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Back to Empire on the HPe3000
... and ...
This is a first draft of a story set in the world of Greyhawk.
It is based on a home campaign so some of the people, places and things
may be different. Any helpful comments or suggestions are very welcome.
Thanks
Jason Zavoda
His sword went up and caught the chain, the links wrapped around
its edge, the bugbear pulled, but the fiery steel cut the iron clean
through. Derue was dragged forward and as the spiked ball dropped to
the floor, he lunged and drove the point deep into the bugbears gut.
Derue followed up his thrust with an uphand slash as the bugbear
backed away, he sent a line of blood and fire across its chest, his sword
skittered across the bugbears ribs and set its fur ablaze.
The room beyond was a long dank hall, only a table and chairs were
inside, but along its southern face were steel bars blocking off holding
cells. Near to the door there was a large brass gong, a second bugbear
used the wooden haft of his morningstar to hammer it, the noise was harsh
and loud.
The wounded bugbear stumbled back, colliding with the other as it
rang the alarm, they crashed together into the gong, making it sound out
with a dull boom. They fell to the ground, both swinging wildly, the gong
broke free from the chain holding it in place and landed atop the pair.
It took them a moment to push the brass plate aside, but Derue
pounced and put his sword through the wounded bugbears chest. The other
bugbear had barely pushed the gong aside and struggled to free himself
from the dead weight of his fellow guard when the other orcs came rushing
in. Three spear points stabbed its arms and legs pinning it like a frog
on a dissecting tray. Derue moved in closer and brushed the edge of the
burning blade across its throat, it thrashed and bled out its life in a
flood of red.
He wasted no more time, Derue turned to the cell doors, each a
rough hewn block carved from the bedrock below the steading. The only
light was that thrown from the torches set in the walls of the long
room. The first cell was well lit, just opposite a torch.
As Derue approached the bars a howling man threw himself at them
with a clang. Filthy, thin and sore-filled arms reached out, the man had
long unkempt hair and beard, jagged broken teeth, rags for clothes and a
mad light shinning in his eyes. He screamed incoherently, spat and hissed
at Derue, a hand full of long and blackened nails whisked past his face
and without a second thought Derue put his sword out and into the madman's
chest. The light faded from the man's eyes, a gasping voice called out a
name that Derue could not hear, and then he slid down the bars. Derue
withdrew his sword and the body clumped against the ground inanimate, its
life released and the broken mind at rest.
The next cell Derue approached with care, but behind him the orcs
ran back and forth, they had retrieved a set of keys from the bodies of
the dead bugbears and rushed to release a cell holding a quintet of their
imprisoned comrades. Derue ignored them, he approached the bars and peered
inside from a safe distance, this cell was only half-lit by the torch near
the entrance door, half was still in gloom. A body lay face to the wall
within the beam of light.
"Edouard!" Derue called out, but there was no reply and the body
did not stir. "Edouard!"
"Blessed be the gods! Have you come to free us?" a voice called
out of the gloom.
"Who are you?" Derue answered back, the voice did not sound like
his brother's.
"I am Jalal-ud-din of Zeif," the man said stepping into the light.
He was thin and ragged, but clothed in a dignity that maltreatment and
little food could not strip away. "Ah!" he said looking closely at Derue.
"The wounded one here, is he your kin?"
""Edouard!" Derue cried. "Is he badly hurt? Let me see him?" he
rushed to the bars and tried to pull open the cell door but it was locked.
The orcs had the keys, he could call to them but he could not wait. With
two hands Derue brought his sword down on the lock, the metal sheared away
in a shower of sparks and flame. Jalal jumped back holding his hands
before his face as the sword came down, sparks singing his hair and arms,
small curls of smoke rose from the damp and dirty straw that layered the
floor.
* * *
(To Be Continued)