Even battered and almost broken, even leaving a red trail on the snow behind him, Eysteinn feels a surge of pride and will to fight at the sight of his goði, strong and fierce against the enemy. Aye, chief. We won’t leave.
He moves off the muddy road, moving as fast he can in the thick snow, trying to orbit over the dark bubble of orks to get into the crowd of villagers and elves.
______________
Knute breathes a sigh of relief as he spies his house in the darkness and determines that it is not on fire, and indeed looks relatively untouched. That doesn't necessarily mean Mother and Halvar are alright, but it does make it a lot more likely. As long as they didn't go charging into the fray...
Broadening his survey of the village, Knute determines that what fighting remains is out of the accurate range of his longbow, so he returns his attention to the bodies scattered nearby.
He finds several things... starting with their heavy, curved swords. The metal seems icy cold to the touch, and doesn't reflect the moonlight at all. Their bows are more powerful than the one Mara had in the guard tower-- made of stouter wood, harder to draw but sending an arrow further and faster. Their arrows are fletched slightly differently than what you're used to-- the arrows seem especially well-made, surprisingly so for orks (they're not known for the quality of their gear, nor for fielding skilled archers), and the fletching is smaller than that of the arrows you usually use.
Knute also finds that the orcs carry coils of rope, and that the soles of their boots are fitted with ice spikes. Their leather armor is plain but serviceable under cloaks of heavy furs. Around their necks each has a leather cord with a little talisman made out of bone, carved in the crude shape of a wolf's head. Two of the orks have small, wooden bottles stuffed in a pouch sewn into their cloaks. Whatever is inside smells foul.
Knute buckles one of the swords to his belt, and exchanges Mara's bow for one of the heavier orc bows. His eyebrows climb in surprise at the superb arrows he finds on the orcs. These weapons are very well made; their arrows are better and their bows heavier than those I make, he thinks, inspecting the flights of the arrows. "Very odd," Knute mutters to himself, thoughtful (and obviously disturbed) as he tucks the bundle of arrows under his arm.
He also yanks a bone talisman off the neck of one of the orcs, turning it over in his palm. Maybe someone at the village will know of this band of orcs, he thinks. He remembers the orc bodies in the village. They probably have plenty of them down there, but I'll take this one just in case. Finally, Knute picks up the bottles. Taking a whiff of one, he immediately gags. Recovering himself, Knute looks to Lydd, and hesitates. ...Best not chance it, I think. Someone might be able to identify these in the village, too. He places both the talisman and the potions in his pockets, and finally removes one of the cloaks from the ork to use to aid him in carrying Lydd back to the village.
He lays the cloak on the ground beside Lydd, then lifts the elf and gently places her on the cloak. He wraps her up in it to the best of his ability, hoping to cancel some of the cold and make her easier to carry. All set, he begins doggedly making his way towards the village.
Halla watches helplessly as the globe of darkness moves toward those defending the gate.
Knute
Lydd is fairly light, despite her height, but it's still no easy feat to haul another person's dead weight. As carefully as he can, Knute manhandles the woman's unconscious body onto one of the fur cloaks, making a rough draggable sled, after a fashion, then begins to make a careful way down the hill with his delicate cargo...
The Gate
Eysteinn pushes off through the snow, taking advantage of the stone fence of one of the houses to help him through the snow. As he throws a glance over his shoulder, he sees the dwarves that were running along with him coming up on the blackness, their teeth gritted, axes drawn (save for Shale), seeking to form a tightly-knit wedge into the black. They run in with a shout in their own tongue, and the clash of steel and hoarse shouting can be heard.
"Död åt ätare av kött!"
Over the sounds of fighting from inside the blackness comes the deep, flat voice once more, chanting words of horrible import. All can see Hrolf brandish his sword as if in contemptuous challenge to those foreboding syllables...
...and then the goði's face goes momentarily slack, ashen-gray with shock. After another few seconds he grits his teeth, points with his sword again and shouts, "Will you not come out, cowards? Will you hide in your shadows?"
"Hofn!" Hrolf shouts. "Hold the gap in the wall! Sons of the mountains, stand with us, be our eyes! Children of the light, ready your arrows for any foe we can drag from their hiding!"
Slowly, Hrolf moves forward: not in the grand charge that the people perhaps were hoping for, but who can blame him, when the children are within that blackness? Thorgal is at his left side, flicking sidelong, uncertain glances at Hrolf, and one of the dwarves moves to his right.
Some of the villagers of Hofn move back to fill the gap of the gate, others move forward cautiously after Hrolf's towering form.
The elves hold bows drawn, tension tight on the strings, eyes fixed on the sphere, and the woman in purples and indigos begins to chant a spell of her own.
The dwarf by Rikka's side looks to her grimly. "I can see nothing myself from this far back. Closer?"
"There's two of the big ones there," the dwarf says quickly. "In the front. Each has one of your wee ones tucked under an arm."
Rikka pushes as far forward with the dwarf woman and Sausage as they can. The boar takes a defensive position in front of the dwarf. They come up behind the line of warriors. "Can you see your people at the back of the blackness yet? Can you see their spell-slinger?" The Sorceress prepares to lay down a sheet of slickness where it will do the most good.
1st Spells (5): xxx
Dancing Light (3):
Spell Effects:
Bless - +1 ATT; +1 Fear Saves - Rnd 13 of 20
Grease - Rnd 13 of 20
Rikka, the dwarf, and Lazy Sausage move forward, to just beyond Hrolf's large bulk. The dwarf peers ahead with one hand over her eyes, as if that would help her see better. "I see their leader-- a big bastard, riding a wolf," she says grimly. "...nice armor, though..."
Rikka quickly realizes she is a bit too far away for the spell she initially wanted to cast. She quickly settles on another course of action?
Cursing her inability to cast her spell exactly where she'd like, Rikka bides her time and shakes her spear so she looks like a warrior.
After the chaos of the night so far-- the shouting, the screaming, the fires, the bloodshed and fighting in the snow-- this odd, fraught stand-off seems strange indeed. There is still noise of battle-- the dwarves, and the orks, clashing inside the blackness-- but so many stand around frozen, knowing that to run into the black is suicide itself.
The raids by the orks have always been simple things, in the past. Howling brutes hurling themselves at Hofn's warriors, and Hofn's warriors responding in kind, screaming back no less wildly. Hrolf was always first to charge at any foe. Nobody in the village has ever seen him hesitate, but he moves forward like an old man. Is it the darkness? Is it the fact that children are hostage in it? Is it, perhaps, fear?
One of the dwarves staggers out from the darkness with his barrel chest bloodied from a long slash, and his breath wheezing sickeningly. He reels backwards to the line of defenders.
"Too-- many--" he coughs. "We cannot be the only ones to fight!"
Hrolf's larger-than-life face appears torn between awful decisions. He stands a moment, sword still pointed towards the black, hesitating-- then starts to stride forward, purposefully, into the darkness.
But before he can, the dark itself moves to meet him. It surges forward, and suddenly the bulk of the orks are visible, and the hostage children, behind it. There is the almost-instantaneous twang of bows loosed, and several orks grunt as elf arrows slam into them, but none of them fall.
Any joy or relief the villagers may feel at this fades as the dark washes over Hrolf and the rest of the front line.
"I sacrifice you to Varg, as warriors too foolish to know when they are defeated!" shouts the deep voice from inside the dark.... and sickening pain starts to wash over all who are close enough.
Hrolf snarls in pain from somewhere in the blackness, and several other voices scream as well. There is the soft thump of at least one body falling in the snow. The two elves on the rooftops are not standing in the darkness, and yet they too seem affected-- they stagger on the rooftops, as if struck, and the sharp-eyed can see that they are bleeding from their noses.
The orks look as if they will hurry back into the blackness as soon as they can, and are barely bothering to trade blows with the dwarves haranguing them. Their big axes are sheathed, and each has a child under one arm or over a shoulder like a bolt of cloth; they have long knives in their free hands. These orks look rather beefier than the ones you have slain and fought so far-- better armed, better armored, and with fine fur-fringed cloaks that denote the elite of the ork tribes.
Rikka doesn't hesitate when the blackness moves to reveal the orks left in its wake. She picks a wounded ork bearing a child near one of the hard-pressed dwarves and sends two bolts of energy slashing into the beast.
As the globe of darkness surges forward, Halla stumbles south through the snow, realizing the children and their captors are now visible. "People of Hofn!" she calls desperately. "Your children are here! Elves! Targets for your arrows!"
As Eysteinn sees the orks without the protection of darkness, his will to fight bounces back, only to realize that these orks are elite warriors they will make a bloody carcass of me, twice as fast as usual with these wounds he passes a hand over the not-quite-healed gash on his belly.
Still, he has to do something – just standing and watch impotent is not an option. He tries to anticipate the orks, hoping the belligerent dwarves will slow them down and he sprints towards the longhouse right ahead of him. As he turns the corner, he squats in silence, blade in hand, ready to jump out.
______________
Again Halla's voice rings out to try and rally the villagers, even if she is only a thrall. The elves have already loosed several arrows into the orks, but they prepare to loose more. Eysteinn bulls forward in the snow, leaving it pink behind him from his half-healed injuries, and hurriedly finds a sort of shelter behind the bulk of the longhouse, gritting his teeth as he plots out a last-ditch attempt to save at least one child.
Rikka sends a burst of light into one of the orks, who hisses, the blue-green head turning this way and that as if seeking out the source of the burning pain. Though the ork's skin smoulders in the wake of her magic, the brute hasn't yet released the child-- and that is what Rikka sees before the blackness swallows her up. A second later, pain assaults her-- she feels the tickling wetness of a nosebleed as it fades away. Her dwarf companion grabs her hand with a rough and callused one of her own.
Back on the road, the orks glare down at the dwarves with red eyes and obvious hatred. They would gladly return the blows they are taking-- or seek out the stinking hiding elves, cowering on rooftops-- but a sharp ork command from the darkness makes them break off with another growl and run with loping stride for the blackness again.
The bloodied dwarf who had staggered free of the black a few moments ago only to have it wash past him is in their way, and swings with his axe, opening a gash on one ork thigh. It's the same ork that Rikka had blasted with her magic, and an elf arrow sticks out of one shoulder-- the ork does not drop at the dwarf's blow, but he does come to a snarling stop, breathing raggedly and wheeling on the dwarf. The hand that doesn't hold a dagger is knotted in the golden hair of a girl of four or five years old, and she screams piercingly as she's dragged to a stop.
"Tova!" cries a human voice in the darkness. "Tova, little flower, Papa is coming, hang on!"
The dwarves who are now outside the circle breathe heavily-- they are all obviously injured, and they look grim at the prospect of charging once more into the darkness. It's not their children, not their village... but the hatred of the dwarves for ork-spawn is legendary. An old dwarf woman wordlessly gestures forward, and the four dwarves run forward again-- Shale, light on his feet as he is, makes it all the way into the blackness. The other dwarves focus on the ork outside the circle, testing their axes against his armor with some success.
Again the clash of blades, ork cursing, the sound of children sobbing. What skald could make a good tale of this, this one-sided, dreadful fight... with the children serving as unwilling shields, and the blackness stealing any chance of fair battle?
Rikka's companion tugs her backwards. "You'll only get trampled by them. Or hit by your chief's blade-- he swings like a madman," she mutters quietly. "Follow my hand, this way-- there, now you're out of their path!" She pulls Rikka out into the moonlight again.
The deep voice from inside the black continues to shout words, but this time they are in the foul ork tongue.
"Borroka hau Varg eskainiko dut!
"Beren buruzagi beldurra Varg eskainiko dut!
"Varg, hautsi bihotza dastatzeko gizon ausart baten!"
"To Varg I dedicate the fear of their chief!
"Varg, taste the broken heart of a brave man!"
Somewhere in the blackness, Hrolf roars in pain. The air is filled with dwarven shouts as the dwarves do their best to yell to those inside the dark where, and how, to hit. It is a chaotic mess of a battle, if it can even be called that.
The elves took their shots while they had them, but now stand tense and useless once more-- though the ones closest, the ones caught in the same wave of pain that Rikka experienced, edge backwards on the rooftops.
Despairing at seeing the children only to lose them to darkness again, Maeve loads her crossbow and shoots at the only target she has. It's an ill-advised shot, with a dwarf partially in the way, and it's no great surprise that the bolt sails past the knot of combatants without even making the ork flinch; it is, however, a wrenching disappointment.
Rikka gives the dwarf woman a respectful nod - mute thanks for pulling her out of the darkness. "I owe you." She wipes at her nose and draws away a hand streaked with blood. The Ulfen lets out a primal growl wanting to even the score but seeing no way to do it... yet. The wound causes her to take stock of the situation.
We'll probably fail to stop them... so gather what information we can and snatch what small victories we may.
To that end, Rikka tries to ferret out the nature of the spell that struck them even as she trudges through the drifts by the long-house, looking to spy the wounded ork. Standing in the snow, the smoke from burning homes wafting by, she can just make out the ork around the sloping arc of darkness.
Just save one child...
With a venomous occult phrase, the sorceress sends another pair of eldritch bolts slamming forcefully into the ork, trying to drop the fell beast.
Eysteinn curses under his breath in seeing the orcs vanish one after the other back inside the bubble of darkness. Powerless to do anything else, he keeps plodding through the snow, knowing full well he’ll never get there in time, but clinging to hope out of denial more than resolve.
________________
Halla's bolt is loosed in desperation, and flies wide. Thankfully, Rikka's magical energies crackle through the freezing pre-dawn air and slam into the ork forcefully, adding to the marks already left. Without a further noise, he keels over.
The child he was forcing along stands there a frozen moment, her face wet with tears and dirt and smeared blood. She looks around-- to one side of her, darkness, to the other side-- the bloodied warrior-dwarves-- and not too far away, coming up as he had been towards the road-- Eysteinn. Someone who looks like what she knows: human, even if he too is covered in gore.
The little girl runs Eysteinn's direction, her face crumpled into tears.
There's a short, annoyed stream of Ork coming from within the blackness.
"Izan bat galdu dugu. Ahulak ezin duten ere ikusi zure aurka? Varg nazka duzu!"
"Zuk ez duzu gaitezen borrokatzeko! Egin duzu gurekin artaldea haurtxoak!"
"Isilik! Nanoen hil, gizakiak hil! Orain joan gara!"
"You do not let us fight! You make us herd babies!"
"Be silent! Kill the dwarves, kill the humans! We go now!"
There is a sudden roar of orkish voices from within the blackness, and hoarse ork screams as well, humans and dwarves together. Rikka's companion lets out a short, anguished cry at whatever she sees in the blackness, and leaves her without a further word, running into the black.
"VARRG!" another shout goes up within the dark: triumphant, jeering. The blackness surges forward again a few feet and the defenders of Hofn suck in a harsh breath-- for surely as long as Hrolf was on his feet, he would not have let them pass.
Surely.
The line of defenders at the gate yet holds, but the faces show dread at the oncoming darkness...
There are orks visible now, as the darkness has crept forward once more, but they are grinning now, their daggers slick with fresh blood and their other arms still locked around their captives. The dwarf Shale, the wrestler, is sliced and scratched, struggling to keep his arms locked around one of the orks who keeps slashing at him with his cruel dagger.
Elves grimly loose arrows again. Some of their arrows find their mark; some do not.
"Sióga!" Maeve screams in frustration. "Tuilleadh saigheada!" She loads another bolt and fires it at the nearest ork before it can hide in the darkness again.
“Child!” Eysteinn grabs the girl by the arm and pushes her behind his back. They’re coming back for her… for all of us he thinks when the orcs emerge from the black.
“In there, quick!” he glances into the adjacent longhouse to check if it’s not burning or hosting an orc.
“Now be a smart girl, close the door. I won’t let them come in, I promise!” he bites his lip. He wishes to be reassuring, but needs to be a realist “Listen to me: open the window on the other side. If you see me fall, get out from there and run away as fast as you can!” he firmly pushes the girl into the longhouse next to him. He accidentally leaves on her some of his own blood, and hopes it doesn’t scare her even more.
He gets in the longhouse too, one hand firmly grasping the sword, the other on the door, ready to shut it close or open it, depending on where the orks will head.
“Try. Just try it, you basterds!” he murmurs, to give himself courage more than to scare the enemy.
_____________________
The Sorceress debates how to use her final powerful spell. Assured damage or possibly saving more children? In the end, she risks on the side of 'hope'. She trudges through the snow and casts a layer of grease beneath the three orks she can she and fleeting shadow of a possible fourth, hoping these ones are less dextrous than the others she encountered before.
"Sausage, get that one."
The boar rushes forward and tries to savage the ork with its tusks.
Elsewhere, Knute is carefully hauling his delicate burden down the snowy hillside trail.... elsewhere, Eysteinn is grimly pulling on his armor, girding himself for the cold while Gifr licks at the blood on his muzzle...
Halla shouts at the elves in a language none of them happen to speak, not even the green-eyed elf who gave her the cards. Just as well, for they are busy nocking and loosing, nocking and loosing in their own time. She herself sends a crossbow bolt hurtling forward and-- it hits! To her possible surprise.
The ork so bitten by her bolt turns a snarling gaze on her, and licks blood off his dagger with his red eyes locked on hers. His other arm keeps a child corralled by his side.... Ingrid! Ingrid Alfsdottir!
A moment later, the ground beneath that ork, and the children, twists with something slicker than ice.
One ork that Rikka can see slips and falls, his armful of hostage getting dragged down with him. By the cursing in the darkness, she guesses another toppled as well. Still, the two closest to her are yet standing-- Lazy Sausage disproves his name by running forward to try and take a chunk out of the one that Halla just pierced with a crossbow bolt! Sadly, he just misses...
The ork and looks distinctly annoyed... but he's still quite vigorously on his feet, and doesn't seem heavily injured.
Eysteinn, meanwhile, herds the child into the nearest longhouse. There's a man's dead body on the floor, but no ork that he can see. Though she is still weeping silently, tears running in the filth on her face, the little girl obeys him without argument, crawling onto one of the benches in the longhouse and hugging her knees. Eysteinn closes the door and readies to throw his life down for the child's, if needed.
One of the older dwarves runs forward on the churned earth of the road and takes a heavy swing at the ork that Shale is grappling. His axe connects, and yet more blood runs to stain the road and spatter the snow. That ork, too, remains standing.
More terse yelling in ork; Eysteinn cannot make out the words, now, with the door between them.
Lazy Sausage just became skewered sausage-- the ork that Sausage had tried to bite looks down at the swine, sneers, and drives his dagger down one-handed... but accurately, and painfully. Lazy Sausage squeals like, uh... well, like a pig... and drops to the snow with a deep gash running down one tattooed flank. The ork pauses to give Rikka a brief, snaggle-toothed grin, and then tries to step out of her grease. He fails to do so, but does not fall prone, managing to keep his balance.
Doesn't move, doesn't fall.
It would be comical, if the stakes were not so high-- the orks cursing and snarling and skidding as they try to get to their feet. One of them takes a dwarven axe to her shoulder as she gets up, only to fall again when she tries to take a step away from the dwarves. There's another curse and a heavy falling noise in the blackness. Only one of those that Rikka and Halla can see manage to gets further into the blackness, though they are all trying to.
The ork that is currently surrounded by dwarves and grappled by dwarves lets go of his armful of squirming child with a snarled curse, to try and better fight off his attackers. The child drops to the road-- his hands are tied behind him, but his feet work-- and he starts stumbling off, over the fence, through the snow, moving away from the orks and the road as he gasps for air.
The dwarves attack their surrounded foe like a pack of wolves. Axes rise and swing and chop with ruthless efficiency, and the ork that is in Shale's iron grip goes down beneath their bodies, like a deer before the hounds.
Inside the blackness, the deep voice snarls in angry Ork. "Behar dena egin dut neure burua?"
"Little witch! Hear the howl of Varg!"
Both Halla and Rikka suddenly find their ears assaulted with a piercing, overwhelming noise, a wolf's blood-curdling scream that seems to come from all around them, from inside their very skulls.
The defender seemed cheered by a second child squirming free. One of the woman at the gate shouts at the running boy, "Go, Arni! Go! Mother will find you later!"
Another elf arrow slams into the ork that felled Lazy Sausage, but the ork is still, grimly, standing, his eyes burning with hatred.
Rikka winces under the audio assault and is struck momentarily dumb.
Maeve understands the Skald spoken from the darkness no more than she does the Orkish, but she can't mistake the malign howl that echoes in Halla's mind, vibrating the web of memories the elf-woman violated. Her crossbow drops into the snow from numb fingers as a smear of blood trickles from one ear.
Sausage's slow breathing grows more ragged.
The devastating howl of the wolf cuts through the minds of both women, leaving their minds reeling and their bodies hurting.
Eysteinn remains in the house, trying to safeguard the life of at least one child.
The orks on the ground somehow manage to keep hold of their armfuls of precious cargo. The icy, greasy ground does not keep them from slashing out at one of their dwarven foes with their daggers. If the dwarves were properly armed and armored, it would no doubt be a different story... but like Hrolf, presumably, had been (for there is no further sound from Hrolf, within the darkness), the dwarves are easy targets for ork blades without shields to catch the blows, or maille to turn it. The dwarf was already injured, and one of the daggers catches him across the thigh, slicing an artery. Moaning and cursing in his own tongue, the dwarf drops to the ground. The downed orks struggle to their feet again, and this time one of them manages to make his egress from Rikka's cursing of the ground.
Shale runs in and tries to grab at the ork that just stood, but fails. The other dwarf steps doggedly in, exhaustion and injury clear on his face as he swings. The dwarf woman moves to the dwarf who just fell.
From the rooftops and the remains of the wall, elf arrows sing forth once more, almost rhythmic in their harmony. Yet the sounds overall are growing less... the screaming of battle is starting to drop only to the moans of the wounded, as less and less defenders stand within the sphere of blackness.
Thorgal stumbles out of the dark, clutching at his belly which is slick with blood. His face is stricken and ashen.
"Hrolf has fallen," he says in a hoarse whisper.
The deep voice shouts words of terrible import, in the darkness. One of the men holding the gap of the gate suddenly looks as though he has seen his own ghost. For a moment he stands frozen-- and then he bolts, screaming, out into the snow that lays behind the gate.
Rikka tries to confound the mind of the remaining ork she can see with an enchantment. Then she staggers through the snow to stand next to her downed companion.
Sausage continues to bleed out.
Eysteinn looks out of the door. The fight is moving. People are dying. This girl – she’s safe. She’s just an excuse! “Child, stay put! I’m going out to fight the orks. Pull down the beam on the door, and keep your ears open. If you hear the orcs coming, run out of the window, all right? Be brave, child!” once he’s sure the girl understood, he steps out.
Blade still in hand, he is however reluctant to join the battle in his current wounded state. Still, the lessons of Old Palli shouldn’t go to waste.
He kneels down the first man or dwarf fallen he sees still breathing and tires to stop the bleeding.
_____________________
Maeve curses in Varisian as she wipes away the trickle of blood tickling Halla's ear. She sees her old master step out the darkness but doesn't understand his words, nor would she particularly care if she did; her focus is on the stolen children. Leaving her crossbow where it fell, she struggles a little closer through the snow and hisses angrily at the ork she can still see. "Tá tú ainmhí salach! Tá tú cladhaire a seithí sa dorchadas agus ionsaithe pháistí!"
These orks are strong of will! They're just stuck in grease!
Or not so stuck, really. The ork that both women just tried to affect with their gifts shakes off the spells that would cloud his mind, and strides out of the grease with a child still under one arm. He gives a parting slash of his dagger to one of the dwarves, who responds feebly with an axe strike that misses.
Just at the edge of the blackness, there's another heavy thump noise and a curse as the ork-that-can't-get-anywhere slams down onto his ass and then doggedly gets back up. Never has it been so hard to leave a ten-by-ten-foot patch of ice.
Eysteinn gives the child firm instructions, earning a teary-faced nod from the youngster, then slips out into the bloody snow again despite his own grievous injuries. The nearest dwarf who is down is not far away-- the old dwarf that Eysteinn remembered as healing him is crouched over the dwarf, but she seems to have no more spells to lend to things and is only trying to staunch his injuries with her hands.
Eysteinn lends his own hands to the work. The old dwarf-woman looks up briefly, and gives him a tired nod of thanks. Working together, they manage to tourniquet the slashed artery in the dwarf's thigh.
The number of dwarves still standing and fighting has dropped to... two, it seems. Shale, the young dwarf who favors wrestling, and an older dwarf by him, take sagging breaths born of their own exhaustion and injury. The older dwarf seems, perhaps, ready to just let it go... but Shale yells and throws himself in once more, and the older dwarf doggedly follows, unwilling to let his kindred fight alone. They are just barely visible at the edge of the blackness scuffling with that one ork who can't seem to get out of the grease. Cursing, shouting, and then a savage ork cry of pain fills the air.
The twang of elven bows goes silent again, as they have no target to see. They stand on the rooftops or on the broken wall, their breaths steaming in the chill air and tension held in the taut strings of their bow.
The deep voice from the darkness speaks again. "Little dwarf. Let go of my warrior, before I hurt you." It is followed by the sound of chanting.
And then a sound rarely heard, from the stone-willed and taciturn dwarves: a hoarse and frightened scream.
A few of Hofn's defenders stumble out of the blackness now that Thorgal has announced Hrolf's fall-- what point, to try and stand and endure through the blows that come in the dark, if even Hrolf can do nothing? They are injured, bleeding, clutching at their bellies and arms with despair writ on their faces.
The ragged line of those still blocking the gate seem to lose what spirit has kept them there. None of them run out into the snow quite as spectacularly as the one man had, but they cringe back from the coming darkness, and it is clear that when it washes over them, they will not be able to hold. The best that was left was in the front line... and the front line already crumbled. What chance have they, these nursing mothers and and gangly youths and too-old warriors?
Knute has reached the bottom of the switchback trail. His breath steams in the air, though he still feels no cold. He looks around for someone, anyone-- those he sees appear to be dazed, stepping out of their homes with weapons tightly clutched, or throwing water on burning structures, or trying to help injured people out of the street. He can see to the square around the great stump, where bodies lie strewn like discarded dolls-- half a dozen dead orks, at the least, and humans as well.
Thrymr is out of the storehouse, now, with Gifr faithfully at his heels. Shouting still rings in the cold air, though much less than before. From the gate, it sounds like.
Thrymr bears a heavy pack upon his back, and draws his furs close around his rough hide armor. Wounds cut had healed for the most part and the fervor of his mind had faded from anger to resolve. Gifr at his heel, he moved with intent towards the gate... but not with the headlong rush of one that desperately thought each second was critical... but one instead that saw the falling of the gate as an inevitability.
That did not mean that his thoughts were closed to bloody vengeance...
Tears of frustration freezing in his eyes, Eysteinn screams in anger and slams his new blade in the snow, furious beyond belief for feeling so useless. As he watches his Ulfen friends and allies fall or flee one after the next one, he can find no other course of activity that kneeling down next to the wounded and make sure they don’t bleed out.
Rikka throws a worried glance at her companion but again tries to cloud the remaining ork's mind, hoping to save one more child.
The boar continues to slip towards death.
Knute stumbles upon entering the village, surprised at the carnage near the central square.
"What happened?" He asks of someone nearby. "And where is Palli? Or some of the elves? My friend, Lydd, she needs someone skilled in healing to look at her." He nods towards Lydd, then cranes his neck, searching for someone who can make sure Lydd is taken care of.
"Can you look after Lydd? I have to go find my mother. Has anybody seen Rikissa or Halvar?" He raises his voice at the last sentence to address those nearby. His wide eyes look shocked at the damage, though not yet panicked. He seems oblivious of the arrow still lodged in his shoulder.
Halla picks up her crossbow out of the snow and loads it, in case she gets another shot at the orks.
Little flakes of snow accumulate on the dead, the dying, and Lazy Sausage...
The last visible ork disappears into the blackness once again-- as Shale bolts out from it, yelling hoarsely, his face stricken and eyes wide with fear as he tears past Eysteinn on the road. ()
Screaming and running appear to be the order of the day. The darkness sweeps forward again while the elves stand helpless, and the ragged line of those at the gate shatters as people scramble to be out of the range of the oblivion that the blackness seems to represent. It rolls on and leaves the bodies of broken people behind it: Hrolf, lying in the middle of the road with his still-oversized body slick with blood. Sven Aurigr is crouched in the snow clutching his hand to his chest-- it is bleeding copiously, and has less fingers than the last time the light touched it. One of the dwarves is down and unmoving, his wife cradling him in her arms and stroking helplessly at his face and bloodied beard.
There is no-one to stop them, it seems. Nothing to prevent their egress from the village. The dwarves who are yet on their feet look after the blackness with dull despair-- charging in there would be suicide, and there is enough dwarven blood on the road already. They will not add more to it.
****
Knute
The first person he sees is a woman, a mother who is clutching one of her children to her with a grip that would surely cause most children to protest in discomfort-- this boy suffers it silently, his face streaked with tears and snot, and seems content to cling back to hsi mother's side.
The woman turns a dazed stare at Knute as if he were speaking another language, then shakes herself enough to answer. "Orks... so many. Who knew there were... so many? They took him, my boy... but one of the men saved him..."
She shudders and clutches the child more tightly. "They had-- darkness. Palli? I don't know... probably up the road... at the gate... people were running there..."
Squinting ahead, Knute can indeed see Palli's old, lame form-- not at the gate, but on the road, crouching over bodies. Some he lingers over. Some he moves on from with the pragmatism of healers who can do nothing for those who are beyond needing their skills.
The only elf Knute sees is dead-- a slender male with his long limbs marked with vine tattoos. He lies crumpled in the snow, motionless.
When he sees Knute, Palli looks over wearily-- then notices the elf he is dragging, and hurries over. He crouches by her and feels of her pulse, then pokes at her injuries cautiously. "I think she will live... but what is this, some sort of poison?"
Before Knute can answer, or repeat his question about his mother and stepfather, he is ambushed-- by his mother. Rikissa appears as if from nowhere, grabbing him into a fierce hug that doesn't hide the tears on her face. "Tor's blood! Where did you go, I thought you were dead!" she gasps. "You are hurt-- Palli, he's an arrow sticking out of him, help him!"
"He is walking," grunts the old man, "and that is more than many. Sit, Knute. I will see to you as I can."
***
Thrymr
Walking through the village is like walking through a place of nightmare. The threat of ork raids has always lurked: but it is one danger of many, for the north is harsh, and it is not the greatest of dangers. Humans raid too, and take slaves too-- and both of these are less likely to kill a man than the cold of deep winter if he is foolish, or wild beasts...
Never have the orks attacked in such number, with such tactics, such foul sorceries, and never so bold. They are largely stupid beasts: how did they know to seek out the granary? How did a force this size come through the night with no warning from the guards?
Still, one thing is clear to Thrymr as he walks: if they had come wishing to kill as many as they could, they could have done more. There are more dead orks in the street than Hofn's dead. They struck to create panic, to steal their hostages, to harry the village, but it all seems... calculated.
Being a not altogether bright beast himself and fog still clearing from his hangover, Thrymr's thoughts center on the fact that in his mind... after what he saw within the black... the children were already lost. Nuance and subtlety and the chance of an inside involvement don't factor to him. But even if no others are hale... he sees that the only way to reclaim the bairns will be to track the orcs and strike upon them when the ground is more favourable to him. This is how his mind is set as booted feet crunch on the frosted ground.
Gifr follows his companion, head low and gait smooth.
Halla stumbles forward through the snow and discharges her crossbow blindly into the heart of the darkness.
Bjorg, one of Palli and Hilde's grandchidren, looks with haggard face at Halla after the first bolt is loosed. She moves to drag down the stock of Halla's crossbow with the hand that is not still holding a spear.
"The children are still in there!" she snaps... not that Halla will understand immediately. "Would you pierce one of them, madwoman?"
Eysteinn wastes a few instants looking impotent at the dark shape getting away, leaving corpses and weeping parents behind. His teeth are buried into his lower lip as he tries as hard as he can not to scream in frustration and anger.
He finally manages to let go of the blade, and his white knuckles regain color as he stretches his hand. Feeling empty, he tries to stay as occupied as he can to avoid thinking about what happened. Tending to the wounded seems like the closest, and easiest, course of action.
______________________
With no way to stop orks or save any other children, Rikka tries to save Sausage. "Don't die, pig. We're all we've got."
Knute nods mutely at the woman's reply, then looks towards the gate, seeking Palli. He notes the dead elf, but doesn't think much of it as he waits for Palli to make his way over.
"I think she will live... but what is this, some sort of poison?"
Knute breathes a sigh of relief at Palli's words, but shrugs his shoulders at his question. "I don't know. The orks certainly seemed more cunning than usual." He mumbles the words, obviously exhausted and still in disbelief. He rummages in his pocket, pulls out the two bottles of liquid he took from the dead orks, and offers them to Palli. "I found these potions on the orks. Maybe they are poisons?"
Knute stumbles as something crashes into him. Suddenly alert, he turns to see his mother embracing him, and relaxes again. He hugs her back. "I'm all right, mother. I'm all right..." His voice lacks the usual sarcasm Rikissa's worrying produces, and if one looks closely they might see a tear in the corner of his eye. Thank you, Skaði, Knute breathes a silent prayer in relief.
"Don't worry too much about me yet, Palli. There are others who need you more." Knute does sit down though, gritting his teeth as he moves his shoulder. Now that he's found his mother and Lydd has been seen to, Knute's eyes look less wide and worried, instead looking tired. He looks up at Rikissa, obviously still worried. "Where is Halvar? And where did the orks go; are we safe? I heard they took children..." Knute looks towards the gate with weary eyes, deciding whether or not he should get up again.
Halla stars at Bjorg uncomprehendingly for a long moment, then throws the crossbow down in the snow in disgust. "Ní gá bás," she hisses in the direction of the overgrown Hrolf before turning her attention to other fallen warriors.