Send a spelling or grammar correction to: Tracy Johnson
This is Part XIX & XX 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
The bridge thrummed beneath their feet. Iron nailheads scraped and
scratched across the stones as the hobgoblin troops advanced. They were
an orderly lot, completely different from their goblin and orcish kin.
Even on the run they kept their line straight and their company from
turning into a mob.
Fintan gave them no chance to gather themselves or dress their
line. He called out, "Slingers, Loose!", while the hobgoblins were still
on the run.
Stones sliced through the air. The range was long, and the
hobgoblins were well armored. Many had heavy shields, but most were still
slung over their shoulders as they ran. The rocks and bullets clattered
across armor. Many of the shots rebounded harmlessly from metal chain or
wooden boss, but one strike dropped a large brute senseless to the ground,
another broke a banner haft, the orc skull fell and shattered on the
bridge.
The troopers cheered, and the captain shouted praise as well. But
inside he cursed. One hobgoblin down, perhaps two hundred more to go.
They were outnumbered at least two to one.
There was a roar, the sound coming from both human and hobgoblin
throats. Then another hail of the stones. A weapon fell from a broken,
hoary hand, an orange-furred jaw shattered like a winepot in a bag of skin.
A hobgoblin howled as a bullet struck its eye. Another shot crushed a
throat, a third smacked below the edge of a black painted helm and split
the monsters skull. Three bodies fell, two would never rise again.
The hobgoblins'd had enough. Their leader, marked with a strip of
white hair following an old scar down his face, tried to keep his warriors
in line so that they would charge as one. Instead, their discipline broke,
they fell back to their mosntrous instincts and came on as a mob. The
quickest, the bravest or most foolish ran ahead, a wild pack close on
their heels.
Stones and bullets snapped out one last time. Only one hobgoblin
fell, its kneecap splintered. The rolling body bowled down half a dozen
more and slowed a score that ran behind. The slingers drew their swords
and formed a second line.
A hobgoblin with a two-handed axe ran toward the line of troopers.
The huge blade was braced at top and halfway down the shaft, like two ends
of a crescent moon stuck into the wood, the outer edge, one long, sharp
curve. The hobgoblin never brought it off its shoulder. The steel blade of
a trooper's sword went in below its ribs. Rings of the mail shirt were
split, the point came out the monster's back. The heavy axe clattered to
the ground, the hobgoblin looked surprised. Its eyes rolled up and the
monster fell backwards to the ground.
Fintan stepped out from his line of troopers to meet the charge.
He swept his blade across a monster's neck. The head, half-severed, lay
across the hobgoblin's broad shoulder. It skidded to a halt, one leg
twisted back beneath its body, the other stuck out straight. A short
stabbing spear went past the captain's head. His lung put the swordpoint
above a hobgoblin's shield, between the eyes of the brick-red, grinning
face. Three heartbeats and two dead hobgoblins were upon the ground.
A trooper died, a spear stuck in his chest, he fell. His body was
pulled back and another trooper took his place. The last of the wild,
rushing monsters was brought down by the wall of blades, and then the two
lines met. Harsh and loud, the long rolling chorus of steel on steel,
shouts, screams, cries of pain, the cleaving butcher's sound as sharp
metal chopped into flesh. It grew and reached a peak, fell back and rose
again. The sound was endless, like waves breaking on rocks, blending,
into a single, deafening roar.
* * *
Steel cut deep, slashed or stabbed. Man and hobgoblin fell,
only to have another take their place in line. The monster's had the
greater number, but they were a broad race. They faced thirty swords and
could bring only twenty or so of their own to bear.
Fintan stood out in front of the line. Kyle stood by his left
side, shielding the captain's flank. Seven bodies lay around them,
and another fell, reeling back from Fintan's sword. Kyle cut the hobgoblin
down, stabbing up and through its armpit, along the bone and into its
chest. The monster jerked. Its arms shot out and its head snapped back,
then it collapsed, dead as the stone which paved the bridge.
Two more of the orange beasts charged the captain head on.
Fintan's sword was a blur, the edge cut like a razor and wounded the
hobgoblin on his right. Sweeping across with his blade, he knocked their
blades away, then lunged to put his point through a throat and out the
back of a furry, orange neck, withdrew and slashed away the other's ear
and skinned its face, a set of fanged and yellow teeth visible where the
cheek had been. The captain opened its throat with a flick of his wrist
and sent the hobgoblin down, gurgling out its life.
Many eyes had seen the pair rush to their death. The hobgoblin's
around the captain stepped back, and the entire line of monsters withdrew.
The didn't go far, just a few steps away from the the wall of bloody
swords which had slain so many of their brethren.
The troopers hadn't drawn back at all. They'd held the line, at
least one monster's body lay before each trooper's sword. In places the
dead were two or three deep, the hobgoblins standing upon their slain to
try and break the soldier's line. The human dead had been pulled back,
and as they fell, the living who'd stood behind had taken their place.
A single hobgoblin stepped from the monster's ranks and pointed a
curved blade at Fintan. The captain nodded his head and raised his own
blade to acknowledge the challenge. Both leaders paced toward the other.
Fintan stepped beyond the circle of bodies which surrounded him,
and as he did the hobgoblin chief was upon him. Red fury he'd never known
before washed over Fintan. This bridge, this very land was his, these
monsters had been a curse upon it, and now the Oerth called out for him to
free it from this blight. All his wounds and pains were gone. His sword
was light as a willow wand. The hobgoblin chief moved as slow as an insect
in a spider's web.
He brushed the hobgoblin's blade away. The old Geoff blade proved
stronger than the dark, curved steel of the hobgoblin's sword. There was a
crack and the monster's blade was gone, snapped off at the hilt. It
shifted and brought around its shield, huge and square, made of oak and
hide, bossed with a plate of steel and wrapped with iron bands. The
captain's next stroke took off the top of the shield. The iron bands
snapped, the steel boss sparked and flew away into the hobgoblin ranks.
The hobgoblin chief threw its useless hilt at Fintan's head. It
turned to run and the captain's blade came down. The monster had worn
a steel cuirass. The catches on the side sprang off and the chestplate
dangled from the chieftain's shoulder. Fintan's sword was buried deep
in the monster's chest.
As the blade came free, the hobgoblin chief fell. It folded
at the knees and dropped face forward. Fintan wiped the blood from his
sword against the hobgoblin's hairy arm.
A low growl escaped from the sub-chief's throat. It pulled
a throwing axe from its belt and sent it spinning toward the captain.
"NO!" Kyle screamed as the axe took Fintan in the side. "Charge!"
he yelled and ran toward the hobgoblin lines. "Get Them!"
The signalman had fallen quiet while the captain fought his duel,
but he heard Kyle's words and obeyed the sergeant's command. His horn
sounded and the troopers yelled a wordless scream of rage. Mad with fury,
they charged the hobgoblin ranks, their swords still red and wet with
blood.
The subchief had another axe. He threw it straight at Kyle.
The edge scrapped by his head, split hair but did not cut flesh. A
trooper rushing behind was not as lucky, he ran full tilt into the axe
and died with it buried in his head.
Perhaps it was the glint in Kyle's eye, or the way he drove his
sword through the subchief's head, but the hobgoblins broke and ran. The
first ranks turned and pushed into those behind. They did not need to
shove hard to set the next rank running.
Seen from above, the panic spread like water rushing up a beach.
Those at the rear were pushed aside or knocked to the ground and trampled
under foot. Those nearest to the troopers' swords died in droves. Their
unprotected necks were hacked, their chain armor split, shields and
weapons dropped to the ground. Weapons only slowed the retreating monsters
down. Many threw themselves from the bridge and swam. Those who didn't
were killed, all but for a quick handful who pelted down the road and once
off the bridge ran blind in panic.
Kyle reached the road. He'd lost his sword, the last hobgoblin
he'd killed, he'd strangled with bare hands. A score of troopers hunted
down monsters on the far side of the bridge, but a horn was sounding over
the drumming of their blood. The signalman blew recall.
* * *
(To Be Continued...)