Send a spelling or grammar correction to: Tracy Johnson
This is Part XXI & XXII 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 moons had set and now they were riding through the blackest
part of the night, but their mounts had no problems with the dark. Kassar
said these were a special breed, Ceffyl of the Tylwyth Teg, as the locals
called them. Fair and sleek, but otherwise they looked much like any other
horse.
The young stallion, Moroedd, would gallop off alone, then come
back, sometimes at break neck speed. The old nomad rode a fine mare, he
told Dinet that it reminded him of his home and the small, but big headed
horses that ran across the plains.
Dinet would have led Kassar in circles and try to escape, but he
knew the nomad too well. He could never outride him, and the terrain was
not rugged enough to lose him on foot. Dinet would have to lead Kassar to
his stash of money and supplies. The young thief cursed himself for
leaving it all in one place.
Lost in thought, Dinet did not hear the stallion's return till the
horse was almost upon them. Moroedd galloped up to Kassar and whickered
into the old nomad's ear. Kassar seemed to understand what the horse was
saying, but to Dinet, the pair were only dark shapes illuminated by dim
starlight. He could not make out the nomad's words or even read his
lips, a skill that had served him very well, all his young life.
"Farkas!" Kassar cursed. He rode up and whistled to Dinet's mount,
then lead them back the way they'd come.
"What!" Dinet cried. "What the hells is Farkas?!"
"Wolves boy, Wolves!" Kassar called back. "Enough ta send Moroedd
runnin'. Heeyah!" the old nomad yelled to his horses and they took off.
Dinet's mare waited for no other command. She followed the
stallion and the other mare. Dinet did his best to keep from bouncing out
of his saddle.
* * *
"THEY'RE WHAT!" Kyle yelled.
"Don't get all excited." said Waddard. "I'm not happy about it
either, but with the captain wounded and so many of the company dead,
it even makes sense to me."
"But they've taken casualties too." Kyle protested.
"They have about as many dead as we have living. There aren't
fifty of our troopers left who are healthy enough to march, let alone
fight." Waddard shook his head. "I don't want to see the Eighth disbanded
or formed with all raw recruits and us shifted off to another company,
but we have no say in the matter."
"And that's that." said Kyle morosely.
"Those are the orders." Waddard laughed sadly, "Orders are orders.
You should have been around before Sterich. A foreigner like me, from
Perrenland, I'd never have made sergeant. They used the Eighth as a
dumping ground for refugees, and kept us chasing bandits. And guarding
caravans. And a dozen dirty jobs that the regulars wouldn't soil their
hands with."
"I've grown up in Gran March, but this land is my home." Kyle said
and looked around.
A pre-dawn glow was touching the eastern sky. Behind Kyle and
Waddard, the bridge was still brightly lit with torches as troopers of the
Fifth and Thirty-third worked through the night. They dismantled the stone
wall, dragging the massive blocks over the side and into the stream.
Earlier they'd taken the bodies of the hobgoblin's from the bridge, the
road and the field where they had been cut down. Stripped of armor,
weapons and anything of value, the monsters were piled in a large, low
heap a short distance from the end of the bridge.
The survivors of the Eighth had not left the bridge till they'd
found every one of their brethren who might yet live. There were so many
dead that they could not move them all themselves. Some fell, exhausted,
and had to be carried away. The remainder of the Eighth company watched
as soldiers from the Fifth and Thirty-Third carefully moved the slain
and set them in even rows beside the road.
Most men who'd fallen would never rise again. Less than two score
and ten could walk away when the fight was done, but to a man they
searched till every fallen trooper had been checked for life.
Now the two companies that had been driven back in defeat by the
giants did their part. They took hammer and bar to the giants wall. Heavy
ropes were used, pulled by scores of men, to heave the massive blocks
apart and then force them out and over, crashing down into the stream.
* * *
"KAAAASSS-SAAAAAR!" Dinet screamed. He sawed at his reins, but the
mare had the bit between her teeth and galloped hard to stay even with
the others. The stallion held back. He took the lead, but set his pace to
match that of the slowest mare. The others did not try to outrace the
stallion, but kept at least a heads length behind.
Dinet did not like to look ahead. He kept low against the mares
neck and watched the road go racing by. When he turned back and glanced at
the path behind them, a shape darker than the road in the dim moonlight,
seemed to swallow up the trail. It was large and very low to the ground,
but it seemed to change form as it moved, its outline growing wider, then
thinning out.
They reached a brighter patch of road, no trees nearby to block
out the silver light of stars. Dinet turned back to look again and now he
could see that the shape had a dozen heads and myriad legs. Not one beast
at all, but a wild pack of wolves, running bunched, filling the path from
side to side.
The wolves weren't close, they were falling behind the racing
hooves, but they had no intention of giving up. Dinet shouted to Kassar
again. The old nomad looked back and grinned, enjoying the chase, even
if he was the prey.
"Kassar, curse you! Kassar!" Dinet yelled. "We're heading back to
camp!"
"Hah!" Kassar snorted. "Go ask them wolves ta let ya pass!" he
shouted back. "Wolves or camp, yer choice!"
* * *
"I am Sturve, captain of the thirty-third auxiliaries." the
old warrior said, speaking to Waddard, Kyle and the three monitors who
survived the battle at the bridge.
He was a man of average height, but wide build, growing wider with
age. His hair, once black, was now more than half gray, and cut short as
was his grizzled beard. Like Waddard he had one arm in a sling, a leather
cast re-enforced with the blades of broken swords was on his arm. Blood
still stained his clothes and beard, a broad cut ran across the bridge of
his nose and trailed along his right cheek below his eye, disappearing
within his hair.
"You are the survivors of the Eighth. Well you have been assigned
to me." he began to pace, and talked to them as he meandered back and
forth. They stood on the far side of the bridge. The troopers of his
company had dismantled the wall and now rested on the overgrown field
beside the road, opposite the cairn of hobgoblin dead.
"I thought to have you spread throughout the thirty-third, but
that would never work." Sturve shook his head. "Instead it is the fifth
that is to be disbanded. Their captain and sergeants did not survive, and
the men are more demoralized than my own. No, you will still be the
Eighth. The company that took the wall. But under my command till your
captain heals." He stopped and faced them, looking them over slowly.
"I was not able to do what Fintan did, but I will try. My men
could not do what you did, but with you beside us, they will try. I will
take my replacements from the fifth. You, sergeant Waddard and sergeant
Kyle, will have the remainder to beat into shape. I want two understrength
centuries. Waddard you have the experience, and Kyle has the luck. You are
both brave men and both can lead. Will there be any problems?"
"Not from me." said Waddard.
"Not from any of the Eighth." said Kyle proudly.
"Good. Your packs are being brought up from where you left them,
along with a handful of wounded who are at least fit to march, if not to
fight." the captain told them. "I will send your new men over. Make
sure to split them up. They have a bad taste in their mouths from the
fight. It's not so bad for the recruits, but you may have problems with
the seasoned men. Some may be jealous of your success." Sturve put his
good hand on Waddard's shoulder, then on Kyle's. "Gentlemen, your entire
company has my respect. You now have quite a burden, this reputation you
are building, it will make life hard."
"Is that a prophecy Sir." said Kyle.
"No, that is a promise." Sturve laughed. "We all have much to do,
and we will be marching again by noon. We are near to Hochoch. There will
be more fighting without a doubt, and worse." The captain left them and
went back to where the remnants of the Fifth had been gathered, a beaten
disheveled lot.
"The Eighth lives!" Kyle yelled. Waddard and the monitors all
cheered.
* * *
(To Be Continued...)