by Keith Ahrens
Don't get me wrong. Over the years, I've pronounced more people dead than I graduated high school with, and it was a big graduating class. This is different. Very different. Normal dead bodies stopped bothering me years ago. These aren't normal. These I helped kill. I’m not getting all weepy, or suddenly need to suppress vomit, but I still don't feel all that great.
Without warning, the square in front of me lights up almost at the same time ours does. My throat goes even drier as I yell, “Right side!”
A scrawny bastard, wild-eyed with spit frothing at the corners of his mouth, charges at me with a great sword raised over his head. Looks like he means to end this quickly with one big swing.
This is amateur barroom brawler kind of crap—telegraphing your intended attack from a mile away. I leap forward about a yard and slam my shield into his upraised forearms, hard enough to knock the sword from his grip. I swing my mace sidearm and cave in his breastplate and probably more than a few ribs. He falls to the side and tangles up in his companion's legs, knocking them both down.
Thirax has already eliminated two more foes by the time Jesse leaps past us, dagger in his left hand and saber in the right. Before his feet even touch the ground again, he has buried the dagger through one man's eye socket and nearly beheads a second with a powerful swing of his razor-sharp sword. Haynes chops through the neck of the last man before he regains his feet.
I stomp my boot down on the chest of the man I smashed with my mace. I am sick to my stomach, and my hands are trembling from adrenaline and disgust, disgust at myself and at the situation, in general. None of us want this, none of us asked to be here. These men are drugged and probably don't even know what’s going on. I've killed too many, and I don't want to kill any more.
I've spent about fifteen years as a Medic trying to save people in this exact situation—drugged, not able to think for themselves, and in danger. And now, I'm expected to just end their lives without a second thought? That’s a long walk from my usual beat.
“Stay down!” I shout at the man held below me. “Just stay down! I meaAAGGHHRR!”
I fall backward with a dagger sticking through the side of my calf. The jerk gives me a malicious grin as he twists the blade a bit. I promptly add this to my ever-growing list of injuries I never want to repeat. This is the first time I've ever been stabbed—can't say I'm enjoying the new experience.
Thirax ends the attack by crushing the man's throat under a clawed foot. The customary flash of white light completes the fight. I stare across at the lifeless form as his face goes slack. It doesn't look peaceful like in the movies; it just looks empty.
Here's another little fun fact. It’s almost always better to leave an impaled object in place until it can be properly removed. Pulling it out right away usually causes a lot more bleeding, cutting through tissue and other important body parts and causing worse damage on its way out or possibly unblocking a severed artery that it’s up against. With no real option of 'properly' removing this dagger, I worry about pulling it out right now. And besides, it fuckin' hurts.
Our square flashes again, and I'm still sitting on my ass in the mud. Jesse solves my silent dilemma by grabbing the hilt of the dagger and in one motion, rips it from my leg and throws it into the group of men currently attacking us. I don't see it land, but I do see a streak of white light cut through the air.
I may have let out a less than manly yell when the blade ripped free, but I recover quickly and pull my spear out, using it as a crutch to get to my feet. I hang the mace back on my belt and search for a target.
I almost lose my footing again when Jesse is thrown back with a large gash to his breastplate. A gap-toothed, grinning lunatic bulls through the hole in the line that Jesse just vacated, swinging a crescent-bladed ax.
I try to balance on my good leg as I launch my spear at Jesse's attacker. My leg buckles, but the spear strikes true. It rips through his rusty armor like paper as it pierces the center of his chest. He dies in a flash of white light, the grin still on his bloody lips. This time, I'm a little surprised by my own lack of reaction to his quick death at my hands. It may be the first true steps to insanity, or maybe my brain is shutting off the things it can't deal with right now. I'll have to deal with this later, but at least it will be on my own time.
The rest of our micro-battle is over quickly; Haynes and the squad make short work of the untrained group attacking us. Back in the mud once more, having fallen when I threw my spear, I crawl over to Jesse to see how bad off he is.
I find him lying on his back with a gash about eight inches long by an inch wide across the steel of his chest armor. As I reach him, he drags in a deep, ragged breath.
“Bloody hell!” he cries and coughs violently, spitting rainwater from his mouth. I inspect his chest and see the skin is barely broken. Looks like he only got the wind knocked out of him.
We both struggle to our feet, supporting one another. Jesse is wheezing and laughing as we get up. “Nothing can ever make a man feel so alive, as one who comes closer to death!”
We both chortle as the rain seems to intensify again.
Haynes turns to us, and I see a shallow laceration under his left eye that runs across the bridge of his nose. He shakes his head at our amusement, which makes us laugh harder. Des joins in, not noticing the broken sword blade that is still lodged in his shield.
Thirax and Nian just look at us in bewilderment.
“Humans. Never will understand these Humans.” Thirax cocks his head to the side, and our square glows again.
Thorn
The elf maiden squints through the driving rain, helplessly watching her friends get ready to fight again. She almost ignores the bright streak of red light that arcs up from the opposing grandstand, but something makes her look up and pay attention to it. Her first thought is that it is some kind of a signal…
Without thinking, she steps forward and grabs Skemend by the shoulder. The troll seems startled as he looks up from the board that he and Dullahan are hunched over, but he follows her pointing finger. He watches long enough for the flare to burn out, a frown crossing his face.
“Milord, Midchain has just sent some sort of flare over the field! It seems to have no effect on the battle, but—” Skemend begins to say but is cut off.
“If it has no effect, then it is to be ignored! It is just a mere distraction, much like yourself! Focus on the battle at hand, fool.” Dullahan waves his hand in Skemend's face as if to brush him off. Then he continues, more to himself, "It seems our little troupe of humans and Gnolls are still standing! How much more can they endure before they finally fall, I wonder?” Dullahan reaches forward and presses another square on the board.
A blast of red fire, like a big firework, explodes well over our heads, but nothing else seems to happen. We stop laughing and draw our weapons.
I heft my mace, and Jesse reaches over and pulls a dagger from the sheath on my belt. Once again, he has his saber in his right hand and another wicked sharp dagger in his left. Des picks up the ax that got Jesse in the chest, having lost his sword in the last sortie. We're all bleeding from various small wounds, and exhaustion is starting to take its toll. The cold, relentless rain is not helping at all.
We peer in all directions through the driving drops of water to find the next glowing square somewhere around us.
“In the front! Shields up, NOW!” bellows Des.
I react without looking. I make a quarter-turn and bring my shield up before me, only to have it slammed twice, and hard enough to knock me back. With my weakened and wounded calf, I once again slip in the mud and end up on my ass. On the way to the ground, I notice two large metal spear tips poking through my shield.
Nian spins around and hits the ground next to me, a spear through his left shoulder. Others cry out in pain, but above it all, we hear Haynes shout, “FIRE!”
A whoosh of air and what sounds like a cannonball hitting a truck deafens us for a moment. A wave of intense heat washes over us, but it’s
quenched by the cold rain. I don’t think most of us did very well on our saving throws…
I blink the dazzle out of my eyes and see a smoking crater where the square in front of us used to once be occupied. Haynes turns and falls to his knees. He was the closest to the fireball that he unleashed. Way too close. His hair smolders, and the skin on his face blisters and peels. Thirax is busy slapping at his own face and arms, putting out small patches of burning fur.
This is it. For all our training and hard work, we may be finished. The next time we're attacked, it quite possibly will be the end of us. We're all bleeding, exhausted, and burned. I drop my shield, too heavy on my arm, unable to shake off the spears stuck through it.
Des pushes the barbed spear the rest of the way through Nian's left shoulder. The Gnoll stifles a scream, and it comes out as a deep, drawn-out growl. With nothing else to use, Des tears a piece off his shirt and stuffs it into the bleeding hole. Haynes turns his burnt face up to the rain, trying to cool it as best as he can. Bloody tears and rain mix freely on his face.
I take a minute to rip my shirt into strips as well so I can stuff bandages down both sides of my boot. Pulling the laces tighter and hoping to slow the blood flow, I try not to get too dizzy from the pain and loss of blood. Red liquid oozes out of the lace holes, and I realize I may be bleeding worse than I thought. There's nothing left for us to do but wait for the inevitable.
A loud commotion begins near the west wall, and I muster the energy to stand and see what is going on. Just then, a loud bang shakes the western gate as if something has rammed it from the other side. Dust and rock sprinkle down with the rain. I look over and see large ceramic pots arcing over the wall, each one trailing a stream of fire. The gate shudders again as something slams into it once more, the thick wood now splintering.
All eyes have turned to the west as the ceramic pots land and burst into ravenous flames. Both sides are scrambling to avoid the fire, but each group is still magically trapped in their squares with nowhere to run. A few people drop to the mud and try to roll around to extinguish the flames. Despite the muck and rain, the fires continue to burn. Confusion and panic begin to sweep across the field. Here and there at random, silver streaks rise and float about with nowhere to go.
Thorn
“Milord! We are under attack from beyond the walls!” cries a knight from the field.
“Treachery! Ogres to the gates! Brace them shut!” screams Dullahan as he begins manipulating the carved wooden board in his hands.
“Lord Dullahan, it seems someone invited the Fomorians to this little gathering. I can see them coming over the walls,” states Osmanthus calmly. “You should prepare to flee the field.”
“Run away?! Never! I am winning! Skemend, gather your mages and destroy the Fomorians, then we will finish off that Half-Ogre scapegrace!” He finally finds the right combination of sigils on the board and hits it with finality. The entire grid covering the field flashes and disappears. “Release the slaves to battle as they see fit! I, too, can break the rules!”
“Lord Dullahan, the Fomorians are resistant to our magics! We must flee to the safety of the castle proper!” Skemend exclaims. “I can teleport us to your chambers, and the rest can fight their way to your side…”
“Incompetent fools! I will have your heads for this cowardice!” rages Dullahan. With a quick spell, he amplifies his voice. “Archers on the walls, fire at the Half-Ogre and his retainers! Loyal Knights of Terram Caeruleum, make to the gate and protect your Lord and this Fiefdom!
Osmanthus pulls Thorn close to him. “Be ready, little one, our part in this play is drawing close,” he whispers.
“We have to do something now! They’ll be killed,” she replies harshly. “We cannot stand aside and watch this happen; they put their trust in us!”
“Yes, yes, I agree! But this is all a part of the plan; the play goes on as expected. We all have a part to play, but not until our cue. Trust me just a little longer…”
Thorn doesn’t reply, she just glares out over the field, staring impotently in anger and fear. Her sharp mind begins to take in the entire field from her high vantage point and commit every little detail to memory.
Huge iron hooks clatter and spark against the inside wall, trailing thick ropes. Giant misshapen heads appear at the top of the stone fortification, followed quickly by their huge, freakish arms and shoulders. They begin pulling goblins over the side or crushing them flat on the boulders with fists and giant hammers. The goblin archers try to fight back, but the driving rain and howling winds make crossbow shots nearly impossible.
The first Fomorian gains footing on the wall as the gates rattle with another blow. It stands near twelve feet tall despite its hunched back. Twisted horns sprout from the left side of its head, whereas the right side looks as if it never completely formed. The eye is smaller and higher on the face, and the one ear droops like melted wax. Its mouth can't quite close, due to the sharpened teeth all the way to the back of its jawline. It's mostly naked except for a leather harness on its chest and a kilt that blows madly in the strong wind.
Pulling a massive scythe from its harness, it begins sweeping the wall of goblins like a farmer cutting wheat. Other Fomorians of similar physical likeness gain their footing and leap from the parapets to begin wreaking havoc inside the confines of the walls.
All the Fomorians seem to wear the same colored kilt, red with green and black patterns. Each giant is deformed in some shape or another, some have extra limbs, some have too few, or they're just in the wrong place. The one thing they have in common is they are all at least twelve feet tall and fight with a wild ferocity as they carry and use their over-sized weapons with ease—mauls, axes, and swords.
Outmatched, the slave warriors try to fight back, but they are overwhelmed. The gate shakes a final time and blasts open. Thick wooden beams soar across the field and scatter among the toppled ogres. Splinters, like shrapnel, spray out in an arc, peppering the slave armies. A giant tree trunk flies through the shattered gates to crush a few prone ogres who are not fast enough to get out of the way. Then, the Fomorians begin to flood through the sundered portal, attacking in earnest.
Thorn’s concentration nearly breaks at the same time as the wooden gate. She is drawn back into the more immediate area. Skemend’s raised voice is partly to blame for her losing concentration.
“Milord, your father has charged me with your safety. I implore you one more time to listen to me as your adviser—come with me now!” Skemend begs. He knows it is useless, but he must try.
Dullahan turns his head with a glare. “Leave my side now, Troll, or I will have you flayed alive!” His eyes are wild and wide. Skemend takes a step back and raises his staff. Osmanthus Wilde quickly puts his hand on the troll's wrist.
“He leaves us no choice, friend Troll. We must play the cards we are dealt,” Osmanthus says quietly. The two share a look and a slow nod.
“We must complete this course of action and allow the next stage to come into being,” replies Skemend. “It just feels like I have failed our King.”
“Nay, good friend, it was Dullahan who failed you. Let us begin to end this.”
With a small gesture, Thorn joins Osmanthus, and they begin chanting softly together in rhythm as they take small acorns from the pockets of their robes.
“Your father sends his regards and regrets that you have been found wanting,” Skemend says. The troll raises his right hand to his left shoulder and barks out a single word. Combined with a slashing motion, a thin blade of pure force slices through Dullahan's neck. He stiffens in surprise and attempts to turn and face his attacker. His body twists, but the head remains staring straight for a heartbeat. It then topples onto the carved wooden board as arterial blood fountains up into the air. The spray lessens with each beat of the heart as the body slumps to its knees and falls to the side.
Thorn gasps in horror but continues her spell, matching her cadence to Osmanthus’s.
Skemend turns and chips
two fragments from the large crystal with the end of his staff. They crackle with electricity as they fall into his palm. He drops one in his own pouch and deftly places the second into Osmanthus's leather satchel. Osmanthus, caught up in his own spell, doesn't seem to notice.
The acorns begin to glow a warm green, the color of fresh leaves in the spring. The pair start chanting louder and faster. As the cadence builds to a crescendo, a deafening cracking noise stuns the fighters on the east end of the field. Quick as lightning, a huge fissure appears in the wall. Soon, thick branches push through the heavy stone, grinding mortar and rock as they grow. Large chunks of the wall collapse, and daylight shines through the gaps. What few goblins remained atop the ramparts scramble to safety. The unlucky ones fall to their death on either side, landing in the muddy ground below.
15
The grid flashes all around us, but it's different from before. At first, I thought it was another signal to attack, but as I watch a single drugged out, wild-haired woman stumbles into an adjoining square, I soon realize that the grid’s been completely disabled. Nian shoves her back into her designated space, and a fight breaks out among her people.
Chaos erupts as confusion takes the day. Our opponents, the army of Terrestris Laminis, quickly turn on themselves, beginning to kill each other from within their company.
The giant creatures are working their way in our direction, adding to the raging battles all around us.
“Form up, defensive square! Only fight if we're attacked!” shouts Haynes. “Jesse, you’re on point, lead us out of here!”
We do the best we can, but with so many injuries among us, it's slow going. We try to make our way to the edge of the fighting so we can regroup and tend to our wounds.