by RW Krpoun
Leaning the lance against the building, she loosened her sword in its scabbard and eased up the single carved stone step; to her right was a third of the building, occupied only by some racked farm tools the Goblins hadn’t bothered with. To her left was the third of the building that stood between the two doors, containing three Goblins with their backs to her, a keg (of ale, to judge from the smell), several ordinary brass candle-holders with guttering stumps of candles in them set here and there, and a nude woman bent over a large barrel laid on its side, her wrists and ankles tied to spikes driven into the plank floor. One of the Goblins was industriously raping the woman, who was gagged from the muffled nature of her weak cries, while the other two drank ale and watched. Beyond the closed door, in the shadowy recesses of the barracks, Duna could see a row of figures seated against the north wall, persons too tall to be Goblins.
Stepping back on the stone block, Duna chewed her lower lip and tried to decide what to do; it had been assumed that the scouts would cause an alarm to be raised, whereupon the attack would start; barring the raising of an alarm, the Company would attack when dawn afforded enough light for Humans to fight by. Two problems faced Duna: the first was whether she could kill all three Goblins by herself, and the second was that if the alarm were raised, would the attack distract the Goblins enough so as to leave her time to rescue the captives? There was a window in the east wall of the barracks; if she could kill all three Goblins and cut the captives loose before any more wolf-riders charged the building, she and the captives could escape. The key element was whether there would be enough time. She was no master swords-woman such as Janna, nor a soundless killer like Elonia. The smart move would be to withdraw to the barn and join the rest of the scouts, but to do so would mean that in all likelihood these captives would not be rescued.
Her decision made, Duna set her mug of coals on the door step next to the jamb (she had intended to use them to light her torch), stuck the Goblin knife under her belt and drew her bow from its case. Stringing it, she nocked an arrow and tucked three more into the top of her right boot, heart pounding even harder than it had before.
Flipping the cloak back to free her arms, she stepped through the doorway. The first Goblin, a Pa, or Corporal, glanced at her as she came back to full draw, the arrow catching him in the center chest as he spun to face her, clawing at the short sword at his side. The second Goblin, an ordinary jongala, screeched a warning as he ripped a small axe from his belt and rushed her, the second shaft ripping through his center throat, severing the windpipe and slamming into the spine with enough force to split a vertebrae and rupture the spinal cord.
The rapist pulled up and cinched his breeches with a single practiced motion, grabbed up his spiked club from his weapons-belt which hung on a spike driven into the side of the barrel for just that purpose, and turned to face his attacker as Duna nocked her third arrow. Goblin and Human stared at each other for a split second and then the jongala charged, howling, taking two steps before the impact of the arrow shattering his breast bone and transfixing his heart knocked him off-balance, sending him staggering into the wall.
Duna turned and fired her fourth arrow at a half-seen figure in the yard before slamming the door shut and ramming the Goblin knife between the portal and the frame just above the lower hinge. Tossing her cloak on the floor in front of the door, she dashed the coals from the cracking horn mug onto the cloth and trotted down the barracks, discarding the Goblin-helm as she went. Grabbing the dying Pa’s dagger from his belt, she cut the cords binding the woman’s wrists to the spike and then used the weapon to jam the second door as the acrid smell of burning wool began to fill the room.
Darting back to the barrel, she took a knife from the Goblin’s belt hanging from the spike and turned to the row of captives. There were nine of them, six Arturian foot soldiers and three men in civilian grab, each with a length of stout rope tied around his midriff in the manner of a belt, with his wrists bound together behind him and then tied to the rope-belt. Pulling the first man away from the wall, Duna cut the waist-rope and then the wrist-cords, cursing when she realized that the tightness of the binding-cord meant that the man would be some time in recovering the use of his hands, if ever. The man babbled something in Arturian, which she neither spoke nor understood.
“The window,” she hissed, pointing. “Get out, save yourself.” It was obvious he didn’t understand Pradian but he could see where she was pointing. Banging his numb hands together, the footman trotted over to the window and knocked the bar off its pegs with his elbow, shoving open the shutters and clumsily scrambling out as Duna moved down the line of captives, cutting each free in turn.
The scouts had watched Duna peer into the worker barracks and then make her preparations; anticipating trouble, Starr moved two candles to the loft window and one to Plumer’s position, using Goblin helmets to hide most of the light. When the warning shout in Ganjon rang out from the worker barracks the scouts immediately began the attack. While Starr and two scouts opened fire on the just-awakened wolf-riders, Milo and another scout used the candles to light the section’s torches before hurling the brands at widely separated points of the yard, following them with arrows covered in bundles of burning straw. At the ladder-opening, Plumer lit his torch and dropped it down onto the barn floor, where it clearly illuminated the area around the ladder’s base. The torches and fire-arrows expended, Milo and the other scout kicked out boards on the east wall to give themselves firing ports, and began sniping.
Pausing to have every other Badger light his or her torch from the fire-pots brought along for that purpose, the main body of the Company stormed in through the gates and the sundered fence. The platoons spilled into the yard and formed into two ranks, the second rank throwing their torches into the yard to illuminate the fight as the lead rank let fly with what missile weapons they had and then closed to melee range.
The farm’s yard was transformed into a maelstrom of noise, light, and shadowy figures as the torches and burning straw-bundles half illuminated the shouting Goblins as they threw aside their cloaks and blankets and took up arms as the three platoons poured in.
Durek heaved a brace of torches out into the yard to help illuminate the battle and tried to get a feel for how things were progressing. All he intended to do was keep the bulk of the Goblins busy while a hasty search for captives, the chest, and loot was made, and then they would withdraw, an honorable effort having been made.
The fight in the yard was going well: the Goblins had recoiled from the three platoons, pulling back into in the center of the yard only to have a great sphere of fire erupt in their midst, killing or wounding a score. Picking off a Pa who was trying to rally the disorganized mob, the Dwarf reloaded his crossbow and waited.
Duna cursed the smoke as the flames from the burning cloak took hold on the floor, wall, and door; she had started the fire to slow any Goblin use of the door, but it was obvious now that that had been completely unnecessary. Two of the men in civilian clothing spoke Pradian, which was common here in the Realms, and between them they had managed to get the woman out the window, although she had tried to fight them; fortunately the Arturians had stayed near the window, and with their assistance Duna and her two helpers managed to get the hysterical woman outside. Scrambling out after the last captive, Duna took several deep breaths of fresh air and motioned for the men to follow her, setting off at a trot around the steading to where Bridget would be waiting.
Kroh darted through the doorway, moving fast for one so massive, finding himself in a long common room that stank of vomit, blood, and spilled brandy; there were around twenty Goblins, too, staggering around and yelling, but they were surprised, hung over, and best of all, temporarily blinded, as Henri had leaned in a window, shouted to get their attention, and then created a blinding flash of light. Kroh was in amongst them, axe moving in a blur, before they understood what was happening, Rolf and a section from Blue Platoon close behind. Dazed by the turn of events, still trying
to blink away the after-images from the flash, the Goblins were quickly scattered, leaving half their number dead or dying.
“Pair off and search,” Rolf bellowed. “Look for loot and captives; check until the horn sounds and return here.” The shock of surprise would only last a minute or so, and Durek had been clear: there was nothing and no one in this steading that was worth losing Badgers over.
Staff in one hand, saber in the other, Henri sprang up the stairs, Edrie Pecheux following close behind; ever since they had arrived at Sagenhoft the dark haired, rather homely woman had been gleefully spreading the rumor that she was the late Grand Marshal’s illegitimate daughter, when in fact it was merely coincidence that the Arturian Badger shared the same surname with the late Marshal. Leaping across the landing, the wizard charged up the second half-flight of stairs and came face to face with a wizened Goblin wearing a silk doublet that had obviously been recently looted from some noble’s personal belongings; the doublet was thickly draped with various necklaces, amulets, strings of beads, and other baubles.
Shaman and wizard stared at each other for half a heartbeat, and then the Goblin lifted his stave as Henri lunged, the point of his enchanted saber opening the shaman’s windpipe before the second syllable could be uttered. Twisting his blade to open the great vein in the neck as he withdrew, the wizard hopped to the side to avoid the blood as the Goblin collapsed and began to thrash madly. Edrie leaned around the corner and dropped a Goblin Lapla (serjeant), then slung her crossbow and drew her long sword.
Rolf kicked a linen closet’s door off its hinges as Kroh made short work of a couple Pas who had chosen the wrong time to step out of a side room. “Here we are,” the big Badger shouted to the Waybrother, who was heading further down the hall. Inside the closet, which had been stripped of its linen and shelves to make room, was the document case they had been sent to find and three smaller chests. Grabbing the case’s handle, Rolf dragged it out into the hall and heaved it onto one wide shoulder, finding it to be less heavy than he had expected. Kroh tucked one of the smaller chests under his arm and led the way back to the dining room as a single blast on a high-pitched Arturian hunting horn was heard, the signal for the recall. After a quick head count to ensure that all were present the group headed back out to rejoin Blue Platoon.
Janna hefted Rosemist, whose black steel was slick with Goblins’ blue-gray blood, and waited for the next attacker. The horn had been sounded to recall the raiders who had gone into the farm house while the rest of Blue Platoon held a line near the north end of the cook house. There were Goblins in the kitchen, but none apparently had missile weapons, so they were no real threat to the Badgers. The yard was littered with dead or wounded Goblins, the rest having bolted over or through the fences to escape the charging Badgers and the deadly fire of the archers in the hay loft, but the ex-Silver Eagle had noted that most had carried their saddles with them, obviously intending to find their mounts and rejoin the battle in the style they liked best. The yard and farmstead were fairly well lit now by torches thrown into the yard or stuck into walls, and someone had started a fire in the worker barracks as well.
When the raiders spilled out from the farmhouse carrying various boxes and bags with them Janna counted heads and waved to Durek, who blew two long blasts upon the horn, the signal to withdraw. Waving her sections back, the Serjeant trotted to the east end of her line and set the pace as Blue Platoon withdrew. She was passing the southern window of the cook house when she faltered in mid-step; concentrating, she listened intently, trying to ignore the shouts and battle-sounds. There, she heard it again, the sound of a child crying. Looking around, she realized that the platoon was still withdrawing as ordered; cursing bitterly at her own stupidity, she moved forward and kicked the kitchen’s door open.
A Goblin lunged at her with a lance which scraped across the felt-covered steel that protected her belly as Rosemist went in over the weapon’s shaft and drove deep into the jongala’s chest. Shoulder-smashing the badly wounded Goblin out of the way, Janna leapt into the kitchen, only to have a Goblin drop onto her shoulders from the rafters up above.
If the jongala had stabbed her in the neck she would have been finished, but the lure of her bare head and face was too much for him; the little warrior drew his blade across her eyes, intending on blinding her so she could be disarmed and played with, not realizing the significance of the brass torc she wore. The dagger blade slid harmlessly aside as she threw herself backwards into the side of a shoulder-high brick oven, crushing the Goblin between the stonework and her own armored torso. The impact sent the dagger tumbling from nerveless fingers as the jongala gagged and gasped for breath. Janna drove her elbow into his chest twice with all her weight behind the blows and darted down to the window, leaving the stunned Goblin where he lay.
Crouched under a small table next to the window was a young girl, perhaps six or seven years old, wearing a clean and often-mended frock. Grabbing the protesting child, the Badger slung the girl piggy-back style onto her back and sternly commanded the girl to hang on. With a wistful glance at the window, which was too small for her to wiggle out of while wearing armor, Janna started back towards the door, only to find two Goblins blocking her path, small axes and shields at the ready.
Shifting Rosemist to her left hand, Janna drew and cast one of the pair of throwing axes that rode at her right hip, the weapon catching the right-hand Goblin square in the forehead. A two-handed swing smashed the other Goblin’s shield as his axe drew a line of fire across her left thigh, the jongala wisely avoiding the steel breastplate. The impact of the blow knocked the slender humanoid back a step, off-balance, and Janna’s roundhouse kick to the left thigh sent him sprawling.
Leaving the downed Goblin (and her throwing axe), the ex-Silver Eagle sprang through the door, cutting down a Goblin from behind as he drew back a javelin to throw at Rolf, who was coming back through the gate with three other Badgers, intent on finding his Serjeant. Someone took the child from her back as the big half-Orc grabbed her around the shoulders and helped her hop back out the gate as her leg began to stiffen with the pain of her wound.
Outside the Company was forming up in a marching-circle and withdrawing across the field, individual Badgers sniping at circling dread wolves, some of which bore riders. Rolf helped her into the center of the circle and then took his place with the platoon.
Arian, his hands bloody and his medical bag open, steadied her with one arm as he examined her thigh in the light of a lantern held by Picken. “Not too bad, I should think. “ He winked at her. “Lay down and lower your breeches, my dear; this’ll only take a moment.”
“Where have I heard that before?” she sighed, painfully lying between furrows.
“Looks like they’ve had enough,” Durek observed, reloading his crossbow.
“I hope so, we’re running low on shafts. Lucky for us they only had one shaman at the steading, and that Henri killed him.” Axel mopped sweat from his forehead as he studied the circling wolf-riders. Having rescued seven adults, one child, and the document case at the cost of seven wounded, none too seriously for the Healers to deal with, were now two miles from the farmstead, having taken four hours to cover that distance while skirmishing with the furious wolf-riders. “We’ve taken six more wounded, and only Kuhler has any Healing left, and not much of that.”
“Have you taken a look at the captives yet?” Durek dropped a dread wolf with a long-distance shot, sending its rider tumbling across the ground. “By the Fuar, that was a good shot.”
“Yes, we got the agent out; he said that both clerks were dead, killed in an abortive attempt to escape a couple hours earlier. Apparently there were more captives in the farm house.”
“That’s a shame, but we’ve had enough problems; another two or three minutes in the steading and we would have had a much rougher go of it getting away.” Durek observed as he reloaded. “I’m guessing there were close to four hundred Goblins in the steading.”
“About a hundred
fewer now,” Axel nodded. “We did the best we could under the circumstances.”
“I saw Henri carrying another staff, is it special?”
“Not to us, it’s attuned to Torna Inge, the Gray Arts. It makes a nice souvenir.”
It took four more hours to cross the next two miles; the Goblins quit their harassment, but stayed just out of bowshot in sizeable numbers, spoiling for a fight but unwilling to take the losses that a charge would cost. The Goblins finally broke off their trailing of the Company an hour past noon.
From the dust-clouds rising to the northeast Durek judged that battle had been joined between the two armies, and turned his march further to the west to ensure that he and his troops did not get embroiled. It was nearly five hours past noon when the tired Company broke ranks in their camp. Durek directed two of his cart-drivers to lug the document chest, and sent another to lead the Arturians back to their unit. With the two drivers and the weary agent in tow, the Captain reported to the Lord Chancellor.
“Excellent work, truly excellent, a perfect mission,” Chancellor Chaton gushed. “What a day this has been.” He poured a mug of ale for the Dwarf and waved him to a chair as aides led the agent away.
“I take it the battle went well?” Durek asked without a great deal of interest, being too tired and dirty to really care.
“More than well, it was a victory,” the Chancellor beamed. “Just after dawn our army formed up, and then we attacked, slammed straight into the Hand even as the last of their units were forming up. It was a terrible fight, but our horse broke the enemy’s flank and drove them from the field. The entire Army is rejuvenated, and Grand Marshal Laffery is the hero of the day.”