Both at Taralos
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Both at Taralos |
Now Rurik was aware of the danger, and took control. "Fall back!" he cried, "Fall back to the town!" The shieldwalls seperated, and the Cormarans retreated towards the ruins of Taralos.
For the moment, the Marmarkans let them go, but as the reinforcements added themselves to the original wall it was clear that at any moment they'd come howling across the intervening space and fall on the defenders. Without some assistance, they were doomed.
It was time for something drastic. Careful not to touch himself with his own sword, Percinious reached into his bag and pulled out the horn Dhmaestrekhana. Placing it to his lips, he drew a deep breath and blew.
For a frozen instant there was silence. Then, as if from an infinite distance, sound began. Tiny at first, it gathered force unstoppably until it had built to a dread howling the like of which the listners had never heard.
Then the mist came.
Coiling in from nowhere - from off the edge of sight, wherever one looked - the fog rolled in with the speed of a fast tide. Thick banks of it drifted across between the two embattled forces - and the Marmarkan army disappeared.
"Swift now," hissed Rurik, "and as quiet as we can; back through the town, and out the far side and we can be away. Bear right out of the town and head for the river; then move downstream." Careful to keep each other within view, the two companies crept into the dimness.
Visibility was almost nil, ten feet at best, although the half-Qhal discovered that once again their inhuman eyes were better in these conditions, giving them an extra 5' or so. It took longer than expected; their path wandered, unsurprisingly. But finally, the lead scouts reported that the river was reached, and the Cormarans turned to head along the bank.
Mehmet halted. He could find them again by following the river, and he wanted to know what the enemy was doing. As the small noises of his comrades faded into the gloom, he began to pick out the sounds of the other army from the other direction. Cries and curses revealed that the mist was spoiling the Marmarkan's battle plans, and he grinned. Then he came alert as a splash and curse, much nearer, betrayed the presence of other foemen.
Emerging from the fog came three speamen and a massive swordsman, four soldiers who'd managed to stick together in the chaos and had struck the river by accident. Now they were picking their way downstream to try and escape the eldritch mist. For a moment, Mehmet felt pity; these were just warriors, like himself, young men unfortunate enough to blunder the wrong way trying to get their bearings. Then his brow darkened. Just humans.
Split by a Multimissile, three arrows came whispering out of the mist to slam into the swordsman. He was a mighty man, tall and strong, but the wounds were mortal, and he dropped instantly; the other three scattered to cover with cries of fear. Mehmet grinned. It would be a long while before they dared to pursue, and the Company would be gone by then.
Then a gleam caught his eye. Daylight! The fog was thinning. This was the other reason he'd fallen back, to try and judge if Dhmaestrekhana's effect was pinned to a location or followed the horn, and its' size. His eyebrows rose. The fogbank had to be at least two hundred and fifty yards across.
He faded back into the fog and jogged back to join his comrades.
An hour later, as the Company reached the ridge from where they'd first seen Taralos, the fog shredded, faded, and vanished. There was just time for the men to throw themselves to the ground, although it was unlikely the Marmarkans had been unaware of the fog's location. None the less, the enemy was widely scattered, and it would be some time before they were organized enough to mount a pursuit.
Swift movement southwards across country had brought the survivors of Taralos to the Isgrim Forest. The tales of the place were unnerving, but being caught in the open, dispirited and weary, by a force double their size was a much less palatable concept. Now, camped in a clearing a mile into the trees, the companies felt reasonably safe.
Mehmet and Percinious found that their reputation and standing in Bloodwind's company was greatly increased by their deeds on the field. Mehmet's slaying of the enemy leader in full boast was greatly admired, and Nutbolter's procuring of their escape from the field when all seemed lost was regarded with gratitude. A little dash of superstitious awe was mixed in, because of the sorcereous nature of the aid, but it seemed free of unpleasant side effects, and the expression 'black magic' was conspicuous by its' absence.
Bloodwind and Skywhite were debating the disaster. It was obvious that none of the Cormarans had expected an invasion this size. How big was it? Mehmet and Percinious volunteered to interrogate the 'prisoner' - after all, they were the only ones who spoke his language. Skywhite appeared very unhappy about this, but Rurik agreed, the fact of his approval clear in his ommission to mention to his brother captain that he himself spoke passable Dorlan.
The four half-Qhal retreated to a safe distance, and fell to talking. The prisoner, Fellion Duregast, was more than willing to become part of the embryonic Qhalur conspiracy rather than be tortured, and cheerfully told what he knew of the invasion forces. There had been ten boats, of which the force here today had occupied four; there may have been more that had set off from elsewhere. The reinforcements had been expected, and he had been unaware of other Cormaran units elsewhere in the beachhead area.
Skaven chipped in the Skywhite's scouts had indeed reported contact with Hornstone and Everdrinker's companies, but not for several days. Perhaps they had encountered the Marmarkans earlier and been destroyed.
Lastly, Mehmet asked Fellion how many half-Qhal lived among the Marmarkans. His answer was a surprise - ten or fifteen in a hundred, far more than in Cormar; unless the halflings in Cormar were more inclined to hide. His plans began to seem more and more possible.
Returning to the commanders, Mehmet reported the acquired military information faithfully. Rurik was troubled. The invasion was on a scale completely unexpected by the Cormarans, and word had to be got to the King. However, the invaders appeared to have secured all the land north of their current position, and the chances of the whole company breaking through were very slim.
Mehmet suggested that a small party, particularly one equipped with superior night-sight, sorcerous aid, and healthy luck, might make it through, and volunteered himself, Percinious and Skaven to make the attempt. Skywhite, predictably, objected. He never actually said so, but he obviously distrusted a fully halfling band would fulfil the mission.
"If not for we half-Khyle," said Mehmet acidly, "you would have no company." Skywhite bristled, but Rurik held up his hand. "Send one of your scouts, then, Kyrair. A human, but not one who in uncomfortable with my men." Skywhite thought a moment, then chose Morashez, a wiry, quick man who Skaven already knew fairly well and trusted.
Rurik penned a swift letter for Talatar Shieldchanger, describing the events at Taralos, and handed it to Mehmet. Percinious suggested they should take the prisoner, to show to the King as evidence, and Rurik, having no facilities for prisoners, agreed readily.
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Two days later, having travelled fast and light, the group were camped in a clearing in the Talus Forest, north of the hill bearing the Witch-Stones, dreaded in lore and legend.
During the day, they'd passed close under the lee of the hill, within sight of the Stones themselves. Mehmet had surreptitiously used Portalis to confirm their guess that the Stones were a Gate. Their companions had been disquieted by the sight of the place, grim, dark monoliths of enormous age, rearing against the sunset sky and crackling with occasional ripples of arcane energy.
The previous three days had welded the group into a single unit. Fellion had earned his place despite his origins, showing a willingness to help with the tasks of travelling and camping and disclosing no desire to escape. Morashez had proved comfortable with his half-human companions, unbothered by the reputation of their sorcery, although he'd had no evidence of it so far.
Warned by a half-presentiment, Nutbolter recalled the purple flash from their last sojurn in a forest, and glanced around for it - and spotted it! He pointed, and Mehmet sprang up with a cry of "Hey!". An arrow thudded into the ground between his feet, and the flash vanished. Picking it up, Mehmet called "Thanks, friend, and well met!" in the Qhalur tongue. Silence answered him.
After a while, when more contact seemed unlikely, they examined the arrow. It was utterly unlike anything they had ever seen before. The design, the colours, the decoration, all were alien. There was writing on it, they were sure, but the characters resembled neither the flowing script of the Qhalur nor the brisk characters used by both the Vadorn and Dorlan languages.
Mystified, they turned in, setting careful guards as usual.
Later that night, Mehmet and Percinious were on guard, talking quietly. Percinious had just attempted to use the Hat to glean information about the arrow without success, and the pair were debating what else to try.
Suddenly, without the slightest warning, a mighty bear crashed out of the forest and charged towards them. For a moment, both were paralysed by shock. Both had encountered the Merevalian bear before; normally a rather placid vegetarian animal, it was no trouble to men unless its' cubs were threatened. This was something completely other. Focussed, purposeful, dynamic, it charged directly at Mehmet as if it knew what it was doing.
Percinious and Mehmet desperately tried to throw themselves out of its' path. Nutbolter succeeded easily, not least because the bear showed no interest in him whatsoever. Mehmet could not avoid it. It slashed at him as it passed, both paws and its' teeth aimed at one location - his right arm. Only the Bracers of Vaktal saved him from having his hand rent off.
His mind flashed. The arrow! Grabbing at his quiver, he pulled free the arrow shot at him earlier, and flicked it off into the forest away from the bear, calling out, "Call off your pet! Let us talk!" in the Qhalur language.
A voice answered him, a musical female voice speaking a language none of the group had ever heard before. The bear stopped attacking and hunkered down, glaring at Mehmet. The voice sounded again, this time speaking the Qhalur language with a very strange accent. "Surrender the blasphemous item, and you will live," it said.
"What item?" demanded Mehmet, bewildered.
"You have used Gate power this day. It is forbidden. The device that you bear controls the Gates, the greatest obscenity ever committed in the world. You will surrender it to me."
"Why should I? It is my birthright!"
"It is one you do not want. It is tainted!"
Mehmet lowered his bow, holding it and an arrow in his right hand but gesturing with his left. "We mean you no harm," he said persuasively, "come and talk".
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A figure moved into view at the edge of the clearing, and the five men stared at it in disbelief. None of them had ever seen anything like it before. Humanoid, but less human than anything any of them had ever encountered, she was short - no more than shoulder height - with strange, fey, but beautiful features.
Twin scimitars and a round shield rode her shoulders, strange shoes - probably suited for climbing trees - on her feet, and her short, embroidered tunic was that elusive purple shade.
In her hands she bore a bow, and again this was like nothing any of them had ever seen. Recurved on itself, it appeared made of several different materials, and though shorter than Mehmet's foresters' bow, looked powerful.
"I am of the Archen," she said, by way of introduction, "and my people belong here in a way that you humans and Qhal do not. We were here when you arrived, and when the misused, unwise power of the Gates cracked the world. Now we ensure that the Gates will never again be used."
"Why should we not? We will not misuse the power..." began Mehmet.
"Have you forgotten your history?" snapped the Archen.
"Our people are no more."
"You did it to yourselves! The Qhal ruled this world once, did you know? And then they lost control of the Gates, and smashed the planet, sank all the world into the oceans, sank the Master Gate half under the sea...."
Percinious had been unable to conceal his surprise at this statement - Master Gate? So the Witch-Stones are not the only one, nor the main one? - and the Archen's elfin face creased for a moment in annoyance at giving information away.
Mehmet looked almost apologetic as he said "We don't trust you. Why did you attack us and then pretend to be our friend?"
"I am not your friend!" she snapped. "I am your corrector!" She gestured sharply with her bow. "Put the item there on the ground, and I will destroy it - then I will walk away and leave you to your lives."
You won't thought Nutbolter darkly. A people like this living in the world for how many milennia, and no tales, no legends, no records? Only one way to achieve that. No witnesses...
"How can you destroy the Gates?"
"We cannot. No-one can, less the very earth or stone on which they stand is destroyed... or drowned in water. But we can, will, do, destroy anything enchanted to open them or use their power, and any one with the knowledge of how to do so."
"We need time to consider," hedged Mehmet. "You have five minutes," the Archen answered coldly. Mehmet gathered his friends together, then looked back at the fey archer. "Would you move the bear please?" he asked reasonably.
She trilled to it again, and it lumbered across the clearing to her side obediently. As this was done, Mehmet, whispered a few words to the others to ready them for his next move, then turned, playacting convincing resignation. "Very well...." he said.
His hand dipped slowly into a pocket, and came out with a golden ring, purloined from Bankos Goldbane's house. With a sudden flick, he sent it spinning into the air. Inescapably, it drew the Archen's huge green eyes up after it.
In that second, Mehmet whipped his bow up, drew the nocked arrow, and loosed. As soon as his first arrow was away, he siezed another and shot again; but the first was more than enough. The Archen girl was taken completely by surprise and the clothyard shaft punched through between her ribs, throwing her backwards to the forest floor.
For a moment she writhed, blood pouring from the mortal wound. "You will be stopped!" she gasped, then slumped as the life drained out of her. They had never even learned her name.
Percinious braced himself, looking at the bear, expecting it to attack in vengeance. It reared back, and from its' jaws came a terrible, dissonant howling, filled with distress and loss. As they watched, whatever it was that had made it different from an ordinary bear faded from it's eyes. It turned, and fled the clearing.
This marks
the beginning of an involuntary hiatus in the Mereval campaign, just as the
vista of unlimited worlds opens before the characters. Aimo [Mehmet] is off
to Antarctica for six months; have a good time and stay safe matey. This leaves
me with just one player, which is too few for a workable table campaign. We
may experiment with webcams and MSN Messenger but I am sceptical as to how well
it will work.
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