrows into the fray. The shouts and screams became louder, the drums paused, and everything seemed to stop. It begin to dawn on Spencer just how many orcs were still out there; at least fifty had passed at least twice that, more, to come? Spencer listened to the battle, it was little more than a mass of undulating shadows with the occasional spark and glint of starlight making it seem like a familiar glistening amorphous mass.

            Spencer heard another rank of orcs approaching from the west, a slow march not the rushed pursuit of the others. The drums were back. Spencer heard movement in the trees along the ridge and began to worry that the orcs would come before the villages would make the ridge. Then he heard the cavalry charging back, glancing over Spencer saw they had lit torches and were riding hard to the melee like demons spouting hellfire.

            The sight and sound of the cavalry broke the orcs skirmishing with the villagers. The militia ambush and archers had taken down several, but the fight had quickly become a stalemate of evenly matched foes in tiring weapon play. The flaming riders bearing down were too much and the orcs broke off and fled back west taking more arrows as they slowly separated from the melee.

            Retrieving his hand axe from the back of a fallen gobbo, Sirilyr exclaimed "Bloody 'ell! I can't believe the bastards ran!" A quick look to his men frenziedly finishing off the wounded gobbos on the right and left of him revealed they had not been hurt too badly. To his panting, sweating lads he called out, "Reform! Make a shield wall on me!" The blood smeared men jeered and gestured to the fleeing backs of the broken greenskins, heedless in their moment of victory to the shouted orders of the young ranger.

            "They'll be back! Quick now form on me." Sirilyr trotted back to a position about halfway to the mapmaker's hidden rope, the flat of his sword a reminder to those of his cheering men who forgot where they were. Turning and taking a stand, the ranger waved his bloody longsword in a circle above his gore splattered helmet. "Here. Form 'ere!" The militiamen new to battle quickly discovered exactly how tired their combat had made them as they strained to lift the wood and iron weapons and shields in their shambling dog trot to reform their ragged battleline. As they moved Sirilyr noticed glints off the silvery metal some of the orcs bore; ragtag pieces of armor, a sword, dagger, axe head. This metal was strong, had even notched his sword deep, and was certainly not made by any orc.

            His observations brought home the sights of the 'victorious' field. The young soldier, even though a hardened veteran of war, still felt his heart tighten. To his front lay a small herdsman, the lad that had first spoken to Sirilyr on the ridge. He had been the one to point them to that windswept camp in the rocks above Tir; Dermot Sleene called him when he brought her a sheep to slaughter for the wolves. The young man now lay in the arms of a large orc, his blade sunk deep into it's chest. The orc's own steel protruded from the back of the boy. Enemies in life, now companions in death. Over on his left knelt one of his men weeping over the body of his brother, who had taken the blow that should have laid him low. They had been bickering in the Tir inn the night before Sirilyr had ridden to the graveyard over who did the majority of the chores around the farm. On the ranger's right lay two more of his band in fetal positions among a score of laid out green bodies. One man's legs still stood from the knees down encased in their gore soaked high hard leather boots, the dead owner's horrified eyes gazed glassily, open mouthed at the sight, disbelieving, as his pale hands clasped at the shredded stumps in death's rest. The orcs' weapons surely gave them an unexpected advantage.

            Crimson glistened blackly on carcass and grass in the moonlight. Sirilyr called in a southern voice clear and soft, "Come lads, rejoin the ranks..." The two living Tir men reluctantly obeyed the command. The brother savagely kicking aside the severed limb of a goblinoid as he slowly and defiantly trudged back to his place in the line. "Shields forward! Kneel!" The double rank of tall northmen shrank to view, their formations shadow, when viewed by the naked eye, seeming to be no different from that of a low hedge on the glen in the shadowy darkness. "Quiet now, no talking! Keep yer faces an hands be'ind the cover o' yer shields. Keep 'em interlocked wit' tha' o' yer neighbors. You'll stand when I give the order and we'll open the wall after we absorb their advance ta give us room ta fight. Well done lads! Well done..." But more were dead and wounded than Sirilyr had hoped.

            The charging cavalry came to a stop at the body strewn, arrow and quarrel shaft peppered field. Stargt rode up to Sirilyr's line, face dotted with splashed blood black in his torchlight. The Captain studied the grim and similarly bespeckled ranger. Wordless, they both understood the gravity of the situation. A unimaginable mass of well-armed orcs was forming just beyond their sight. The beasts' night vision meant they only knew too well the paltry number of defenders, and it was only a matter of time before a screaming tide of bloodthirsty orcs overwhelmed them. The calls and shouts in the dark were probably chieftains arguing over who would lead the charge.

            "I've lost five, and seven mounts," Stargt said after a bit. Casting his gaze into the eastern dark, "I could make another charge, but we will take heavy casualties against so many. Best to take these moments and fortify on the ridge. Men, dismount. Take the dead and wounded up the ridge with the horses."

            "Hold a moment. The main body'll be a coming along shortly," Sirilyr caught Stargt. "Spencer's hidden in the trees there to pull up a snare rope. We've got another chance to hit'm. We'll form up a shieldwall and be the target Spencer will trip up the front rank. Your last charge can come 'round from behind us. Delak, you keep launchin' o'er us." The Tirian Watcher, Sleene and few others had stepped down the slope.

            Stargt looked down on the splattered young warrior sternly, but cracked a slight smile after a moment, "It'll work unless they come to many or too slow. If that happens, we'll make the charge but you get your line on the ridge, we'll head up the slope to get off the horses. You've got to hold until we run back down. Then we'll build a wall of orc flesh to keep them a bay." He looked suspiciously at the wooden shields in the villagers' hands, few bound with steel. "Smite, Gond," the horseless soldiers, "help get the wounded up top. Delak, help gather the weapons. Shrilyr, form your line."

            "Look ta yer front, file closers watch the flanks. Keep yer 'eads below yer shield rims!" The soldier sternly admonished his Tirian troops as he scooped up the silver sword of his first victim. As the militia moved into position, the dropped weapons, villagers and orcs', were gathered up. Sirilyr tried to pull off the pieces of plate armor, adorning another orc, but they were bound too intricately and frustratingly. He moved on with the rest and made sure his oil flask lay easily at the top of his doeskin haversack. Smite, Gond, Sleene, Delak and his men had hurriedly gotten the wounded villagers clear, and took all but a couple of the torches.

 

            Spencer had watched the orcs run over his rope back west, from the few tugs he felt on it more than a couple stepped on or kicked it. He feared it uncovered, but as he listened to the noises in woods getting closer, that was the least of his worries. The cavalry had not pursued, and Spencer watched Stargt and Sirilyr then Delak, Sleene, and some others have an agonizingly long discussion. Finally the troops were on the move again, Sirilyr's men moved closer to Spencer and formed a shield line across the open path. The plan had obviously changed, but Spencer felt sure the orcs would creep through the trees any minute now.

            One of the villagers came his direction after talking to Sirilyr. The kid didn't know where Spencer was, and smashed and crunched his way through the underbrush before whispering loudly, "Spencer?" The hidden man grimaced, feeling sure the orcs were close enough to see or at least hear this idiot. Who started moving and making noise again.

            "Get out of here!" Spencer whispered back as sternly as he could without not whispering.

            "Get the front rank," the kid said and dashed out of the dark wood. Perhaps he heard the orcs moving around too, or perhaps the harsh whisper made its point. Spencer wondered how long before had to sneak away around the spikes and up the slope. Before or after this 'front rank' appeared. It was darker now. Spencer did not see the cavalry for a moment; the horsemen had backed off beyond the shield wall. It was all very curious and nerve racking to Spencer.

 

            The troops settled to wait again, wait and listen to army of darkness about them. Sirilry could feel the weight of his eyelids and new more than a few were weary and tired at this late hour. Sighs and stifled yawns disturbed his concentration on the sounds from the orc army. The weird bickering had quieted, became more organized - an alien conversation. Then the drums began their cacophony again, and a roar that filled the night abounded.

            "Here they come!" Called one of the file closers on the far left of Sirilyr's short line but moments later. Damn, but out of sight was very close, Sirilyr thought, if it were day we'd see'm clear. Steely eyes strained to pierce the night. Muscles tensed as the shadows began to move and yell and snarl. Javelins burst out of the sky, impossible to see and dodge until too late for more than a few on the line. The orcs came on fast, "Take them Spencer!" Sirilyr screamed.

            Slam! Spencer jerked the rope around the tree. The great impact jerked him suddenly, burned his hands before he let it go. The chaos and shouts let him know he had done his job well. Gruff voices near in the wood let him know it time for him to go. He sprang along the memorized path nimbly between sharpened stakes. A burst of light erupted from the skirmish line, Spencer's eyes were drawn to the wood where he hoped to banish his unfounded fears. But the quickly dying light confirmed them. Throughout the woods, dark forms were moving. A javelin whizzed by, not near, but close enough.

            Spencer ran from the trees frantically. He paused looking left and right, down-slope to the erupting melee and up-slope to the rank of militiamen beginning to launch arrows and bolts into the oncoming horde. Deciding against the chaos below, he came up, dodging catholes, and shouting, "The trees! They come through the trees!"

            "Keep firing!" Delak commanded the men, "High over their heads!" The Watcher descended a bit to meet Spencer, so did Georan and Sleene who had left her wolves beyond the crest in the woods.

            As Spencer started to explain, a couple dark forms emerged from the trees from where he had come and lobbed javelins at them. They all dodged. Sleene threw a hand out at them with a short yell, a flash of light burst at the orcs, surprising them as they drew blades and prepared to charge. "Ha ha!" Georan exclaimed, getting back on his feet, "The dark is their advantage!" He exclaimed producing something from his pocket. "I need to go there," he indicated the trees, "I can light up that whole side." More orcs were coming out of the trees. More javelins thrown at them and beyond.

            After recovering, Delak nodded at Georan and looked to Spencer. Sleene announced, "I can stop them, or slow them." She closed her eyes and began an incantation. A shimmer of colored light rippled down her and into the ground in brief, dim flash. She sent the request to the woods shielding their western flank. The unrecognizable shouts from within the dark trees announced that the woods had responded. "Hurry, they won't be held long." There were five orcs rushing them, Spencer and Sleene prepared to meet them with staffs, Delak with his blade. But suddenly Georan's unintelligible words produced a fan of bright colors, just looking at the weird pattern spraying outward was dizzying. The orcs were knocked down, clearing the way for the moment.

            The four of them moved to the edge of the trees about halfway down the slope. An angry orc came out, but Spencer stopped him, and Delak ran him through. Georan cast a spell of light upon the nearest tree, suddenly illuminating the woods and most of the western side of their position. Within the trees, beyond the thick bordering underbrush and line of planted spikes, were a score or more orcs struggling against the trees themselves. Roots and branches groped and grabbed at the ugly beasts who still squinted against the sudden light. More were coming from beyond the illuminated area only to be caught in the plants.

 

            "We'll bump 'em 'ard an withdraw lads! Stay close together. Attack!" Sirilyr was too tired now to even feel fear. He and the shieldwall leapt forward with great effort. The writhing goblins upon the ground were stabbed where they fell and the oaken round shields of the Tir men smashed into the disordered second rank as it attempted to clear the strained rope and their suddenly prone front line. Those in the center were forced back upon the press of the following horde. The greenskins in the oncoming ranks swung their weapons in frustration and blind anger, striking friend and foe alike in their maniacal endeavor to move forward. Shield, weapons, armor, and bone shattered in the massive crescendo of violence. Torched goblins could be seen stumbling wildly into their fellows as the oil flames fed upon their greasy bodies. Many were cut down by their own before they could do more damage beyond their own grizzly deaths. Quarrels and arrows began falling into the slowly streaming dark green tide as a steady pelting rain from above.  

            The young veteran knew it was time to save what was left and retire the shieldwall while it was still in some semblance of order and before it was enveloped by the shrieking green hordes coming round his open right flank and those filtering through the trees to his left. "Tightly now, hold them! Withdraw the line! Slowly! Slowly!" Sirilyr feinted towards an orc's leather helmed massive head, drawing the beast's shield up in an attempt to parry the coming blow. The wily ranger twisted his wrist and turned the over hand threat into a scything swipe at the creature's now exposed knees. The brute would have escaped the blow with his dexterous leap backwards, had the press of the supporting ranks not held him in place. Goblins by the score trampled the howling orc as he bled out.

            "Hold them! Hold them! Slowly back! Hold them!" Became the ranger's shouted mantra. His line was dwindling. "If ye break, ye'll be slain!" Sirilyr called through clenched teeth. "Yer the best Tir 'as! Let these 'eathens know it!!!" The soldier's longsword tore through the throat of one gobbo spearman and slashed out to sever the head of another. An orcish axe bit hard into the ranger's targe splitting the leather and nearly bursting the shield asunder. Sirilyr's left forearm numbed from the mighty blow. The orc sergeant lifted his arms in what seemed as slow motion to the young, tired boy's eyes.

            Then the voice of his own old mentor, Sergeant Tarnil called to him from his past, in a voice as steady and gravely calm as it had been on the drill field, "tha's it Sirilyr my lad! When thar's more then one ta 'andle, dance! By the numbers now... pounce! Parry! Pivot! Thrust!" Instinctively obeying his training, Sirilyr spun on his flat booted heel as his numbed arm dropped his stunned guard and thrust into the exposed chainmail-less armpit of the bellowing mottled green orc. The ranger staggered back wiping the sprayed blood the greenskin had blown into his eyes as it died, "thank ye Sarge..." He barely had time to think as he was pulled back along with the pitifully few remaining stalwart men still standing with him.

            They were a little more than halfway up the slope. "Where's Stargt! Damn him!" Cried one of the Tirian militiamen, eyes wide under the bloody gash ripped across the top of his dirty sweat soaked forehead. Sirilyr didn't have time to look as a goblin arrow skipped off of his helmet causing him to drop to a knee. He careened upwards with his blade skewering a greenskin youngster through the bowels, lifting it in the air twice as he did so. Throwing the body of the disemboweled gobbo into the seething mass of green. They were being pushed back away from the flames, more men down. Sirilyr desperately hoped they would not be overwhelmed as they fought back onto the slope.

            The cavalry had hit the south side of the flaming oil, but even the speeding horses were quickly stopped by the mass of onrushing orcs. Stomping, crushing, and slicing orc after orc, the horses were forced backed, or felled. Their momentum lost, they battled to get north and cut between the militiamen and the attacking orcs. Another burst of flame exploded across the orcs in front of Sirilyr's line. It was enough to ease the pressure and the first couple horses stampeded into the orcs separating the pool of flame and the militiamen, pushing them either into their burning brethren or onto the blades of their enemies.

            What remained of the cavalry ran passed, trampling fallen orcs and men underneath. "Tagether! Stay tagether!" Sirilyr hoarsely barked, "Lock yer damned shields..." They retreated up the slope, the line reformed, smaller now. The soldiers dismounted and let the horses run up the ridge so they could quickly join the line against the orcs below, but the mass did not press the attack. They swarmed around the burning dead at the base of the ridge, and came from the woods across that had hidden the ambush. Most stopped and faced the defenders on the hill, others kept going into the woods at the eastern flank.

            A chant began among their ranks, incomprehensible to the humans, but evil and hateful. Heads and body parts of slain humans appeared. Bolts and arrows still pelted them from the archers on the ridge, but the wounded where just pushed aside. Then the orcs' bowmen appeared on the path. Their arrows did not fly true, but they kept coming as the orcs continued to surround the humans. Weariness was overtaking them, too many with too few. "Die proud men o' Tir! Die 'ard ye Dogs o' War!" shouted the battered and bloody young red eyed southern ranger.

 

[12.3] The Bridge

 

            Feorik blinked awake at the bright light in his eyes. The sun stabbed through the stark, leafless branches from between large passing clouds. Someone had covered him with a blanket, and let him sleep long into the morning. He was stiff, cold, but not as sore as he expected. Rising up, he saw the others nearby around a smoldering fire. A birdcall echoed through the still, quiet forest. Feorik looked around the now visible scenery. It was beautiful. Like the rocky hills south of Dir. The thought of his home struck him. How many days since he left? Dayla's voice shimmered in his memory, in the call of the lonely bird. How she annoyed him. And now here he was thinking of her, missing her? 

            "You're finally up," Brian announced seeing Feorik looking into the autumn forest. He extended a thick piece of bread he had melted cheese over. Mellody sat next to him, looking meek. Linda looked haggard, but smiled at him. Rasoric was off a ways, tossing his knife at a tree, probably reliving his successful throw at the lizard man. Darvian was still sleeping, Karod stared into the fire sadly, and Storn stood atop their hill looking back east through the gray trees. 

            Thoughts of Dayla evaporated from Feorik's brain like water on hot bricks when he saw the food.  He grabbed the bread a little roughly from Brian and it was gone in a quick bite.  Grimacing through a scalded tongue, Feorik nodded.  "Thanks." Hopping to his feet, he let the blanket fall and quickly moved about the camp perimeter, looking for anything new on the ground, and a quiet place to relieve himself.  He took in the natural beauty distractedly.  No place was beautiful while Goblins moved about, somewhere.

            Darvian rose slowly. He felt refreshed and almost happy. The sunrays playing on his face filled him with pleasant warmth. The horrors of the night appeared to be far away and seen in the light nothing appeared as dark. Darvian felt hungry, but before he joined the others around the fire, he climbed up to the summit, joining Storn. "Anything unusual up here, Storn?" Darvian addressed the holy warrior, letting his own eyes roam around.

            "A peaceful morn," Storn announced. Feorik approached.

            "It was a mistake yesterday to travel in the dark. We should have made camp next to the clerics camp, despite the horrors that happened there. Let's make sure that we don't travel into the darkness tonight." Storn nodded, Darvian then turned and headed to the fire to get his tome of spells to study.

            "We're a morose bunch," Feorik said, half-grunt, half-chuckle, as he saw how everyone looked, in the brilliant morning, half-dead. "I hope this is over soon." Storn said nothing, but perhaps his helm nodded a bit.  The man was taciturn, but had his shoulders squared against the task. 

            Back among the others, Feorik stepped into his stained armor, and gave his wounds more attention.  He frowned darkly at some of the larger cuts; they still hurt, but had healed much more than nature would allow.  He glanced at the priestesses. Despite the lingering pain, he felt better than he had in days.  Life was strange. Brian seemed almost normal, as he ate in silence.  The women…well, Feorik tried to ignore the fact that they were there.  It made worrying about their safety easier. Feorik ate and drank, kept quiet, lost in his own thoughts...Dayla, his family, Tulane's young murdered friend...

            The cries of birds overhead called Feorik back to the present from dark thoughts.  They had to get moving.  "Let's go," he suggested, hoping that everyone was ready, including the lassitudinous Sorcerer.  "I'll keep a twenty feet distance ahead," Feorik said plainly.  The women seemed concerned but nodded.  Rasoric looked grim, and he played with a knife, idly.  The boy seemed to be growing up before their very eyes.  Thoughts of Sleene came to Feorik, unbidden.  He wondered how she and Sirilyr were doing.  He felt a chill at what Orinden might be capable of.

            They all got ready and climbed down the west side of the hill and headed north along the dry water run. Feorik kept his body in a perpetual half-crouch as he moved.  On the lookout for Lizard-Men, crazed animals, Goblins or who-knew-what else, he tried to move as quickly as possible while maintaining silence. A couple hours later the little valley ended at a drop off, about fifteen or so feet down to a rocky stream flowing east. It was probably two feet deep at most, but it had cut itself a decent sized gorge from west to east. The gorge meandered a bit, blocking sight after about half a mile. There was no bridge in sight.

            Feorik was hunkered down and still for a long time as the others came up behind him. Taking in the day, and the terrain.  He sniffed the breeze, and cast his gaze over the rocky surrounds slowly, and deliberately.  He looked for anything out of the ordinary, anything at all.  He gauged the water's depth, and the speed of the flow.  He resisted the temptation to head down, drink his fill, and soak the grime and sweat off of his skin. Hearing them, he stepped over to the group.  "No bridge, but the river is there," he said gruffly.  He looked to Darvian, who had the map.  "Which way?"

            Brian and Rasoric stood warily, and Storn seemed as impassive as the boulders themselves.  Linda seemed content that they had arrived at the stream, and Mellody had her gaze on Brian, but her look was far-away.  Hours of maintaining a silent tread was a telling thing.  Feorik knew the signs.  They were becoming withdrawn, a little. Darvian was strangely silent, though he seemed to be in a pretty good mood. He studied the map they had, trying to match geological features on the map with the landscape they were walking through. To no avail however; Darvian was as lost as the others. "I’d guess keep west," Karod said. He looked a little pale, his wounds painful. "It probably feels like we traveled further last night than we did."

            There was general agreement to that, but Linda did not want to take any chances. She called a break for lunch and a prayer to which everyone's participation was required. Rasoric shimmied down the cliff and filled their water skins with cold, fresh water - strong with minerals. He identified a path down to the water that anyone could negotiate without too much risk. Linda and Mellody climbed down and performed some ritual in the water with some of their pots of dirt or whatever it was.

            In the wake of the priests Darvian climbed down to the river, washed his hands and face and drank his fill of the sparkling water. While Linda performed the blessing of the river, Darvian settled on the bank close by and studied his book. There had to be some magical energy in the air, because reading was easy today. Passages that always had given him trouble suddenly made complete sense. Almost frightened by this experience Darvian closed his tome and paced around nervously, until it was time to continue onwards.

            Feorik too gladly agreed to the break. He and Karod stripped off their armor and shirts to splash about in the cold water.  It was good to get the dirt off, and clean their wounds thoroughly.  Feorik drank and drank from the river, like a man dying of thirst. After the swim, cleansings, and a meal, Linda said that Brigantia had pointed the way west. The passage above the river and along the gorge was tough; up and down over rocky hills with scattered pine and scrub. Tiresome. They broke often, resting between descents and ascents. As they climbed down yet another slope, they saw Feorik squatted, studying the ground. He turned to them. "A booted foot." In a bit of sand along the ground, someone had walked alone since the rain three days ago. His eyes studied the ground like a merchant might study a newly made good, or a breeder might study a stud horse.  They followed from the heel, back, and then from the toe forward.  Feorik looked left and right around the area.

            "Three days; could have been anyone," Feorik muttered, and then he looked about the rocks warily. 

            Karod looked thoughtful, "Only one man, out here, this far," he mused.  "Not likely."

            "No," Storn agreed, monosyllabically.  Rasoric just shrugged. 

            "Yes, we're far from Tir," Feorik agreed.  "Be wary," he warned.  "We could be walking into an ambush."

            "The third priest," Linda reminded them. "The one that got away."

            Darvian nodded the lone priest that got away from the destroyed camp, "Most likely the red clad cleric. Thus we have one reason more to believe that we are on the right track.

            "Ah yes, maybe so," Feorik nodded thoughtfully.  He stood.  "He was alone; trying to step lightly too.

            "Alternatively, it could be your father, Canon Linda, couldn't it be?" Darvian asked.

            Linda smiled gently, "I shouldn't give up hope. It could be - this is indeed a good place to hide." She had a sad, contemplative look.

            "Let's keep moving," Feorik said. There didn't seem much else to say.  He stepped ahead of the group again, and kept bent to the ground a little more carefully, looking for more tracks.  He wondered what would possess a man like that, to come so far out here, alone.  Religious zeal and Godly worship was something he just didn't fathom.

            A few ridges away the bridge came into view at last. It was amazing, and out of place. In the distance, it looked like a natural bridge over the gorge, now about fifty feet deep. It extended from the height of one of the undulating rock formations they had been traversing all day. As they got closer, it became apparent that this was not a natural phenomenon. Although it looked like it had grown out from the two sides of the gorge, it was formed of shaped stones, not of crude quarried blocks that most stone structures were formed. These were carved to fit in a myriad of interlocking shapes, from the supporting arch to the hand rail, which was oddly only a couple feet high.

            It was showing its great age in a few missing pieces of the rail, and the almost wind worn smoothness of the stone. Or perhaps it was made that smooth. The span was solid, albeit strewn with dirt and clumps of foliage. Cracks between some of the blocks, none of which met in straight lines anyway, had widened, considerably in places, but the layer of stones beneath was oriented so its blocks met at different places. It must be incredibly sturdy, an engineering marvel, far beyond anything any of its spectators could imagine possible.

            The smoothly arching structure was almost alien. A large circular pile of fallen stones rested on their side of the bridge. Perhaps a tower once; now toppled with its stones spilled into the gorge. The ridge top the bridge connected to the northern side of the gorge extended to south, sloping slowly downward into the forest beyond. Any evidence of the ancient roadway obliterated by time. Across the bridge to the north, the terrain was flatter, more wooded, but no one missed the darkening above the tree tops. Thick clouds were moving in from the horizon on a chill breeze that smelled of rain - or snow.

            Feorik's eye was on the bridge and its surroundings, but not to appreciate its technological wonder.  Instead, he looked for signs of a camp, of Brigands or Goblins, or even of their quarry.  All was strangely quiet except for the gusting wind, loud in his ears. As Feorik inspected the area, he noticed some bushes surrounded by their desiccated fruit. In fact much of them had never dropped; wrinkled black berries clung in bunches to branches mostly bare of leaves.

            "Bad weather coming," he said to the others.  Feorik kneeled by the toppled structure and examined a brick carefully.  "So old.  I can't imagine who, or what, built this," he said, voice a little subdued.

            "Nothing like I've ever seen," Karod said coming near Feorik. "I've lived around stone keeps all my life. They're just piles of stone hacked from the earth. Look at those," he pointed to the spill of stones. "Shaped. Someone took a long time to make each stone just right."

            Linda wandered to the bridgehead fascinated, Brian, Mellody, and Storn close by. "It is something out of fairy tales." She looked to the sun, sinking quickly to the western horizon. "We've only a couple hour of light before that storm."

            "Like no fairy tale I heard.  Look," Feorik said, pointing a javelin at a nearby bush.  The plant had desiccated black berries, and the branches were mostly bare. "Wildlife should have eaten it, or the fruit fallen when ripe," he said quietly, rubbing his lone eye, and wiping the grime from around the eye patch on the other side of his face.  Feorik pointed to other plants, whose fruit had similarly been left to shrivel.  "Makes you wonder," he growled. He looked to the women of Brigantia for an explanation.  Sleene would know, but she wasn't here.  It was something he found creeping into his thoughts often. 

            Linda pulled her attention from the bridge to the flora. "Hmm…Indeed, something has driven off the animals." She walked toward the trees to the south studying. Feorik looked to the sorcerer to see if the man's wisdom might extend to this.

            Darvian had been silent, marveling at the construction of the bridge. Taking in every word the others said. He also noticed the glance Feorik gave him concerning the animals. "I don't know what the animals are afraid off. I feel quite fine here. Let me check if indeed there was magic at the base of this fantastic structure." With a good view onto the bridge Darvian started a slow and low humming, speaking a basic incantation, his voice slowly raising into a crescendo. Suddenly the words were finished and Darvian stood looking across the expanse. He walked to each side and studied the supports, the arch.

            Meanwhile Linda returned with an ashen pall, "I fear to stay in this place at night. It is as if life has been driven from here. We must hurry to make camp away from here."

            "Well, let us cross the bridge, and seek shelter away then," Feorik suggested sharply.  His voice was flat, indeed he sounded angry. In fact, he was.  Feorik had been surveying the desolation during Linda's absence with a growing sense of curious intent.  Attuned to the natural world as he was, he sense that Something Important had happened here.  He felt thwarted at not being able to stay to discover it.

            He spat.  "I thought we had come this far to find something ... the Dark Magic.  Necromancy.  Whatever Orinden uses," he said, fixing the Brigantian with his cyclopean gaze.  "Now that we're here, and have found the signs, this Dead Place, do we just run away from it?"  It was clear that Feorik didn't understand the need to head north, despite the map's markings.

            Mellody gasped at the Warder's rough words to her mistress, and Brian looked on, offended as well.  Storn coughed, but said nothing as he continued to eye the clouds. Linda blinked, and made to reply, but Feorik cut her off with a sigh. "No,' he sighed.  "'Run away' was not what I meant.  I'm sorry," he growled. "But ... well, ..." Feorik's mouth worked, his frustrations showing.

            As a man of action, Feorik could feel his mood shifting.  Resentment bubbled in him.  They'd traveled this far, to find ... what? Piles of rubble?? What was waiting for them, just over the hill?  Besides a nasty storm? Meanwhile Sirilyr, Tulane and Sleene could be fighting Goblins! Doing something!  He felt lost.  He needed to be doing the Warder things he knew, and loved.  This was an alien mission to him, and getting stranger by the passing mile.

            Darvian ended his study of the bridge and came over, not exactly understanding the motives the outburst. Eventually he stepped up and tried to ease the tension. "Cannon Linda, I can understand that this place frightens you, as the absence of life is challenging the views of Brigantia. But I don't think this place is threatening us in any way. I would not like to make the same mistake we made yesterday. We should prepare camp now and prepare for the storm. We suffered from attacks from strangely large animals or frightening lizardmen last night, when we stumbled through the dark. If they avoid this area we would be better of spending the night here than anywhere far off. I suggest that we look for shelter close by, either in this patch of forest on the other side. I am quite sure that nothing bad will happen to us around here. Tomorrow, after the thunderstorm is over, we could then head for the site marked with an X on the map. We should not have major problems to do this, now that we actually found the bridge as a landmark."

            "It is the night I fear, not the place," she looked seriously at each of them. "The spirits I was warned of, in the village, it is a thing of the night, a hater of life. I fear we've entered its domain." The rough hills and tall trees became all the more still and silent after she explained. "We should camp out of site," but she did not look like she believed that was any defense against haters of life from beyond.

            Rasoric shook himself. It had all been a blur to him, but the prospect of facing more sorcerous beasts prodded him to action, "Yeh, let's get out of 'ere. I'm with you lady."

            "Then let us go, and return when the sun is in the sky," is all that Feorik said, and he started moving immediately, resuming his scouting distance, and pace.  He crossed the bridge and looked past it, to the woods beyond.

            North of the bridge was predominately pine with a few scattered deciduous. The canopy was thick, leaving the floor heavy with shadow but light of undergrowth. The thick bed of pine needles muffled their passage, but the clinks and clangs of Storn and Karod's armor echoed through the still array of black trunks. They made camp about a quarter mile west of the bridge and a hundred or so feet from the gorge in a cluster of trees south of a hill with enough slope to give some protection from the northerly winds. To the west a dry ravine would carry the coming torrents of water to the stream at the bottom of the gorge.

            The building clouds and setting sun had almost removed all light from the sky when they had finished their preparations, making extra sure the tents were tightly bound. Only Gert would have to weather the storm, and she was nervous, braying and fighting with her tether. A wind shelter was put up to protect a fire, but no one had hopes that it would last the night. They ate supper in a tense silence, partly because the woods seemed to be a somber place, partly due to the irritations expressed earlier. The sun had gone, and they all felt small in their sphere of fire light under the towering trees at the gate to the mystery that lay northward. In hushed voices, they set a watch, and Linda said a prayer for them all, touching her companions each before entering into her and Mellody's tent.

            The wind became steady; soon the trees were swaying under its force many tens of feet over their heads. Only whispering gusts made it through the canopy to flap their tent canvas and wash away the fire's warm. As the storm came, the low whining of the wind through the treetops grew loud, then joined by the rattle of rain. The trees protected them from most of the wind blown water, but large drops began tumbling randomly down from the nearby evergreen boughs, and rivulets ran down the trunks. Despite the powerful beauty of the cacophony, it was time to get under shelter as the currents of wind flung more and more water, pinecones, branches, and other debris.

            Normally, Feorik enjoyed a storm as much as he enjoyed a sweet summer day.  But not tonight.  Not here.  Not knowing what they were seeking, really, and only knowing that they were in the area of the stark 'X'; Feorik saw the storm as more an enemy than anything else.  A worry to rob them of sleep, soak their skin, and hide the movement of enemies. At least no enemies stepped out of the rain during his shift, and for that Feorik was thankful. Feorik shook Storn awake, and then wordless walked to where he could sleep.  Wet, cold and miserable, Feorik sighed.  Life seemed to be getting no better.

 

            Darvian had his own tent from his travels with Arnough. He welcomed the solitude anyway; Feorik always looked at him suspiciously, as if he expected something; Rasoric just made him nervous, like he should check his pockets; and, well, Linda and her 'pilgrims' seemed too close, to dedicated to powers he did not understand. Karod he kind of liked, silent but strong, about the same age; and not a typical mercenary guard - he had a purpose about him, or at leasst a noble attitude toward his job. His two handed sword and shield, 'EXHEREDARE' with a touch of magic Darvian noticed when he cast the spell at the bridge, did belie a simple history.

            Darvian was content with his own tent, and feeble candle, and book of spells - more than that really: instructions on casting, on meditation, on pronunciation and the effects of sound, motion, and environment. Most of it was written by or dictated directly by Delman. Darvian even remembered him saying, "Don't worry about it now, you'll appreciate the meaning later." It had indeed not mean much to Darvian, but even the few spells he had cast of late felt sloppy compared to what they could be. He knew he had to learn what these notes meant. He was beginning to feel that magic was not just something to be pushed and pulled, but coaxed and manipulated.

            Darvian read all he could before drowsiness and confusion forced him to blow out the candle. He listened to the storm whipping around the forest, thumping his tent like a drum. He was surprised that he was able to ignore the noise as he studied, he wondered if he could ignore it now and get to sleep. He was awakened by something loud. Confused he looked around, got his bearings, and realized Gert was going crazy. The storm was still furious; he didn't know if someone was seeing to her.

 

            Suddenly he was being held down outside in the rain, racked with pain. He screamed, hard, he was going to pass out. His rolling eyes focused on Linda, rain soaked hair strung across her face. She was dead serious and chanting. The words cut Darvian like serrated blades, unbelievable pain, each syllable hitting as if in slow motion. Darvian screamed again at the top of his lungs, but the sound barely managed to reach his ears. Was it the racket of the storm that drowned out his voice? In a desperate attempt to get free he struggled but his muscles were not following his orders, he couldn't move an iota.

            Like the two female clerics back at the other camp! The unbidden, terrifying thought rushed through Darvian’s mind. This is how they must have felt before something or somebody slaughtered them, sacrificed them! Staring at Linda wild with fear Darvian screamed again. Was she going to kill him? How could her simple words hurt him so much? He had to get away. He struggled, wiped his head from side to side trying to get away from the evil words. Arms and legs were useless, held firm. Then he saw Feorik and Storn to his left and right holding his arms.

            His mind raced. Was Storn glowing? Some feeling, something, made him not even want to look at Storn; he turned to Feorik. "Please, stop," he begged. But they did not. He stopped struggling. "I don't know what's going on, stop, she's killing me!" he whined, but the wet, one-eyed man did not let up. In his death struggle Darvian tried to mobilize hidden powers. Normally he would have fainted from such pain, but right now he still was able to see, listen and even think. Magic, he thought, if at all, only magic could help him now. With immense willpower Darvian closed his eyes, concentrating on his powers. Either Mathonwy would aide him now or he would die for sure.

            "She must stop now," a deep voice reverberated as a new level of pain washed through Darvian. Tense and squinting, the mage looked around for who this was, but there was no one else, and his tormentors did not seem to hear it. Deep fear struck, his mind raced for something, a spell, anything to get him away. He was hyperventilating. "Listen!" This time the voice was like a screech, "Explain!" and oddly two toned, "Stop her!" Suddenly Darvian's mind was full of images, flashing, confusing; his eyes rolled around as he tried futilely to comprehend as the pain intensified.

            Then it was finished leaving only the beating, sawing power from the foul priestesses mouth, but Darvian somehow understood that if she continued, he would be worse than dead, and the beast would be loose again. He went cold with the next realization: if she stopped, the beast was trapped in him. He jumped, startled as the voice spoke to him again, flinging away the only thread of hope Darvian still had that this was not really happening, "I will leave if she stops." Darvian could only believe it; he wanted to live; he did not want to be bound to this hideous evil.

            He had a vivid flashback of the tortuous murder of the black cultists, not of their dangling corpses, but as it was happening. And it was his hand guiding the blade slowly though the living flesh, his ears reveling in the sounds the woman made as she was eviscerated. He cried out, "Please stop, you'll damn me! It can't go back! It can't go back!" Darvian sobbed realizing he spoke the truth the creature's mental images had conveyed. "Stop and it will go, free me…oh, please!!" Another flashback, Darvian, a mother squirrel, eating its young alive, attacking its mate. "NO!" As his mind settled again an image remained: a dark book, shadowy, floating to him, leather bound as it neared, not leather - skin, a face. His mind went blood red. The intensity of the pain was enormous.

            Feorik said nothing more to the wretched man, and kept his grip while the Brigantian worked her ritual.  Beside him, Storn's face as like a statue's, the water droplets beading on his brow and running down his face in rivulets.  Mellody and Rasoric's eyes were wide with fear, or wonder, or both.  Feorik listened for Gert, or the others, he heard nothing, and couldn't see anything in the whirling storm.  He hoped Karod and Brian were all right.  The group was vulnerable right now.

            Despite the pain Darvian was intrigued by the new images he saw in his head. As if somehow memories had just been placed there. The book, a magical tome, bound with sentient flesh. Maybe the Shamhat, as Feorik called it, would communicate, but Linda had to stop or he would be torn into pieces. "Wait, Brigantia's Cannon Linda Knobly, please wait," Darvian begged; he knew not why he used her full title and name. "The Shamhat is trying to communicate with me. It killed the clerics, it killed the animals, oh, it is horrible, it is so evil, so full of hatred, but now I see a face, wait, let me talk to it." The mage closed his eyes, face still tense with pain.

            Feorik kept holding the man's body with an iron grip.  It could be a trick, he thought to himself.  But Linda was wiser in this than he.  He looked at her. Despite the hurling wind and rain, he could see her confidence shaken a bit.  As icy water soaked into his skin, icy fear returned at the thought of more Shamhats out there, and Karod and Brian out there alone. Linda stopped the chant, "Keep hold," she told them all loudly. "The spirit is bound, but … I've never done this … I did not expect to hear…" She trailed off.

            Darvian tried to ignore his surroundings for a moment. The burning sensation from the glowing Storn, the iron grip from Feorik, and the verbal beating from Linda. Focusing on the hideous book face that was approaching, questions started to from in his mind. "You can't go back?"

            The book flipped open; grim pages whipping by, written in some foreign script and illustrated with gruesome drawings of monsters, humans, and bloody anatomy. "Spell. Summoning. Binding. Must be broken." The words happened, as the images, like memories; but his ears were not hearing them, his mind was interpreting this vile possessor as something external. The fear built, Darvian fought it.

            Then the pain was gone. But more than that, the weird metaphysical pressure that caused it. Darvian had never experienced anything like it, and, having regained consciousness under it, perceived it only now that it was gone. It had been like the words were ripping his soul from his body like meat from a bone. He felt tremendous relief; his mind quieted, became dark, but his feelings were not his alone, and that disturbed the mage deeply. "Where are you from?"

            The answer came as conflicting images and feelings, somehow easier for this entity to present than words. A dark red sky, black rocky cliffs, dotted with fire lit caverns, impossibly high, silhouettes of hideous creatures watching, other beasts flying; fear, violence. But the other image, less prominent, was green, trees, birds, sun; happiness and contentment. Darvian got the distinct impression of a duality; the images, the two-toned voice.

            "Darvian, can you hear me? Is the pain gone?" The voice was Linda's, but Darvian had to consider a moment before deciding his ears actually had produced those words. It was very confusing.

            Darvian opened his eyes and looked at Linda with bloodshot eyes. "Yes, Cannon Linda, the pain is gone, but I am still communicating with this evil entity. It is sending very confusing signals. It has been summoned here by some powerful magic and then a second incantation was binding it to our plane. Thus even though it would like to leave and return home, it can't do so, before the binding ward is not destroyed. It is not clear if its home is more like heaven or hell or a difficult mixture of those two, but it is unhappy here and would prefer to return. If we find this binding ward and manage to destroy it, we could induce it to go home and free the Marchy from a major evil." Darvian closed his eyes again. Without the pain he suddenly felt the power of his possessor; the entity had pulled itself to the peripheries of his mind allowing Darvian's consciousness.

            The entity was also free of pain, and Darvian felt it surge with confidence threatening to drive Darvian back into unconsciousness. The mage tightened his resolve to stay aware, to be. "We can help you," Darvian told it while trying to keep the mental pressure from dominating him. "How?" the young mage asked, without actually speaking the words.

            A stone tower, a wizard and others, blood, fighting, dieing, and then the book; the images flickered by. "Near," the deep voice stated. "The priestess binds me to you, end it!" The hateful emotions built again, usurping his own. Darvian tried to make sense of it all. He was not sure how long he could cope with this pressure in his head.

            Suspecting a trick, Feorik had kept his grip as tight as possible.  "Beware Linda," he muttered.  "I don't trust this!" What was this? Feorik shoved aside his confusion in order to better concentrate on the words.   Plane? Binding ward?  Sorcerous words, but the threat was real.  To save the Marchy from a major evil seemed to be quite reasonable, considering how powerful, and malevolent, the Shamhat seemed to be.  Useless, really, besides holding Darvian in tight, Feorik kept his grip and waited for it to be resolved.

            Opening his eyes again, he spoke to Linda and the others, agony in his voice. "We are close, probably the X on the map. There must be a tower there, a wizard, a lot of blood, fighting, killing and a book, a leather bound tome - we have to find it!" A blood chilling howl escaped Darvian as the pain in mind started to build again. "Cannon Linda, the Shamhat doesn't like your actions, you are binding it to me and it is going to ... the cracked voice of Darvian suddenly broke off and a glazed look entered his eyes. Feorik tensed, fear and horror welling up at the thought of what the words could mean, and what the Shamhat would do.  Across from him, Storn frowned.

            "Do I let it go?" Feorik heard Linda ask, probably to herself. Suddenly Darvian again transformed into a corpse. With a roar, he bucked hard. A curt scream erupted from Feorik despite himself, and he felt his grip slip as Darvian writhed.  Then as it lunged at Feorik to bite him with filthy teeth, the evil dweomer vanished and Darvian's head lolled to the side unconscious. Eye wide and heart pounding, he sighed with relief when the horrible visage of death fled Darvian's features. 

            "It's free," Linda warned.

            Finally, Feorik let the unconscious man loll into Storn's arms.  "Free?" Feorik repeated, as he stood and faced the rain-swept night.  That meant ... "KAROD!! BRIAN!! Come back!" he yelled out into the storm, his voice cracking.  "KAROD!! BRIAN!! Feorik looked all about the impenetrable rainy darkness.  There was not much left of the torch than embers and a few sputtering flames as Mellody hurried over and retrieved it.

            "Stay together," Linda said, sounding panicky. "We'll find them. We'll find them!" She was shaking.

            "I'll get another torch!" Rasoric said too loudly, reacting to Linda's stress.

            "No! Stay together!" Mellody demanded of him. "We'll go together! Storn carry Darvian to our tent." Mellody came to Linda with her feeble torch, "Here, take it," she handed it to the elder priestess and put her arm around her.

            "Yes!  Stay together," Feorik repeated, but inside he longed to go and look for them.  However, in the rainswept dark he would only get lost.  He called out again, several times in various directions, "BRIAN!! KAROD!! It's all right!  Come back!!"

            "You did okay. They'll be okay."

            Mellody lead Linda and the others toward their tent where Storn laid Darvian. Feorik stood guard over the tent as the others went inside.  He desperately wanted a torch of his own, but he didn't feel comfortable letting his guard down long enough to search for one, and then get it lit in the rain and wind.  Feorik wiped the water out of his face, and kept a close watch on the dark space surrounding the tent, calling out every minute or so.

            Inside the mage came to feeling empty and drained. He had some vague recollections of some horrible pains. Had it all been a nightmare or had this evil spirit taken over his mind and body? As much as he raked his brain, he could not pin it down. However, the presence of Storn made it clear for Darvian, that not everything could have been his imagination. Storn had not been around when he had gone to bed. Darvian made an attempt to sit up and looked around. "Where am I, and what happened," Darvian managed to ask feebly.

            Linda was sitting, sobbing in her hands, Mellody next to her holding and consoling her quietly. "You were possessed. Like the mercenary," Storn told him matter-of-factly. Then the memories of his mental struggle with the entity came back, and all the grotesque murders the demon spirit had shown him. Fear welled up inside the mage; Linda had set the beast free to save his life.

            Feorik heard the creaking of tree limbs echo through the woods, as if being assailed by great winds. But, if anything, the winds had lessened. "I need a lamp!" He called into the tent. Again a great popping from the direction of the bridge. Then a dull thump, more felt than heard. Cracking, and another thump. Something was coming in the dark. Something large.

            Mellody left Linda's side and fumbled for the lamp getting it lit as quickly as she could. She held it out to Feorik, "What is it?" But then she heard the noises too. Feorik shown the light into the dripping darkness of the wood. Nothing. But the thumping and creaking continued, closer.

            "Something large," Feorik replied, as he cursed mightily despite the presence of the young priestess and extinguished the lamp as quickly as he could.  "Darvian ready to move?" he growled, and the girl's wide-eyed look as the thumpings continued made him shake her.  "Well!?"

            She was cold and shivering and she gave Feorik a blank look, her wet hair plastered against her face and her lower lip aquiver, "Yes. But where?"

            Exasperatingly he ducked his head inside the tent, "Get them all moving as soon as you can.  Something is coming.  I'll find Brian and Karod," Feorik called, and without waiting for a reply he was off into the night.

            So all this had not been a dream! The Shamhat had possessed his body and mind and it had been clear for all the others. His pain, all these evil deeds and the information he slowly remembered had been coming from outside and were not a product of his imagination. And Linda had set it free to save his life! But that only meant that if would roam outside, trying to find another sentient being to possess. Then that Darvian heard the approaching noise. His fearful recollections started to mingle with the fear of the approaching threat: it was coming back, angry, angry and evil. It would try to kill them before they could even attempt to help.

            Darvian stood and moved to the tent opening next to Storn, peering into the darkness, listening terrified to the approaching thumps. Already Feorik was lost in the rain. Mellody and Linda were fumbling around behind them, readying to flee. "We must go north," Storn said, "that gorge lays south, and maybe west. We can't risk getting near it in this rain."

            North, Darvian thought and brought up an image of the dark tower like a lightning revealed nightscape. He was left with the emotional echo of his possessor: a hollow, fearful place; prison; but the key lay within. "Yes, we have to go north", Darvian agreed with Storn. "If we are lucky we will find some ancient buildings in that direction, and those buildings, among them a tower hold the key to the monstrosities going on. Our only chance is to reach that place before another monster catches up with us!" Recovering his wits and regaining control of his still weak body, Darvian followed Storn into the night.

            "Feorik! Feorik!" Storn called angrily into the dark and blowing rain. But the ranger had disappeared. He had heard the calls, but ignored them as he returned as best he could to where he and Brian had approach Storn and Darvian. Brian had just vanished from behind him, and now Feorik's fears dropped his heart; Brian may have fled toward the gorge. Still hearing the creaking approach of whatever horrors this forest held, Feorik made his way carefully in the dark. Soon he heard and felt the rain gathering in streamlets running by his feet. The pine needles were slick. He felt the expanse of the gorge ahead of him in the dark.

 

            "Hurry," Storn said to Darvian, Rasoric, and the ladies. "Leave the stuff," his voice was worried. Mellody came out with the lantern, better than the weak torch. The wet tree trunks looked like dark flesh, the wind whined like animals in pain. Storn grabbed the lantern and thrust in into Darvian's hands, "Lead us north," and pushed him in the right direction. Still a bit disoriented Darvian hesitated, shown the light around. Its beam fell upon the things approaching. The trees were alive. A massive black trunk riddled with branches moving as arms. Somehow it walked. The trees near it seemed to, or did, move to let it pass. Their motion and it’s the cause of the strange creaking and popping.

 

            Was it darker than normal? Feorik couldn't see very much at all, and his progress was a combination of balance and intuition more than anything else.  Howling wind and pouring rain helped none.  He was confident he could find his way back to Linda and the others, but he despaired about his chances of finding Brain and Karod.  Still, he had to try. As the drop off loomed, blackness set upon blackness, Feorik stopped.  Drawing breath, he put forth his energies into a massive, ripping cry that hurt his voice, "BRAIN!  KAROD!  ANSWER ME!"  He called then he waited for a reply; even as he listened he monitored the progress of whatever thing approached.  Perhaps it was more sorcery, on this dark night, and nothing quite so large.

 

            "Go!" Storn shouted, his mace already back in his hands. Mellody or Linda yelped when the saw the abomination lurching toward them. Rasoric stepped to go after Feorik, but Storn grabbed him with a very strong hand and spun him around, "Get going! He'll be fine," and pushed the light rogue after Darvian who had begun full flight away with the lantern shaking wildly casting spinning shadows about. Feorik's calls to Brian and Karod at least instilled some confidence. Storn followed the other four, slower and putting himself between the tree-thing and them.

 

            Feorik heard the frightened feminine yelps from back behind. He stopped and glanced back, and saw a weird pattern of shadows casting about the trunks; someone running with a lantern. Despite the unsteady light, Feorik swore he saw the trees moving. Whatever it was, it had scared the others, and the light was getting dimmer. Seeing nothing ahead, but someone behind, Feorik turned and looked about.  Moving trees were to be expected in the lashing wind; and he didn't take the time to look at the ambulatory arboreal scenery too closely as he moved after the light.  He was certain Storn wouldn't have let Mellody or Linda out after him; whomever this was, was someone new. But the ranger was wrong. He didn't know what to think as he neared their camp, but he felt nauseous as his mind took in the bizarre scene. A stout oak, bristling with branches was moving, walking sort of, albeit slowly. The slim pines warped and slid out of its way like slick black snakes, popping and creaking as they did. The wobbling light only made perception worse.

            His mind worked to reject the surreal, but the scene remained. The tree had come upon their tents, but was now following the quickly fleeing light. Then Feorik briefly saw the silhouette of a man and a glint of metal standing between the light and ambulatory tree. Magic of the Druids, Feorik thought immediately, to make the very trees move.  The force required to shift such deeply rooted beings must be immense, and he thought of Hernry and the wise secrets of the natural world that were known to very few.  But this must be the work of a dark Druid, if such a faction existed.  Or dark sorcery to mimic it. Karod and Brian would have to wait, Feorik decided as he moved to aid the man, most likely Storn, and give the women more time to flee into the night.

            Suddenly branches sprung at Storn, blocking him from sight. Feorik ran up behind the tree and embedded his axe in it. The blow stuck, but did not seem to do more than surprise it. It turned flinging a thick limb that Feorik had to dodge, barely holding on to and getting his axe back. It had a face, a twisted scowl and deep-set eye sockets. "It's alive!" Feorik roared, a useless comment, but one that demonstrated his surprise at the tree actually having an appearance of sentience. 

            Storn howled and was swinging his mace hard but ineffectually at any branches nearby. Feorik set his jaw and struck the wood again, hard, trying to ignore the jarring up his arm that left it slightly numb.  He had an axe, and felling trees was nothing new to him. But the flailing branches took the momentum out of the blows, and whatever this tree was, its bark was unnaturally hardened, more like dried leather. And its branches were mightily strong and flexible, deflecting their weapons and dealing out heavy, bruising thumps. "It moves slow, we must run!" Storn called to Feorik about the weird creaking and whipping and rustling of leaves. "Darvian flees north, a vision! We've slowed this thing enough."

            "Alright!" Feorik called out, and he desperately ducked to disengage the failing branches, but not before a stinging welt appeared on his cheek.  Slicing like a madman to fend the vicious snapping branches, he turned and fled after the holy warrior.  Keeping such an abomination at their backs may be unwise, but who knew what trouble Darvian and the women could be in.  And then there was the missing Brian and Karod. Despair for the sundered fellowship filled Feorik for a moment, and he wondered if all of them would survive this night.  With a forcible effort, he threw the black thoughts aside and ran on, giving the animate tree wide birth.

[12.4] The Tower

            Darvian gripped the lantern tightly and held it out in front of himself. As quick as he could he followed Storn's command and stumbled into the direction he was told. North, the thought, the answer lies north and we need to be faster than that walking monster. A tree, how could it be that the power was able to animate a tree? His memory of the recent pain almost paralyzed Darvian, but with tremendous willpower he banished those thoughts from his brain and stumbled onwards, as straight ahead as the forest would allow. Storn had told him to move, and Darvian didn't even look back to see if the others managed to follow. Some ancient buildings... they could not be far, he had to find them and better find them quickly!

            He did not know how long he ran or how or if he managed to stay in the same direction, but finally he stumbled out of the trees and building underbrush into a dark clearing. Stopping, breathing heavy, Darvian shown the light into the darkness. Wet stone reflected at the edge of the lantern's light. He was alone, but heard the sounds of others following his path. Darvian took a few steps more in the direction of the wet building, stepping out into the open. Twigs popped and crunched under his feet.

            Holding the lantern high above his head he turned to see who was still following him. His own heart was thumping so loud, he could not be sure whether the animated tree was still pursuing them or not. An otherworldly howl rolled through the darkness sending a wave of fear. Mellody, Linda, and Rasoric burst from the dark bushes, panting and pale like Darvian. The mage pointed at the structure in front of them. "I think we found the ruins. What we are looking for lies inside." The trio looked at him suspiciously, but another bestial howl drew their attention back to the dark forest. Thumping and creaking, the ambulatory tree was still coming. The quieter sounds of armored men running rippled by.

            Darvian looked at his companions. They were just as exhausted and scared as he was. What little light his lantern provided indicated that they had no wish to venture into the ruins right now. Could it be that he detected a fear in their eyes that was not related to the walking tree? A fear that was linked to his own person? Darvian allowed them to catch their breaths, but then he moved on, towards the black and shiny stone building. The warriors, Darvian thought, will catch up with them any moment, if ... but he stopped himself from further pondering on the if lest he be paralyzed by fear. They would be safer inside a stone building and the key to an eventual victory over this evil power also lay within. He had to find an entrance to maybe get all of them out of harms way, "Let's see if we find an entrance."

            The tower stood about sixty feet from the tree line. At the base of the tower, a crude building of wood and stone extended east about thirty feet, complete with shuttered windows and standard plank door facing them, swinging open in the wind. All was dark beyond. The field surrounding the tower and cabin was overgrown with grasses, about a foot or so deep matted with the falling rain. An occasional footstep would crunch something brittle underfoot. As they moved further into the clearing, the popping and crunching beneath their footfalls grew louder and more often. The tangle of grasses hid whatever was being crushed from casual observation, but so far from the trees it was not twigs or pine cones.

            The crunching noise under his feet greatly disturbed Darvian. What could make such a sound, out here in the open grass? At first Darvian tried to ignore annoying sound, concentrating on the task to reach the tower and find an entrance. But then a thought struck him almost as hard as a real physical blow would have. Bones, dried skeletons, where they stepping on animal carcasses or worse, human remains? The evil entity hated anything living and probably had destroyed anything alive approaching the tower. Even the scavengers that might have attempted to feed on the first corpses would have been destroyed, thus leaving the dead bodies to decay, simply rot away until only the skeletons were left for them to step on. Shuddering violently Darvian rushed onwards, just hoping that he actually might be wrong.

            As they neared the cabin, they could tell it rested on a stone foundation. The wind started gusting strong again, flinging rain and loose pine needles through the air. Squinting through the torrent, Feorik studied the construction; the lower section, and foundation of the cabin, was tightly interlocked stone, much like those of the bridge. The upper half, atop a huge stone slab that probably formed a landing within the tower, was of crude stone blocks and crumbling mortar; a completely different type of stone than the lower part. Arrow slits studded the lower section, and a few spiraled around the upper. The bottom two feet of the attached cabin wall, and the frames of the door and shuttered windows were of the same crude blocks as the upper tower. The rest of the wall was logs set in stone cradles and mortared. Very crude construction.

 

            Feorik had caught up to Storn headed for the now dim, but stationary point of light. They put more distance between them and the evil treant. Before they reached the light, it was on the move again. Swaying, not bobbling wildly as it had been before, but it now flickered through ground level leaves. Soon enough, they discovered the filtering undergrowth. It had sprung up at the edge of a clearing in the piney wood. At the center of the clearing, the silhouettes of Darvian, Rasoric, and Mellody, and Linda were studying the exterior of a stone tower wet and glistening in Darvian's upheld lantern light.

            Nearing the crudely constructed tower and attached building, Feorik could feel that this was what they had come here to find.  Oddly, the tower rose to only about half the height of the trees, did not sit on a significant slope, or behind a moat, or seem to have any military significance whatsoever. This place, and whatever secrets it held inside, was the "X" on the map.  It was of course possible that he was wrong, but the young Warder had learnt to trust his instincts. Quickly crossing the crackling field towards his companions and away from the malevolent plant life, Feorik had too had a terrible feeling of crushing bones. But they could be the skulls of newborn babes underfoot for all he cared at the moment. Arriving behind and out of breath, Feorik gasped: "Linda! ... Darvian! ... the trees ... they move behind!  Do we ... do we go in here?"

            The Priestess of Brigantia had turned at their approach, and her face was oddly calm in the wan lantern light.  Despite hair whipped cruelly by the wind and being totally drenched by the rain, the woman managed to regain her composure.  The younger one was not doing so well, but, Feorik decided, as long as enough of them remained, she would remain strong.  Rasoric slouched, defeated yet unable to escape this nightmare, and he barely looked up as Storn and Feorik arrived.  The ladies looked expectantly at Storn and Feorik. Storn shook his head.

            Brian and Karod were missing Darvian noted. Was that the silent question Linda asked and Storn negated by shaking his head? Though it might be correct to wait for Linda to give the order to go inside, Darvian spoke up, "I think we should go inside. Not only might the tower provide us with some protection against the animated tree, but I was told that the key to release the evil that causes so much destruction from this plane of existence resides within this tower as well. Our only hope is to go inside and find that key as quick as possible."

            Feorik continued to breathe hard, and rubbed a bruised cheek where it was starting to swell.  He blinked water from his eyes.  "Told .. told by what? The Shamhat?" Feorik asked.

            "Let's just get inside," Mellody complained. She tugged Linda to move.

            "Yes, but careful." She beckoned Storn to lead the way. Nodding, he stepped up and took the lantern from Darvian. Mace leading, he placed a foot inside the doorway. Around the big paladin, the others could see that the floor was littered with debris and tattered rugs, but was obviously made of wood planks. Aged, crude wood furniture sat haphazardly about a dark stone hearth.

            "Signs of passage. A struggle," Storn observed. He stepped in over the stone frame. His boot landed heavy on the floor. He entered and gave the all clear. Everyone else stepped out of the rain into the musty room. Something fluttered in the rafters overhead causing everyone to jump expecting undead bats, but all went quiet again. The wall across from the door with the fireplace was stone. Storn had taken the lantern to a hall leading back to more rooms separated by wood walls and doors. The struggle had disturbed the blown in debris there, and clear footsteps in the dust and dirt went down the hall and back, but only one set.

Copyright 2004
Brett Hulett