by Keith Ahrens
The Berserkers spread out in a loose circle, looking unsure as to how to attack the thing. It moves fast and seems to respond to any movement anywhere near it.
“Fuck this. We can't wait much longer, and I'm sick of seeing our guys die,” Olivia mutters. A fierce scowl set on her face, she hops down out of the hole, crouches low to the ground, and begins making her way to the giant.
The Berserkers try wolfpack tactics. One distracts the giant, the other two dart in to score hits. The Fomorian proves too fast for this to work; his blades are everywhere, blocking and parrying with disturbing ease.
One Berserker in black, spiked armor isn't quite fast enough. He misses a block and pays for it by losing his arm just below the elbow. The severed arm stays gripped to the hilt of his ax, which spoils the aim of his counter swing. He misses cleanly and loses his ax and severed arm in one blundering move.
Grayson makes a mighty leap and buries his own oversized ax into the giant’s hip. It responds by screaming and kicking. Once again, the Berserker leader launches through the air. This time, he doesn't land as well but rolls through the mud, his ax flying from his hands until a dead body stops his motion. Lightly hopping over Grayson, Olivia marches straight up to the Fomorian.
It freezes for a second, unsure if it's trapped between two attackers or not. It glances down but disregards the tiny human female standing in front of him. She holds no weapon he recognizes, and he has more important threats to worry about. He draws back into a fighting stance, concentrating on the two men in black, spiked armor.
Olivia looks up, squinting into the rain, and smiles a vicious little smile. She raises the sawed-off double-barrel shotgun with one steady arm. Given their extreme height difference, it’s easy for her to step forward a few paces and aim the shotgun under the kilt. A deafening boom sounds as she pulls both triggers at the same time. Heavy lead pellets tear through delicate flesh and continue upward into the pelvic cavity.
The giant seems to hop in the air with the report of the shotgun. A look of disbelief and shock crosses its face as it drops both swords and collapses to its knees. Both hands clutch at its ruined groin while blood and tissue fall to the ground in clumps and clots.
Olivia turns, drops the empty shotgun in the mud, and walks back toward the relative safety of our hole in the wall, not looking back. Every male— human, elf, Gnoll, or whatever on the field, wince in sympathy.
Grayson and his last healthy Berserker half-carry and half-drag the amputee over to us. He is now screaming in pain and shock, blood still pumping from the wound.
I dig under my weapon's strap to get to my duty belt. I fumble around for a moment before I manage to pull out my small trauma kit. I drop that by my feet and root around again for another pouch as the Gnolls pull the Berserkers through the hole.
“Bring him over here! Quickly!” I shout over the din. I pull a tourniquet from my trauma pouch, thankful to have some real tools when I need them.
“Bastard took his arm!” Grayson shouts, frustration and anger clear in his voice.
“I know; we saw it. Hold him down for a minute!” I reply as I struggle to loop the tourniquet around the bleeding stump. The other Berserker grabs the arm at the bicep and holds it firm. I cinch the band down tight until the bleeding stops and lock it in place. The man screams in pain, but I block it out.
“Jimmy, calm down. Bite on this,” the Berserker says in a surprisingly compassionate tone as he offers a strip of leather to his companion. “I know it hurts, but you gotta let the Doc work!”
In the last fifteen years or so, I've lost count of how many times I've been called 'Doc.' I stopped correcting people years ago and just accept it as a nickname or a term of respect (I hope). I always wanted a cooler nickname, though. Maybe something a bit more tough-sounding, but this is what I got.
I draw up a few milligrams of morphine from a bottle out of the other pouch. It’s risky giving pain meds to someone who just lost a lot of blood, and of course, there could be a deadly allergy, but I don't see much choice at the moment. His screams are attracting even more attention, and there's no way we are gonna evac him while he's screaming and flailing around like this.
I jab the needle into his intact arm and push the plunger, sending the opiate deep into the muscle. “Give him a few minutes, and he should relax,” I say to his friend.
“Thank you. Jimmy's my brother. I'd hate to lose him now after all we've been through.”
“Uh, I kind of thought you guys were locals… you know, from here?” I say the last part as a question.
The big man laughs and takes his helmet off, revealing strong features with a close resemblance to Jimmy's. Now that I have a chance to get a good look at them, they both greatly resemble Grayson.
“Oh, hell no. Us and Grayson and the rest of our group, we were all part of a pro-amateur wrestling circuit. We got kidnapped altogether on the same night after a title match. Grabbed us while we were piss drunk and passed out,” he chuckles, clearly exhausted.
“Grayson is your brother also?” I ask as I check the pressure bandage on Jimmy.
“Yup. Sorry, I thought everyone knew that already.”
Well, that explains a few things. But it doesn't change our shitty situation.
Thorn
Thorn and Osmanthus make their way down the steps of the Grandstand. Skemend stays behind to 'dispose' of the body. Thorn is paler than usual, and her hands are shaking. “So much violence, so many dead!”
Osmanthus addresses her firmly, “And there is nothing to be done for it! Now is the time for escaping! Quickly now, Veil yourself so that we may cross the field of battle during the confusion!”
Thorn stops for a moment and takes a deep breath to center herself and calls up her innate elven ability to Veil. She fades from sight in a mere moment.
“Atta girl, let’s be off.”
They reach the bottom of the stairs together just as a Wall of Force blasts people off their feet. A ten-foot-wide corridor of faint blue light now traps them in the center of the field, their only option being to retreat the way they came.
Through the haze of the rain and across the distance, Osmanthus sees four figures walking at a casual pace across the field. Two are very large while the other two are of standard elf size.
Osmanthus swears under his breath when he recognizes who is coming.
“My dear Thorn, I have a bit of bad news that will soon become self-evident. I need you to not argue, but take this satchel and retreat to a safe distance. When this Wall of Force collapses, make for the breach.” He lifts a brown leather satchel from across his chest and tosses it behind himself as if deciding he no longer wants it. It lands with a dull metallic thud on the wooden stands.
The bag quickly disappears behind a ripple of invisible fabric. “Osmanthus—”
“Hush, child! Now is not the time for arguments! Pray, remember all I did was for the greater good… and… try to remember me fondly, if at all.”
Without waiting for a reply, he sets his shoulders and confidently strides out to meet the foursome. A sincere-looking smile is plastered to his face, his hands held open and wide as he calls out, “Lord Midchain!”
Midchain smiles as he hears his name. “Look, my friends, the traitorous spy comes to gloat or perhaps to extort more money from us! Let us welcome him appropriately.” He reaches up over his shoulder and pulls the haft of a three-chained morning star from its sheath. He lets the spiked balls bounce and swing from their chains.
Each head of the morning star glows softly with different colors, auras of blue, red, and deep violet. They crackle with dancing electric discharges as they clank together on the three-foot-length chains.
The said approaching traitor, Osmanthus, sees the weapon and seems to stumble a step, but the smile never leaves his face.
“Osmanthus Wylde, your timely missives have been most accurate and useful. Were you on your way to discuss further payment?”
“Of course not, Milord. Our contract h
as been satisfactorily met. This is nothing more than coincidence and poor timing on my part.”
The Half-Ogre chuckles humorlessly. “Elf, we've both been around long enough to know that coincidences are the Fates' way of telling us that we need to pay more attention. And it seems I haven't been paying you enough attention."
“Think no more of it, Lord Midchain. I have my payment, and the Fates be damned! We can all go our separate ways and revel in our newfound fortunes and destinies.” He smiles a bit wider and makes as if to walk off, back the way he came.
“Ah, I wish it were that simple, friend Elf. But you and I both know that we never change, be us human, elf, or half-breeds. Once a deceitful spy, always a useless has-been. I cannot trust to leave you in my wake, nor would I want to.”
Osmanthus puts on his most charming and winning countenance. “Please, Milord—”
He never finishes. The morning star swings once and drags through the air, whistling as it goes. The three spiked heads hit with practiced ease, striking all at the same time. One to the side of the elf's head, one to the ribs, and one to the hip.
Osmanthus Wylde's benign smile instantly burns to skeletal ash before it’s blown away with the wind. His body, blackened dust scattering before it even reaches the Wall of Force.
A gasp and a sob from the distance are masked by the wind and rain as Thorn falls to her knees in shock and grief. “Nooo…” comes her anguished moans.
Tears and falling raindrops blur her vision, but she sees the Half-Ogre and his cadre continue toward her. She gathers her concentration to maintain her Veil of Invisibility and retreats up into the grandstand, looking for an out-of-the-way place to hide.
16
A quick lull in the fight gives us a minute to think. More rain falls on us through the crack in the rock above us, and it sparks an idea. We slap together a quick plan as the rain continues to dampen us. It’s not great, but we aren't exactly spoiled for choices here.
“Sarge, give us a few minutes; when the shooting starts, come out charging. I reckon we can take down two or three before you clear shelter,” Des says in a low urgent voice.
Haynes opens his mouth to argue, but he’s cut off by Jesse.
“Sergeant, it's a simple mission, one we are more than capable of completing. ’Tis our only chance,” he states frankly, finishing to reload his pistol with dry powder.
Haynes takes a moment to consider our options. He realizes we have none. “All right, no heroics. You two distract them; we'll charge up the middle. I figure those wagons can carry about fifteen people each; those are our priorities, next are any saddled horses. Shoot straight, and keep your heads down.”
Des and Jesse each give a solemn nod and begin to climb up the jagged granite inside the wall toward the daylight.
“Rest of you, reload or make ready with whatever weapons you have. We go when those two make some noise. Nian and Thirax, break away from the hole; we want to attract more human slaves, not scare them off.” Haynes delivers our orders, and everyone scrambles to follow them.
More dust and small pebbles join the rain falling through the opening above us. Olivia and her second take the place of the Gnolls at the one facing the field. She aims a crossbow she picked up from a dead goblin out in the field, and keeps watch. Her second-in-command, a guy named John, is signaling and calling out to other men and woman on the field. Already another fifteen or twenty people have gathered at the base of the opening.
“All right,” I say to the Berserker. “Get ready to carry your brother. When we move, it’s gonna be fast. Take him to the first wagon and load him in.”
“Got it,” he replies as he gathers his brother up in a tight grip. “We won't slow you down none.”
Jesse And Desmond
Jesse makes it to the top first. The crack is narrow, and he scrapes his armor, pulling himself up the last three or four feet. He pops up, pistol out and sweeping the wall top. Seeing no threat, he pulls himself over and gets to his feet. He stays crouching so he isn't visible from the ground.
Des reaches the top a little less nimbly, making a racket all the way up. Lucky for him, the storm continues unabated, carrying any clamor away in the whipping winds. All the walkways and parapets are deserted. The storm and the fighting have forced the goblins to other hideouts.
They both stay low and duckwalk along the middle of the wall. When Jesse estimates they've gone about forty yards, he holds up a fist to stop Des. He drops to his belly and crawls to the edge of the wall. Easing slightly over the side, he peers down at the muddy road. A quick count reveals ten saddled horses, as well as ten wagons with four horses each strapped into the harnesses. The wagons are sitting idly two by two in the thickening mud. Each wagon is a heavily built wooden contraption bound in brass with the roofs covered in thick planks, and a locked door at the rear—obvious prisoner transports.
A moment later, Jesse spots all six defenders, four elves with arrows nocked, and two menacing ogres. The ogres are clad in heavy plate armor, and both carry large, spiked clubs. Jesse and Des remain out of sight from those guarding the wagon line.
He waves Des over and waits for him to make his way where he's hiding. With slow movements, he points out each of the defenders with the barrel of his gun. Des nods his head to show he understands and leans in close to Jesse. “Let me try something first. I've been practicing a bit, but I dunno if it's gonna work in all this rain.”
Jesse looks uncertain but says, “By your leave, I will trust ye, but I will also trust in my aim.”
Des grins and says, “That’s the spirit! I'm planning on taking out the bowman by the road, you go for any other target you want.”
The grin fades as Des's eyes narrow. He focuses on a thin, long target as he begins to rub his thumb and index finger together. He feels a small amount of heat begin to build where his fingers are connected, and he starts muttering to himself.
“Hey, let’s try a diversion of our own,” I say to our group out loud. “These elves with the bows are pretty fast and accurate, right?”
“Looks like it, judging by how quickly they took down Steve, and pinned down the others,” replies Haynes.
I glance over at Thirax. “Grab one of those bodies from the field and drag it back to the exit hole. When we move, you toss the body out first; maybe it’ll catch a few arrows while we charge.”
Thirax looks at Haynes, who is taking a moment to think it over. “Couldn't hurt. Go ahead, Thirax, but make it quick. They’ll be in position soon.”
The Gnoll pushes his way through the crowded fissure and drops down to the field. He reappears a moment later with a small, scrawny human female body slung over his shoulder. Blood still drips from her mouth and the multiple stab wounds she sustained before her death. Thirax takes his place back at the opening next to Nian and gets a two-handed grip on the body.
At this point, a nagging little voice in the back of my head starts to scream for attention. It wants to know when I became so callous and disrespectful of the dead. I begin to mentally defend myself to… myself, and I recognize this is a bad rabbit hole to be going down. I shut off my thoughts, viciously suppressing them. Now is not the time for self-flagellating-like bullshit. I know I'm gonna pay for this later. But that’s later, not now. No need to borrow trouble from then when we got plenty right here.
A crisp gunshot rings out, followed by two more in rapid succession, and Thirax launches the dead body out the exit hole. It catches two arrows before it hits the ground.
“GO! GO! GO!” shouts Haynes, and we all begin to pour out of the safety of our hiding place. The Gnolls and Grayson take the lead, all screaming war cries. Colt and his three remaining squadmates gain their footing and join the attack.
Haynes leaps out and fires three evenly spaced shots over the heads of our people, striking the wagons. The shots are more for effect and scare tactics than to hit anything. A surprise bit of help comes in the form of startled horses. None of us considered the effect the gunshots and scream
ing would have on them.
Most of the horses begin to shift or dance in place where they’re tethered to stakes in the ground. Two of the beasts manage to pull the posts from the mud, creating more confusion. These same two rear up, neighing in panic, their eyes rolling about and searching for possible threats.
Four more shots split the wet air from above us as Olivia and her crew clear the hole and join the charge. I'm slowed down a bit, feeling obligated to help the Berserker with his wounded and sedated brother. As my boots settle into the mud, we drag Jimmy down from the wall, and I bear his weight while his brother jumps to join us. Damn, he's heavy. It’s like having a gorilla suit filled with Jell-O and rocks draped over my shoulder.
Grayson and his brother help me toward the back of the closest wagon with the Gnolls loping ahead of us. Nian has taken an arrow to the gut during the charge, but it doesn’t seem to slow him down any. I watch as he snaps it off flush with his abdomen, so it won't get in the way of his movements. He tosses the broken shaft aside as he reaches up and opens the back of the wagon. After ensuring it's empty, he hops up to the doorway and clambers onto the roof. Thirax does the same with the wagon that’s parked adjacent.
Haynes and Colt lay down some cover fire while we load the wounded Berserker into the back. A few more humans come through the wall and begin running for more wagons. Most have a blade of grass tied to their helmets, but not all.
A man I don't know, bloody and wearing battered armor, shouts, “They're right behind us!”
Shit, I'd hoped we would have more time to organize everyone. The confusion of the battle didn't hide our escape as well as we needed it to. I climb down to the ground and pull my pistol out again. The Gnolls have moved on from the top of the wagons, and I hear growls mixed with the sounds of battle up ahead.
“Olivia, cover the wagons and try to get everyone loaded. We'll get the horses loose and clear up any more defenders,” I yell over the sounds of combat all around us.