"That's the spirit!"
Gorim gives a nod to Henry's statement, and continues to wait behind the tree, carefully trying not to lean past it's width.
The towering mass of muscle roars in surprise as Quick’s spell smacks him square in the deformed nose. A bit of dark blood trickles down the gnarled face.
"Hell no, Gorim comes in and flanks him. Daft bastard can't look in two directions at once!"
Seeing the half-orc step up to meet him, the giant eagerly thrashes between trees and over bushes, stopping short and holding the enormous club up as he stoops to issue a challenging roar at the falchion wielder. The war cry is felt in the ground under their feet, and rancid breath wafts over Gwath and Henry.
But the half-orc is undaunted by the imposing display, and the giant snorts, bringing the great wooden weapon to bear with a wild and sadistic grin.
"I'm with you Gwath."
"Come get some, beastie," Henry Southgard whispers as he fires his crossbow.
As soon as he sees the bolt hit, he lowers the crossbow, steps in the stirrup, draws the bowstring back, and loads a fresh bolt.
Gorim, careful not to lunge out too soon, waits a little longer.
It just needs tah take a few more steps...
Quick takes a step out of the monster's path and prepares to send another bolt of energy at the ogre.
A bolt fletching appears to have sprouted from the hulking figure’s gut, and it bellows again as tromped underbrush cracks and snaps under his massive feet. He closes in on Gwath, whose swing is a moment too eager, a moment too early. The heavy blade whiffs through the air, just inches from the giant’s round belly, and the half-orc watches the tree drop from overhead.
Fortunately, the privateer knows what to do when trees are falling, and he sidesteps the mighty blow just in time.
Another bead shoots from Quick's hand and hits the ogre square in the jaw.
Gripping his sword tightly in both hands, Quick steps in and swings, "DINOK!"
"DEATH!"
Henry Southgard blinks as a tree trunk splits the ground in front of him. No telling if a man could survive a hit like that, but he'd be favored by the gods if he did.
"Everyone, prepare to fall back. Split off and meet up with Gorim if you get hit," he shouts as he skips past a tree.
The mercenary fires at the Ogre, and then pats his chest as he remembers that he has healing potions and a decent throwing arm.
I move two tiles upnumeral to T8 and fire at the Ogre.
Gorim peers around the tree at the hulking figure, and darts out.
Pausing behind another tree, hoping the Giant was too distracted to notice, Gorim mumbles while shaking his head "All that is deep, what's thah matter with me..."
The massive man makes a sideways swing at the crossbowman as he backs through underbrush, out of reach. Henry feels the wind of the blow brush right over his head, colliding into the tree he hurries around. The explosion of sharp splinters and pointy twigs cover the mercenary as he rounds to fire a shot! The bolt sinks deep into the giant’s chest, and further enraged by missing the puny human, the dim-witted ogre closes in on Henry’s position, bellowing fearsomely at the top of his lungs.
Henry Southgard blinks away sap and pulverized bark as the Ogre's bellow washes over him, even louder than Gorim's clanking. His mind flashes back five years ago, when Shaleclast's Free Company discovered exactly what manner of creature guards Druidic covens. Trees that, contrary to all that was good and pure, could walk and roar and stand in defiance of a forest fire.
Well, running had worked back then too.
Shouting incoherently, the mercenary ducks and directly away from the Ogre.
Quick, desperate to end this fight, swings again.
The Dwarf dashes out around the tree and behind another.
The half-orc mage arcs an uppercut swing between the hulk’s legs, the curved blade plunging deep into the vitals below the belt. Blood gushes down the muscular legs and covers the cold underbrush as the massive figure falters to one knee, moaning in pain before falling flat on his face with a great crash. Blood pools around the dying giant.
The creatures in the trees and vegetation remain still after the disturbance, giving the forest edge an eerie quiet.
"Very good, kid," Henry Southgard says as he stumbles past Quick and examines the Ogre. His gaze lingers over the necklace of skulls, bound with rough rope. Most of them clearly came from adults, but fragments of smaller, less developed skulls hint that trophies harvested from children just don't last as long.
"Congratulations, gentlemen. Tonight we go to bed satisfied with a day's work."
Quick flicks his blade to dislodge excess bits. At Henry's comment, the young half-orc scowls and mutters under his breath.
"Hinskaal jul nikriin. fen ni orin aav grah, nunon praal rigir voth ok qiilaan. For zey kiir... "
"Stupid man coward. Won't even join the battle, just sits back with his bow. Call me kid..."
|
Gwath stands unmoving with his sword held high and tight and his eyes wide, while his brain tries to catch up with reality as the cloud of dirt from the fallen ogre settles.
Finally, he blinks and shakes his head, lowering his weapon.
"No offense, but I didn't think we were all going to make it out of that one..."
"I was taught to enter combat expecting to die. In this way, a warrior is ready for death and prepared for victory."
"When confronted with our mortality, the only courageous response it to welcome its presence, let it wash over you, and accept it. Only then will you be without fear."
"And only the warrior that is free of fear may experience true victory."
Quick takes a short breath and relaxes. Clearly, this is a doctrine he has memorized and repeated many times.
"Kid," Henry Southgard says at the end of Quick's speech. "There's precious few things worth dying for in this world, and your warrior pride ain't one of them."
"Welcome to the life of a mercenary. You fight to get paid, so you have to survive first. That means attacking where you're strong and falling back where you're weak. Sometimes it means meeting the foe on the battlefield, sometimes it means burning the village down while the warriors are out hunting."
"But usually it means burying the warriors who achieved 'true victory' in an unmarked grave once the battle's over."
The crossbowman points somewhere off into the distance.
"If you got a problem with that, Port Elam is thataway. I think there's a fight or two you skipped out on."
Quick stares blankly back at Henry. "Disguise your fear however you wish. My actions today may very well have saved your life: or Gwath's or Gorim's."
"You may think me quaint, or naive, or foolish, but I was born with glorious purpose. I do not fight for money, but for honor and truth."
Quick starts to turn away, then stops. "Oh, and next time you want to call me 'kid', remember that I can unravel your mind with a word as easily as I cleaved that ogre in two."
Henry Southgard takes a moment to spit out a wad of splinters and sap before answering the young sorcerer.
"Your actions?" he asks as he steps onto the ogre. With a show of effort, he yanks a bolt out of the monster's gut. "Naw, I think this here might have contributed."
The crossbowman casually tosses the ruined bolt aside. "Kid, I wasn't born yesterday. You've got uncanny power, but you're still a wee minnow. Right now, your blades command a lot more respect than the little stones you were conjuring."
Henry is unnerved by the half-orc, but he doesn't want to lose control of the situation.
Gorim stumbles out from between the trees toward the raised voices, "Easy lads... save it for thah next one, eh?"
The Dwarf pauses to stare at the giant, almost in disbelief - it fell so soon. "Thah both of you took it down, Gwath too, so let's not unravel now."
"I never doubted your contribution, old man. I am simply ashamed for you. The fact that people pay you to be condescending from the back of the line while firing a mechanical bow that any 6 year old could operate with comparable skill. Where is your honor?"
"True Gwath. For now, you are right, but what about when it does matter? You want this one leading you then?"
He gestures to Henry.
"I say Gorim leads. Him I trust to do the right thing."
Gorim and Gwath's words fall on deaf ears. Henry Southgard remains unmoved by Quick's speech, right up to the point where the mage denigrates his crossbow. His eyes harden as he shows the underside of the bow, and the other party members catch a glimpse of a family seal.
"Little child, this bow was carried by my father and his forefathers. It was made by master craftsmen while your tribe hunted with sticks and bones. It has slain crime lords and assassins in its time. In my hands, it has been present for the fall of kingdoms and the siege of great cities."
The mercenary steps down from the ogre.
"I have honor. If I take a man's money and agree to do a job, I will see that job done. And if a man fights alongside me, I will fight alongside him as if he were my brother."
"What tribe is that? Oh!" Quick says with exaggerated revelation, "You think because I have orcish blood that I'm from some primitive tribe of rapey savages? Is that it?"
"Well, I can tell you that I have never lived among my baser kin, and despite being carried by some dead sellsword relatives, that is still the weapon of a coward."
Quick flips a gold coin at Henry's feet. "I want to buy your honor. The job is to be silent. Is this enough money? I wouldn't want to insult such a sensitive coward."
Quick turns on his heel and continues in the direction they had been traveling before the encounter with the ogre.
Henry Southgard pockets the coin and turns to the others. "Sorry you had to see that. It won't remain a problem."
He sets off after Quick and beckons the others to follow him.
Gorim, stunned for a moment, follows along.
Before departing, Henry spots two gold teeth among the necklace of skulls. Together, they weigh about the same as a single gold coin. In the crudely fashioned leather pouch sewn to the loincloth of animal hides, the mercenary finds an apple-sized, ten-sided wooden dice. Each of the sides are rough carvings of various forms of simple but imaginative torture. Pulling out the maggoty food and useless twigs, Henry also finds a pearl rolling around the bottom of the bag.
The ground inclines steeper as the four proceed into snowier, sparsely wooded terrain. An hour passes before a loud, distant bellow breaks the silence, not far from where the survivors of Port Elam battled the bloodthirsty giant. By the timbre, the mournful cry was likely from one of its kin.
But no sign of pursuit reaches them as Gorim, Henry, Quick, and Gwath march into the Baldrin Heights. Windblown snow flurries hamper their vision at times, and the blustering gusts themselves bite at exposed skin. After another two hours of travel, the cold of the mountain winds cut to the bone, and the frozen, snowy earth gives way to rocky crags covered by white drifts. The map directs them through a rugged path, toward a high pass between two peaks ahead. Still, the pass is much higher in elevation than where the four trudge at the moment.
Quick, more accustomed to the snow than others, trudges on in sullen silence.
Henry Southgard bundles the poncho tighter and keeps a weather eye out for a good shelter to make camp in.
Gorim presses onward, his eyes focusing mainly between the two peaks. Occasionally they'd break away in attempt to observe the lands below through the erratic gusts of snow.
"Orcs marched a whole army over this range?" Henry Southgard asks Gorim. "That took a lot of discipline. You ever wonder who led them?"
"Aye... impressive, really..." states the Dwarf, "too bad about their destination..."
He takes a few more deliberate steps, careful with his placement each time.
"It's crossed my mind, their leader. Ain't quite sure who though."
"You think they're to head much beyond Elam?"
"No. They were looking for someone in Port Elam. I expect they'll stop once the King's forces oppose them." Quick blushes slightly. I should not have said that.
If there is someone who records the history of the orcish lands, it is not widely known to scholars of the rest of the world. Much of Vyren’s relation to the Korgrut Empire to the south is the vigilant defense against the disorganized raids led by the warchiefs of the various orcish tribes that squabble south of the Heights. Still, Gorim remembers one warchief distinguishing himself from the others, at least enough for the King’s rangers and patrols to learn of his name -Borgruth tli Fezt Qhiavir (Borgruth the First Cleaver) and tli Briakir (the Breaker). But when this name arose, it was nearly twenty years ago, and orc lifespans are violent and short. Since then, names like Gartok tli Ewig (Gartok the Undying) and Rikkot tli Skedel Kraak (Rikkot the Skull Cracker) emerge and are feared for a summer before they are forgotten and never heard of again. In comparison, Borgruth the First Cleaver gave the King’s horses trouble for a length of a decade before fading into obscurity for another two. Perhaps he met the same fate as most orc warchiefs: in-fighting against other alpha orcs in the tribe, or a raid from a neighboring rival.
"Looking for..." Henry Southgard freezes as a horrifying idea comes to him. "Stars and stones, were they looking for Moss?"
Quick shrugs and trudges on at a snails pace so as not to lose earshot of the conversation. No fool. They was looking for me...and they can't find me. They can't...