Send a spelling or grammar correction to: Tracy Johnson
This is Part XVII & XVIII of a story set in the World of Greyhawk.
It's based on my own campaign, so some persons, places and things are not
in line with the published setting. Any helpful comments or suggestions
are welcome.
Thanks
Jason Zavoda
Torches were set at regular intervals down the length of the
bridge. Fire had raged for a time among the bales of straw the goblins had
used for cover on top of the wall. A hazy, orange light from torch and
fire danced over the bodies of the dead. Beyond the bridge, bright
moonlight lit the road and fields. Both moons were up, Luna and Celene
looked down like a pair of cold, wide eyes on the retreating giants.
Broglie faced the troopers. His back was to the road turned to a
silver stream in the moonlight. A low song rumbled from his throat. Soon
he would join his father in the sleepless hall and he sang to his long
dead kin.
Three men advanced, quicker than their companions, they attacked
the crippled giant together. Broglie spread his arms wide as if to welcome
their swords, but he brought both fists swinging in as the troopers
stabbed and slashed.
Sharp-edged steel opened deep cuts in Broglie's chest. One sword
stabbed between his lower ribs. The soldier ran his blade in to the hilt,
but Broglie broke the man's shoulder and neck with a glancing blow. His
other fist made the two surviving troopers leap away. He caught them then,
one in either fist and crushed their ribs and snapped their spines.
The giant had slain three men when Fintan ordered all the troopers
back.
"This beast is going nowhere and the other two have escaped." the
captain yelled to the crowd of men. "Bring the slingers up, we will put
it down with stones."
Broglie roared, he understood the humans words. "Cowards!
Cowards! come face me!" he screamed at them and tried to shuffle forward
on his wounded leg.
"There's no honor in killing your kind." Fintan yelled back.
"You're a mad dog, a beast. Slingers aim for its head."
A score of soldiers let fly. The stones buzzed like bees, not
all struck the giants head, but so large and slow a target, most did.
When the first volley shot out, another dozen men came up, and then a
dozen more, the stones and bullets flew like hail.
Atop the wall Dediulin paused and put down his horn. His mouth was
numb, his lips felt swollen and his throat burned. He was alone, the
company had crossed the wall, or died in the attempt. Behind him the
bridge was littered with the wounded, some quiet, some moaning loud and
the silence of the dead.
Still the other companies did not advance. What were they waiting
for, he thought to himself. He waved his hands and beckoned to them but
they either did not see or would not come.
Beyond the wall several score of men stood around the giant
dead. Just two bodies amid the ruin of two centuries of troops. The
captain was speaking now, but Dediulin could not hear his words. Instead
he looked across the bridge to see what they prize they had won for so
dear a cost.
A fire burned at the far side of the bridge. Some wagon that the
giants had pulled, supplies perhaps, but now it blazed away. Dediulin
watched the smoke disappearing into the night and blinked to clear his
eyes. Something moved along the road, like a river with short waves that
kept bobbing up and down. Then, against the blaze, he saw the first of the
orange heads and brick red skin. Heavy mail, and spears, raised swords
with jagged blades or sweeping curves of steel. Hobgoblins, there seemed
an endless line approaching fast to retake what the giants could not hold.
Dediulin put the horn to his swollen lips and sounded the alert,
To Arms! The Enemy Approaches! Form Ranks! the warning notes pierced
the night.
Kyle stood by the captain's side. Waddard as well, his wounded arm
slung from a torn shirt sleeve, soaked red with blood still wet. The
slingers had brought down the giant at last, then swordsman had rushed in
and taken off its head. Men ambled by and stabbed the carcase, or hacked
off bits to vent the rage and fear they felt.
The captain had summoned them, but all three were silent. Still
too dazed to talk. Then the horn began to sound. Kyle hadn't noticed when
the horn had stopped before. He'd not heard much but the beating of his
own heart and the strained breathing of his lungs since he'd crossed over
the wall.
The survivors of the fight, all three score and twelve, froze
like possums caught in a lantern's light when the first harsh note drowned
out their victorious thoughts.
"Oh bloody hell." a trooper standing near to Kyle swore. "Not more
giants."
* * *
"Now, ya no lie t'me, Dinet, I know ya, know when ya lie." Kassar
sat across a small fire and emphasized his words with the point of his
dagger.
"I wouldn't lie to you." Dinet began. He worked at the rope
which tied his hands together while he spoke.
"Hah!" barked Kassar. "Ya lyin now!"
"I mean, I wouldn't lie, not with that knife pointing at
me." Dinet amended.
"Better." Kassar agreed. "Now what ya got for me? I know ya
got sumthin from ol'Merden. Ya give me that for start."
"Sure, sure, but you swear by the wind that you'll let me
go after, and not turn me in anyway." said Dinet.
Kassar spat into the fire, which gave off an angry hiss. "Damn, I
talk too much. Ya listen too much to."
"I have the money hidden, I needed a horse to help me carry it.
I'll show you..." Dinet told the old nomad.
"Ya betcha yur ass ya will." said Kassar. "Come on, we go get
horses and get money. Ya can stop yur wigglin. I tie them ropes, ya
need'll blade ta cut yerself loose."
Kassar helped Dinet to his feet with an ungentle hand. He
double-checked his knot and raised his eyes when he found that the boy had
loosened it. Another few minutes and Dinet would have freed himself.
"To damn good with them hands." the nomad said, but quietly,
almost to himself. Dinet heard and smiled but did not reply.
Outside the tent, Kassar kept a string of horses, four mares
and a stud. He'd sold the others to some Gran March lord the day before.
He dragged out several saddlebags and an old training saddle that he set
on the smallest mare. "Ya can ride little Fieldmouse here." he said to
Dinet.
"You're taking all the horses?" Dinet asked.
"Ain't plannen on comin back." Kassar answered.
* * *
"Form the line, slingers to the rear!" Fintan yelled.
"What about calling for some help." Kyle asked.
"I doubt any of those," he jerked his head back they way they'd
come, toward the regulars who'd not joined the fight, "will set foot on
the bridge till daybreak." captain Fintan laughed. "Its just us, but I
wouldn't turn away any help. Looks like we're going to need it."
The line was almost thirty men across from side to side. A handful
of swordsmen stood behind the first rank ready to take the place of any
who might fall. The slingers checked their packs, some had scavenged
bullets and bags of slingstones from the wounded and the dead. Many of
those who'd drawn their swords handed over their unused pouches still
filled with bullets and stones. All troopers serving in the Eighth company
used both sling and sword.
The drumming grew louder as the hobgoblins approached. The bridge
began to shake beneath their feet. A body laying atop the wall was stirred
to life by the rythmic tread and thudded to the stones.
"The fools! They'll shakes the bridge apart and send us all into
the stream." Fintan shook his head.
The first rank of hobgoblins came marching into view. Orange hair,
and red faces colored more so by the flames. Broad chests covered with
mail. They carried drawn swords and heavy shields on their arms. The
severed head of an orc painted brightly across the wood and hide of each
boss. In the ranks behind, some carried banners with old fleshless skulls
atop the poles. A red sheet of cloth flapping in the breeze, dark and
indistinct, lit only by the light of a burning wagon near the far side of
the bridge.
* * *
(To Be Continued...)