He has heard what can only be a large explosion. Scout, the hawk that has kept a watchful eye on him for all its life glides over the town, it banks to turn, allowing her to keep Dorian below and within range of her devastating, plunging attack should anyone attempt to take him by surprise. Her vision, even in the fading light easily picks out the scene just ahead. There is danger. There are flames. She pierces the sky with her call.
Dorian hears the cry of Scout above him. He knows her warning well and slows his horse to a trot. Something is happening ahead, there is no doubt in his mind that the girl is at the centre of it.
‘Hai there.’ He calls to a woman who appears unharmed but who hurries down the street. The woman looks at him, uncertainty lining her face. She sees Spyra as he slinks around Dorians waist.
‘What is happening ahead?’ Dorian asks.
‘Bloody brawl.’ The woman shouts to him, not reducing her bustle. ‘Bloody adventurers.’ She adds, offering a judgemental look to Dorian as she passes by.
Dorian looks at the growing stream of battered faces.
‘Gods, half the town must be involved.’ He says quietly.
Despite his expectation, as he turns the corner of the street where a merchant is presently in the process of nailing boards over his windows, he is surprised at the scene that opens up before him.
There are fires.
There are people fighting.
Bodies smash through windows.
Tethered horses rear up and bring their hooves down in wild panic, others have broken loose and gallop through the brawling masses.
‘By the Gods.’ Dorian says, his eyes wide. He brings his hand down to the hilt of his sword.
While the melee is at every corner he can see that much of the fighting is focused near to the Tavern. And the Tavern is on fire. He looks up. It seems no one has had the foresight to head for higher ground, away from the fighting. Dorian is wrong on this point. Everyone just wanted to fight.
He leaps against the wall of a three-story building that appears to have strong walls and climbs to its flat roof with ease. Reaching the top, he takes in the scale of the conflict boiling below him. It’s an all-out scrap of the first order, but it is at least being carried out according to the rules of mass brawls. No bladed weapons are visible, and the fires appear to be the result of displaced lanterns and not the furious emanations of combative magic. But still, it doesn’t take a sharp edge to cause blood to flow and bones to break, and the healers will be earning some excellent coin in a few hours.
A movement of bodies catches his eye. Not pulling and pushing or twirling in a pugilistic fashion but flying up into the air. There are fighters who can pull of that kind of action. They use a combination of their opponent’s own attack and reverse it with their own strength to force the attacker to be propelled upwards, but it takes a warrior to physically lift men into the air as he is seeing. Not just any warrior, it would have to be man of incredible strength and stamina to perform such feat.
‘Wow.’ Dorian says, as the men tumble heavily back to the earth revealing the colossus that has attempted to put them into orbit.
He observes as the giant simply lifts and tosses man after man up into the air or throws them behind him. And there is a purpose to the giant’s direction Dorian notes, he is moving through the crowd in a straight line towards…
‘Is that a Steppe-beast?’
It was then that he sees her. The girl. Felicity. She is running at the side of the animal.
There is another woman he notices, a Sister of Steel. She has the armour, although it looks a bit rough, two swords upon her back looking very cool, and she is punching the living daylights out of a large man who has just taken a swing at her. Dorian can see she is part of what he can only assume is a group, as there is also a Rogue and a Wizard also, they are all in far too close a proximity to be anything other than in league. A wizard being next to a rogue and one not trying to somehow murder the other can only happen in adventuring situations, and even then…
‘Wizards lost his hat.’ He says. Then narrows his eyes. No, he has some sort of headgear. It looks like a deflated football resting on his hair.
‘A Warrior, a Rogue, a Cleric, a Fighter and… Felicity, who is certainly proficient in magical arts.’ He thinks, and then says quietly, unable to avoid hearing the regret in his own voice. ‘I suppose she found her group for a Quest.’
Then he sees Spyra.
As the enormous warrior throws men aside as though they are made of straw, and the Rogue and Fighter kick, punch and butt anyone who tries to break into their flank, and as the Cleric issues packets of Essence into the area as defensive bubbles that slow or bounce away attackers, he sees Spyra pop into existence onto the face a would-be attacker who is making a grab for Felicity.
The man screams and reaches up to wrench the Blink-Dog away, a bad move given that most of his skin stays in the animals wicked claws.
Dorian stands. Spyra would not simply leave his side if there wasn’t something important going on. His companion had instantly befriended the girl and he has never seen such an immediate connection formed with the animal other than his own.
‘It has to mean something. That group has everything it could need in muscle and magic, but it doesn’t have anyone who could deal with the natural world. No Druid, no Shaman, and no Ranger. IS this why Spyra is down there, protecting the girl?’
He sees they are moving towards the north of the town. The mountains lie to the north.
‘If she didn’t need me with her, why not just leave me back in the forest?’
He can’t reason it from his mind. He knows about magic. He can’t use it, he has no innate talent in that direction, although some had commented that his ability with bow and sword might be some indication of a hidden resource of supernatural power. But he doesn’t think so. He does know that the more a magical circle has to move in numbers, the more energy it costs. She had transported not just him, but his horse, his hawk and the Blink-Dog. That’s a lot of power.
‘She wanted me to follow. She must want me to join them.’
This is the only sure thought he can muster of the circumstance. He takes in the mass of fighting as a whole and determines a route out of the Town that will take him to the north but allow him to bypass the violence. Satisfied he has plan he moves quickly across the roof and drops down to his horse.
Now we can dial it back a few minutes.
Paladins, and other twats
Corbett turns his head to take in the Paladin, resplendent in his plate armour, with thick, black hair that glistens a little and a closely shaved chin which looks as though it could be used as an anvil should one be required in a pinch. Corbett looks the man up and down, from plated boot to superbly coiffured hair.
‘Fuck off, you chrome plated cock ferret.’
‘Duck!’ Carl says, before the last word leaves Corbett’s mouth.
Corbett ducks.
The Paladin throws his mailed fist forward in a powerful punch, only to discover that the loudmouth Wizard’s face is no longer there. Surprised at the absence of something being there to soak up the power of his mighty strike the Paladin lurches forward and tumbles towards Valeran.
Clerics are not obliged to resist using their magic for attacks because their energy comes directly from the Gods and is not merely Essence sponged up from the Cosmos, so as the Paladin trips, pitching forwards and crashing onto the table, which in turn sends the flagons and complimentary pretzels flying and also pushing the table heavily into the chest of Valeran, the holy man reacts in the only way he knows.
Panic. Too late to prevent the bruising push of the table into him Valeran projects his most accessible passive-aggressive spell to prevent any further sudden assault. The bubble of energy is invisible, but its effect readily apparent. Anything and everything around him is pushed away up to a ten-foot radius. Daisy who was pushed sideways, still seated, crashes into the group of aged men playing cards on the table next to her. Th
ey in turn roll onto
the next table, where one of Madame Foo Foo’s girls has been doing a little moonlighting with a local Squirrel Throttler.
The couple are buried under broken chairs and confused and angry old men.
Daisy’s reactions are not blunted, she rolls backwards over both groups and deftly returns to her feet. The Paladin, Felicity and Corbett are not so lucky, or agile. The sudden expansion of the bubble around Valeran tosses them across the room. Two warriors who have been arm-wrestling, their elbows fixed onto the bar, their biceps straining as they two grunt with the exertion of trying to force the others knuckles to the wooden top, and thereby prove which of them was most likely to be deserving of a PHD in something suddenly find the Paladin crashing into them.
A Flagon flying across any given space in a bar is universally understood to be the starting pistol of a brawl.
When it lands. It’s on.
As the patrons of the bar turn their heads to judge whether the commotion in the corner of the Tavern was of any degree of threat to themselves, Valeran wastes no time in making himself absent from the scene. Hitching up his robe and not bothering to look where any of the people who, until a moment ago had been vying for his attention have got to, he makes for the door.
After its sudden expansion the protective bubble dissipates and Valeran offers up a quick prayer to Volvo, a God of Protection who has been scoring very solid worship points in the South East of the kingdom, and he gratefully receives a trickle of energy with which to reinforce his skin to the consistency of hard leather. Which is just as well, as at that moment a fist comes at his side and gives him a nasty thump.
‘Oohhff.’ Valeran gasps, his bones unbroken but the wind knocked from him.
The man who punched raises his fists in a sparring manner only to have his teeth fly across the room as another man, this fellow sporting a bandanna, a dark complexion and numerous piercings, elbows him in the jaw.
‘Oh dear.’ Valeran says, gasping for breath as he continues to head for the exit, meanwhile Corbett has landed at the foot of
the bar, ale cascading onto him, and a person in the garb of what might have be a blacksmith looks down at him angrily. The persons face is black with soot and the stiff, leather apron hides any chance Corbett has of determining the persons sex.
‘My peanuts! You clumsy prick.’ The blacksmith shouts at him.
‘I’m awfully sorry, sir or madam, but it was…’
‘Are you taking the piss?’ The blacksmith says.
‘Uhm.’ Corbett replies as he rises to his feet. ‘I’m sorry…’ He takes a shot. ‘Miss?’
‘I should bloody well think so as well.’ The Blacksmith says.
A chair crashes down onto the bar. The Blacksmith’s reflexes, considerably better than Corbett’s, allowed her to step aside and dodge the attack. She turns, grabs the attacker by his hair and slams his face into the bar. The man slides to the floor.
‘Another bag of peanuts please Pete.’ The Blacksmith says to the burly landlord, who appears entirely unfazed by the scene erupting inside his establishment.
‘Leave.’ Carl says. ‘Get out of this place fast nob head. Why are you still standing there like some Cockwomble.’
‘A what?’ Corbett says, frowning.
‘Doesn’t matter. Move it. Get out.’ Carl insists.
Corbett mouths a silent apology to the Blacksmith and moves away as she ignores him.
Furniture begins to fly. Splinters of wood and shards of glass shower everyone in the room.
‘Oh bugger.’ Corbett says, stooping as he weavs through what has in seconds become a brawling mass.
He clamps his hand onto his head so his hat can’t be knocked off. He can see the back of the Cleric, his pale cloak covered in beer and at his side the Fighter, she kicks and punches anyone who comes within striking distance.
He begins to move towards her and then pauses, realisation comes to him that this whole thing may well have occurred because he had insulted her. Well, her and the Paladin. Pretty much everyone actually. Then he sees her look directly at him.
‘Come on you idiot.’ She shouts.
Corbett looks behind him, there is only a brawl. A barmaid is kicking a man in his balls while at the same time she holds some nasty looking woman in a headlock.
He looks back to Daisy and points to his own chest.
‘Wizard!’ She shouts. ‘Move it!’
Corbett needs no further encouragement. He has an ally.
‘Don’t fuck this up Corbs.’ Carl says. ‘I’m off. I don’t need this crap.’
Then he is gone once again. Corbett feels the door shut in his mind to wherever the demon goes to.
He reaches Daisy and holds his arms up to the side of his head as protection against objects flying into him. The Fighter continues to expertly drop any person or deflect any blow that comes near to her.
‘Wizard, get to the front, protect the Cleric.’ She shouts, the sound of the melee growing all around them.
‘I don’t fucking think so.’ Corbett bawls back. ‘I’ll get my head kicked in.’
‘Don’t be a coward.’ Daisy snaps.
‘I’m not a coward.’ Corbett answers back, just as sharp, ‘It isn’t cowardly not to want to have your head kicked in, its common sense.’
Corbett feels a flutter in his mind. He groans.
‘Ooooh. Are we at a dance?’
‘Not now Kezra!’ Corbett barks.
‘I love a dance.’ Kezra says and Corbett feels the Demon’s motion in his mind, she is twirling.
‘Oh for Daive’s sake.’ Corbett says through clenched teeth.
It isn’t enough he gets sucked up into some massive fist fight, he also has to deal with a loony demon dancing through his mind. This was enough. He can’t risk firing out massive blasts of energy in this world, but by the Oath’s own concord he is allowed to use small amounts of magic in self-defence.
After all, He hadn’t struck first, he hadn’t started all of this, arguably therefore, this is definitely a moment for self-preservation.
The Clerics defensive bubbles are formed by the radiation of light from energy supplied by Gods, so they are clean and pure and perfectly transparent until struck, and even then, only a shimmering oil-on-water effect ripples across them. A Wizards power comes from the very air and space around him, it comes from between atoms and electrons and is sucked out of the space inside Higgs-Bosun particles. Wizards require huge amounts of the Essence to perform their spells, the plus being that they required only short incantations, sometimes only a word or two, occasionally just a snap of the fingers if the spell has been prepared well in advance. But while extracting the energy is one thing, controlling it is another. The essence builds up inside a wizard and becomes magical energy, roaring inside them. Hold more than you can manage and the spell that releases it will be wild and uncontrolled. Trying to light a campfire when there is too much magical energy stored inside you can result in a conflagration that makes The Towering Inferno look like a chip pan fire. Corbett has been storing energy for a while. He has managed to refrain from using magic for most of his trip, save for exploding the base of tree to topple it, forming a walkway across a stream that blocked his path. He was been very proud of that feat, until a swarm of wasps from the hive which had been attached to the tree chased him for a mile.
Valeran has come to a stop and even with the aid of Daisy beating the snot out of anyone who comes near him, he is held back by the sheer number of adventurers and patrons who are letting loose months of inactivity in the form of a bloody good scrap.
Corbett takes a breath.
‘Are you going to do magic Jeremy?’ Kezra asks. Almost squealing with excitement as she flits around his synapses like a ballerina.
Corbett does magic.
***
Donalt almost leapt into Andreton’s arms when the back of the Tavern exploded in a shocking ball of flame and flying wood.
‘Fuck me!’ He gasped, watchin
g wide-eyed as a boiling orange ball of flame expanded.
‘Donalt.’ Andreton said. And pointed. ‘I think ze Tavern has blown up.’
‘No shit.’ Donalt replied and jumped onto his mount. ‘Saddle up. We need to get out of here. No way that’s good.’
‘I don’t have a saddle.’ Andreton replied. He then patted Francis on the head. ‘Do not vorry Francis. Ze boom was not aimed at us.’
The Steppe-beast didn’t appear to be particularly bothered.
‘Come on dick head. Let’s scoot.’ Donalt shouted.
Detritus began to fall about them. Pieces of table, flaming planks of wood, burning bodies.
‘Vat about Quest?’ Andreton asked, oblivious to the danger raining about him.
‘Fuck the Quest. We can’t stay here. We just left a city you torched and the very moment we arrive here the Tavern explodes. It won’t take people long to jump to the stunning conclusion that it’s our fault.’
‘I didn’t torch the city.’ Andreton replied, sullenly. ‘Vas guardsman.’
‘Whatever Andy, look, we have to leave. We need to just go, just go somewhere far away from anywhere.’
‘No.’ Andreton said defiantly. ‘Ve Quest.’ He folded his arms. ‘Erm… vich vey is Quest?’
Donalt stared at him. How could he argue with a man over eight feet tall and with enough strength to singlehandedly lift a house?
‘It’s north Don, it’s literally past the building that just exploded mate. The one where… good Gods, look at it, that’s the second biggest town brawl I’ve ever seen!’
Andreton took a lazy look at the scene of men, women and various companion animals beating the shit out of each other.
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