R.W. Krpoun's Blog, page 22

A good week so far

So I had my annual physical, and came through with flying colors. Qualified to maintain my retiree carry status, and shot a 249 out of 250 (I never in my life have gotten a perfect score; lots of 248s and 249s, but ever once 250).

The case that I just got called for was settled by plea bargain.

And I’ve got a project past the halfway point by word count.

2019 is getting off to a good start.

Gamer Story XIV

I’ve always had a web site devoted to my gaming campaign to help my players keep track of events. In the early days I wrote short stories based on the PCs and posted them on the site for my player’s amusement. This campaign was the Hackmaster system set in the Kingdoms of Kalamar setting.

And you fought ‘fish-folk’?” the scribe observed, checking his notes.

“Koa-Toa, amphibious humanoids,” Max clarified. “It was the completion of our trade with the Deep Gnomes: they helped us find Mezzian, gave us the second Key we needed, and information on the location of the third Key; in return, we raised a small military force, and stormed a Koa-Toa temple that was causing them trouble. After we looted the place, they took control of it.”

“And the military force was the gladiators you bought from the Drow.”

“Yep. We set ‘em free, afterwards. We lost Falastel, Shadow Rider’s Elf girlfriend in the temple, killed by Derinnel, a Drow we thought we had rescued. Well, we did rescue her from the Koa Toa, but turns out she wasn’t grateful. She got clean away with a bunch of portable loot she stole from us, as well.”

“And from there you went to the Grand Vault of the Drow?”

“Yeah. It wasn’t so grand, though. The Gnomes gave us information on a rebel organization that could be of use to us; we did some tasks for them to establish our bona fides. The Key was in the collection of this tax-baron, a heavy hitter. We managed to convince him we were bringing in a high-ranking rebel, then jumped him and his guards. We lost Ta’Chala there, a real tough fight, but we killed the tax-collector, and secured the Key, as well as some gate keys the rebels needed.”

“Was Ta’Chala the only Talon you lost?”

“No, we lost Merrick as well. He made a stupid remark while we were trying to dupe the ‘collector, and we had to pass it off as a rouge theft; he was flogged, and bit his own tongue in half from the pain. Which, of course, crippled him as a spellcaster. He wouldn’t stay out of things, and after we staged an ambush on a Drow patrol in the rough side of town, we had to scatter. He came across a bunch of diseased beggars while he was working his way to the rally point, and wouldn’t give them any alms; when they realized that he was alone and not very tough, they dragged him down and killed him. He was stew before Dag could track him down.”

“And you helped the rebellion?”

“Sort of; we commanded their rearguard¼see, the rebels knew they couldn’t take the city or the Vault and hold it. Every other rebellion had tried that, and Drow armies flooded in. This time, they planed a mass escape.”

“There was a battle, a large-scale military action?”

Max drank deeply before replying. “Yes. There was a battle.”

***

Max leaned against a handcart and cursed bitterly. “How the blazes did we get roped into this?”

Osila shook her head. “I’m not sure. I thought when we negotiated this, our part would mean that we just ‘brought up the rear’, watched out for stragglers, that sort of thing.”

“Well, we’re in the soup now,” the Captain sighed. “Two hundred fifty slaves, a bunch of weapons, and the duty to hold the Drow off so a mile-long caravan can cross the Vault and escape.” The Renaarian spat onto the cobblestones. “We are so dead.”

Tylwyth zipped in and hovered. “Trova has them counted off and split into five platoons; he, Norbert, Boager, Loki, and Dag will command them. They’re sorting out sub-leaders and issuing more arms and armor as we speak.”

“How’s it look?”

“Not as bad as you might expect; they assigned us two gladiatorial companies and a bunch of bodyguards; all of them know what a weapon is, and at least half have drawn blood. The arms and armor are good quality, and plentiful. Best of all, Trove managed to split them into groups who know each other.”

“Good. I’d rather have the Trollkin mercs, but we’ll make do with what we’ve got.”

***

“They’ve cleared the gate,” Tylwyth reported.

“Good. Tell Norbert to lead First Platoon through.” Max studied the battered city skyline. “If they sowed enough confusion, we might still pull this off.”

“It’s a grim plan the Rebel Council came up with, letting a third of the rebels think that seizing the city was the goal,” Shadow Rider observed. “None of them will see the dawn. So to speak.” The Dejy had changed his name from Pale Rider when he obtained a cure for his albino-ism.

“Yeah, but their purpose is to keep the Drow busy enough for the rest to escape. It’s a rough business, but these are Drow we’re dealing with, and their slaves. I doubt many of these rebels follow the Light.”

***

“Well, I lived longer than I thought I would,” Shadow Rider remarked sourly. “We’re actually five miles from the exit point.”

“We’re not dead yet,” Max pointed out, absently stroking Doomsaker’s hilt as he studied the Trog units forming into battle lines. “They look to be about the same number as we have and Trogs aren’t the brightest creatures.”

“Neither are we.”

***

Gripping a wounded Trog in the crook of his left arm as a shield, Boager hewed the legs out from beneath another with a powerful stroke of Steel-Brand. The air was thick with Trog musk and dust, and the hammer-rattle of steel meeting iron, wood, and flesh was deafening.

The Trogs simply would not quit; they had driven the rearguard back sixty feet by sheer fanatical determination, and the normally-easygoing Boager was becoming seriously concerned. Less than half his platoon was still on their feet, and twice there had been desperate fighting to patch breaches in the platoon line. The Trogs were taking punishing losses, but they were dragging down rebels at an alarming rate.

***

“Bastards,” Norbert gasped as he ducked an axe-swing. Normally Trogs had weapons of stone, clumsy and ill balanced, but these servitors of the Drow had good steel and plenty of practice in using it. Beside him Felosithe expertly stabbed the Trog in the throat with Blackwand’s rune-encrusted point.

A Trog lunged for Felosithe, who was recovering from her thrust, only to catch a foot of enchanted steel as Norbert took him from the side.

***

“Hold your positions, Third Section face left, move; steady lads, steady.” Trova moved back and forth behind his platoon, directing and encouraging. The churchman’s halberd was bloody from shoring up the line when a breach threatened, but for the most part he leds his platoon, rather than wielding a weapon. Leadership was much more important at this stage than a single blade. “Right, two steps back to even the line, move! Steady lads, we’ll do for ‘em yet.”

***

“Gods damn!” Max swore as he staggered back from the line, his stomach twisting from the galling Trog-musk. He and Loki had just shored up a breach in the line until Dag could shift some men and plug the hole.

Laying Doomsaker’s bloody blade on his shoulder, he cocked his head and muttered, “How’s it look?”

“Wonderful! Great! Get in there and lets kill some more!” The sword’s ‘voice’ was a hearty bass with a metallic accent; although it was too low for most people to hear clearly (unless the sword really wanted to project), Max could always hear Doomsaker loud and clear.

“The battle! Focus! How does the battle look? You’re going to end up in a vault for decades if this goes sour.”

“Not again; I was in that damned tomb for nearly a century. I don’t know, your lads are holding up like Kalamarian Legions, those that are left. But the Trogs are coming at us like we’re storming their breed-pools; I don’t know what the Drow are paying them with, but they damn sure getting their money’s worth.”

“What should we do?”

“Pray. And get me back in the fight; there’s nothing else to do. Both sides are stretched to the breaking point. Whoever gives way first, loses.”

Gamer Story XIII

I’ve always had a web site devoted to my gaming campaign to help my players keep track of events. In the early days I wrote short stories based on the PCs and posted them on the site for my player’s amusement. This campaign was the Hackmaster system set in the Kingdoms of Kalamar setting.

“Another round,” Max yelled. Turning to the scribe, the burly commander scratched his head. “Where was I?”

“A fight at a bridge,” the slender writer prompted.

“Ah, yes.”

***

“Another crevice,” Max shook his head. “I hate this place. Its bad enough we have to be in the dark all the time without there being more holes than path.”

“The Netherdeeps is a forge of difficulty which hammers out souls of steel,” Dag observed.

“If it wasn’t for the spectacle of Tylwyth flogging himself for the first three weeks we were down here, I would have lost my mind,” Norbert confessed.

“Very good, funny,” his wife nodded.

“True, but his stupid circling around the party is getting really annoying; and since Silky’s carrying the lamp, you can’t see a thing,” Max sighed.  “At least there’s a bridge, and a stone one at that.”

“You would think that they could have bothered to add some sort of guardrail,” Norbert observed wistfully. The bridge, a slender span of stone, arced neatly across the fifty-foot chasm with only six-inch curbs to mark its boundaries.

“Or a couple extra feet of width,” Trova added. “After all, how hard is it to come by stone, down here?”

“Single file.” Max’s voice was grim. “Dag, take point.”

***

Overhead, Tylwyth clung grimly to his saddle. The business with the Silver Takers in Geanavue, or more properly, his error in judgement regarding the interrogation, torture, and slaughter of several Silver Takers in Geanavue, had left him in poor standing with his temple. Worse, the diminutive cleric felt a slight weakening of his powers, a possible hint that the Traveler was losing faith in him. Decisive action was required; he had procured a cord scourge, and had welted himself for weeks, hoping that this self-penance would prevent any further erosion of his abilities.

He slowed his penance after he started noticing a certain sexual arousal associated with the flogging; the night he had had a very vivid dream about Felosithe dressed in a glossy, strangely designed black leather outfit put the end to the scourging once and for all. When a Pixie-Fairie started having erotic dreams about Grel, he told himself, it was time to change his habits.

To continue his penance, the churchman rode his moth mount in slow but steady orbits around the party as they marched; oddly enough, the motion gave him indigestion and a slow burning headache that seemed impossible to shake. After the Drow city, he promised himself, he would find some other way of atonement.

***

They were halfway across the bridge when the stone span was suddenly coated in heat-less, harmless green fire that illuminated the entire company, and Derro swarmed out of the darkness. Otto the mule was cut down at the head of the column, his pack-laden corpse hindering the lead element from deploying properly. Kicker, standing at the apex of the bridge, did not panic, but could not turn around and would not advance, splitting the Talons into two elements.

Overhead, Tylwith’s uneven duel with Derro archers ended with Silky being shot out from beneath him; twisting desperately, the little cleric managed to direct his dying mount’s fall onto the bridge, saving the vital enchanted saddlebags it was carrying.

Unfortunately, the giant moth crashed into Merrick, hurling him off the bridge.

And then the Dark Dwarves, mounted on giant spiders, attacked the rear half of the party.

***

“That was a bastard,” Max gasped, leaning on Otto’s pack saddle, sweat pouring down his flushed face. “I thought we were finished there, for a couple moments.”

“You and me both,” Norbert shuddered, having already crossed Death’s dark door once. “Thank the Light for Boager’s new bow.”

Max had insisted the hulking half-Ogre polish up his archery skills, and had commissioned a custom bow mated to Boager’s draw and strength, although it had been fiendishly expensive. It was obviously money well-spent, as his great strength had propelled arrows completely through Derro warriors. Osila had likewise done good work with her new custom bow.

“Is Dag awake yet?” Max poured what left of the water in his canteen under his armor.

“Yeah.”

“Why did he coat himself in darkness and then run into the wall?”

“The darkness was so he could hide from the Derro; he was bleeding pretty bad. The wall came about because he was disoriented; he thought he was flanking the Derro line.”

“Lucky for him he didn’t fall into the crevice. Tylwyth said he flew down over five hundred feet without seeing the bottom.” Max heaved himself upright. “All right, Shadow’s done looting; time to get moving before something comes after the carrion. We won’t make it to Mezzian standing next to a dead mule.”

“I’m wondering if we’ll ever make it to Mezzian,” Norbert muttered, but stood and yelled for Arron to come unload Otto.

With Tylwyth flying in a slow orbit above them, the battered Talons moved deeper into the Netherdeeps.

***

“The city,” the scribe prompted impatiently at Max’s blank look. “You were in the city of the Drow.”

“Oh, yeah,” the Talon muttered tiredly. Hiring a writer to document their extended travels into the Netherdeeps had seemed like a good idea when he had suggested it to the rest of the Talons, but halfway through it seemed to be an annoying waste of money and time.

***

“I hate this place,” Max observed, absently back-handing a beggar into the gutter, the supplicant’s hands having been casually easing towards the commander’s pouch while the crippled half-Elf hobbled alongside the Talon pleading for alms.

“Its hard on the nerves,” Loki agreed, eyeing the crowds surging around them. He, Max, Dag, Trova, Boager, and Belina were out on their daily shopping expedition.

The Talons had arrived in Mezzian a week before, having traveled for nearly fourteen days from the trade moot to reach the great domed cavern which teemed with the Dark Elves and their minions. Establishing a base of operations by evicting a beggar colony from a small cavern complex on the edge of the underground, the company had taken stock. After some inquiries, they had risked a daring raid into a the ruins of a Drow House complex (a taboo act) to secure a Land’s arm, an ancient Drow sword that was one of the keys they needed.

With their first key in hand and their most immediate objective accomplished, the Talons had turned to their second objective: to fulfill the first half of their pact with the Pure Onyx Gathering by raising a military force. Having decided to take advantage of the Drow’s love of gladiatorial events, the Talons had ordered enough military gear for a company of one hundred warriors, and each ‘day’ toured the slave pits, buying up gladiatorial-trained slaves. It was slow going; it took time to find Human or Half-Orc slaves of the proper dispositions, training, and abilities, but time was one thing the Talons had in abundance.

“Hey.” Max looked about at the call, finally spotting a well-dressed Ogre motioning to him. Under one arm the huge humanoid cradled an ornate chest in the same manner as Max would have carried a gallon jug.

“What?” the Talon asked without much curiosity. So far today he had been offered drugs of every type, slave girls, slave boys, a thing in a cage that startled him badly, and more kinds of food than he had thought possible.

“Look, I need money fast, so I’m selling this chest,” the Ogre hefted the container. “My name’s Herox, by the way.”

“Max. Why would I want a box?”

“This is a chest, not a box, and it’s enchanted: it will hold thirty cubic feet of goods without aging. You know how these things work, I can tell.”

Max did indeed; the Talons had a set of saddlebags that worked along those lines. “How much?”

“Five thousand.”

“Check it out,” Max instructed Merrick, who quickly turned to the task. Leaning close to Loki, he whispered, “What do you think?”

“Its worth at least ten, so either he’s desperate, or its stolen,” the tall Fhokki shrugged. “Either way it’s a good deal, if the enchantment is real.”

“It’s the real thing,” Merrick reported a moment later. His hearing restored by clerical magic, the Elf was able to keep his voice low, although his speech was still monotone.

“How about four?” Max asked.

“Forty-five,” Herox sighed. “So long as you’ve the cash on hand.”

“We do.” Max shook the taloned paw Herox offered to clinch the deal and turned to Loki. “Dig out….thanks. Here.”

In a burst of noise and motion, the Talons and Herox were suddenly enveloped by a crowd of shouting Ogres; instinctively the Talons drew together, blades flashing out. Just as suddenly, a Drow patrol charged into the group, barking orders and rapping all participants on their chests to force them apart.

“What’s going on here?” the patrol commander snarled in thickly accented Merchant’s Cant.

Max hastily waved Belinda forward. The half Drow, half Grey Elf slave had been purchased as a guide and interpreter when they reached the city, with the promise of her freedom and an escort to the surface if she served them well. It was a highly successful move on the Talons’ part. The beautiful young mixed-blood quickly explained their position while adroitly slipping the Drow officer a small but sufficient bribe.

Mollified, the patrol separated the two groups and moved on.

“Notice how quick Herox vanished with our money and the chest when the shouting started?” Loki snarled.

“Yep. A little too smooth, a little too polished,” the commander agreed. “We’ve been had. Where’s Boager?”

“Damn, he vanished in all the confusion,” Dag  muttered, eyeing the crowds. “No, wait, here he comes.”

“Where did you go?” Max snapped. “I know I said we stick together.”

“Uh, yeah.” Boager nodded amiably. “But I was standin’ there and a Drow said ‘get wit’ yer group’, and I sed ‘I’m wit dem’ and point at the Ogres, so the Drow lets me go dere. And then I follows the Ogres when they leave, only nobody pays me no mind.”:

“Where did they go?” Loki grinned.

“’Bout five blocks down. They meet with the one with the chest, and then set up inna alley.”

“Imagine that.” Loki and Max exchanged grins. “Boager, lead us to that alley.”

***

Herox was getting tired. Aside from the surface mercs, he hadn’t had a decent bite on the chest scam. Maybe it was time to switch over to stolen arms again, or the mushroom switch.

“Hey.” The Ogre glanced over and saw the merc who had bought the scam earlier standing at his elbow.

“Yeah?”

“I came for my chest.”

“What chest?”

“That chest.”

“You think so, eh? Well, first you have to talk to my friends,” Herox jerked a thumb towards an alley-mouth where he knew his three fellow High Ogres and eight Common Ogres waited.

“All right.” Max whistled sharply. Loki stepped out of the alley and held up a severed Ogee head by the hair with each hand.

Herox grunted with shock. Those were his two best warriors’ heads.

“My chest,” the Human repeated.

“Your chest,” Herox agreed numbly, passing it over.

***

”May I see the chest?” the writer asked eagerly.

“Nope. A week or so later the real owner tracked it down, and we had to give it back. It doesn’t pay to cross the Illithid,” Max sighed. “At least we got our money back, and more besides from Herox’s boys.”

Gamer Story XII

I’ve always had a web site devoted to my gaming campaign to help my players keep track of events. In the early days I wrote short stories based on the PCs and posted them on the site for my player’s amusement. This campaign was the Hackmaster system set in the Kingdoms of Kalamar setting.

“They fight like cornered wolverines,” Grasnave’s sub-chief shook his head. “You knock down one, and another steps right up. They’ve got a Grel in there, and some manic with two swords.”

“There’s one with an axe, not too short, who’s bad too,” a Verbeeg warrior observed, wrapping a bandage around his forearm. “I thought they had gotten you, Grasnave.”

“Close,” the Chieftan admitted. It had taken a whole jug of his healing sauce to put him to rights. “They’re not half smart, though: they cast spells and arrows like a drunk throwing rocks: no two on the same target. Now, their leader’s got a sword, I think its Doomsaker, a very bad blade that was buried with its owner some years back. We need to kill him quickly. Now, the Bugbears will demonstrate towards the double doors while the main attack hits the back door.”

“Excuse me, Chieftan.” The Yesgh, the Scorn Giant, stepped forward, a massive figure in helm and ring mail, the enchanted great sword Steel Brand at his waist. He stood five feet taller than Grasnave without his helm. “I would like the honor of leading that attack. Our Stone brethren likewise wish to see some action.”

Grasnave eyed the four armored giants sourly. Now that they had the raiders where they wanted them, the ‘guests’ were going to try to snatch the glory and loot, especially a sword of Doomsaker’s quality. He kept his face impassive and he replied. “Very well.”

Inwardly, he fought a grin: the first giant, and almost certainly the second, through that door would die. Better it be them than his own clan.

***

“All four?” Grasnave could not keep the surprise out of his voice.

“Too true,” the sub-chief shook his head. “Worse, their bodies blocked the doorway.”

“What about the ‘bears?”

“We lost a half-dozen or so, but we killed two or three of the raiders.”

“What of their leader?”

“He definately is amongst the fallen.”

Grasnave thought hard. “Too many failures. We must step back and put things to rights.”

***

“I’m still hearing bells,” Max complained groggily.

“Lucky you’re hearing at all,” Tylwyth shook his head, examining the fist-sized dent in his leader’s great helm. “I’ve Healed the fracture to your skull, but your head will hurt for another couple days, assuming you live that long.”

“How’s everyone else?”

“Out of spells and healing potions, carrying wounds, but still alive and mobile. Ta’Chala killed a Stone Giant in single combat; a lucky series of strokes, its true, but still, very impressive.”

***

Grasnave watched the ogre clamber over their barricade with carefully concealed impatience. Since the third and fourth attacks had failed to carry the arms room and had cost the Scorn and Stone Giants their lives, he had radically changed his tactics. He had dispatched the Bugbears, re-enforced with Ogres, downstairs to help their fellows deal with the rebel Orcs. Five Verbeeg and the rest of the Ogres were sent to clear the courtyard of whoever was attacking the wolves, and his wife was sent to organize the non-combatants for flight, should that become necessary. Meanwhile, he had sent the brightest of his Ogres to initiate a parley with the raiders in order to stall for time. Let him clear out his other two battles, and he would crush the raiders and regain his arms rooms.

***

“They’re willing to negotiate,” Max marveled. “We must have hurt them worse than we thought.”

“Negotiation is going to get us killed,” Tylwyth scowled.

“I’m not planning on cutting a deal, I’m just going to stall for time. We need to rest and plan.” Max frowned thoughtfully: Angus, perched on  a stack of shields, was talking animatedly with a Brownie who had not been there before. “Angus, what is happening?”

“Bad news: the giants drove the lads from the compound before we could harry the wolves,” the war leader looked embarrassed under his paint. “It was the water, you, see: it hadn’t come to a boil yet.”

“How many wolves are dead?”

“Oh, [i]dead[/i], well, we finished that straight away.”

“Where are the lads?”

“Up on the roof. We’ve the wolves there, too.”

“Can you have them join us here? We could use their help.”

“Aha! A cunnin’ plan.”

***

“The wolves are [i]gone[/i]?” Grasnave struggled with the idea. “Did they escape?”

“No, the gates are still barred. There’s plenty of blood and some small arrows, but that’s it.” The sub-chief looked as bewildered as Grasnave  felt.

“But the way is clear?”

“Yes.”

The chieftain considered his options; below, the Orcs had finally broken, although not before they had loosed most of their fellows and pulled down a dozen Bugbears and several Ogres. Grasnave had given orders that every Orc in the complex, slave or rebel, be killed; the bloody work was nearly done, and it was time to mount a final assault.

“Summon my wife.”

***

“Angus, why are your boys opening a hole in the roof?” Max asked, then shook his head as a large cast-iron pot was eased into the opening and began a jerky descent on ropes. “Oh, no, leave it on the roof.”

“How’re we going to harry the wolves without boiling water?” the Brownie protested, but at his gesture the pot halted its descent and began to laboriously lurch back up. “We tried it without, but what a mess.”

“What exactly does it mean to you, to ‘harry’ something,” Max inquired.

“Shave off its hair,” Angus replied promptly. “And for that you need soft soap and…”

“…hot water,” the Talon leader finished for him, and sighed. “Look, Angus, I think we’re going to have to drop the ‘harrying’ part of the attack on the wolves in order to concentrate on…ahhg!” A dead wolf crashed to the floor, narrowly missing Max.  “Angus!”

“Leave ’em on the roof, lads,” the war leader shouted over the sound of a second wolf corpse hitting the floor.

“Just how many of the wolves do you have up there?” Max asked through gritted teeth.

“All of ’em,” Angus shrugged. “The Orange Stone Clan shirks not a task, nor counts the cost.”

***

“I’ll send nine warriors with you as escorts,” Grasnave pointed on the leather map. “Wait here at this cave; there is food and supplies cached there against this sort of thing. If you receive no word by noon tomorrow, return to the Thundermasters.”

His wife Yonna sighed. “Come with us, Grasnave. The powers favor the raiders, and too many of the Clan have fallen. Leave before they do for you as well.” She kept her voice too low for anyone else to hear.

Grasnave grinned. She was short and broad, and never a beauty as their people measured it, but Yonna had been a good wife to him these twenty years. “They’ve stormed my hold, killed my guests, slain my sworn clansmen, and incited mutiny among my slaves, my love. Face them I must, or I’ll be chieftain no longer.”

“Pride,” Yonna sniffed. She gave him a hug that made his ribs creak even through his armor. “The children and I will wait for you.”

“Until noon only, wife of mine. I’ll be victorious or dead by then.”

***

“You’re sure that this will work?” Max demanded suspiciously.

“The theory is sound,” Merrick assured him, an ancient tome open on his lap.

“That’s not what I asked.”

“This will allow me to cast a spell which will encompass the Great Hall; until we attack, the giants will see our battle line standing as we normally do, while all but you and I will be illusions. This will allow the rest of the party to move about as if invisible.”

“This had better work, or we’re all dead.”

“It won’t matter: we can’t hold both rooms, there isn’t time to destroy one room’s worth of arms, and the giants are forming up,” Norbert shrugged. “We’re dead if we try to make a stand as we’ve done before.” He kissed his wife.

Max looked at the flask Loki held. “That should keep you proof from the Bugbears’ attacks for a minute or so; you’ll have to do as much as you can before the effect wears off. With luck, we can get you help by then.”

“Every man dies, but not all live,” the big Fhokki shrugged.

“What exactly does that mean?” Tylwyth inquired.

Loki grinned. “Nothing much. Just something to say.”

“I should have bedded Tuca,” Pale Rider shook his head mournfully. “Better yet, I should have stayed in Bet Urala.”

“Think positively,” Ta’Chala urged the nomad. “We stand in the company of brave warriors, facing a dark foe. Can any man’s death be less worthy?”

“I’m positive I should have slept with Tuca,” Pale Rider nodded thoughtfully. “And even more positive that you are a complete ass.”

***

Grasnave nodded to himself: the stall had worked. He had his remaining forces in position, the plan was set, and victory would be theirs. Two dozen Bugbears stood in a neat block, each armored and armed with a morning star and two throwing spears; the chieftain commanded nine of his Clansmen, his Keeper of Slaves (a massive hunchbacked Verbeeg), his Keeper’s two pet fighting apes, and a Fire Giant. The other Fire Giant and nine Ogres were set to assault the back door once battle was joined. His plan was simple: he and eight others would open the assault by hurling javelins which became bolts of lighting once they left the casters’ hands, single-use items he had been hoarding for years. The ‘bears would throw two volleys of spears and charge, while the Fire Giant and Ogres hit the back entrance. After that, they would fight until one side was no more. One way or another, this ended here.

He looked about, checking that all was in readiness, and opened his mouth to give the command to advance.

And then the Talons were amongst them.

***

Max slumped against a handy wall, red-faced and wheezing, sweat pouring from every pore. His arms felt like lead, he was wounded in a dozen places, and his throat felt like he had been drinking hot lead. Merrick was down, knocked unconscious by a dead wolf dropped through the roof, an accident by the Brownies. Dwalin lay near death, his left shoulder destroyed by a giant’s stroke, Norbert was unconscious, Loki was badly wounded, and Ta’Chala lay at Death’s door.

“Here.” Struggling against the weight, Osila poured the contents of a tub-sized bucket over the Talon leader’s head, the lukewarm water feeling like the bath of the gods to the exhausted warrior and it soaked through his mail and cooled his overheated muscles.

“Thanks,” he gasped, his breathing steadying. She knelt and held a canteen to his lips.

The water helped a great deal, cooling his over-heated body; eventually his lungs managed to drag in enough air to replenish his aching muscles, and the big Talon heaved himself to his feet with Osila’s help, wincing at the pain of his wounds. Limping, he made his way across the corpse-strewn Hall to where the Verbeeg Chieftain lay, surrounded by badly wounded Talons, leaning heavily on the lithe bard.

Tylwyth flashed past, liberally dabbed in blood, heading for more medical supplies. The cleric had assured him that the Talons would live; as soon as he had the wounds staunched and everyone stabilized, he would use their last dose of Fairy Dust to heal their wounds.

Looking down at the dead chieftain, Max shook his head.

“What is it?” Osila asked.

“There, but for the grace of the Traveler, goes I.”

Gamer Story XI

I’ve always had a web site devoted to my gaming campaign to help my players keep track of events. In the early days I wrote short stories based on the PCs and posted them on the site for my player’s amusement. This campaign was the Hackmaster system set in the Kingdoms of Kalamar setting.

“There.” Max stepped back to examine his handiwork. The thick beams the Talons had been lugging along were now slotted together like a Svimhozian puzzle-block into the door frame of the hallway entrance to the secondary arms room. “They’ll have to work pretty darn hard to get through that.”

“Of course, at that point we are utterly screwed,” Tylwyth observed somberly.

“This plan will work, and work beautifully,” the Talon leader assured the cleric. “Watch and see.”

“As if we had a choice,” Pale Rider shrugged. “There’s only two ways in, and you just sealed up the only safe way out.”

The Talons, with Angus’ help, had slipped unnoticed into the Thunderlords’ fortress, killed three drunken sentries in their sleep, and now occupied two connected rooms in which were stored the bulk of the giant’s war gear. One door in the west opened into the hallway leading to the entry-room they had used to get into the place, and which was now sealed; double doors to the east (in the adjoining room) opened into the giants’ Great Hall, where a feast was underway.

“Look at all this stuff,” Norbert observed to Felosithe, sweeping an arm to encompass the weapons and armor stacked and piled untidily in each room. “Spears like pikes, shields twice the size of a footman’s shield, axes that weigh twenty pounds. Thank the Traveler that they aren’t going to get their hands on this stuff.”

“Makes you wonder how much stuff they’ve got elsewhere,” Ta’Chala observed nervously.

“Not too much,” Loki assured him as the Talons formed up in the east room. “I mean, [i]look[/i] at all this.”

The Fhokki’s point was well-made: the walls were covered with axes and swords set on pegs, while sleeveless armored tunics (commonly called jacks) were stacked alongside piles of clubs, mounds of helms, and coiled lengths of chains the giants used like whips; the corners with home to sheaves of twelve-foot spears. The mounds of war gear were so vast as to leave scant foot-room in which to manuver despite the massive scale of the ‘small’ room; they were small only to the scale of a people who averaged nine feet in height. The twin doors the Talons were forming up in front of secured a wall-opening wider than a barn door.

“I would open the door, but it appears to have been spiked shut,” Loki advised Max as the commander took his place in the center of the line.

“Spiked? Angus….never mind. Maybe they got some of the doors. Pale, give me a prybar.”

“As if I go about with a prybar on me everywhere I go,” the Dejy rolled his eyes. “Trust a nomad to have the tools of theft on his person day and night. There’s a name for that sort of thinking.”

“Do you have a prybar or not?”

“As it so happens, I do have a short ‘bar,” Pale admitted, passing it over. “But I don’t carry it as a matter of habit.”

***

Grasnave, chieftan of the Thunderlords and master of this hold, ripped the meat from a turkey leg and chewed, thoughts dancing quickly beneath his bettle brow. The master of the Verbeeg clan was nine feet tall, only average for his kind, but was easily twice as broad as any of his fellows, thick masses of muscle strapped to heavy bones. More than just his size, however, won him his chieftan’s title: he was clever for his kind, and cunning.

It was his cunning that had raise him first to a war chief’s position (a sub-unit commander), then to the position of Chieftan’s [i]ajare[/i] or advisor, in his old clan the Thundermasters. When the old chieftan had died, Grasnave had led a group of younger giants off with him to form a subsidiary clan, which he called the Thunderlords. He had conquered a tribe of lowland Orcs to use as slaves, and aquired both (common) Ogres and Bugbears as vassels.

The greater giants held too much of the northern mountains, and demanded too much tribute from the smaller breeds, of which the Verbeeg were the smallest, actually being less fearsome in battle than High Ogres. Thus Grasnave led his forc south, and then west, into the foothills, where he heard that Humans were less well organized.

He had chosen a remote area with two small villages, and set his slaves to raising this hold while he extracted tribute.

The weeks that followed had been marked with both success and setback. The Human Lord of the area had demanded that the Thunderlords leave, but had declined to back that demand up with military force; the locals had begun handing over tribute, and the central  hold had been built with commendable speed. He had secured the services of two Fire Giants (with their own retinue of Dwarf slaves) to see to the blacksmithing and weapons-making needed to turn his fledgeling clan into a real war host. Three Stone Giants had hired on to design and supervise the excavations below his hold, and the stonework had proceeded apace.

Then the villagers had hired on a wizard who called himself the Antmaster to rid themselves of the Thunderlords, having realized that Lord Strom would not undertake the effort. Grasnave feared no magic, but the Antmaster had a tribe of Ant-Men whose fighting skills and numbers were enough to give the giants pause. The excavations beneath his Hold has stumbled upon natural caverns, and a mutiny among his Orcs cost him half his slaves, forced his to tie up his Bugbears with guarding his remaining Orcs, and watching the entrances to the caverns where the rebel Orcs had taken to hiding.

Grasnave had decided to wait in challenging the Antmaster until he had built a stockade around his hold, furthered the arming of his followers, acquired a better picture of the Antmaster’s capabilities, and dealt with the rebels. Meanwhile, he set his men to training the pack of wolves they had trapped, and placed a spy in the main village to keep him appraised of news.

Through the latter, he learned that the Antmaster had begun to demand tribute, souring the villagers on his ‘protection’; this was good news, until the villagers brought forth a band of wandering mercenaries. While a handful of Humans was not normally a problem, the spy had brought a sketch of their standard, and Grasnave had been uneasy at the victories it displayed. Their leader was bearing a sword he called Doomsaker, and while it might be mere braggery, it could also mean that he bore that fabled blade.

This feast was being made in the hopes of getting the three Stone Giants and a visiting Scorn Giant to formally join the clan; the three Fire giants were willing to work for the Verbeegs, but sneered at the possibility of serving within the Clan’s ranks.

The noisy gathering suddenly froze as a banded barrel, its tarred sides scored and bright yellow wood showing within the cuts appeared out of thin air a dozen feet over the central fire pit. It hung there for a single heartbeat before dropping to shatter on the banked mounds of coals, flaming lantern oil spraying out from the impact.

The oil was too heavy to do more than scorch a few Ogres sitting too close, but Grasnave was deeply upset at the sight of the rushes that covered the plank floor erupting into fierce, fast-moving flame. The walls were thick timbers, just aged enough to be worked, and slow to catch afire, but the rushes and grease-soaked planking would burn readily enough. While the Hold itself was not at risk, Grasnave knew that smoke was a killer, all the more so because the high ceilings and giants’ height would put the Verbeeg at risk while Humans fought safely below the killing murk. Too many times had Dwarves used that tactic against Hold-dwelling giants for him to be caught so easily. “Burek, take the Ogres and stop the fire; clear away the rushes! The rest of you….[i]there they are! [/i]Get them!”

‘They’ were a line of armored Humans arraying themselves in front of his armory doors. as his minions charged, the significance of their positioning sank into Grasnave: being short of war gear, as is not uncommon for a young clan, he had restricted war gear to his two arms rooms.

***

“Put that table on its side, there,” Grasnave turned to one of his brighter Ogres. “You, go to the dining hall near my quarters; there are spears and shields decorating the wall. Fetch them, quickly.” His wife had gone to his quarters to gather his own arms and armor, and whatever spares he had to hand; his guests, the Stone and Scorn Giants had likewise gone to their rooms to recover their own war gear. Meanwhile, Grasnave  supervised his war band in tipping over tables to form a rough barricade; they were propped into place with ale barrels, and their legs wrenched off to serve as clubs.

The first attack had cost him six good Clansmen; the raiders, the mercenaries hired by the village, had fought well and with great courage, supported by magic and missile fire. Unarmed and armored, his giants had fared badly.

Sudden shouting jerked the chieftain from his musing. “They’re [i][b]attacking![/i][/b]”

***

“Damn, they fight hard,” Loki gasped, red-faced from exertion and pain, cradling his broken hand against his chest. “I hate to think what it would be like if they had real weapons.”

“Very quick, that’s what it would be like. Here, bite on this,” Tylwyth offered him a leather mouth-plug. “I need to set the bones before I Heal you.”

“That was not one of your better ideas,” Pale observed to Max as he shifted arrows from their storage packs into his quiver.

“Look, it could have worked,” the Talon leader shrugged tiredly. “Loki pushed the center table over, so the way was clear. There’s just so damned [i]many[/i].”

“I’ve never seen [i]anything[/i] like that: Loki jumped over the barricade alone into a solid mass of giants, put his back to the table, and knocked it over,” Ta’Chala marveled.

“Max does brave things all the time,” Osila pointed out.

“Stick with us; you’ll see more insane courage than you’d ever find, outside of an asylum,” Pale grinned at the monk.

“It was a sound idea: don’t let them dig in and wait us out. There’s just too many,” Norbert sighed. Felosithe nodded loyally. “If only they had pressed the first attack home harder. As it is, we have to worry that they might just try to wait us out.”

“Oh, great, and we’ve what, a quart of water apiece?” Pale swore. “Do you think they might?”

“We’ll soon know.”

***

“We attack at once,” Grasnave brushed aside the objections. Runners had reported that some force, possibly town Militia, had attacked the wolves in the compound outside, and were inflicting terrible damage; meanwhile, the rebel Orcs had burst from their caverns and had over-run the Bugbear guard points; there was desperate fighting going on below their feet. “We are pressed on three sides by deadly forces. We must retake the armory at once. Now, we shall attack with our six spearmen leading, and the club-weilders following; meanwhile, you, you, and you shall force the rear door; they have barricaded it in some fashion. This is merely a probe; we shall inflict losses, and breach the rear doors. After re-forming, we shall mount another attack and finish the job.”

***

“That was close,” Max wheezed, sweating pouring down his face. “The damn shields made it hard. Everyone still alive?”

“Yep, although we’re running low on the ability to Heal,” Tylwyth advised him, his tiny features grim.

“The barricade on the rear door is firewood, the door is in pieces, and the door-frame is ruined,” Norbert reported. “I’ve a detail stacking shields and spears around it; Ta’Chala say give him fifteen minutes and he’ll have some hasty defenses in place.”

“Good for him. Anyone have any ideas, lets hear ’em. We’re getting down to the crux of the matter. One or two more rushes will solve the matter. Angus, any word from your lads?”

“Ah, yes, well, the wolf-killing’s almost over but we’re running behind on the harrying.”

“…..all right,” Max muttered.

 

Gamer Story X

I’ve always had a web site devoted to my gaming campaign to help my players keep track of events. In the early days I wrote short stories based on the PCs and posted them on the site for my player’s amusement. This campaign was the Hackmaster system set in the Kingdoms of Kalamar setting.

“All right, settle down, we need to get things organized,” Max banged his mug to get everyone’s attention. The Black Talons had rented the Red Bull’s back room for a planning and discussion session, preferring to do this in more privacy than the common room of the Black Eagle would allow. All ten Talons were present, plus Angus, the war chief of the Orange Stone Clan (of barbarian Brownies); Angus was three inches taller and several pounds heavier than Tylwyth, clad in leather tunic and trousers, a gold piece hung around his neck and a bastard sword (of Brownie size) slung across his back. The latter item had formerly been an enchanted knife of Merrick’s; it had been given to the Orange Stone (with a new hilt crafted by Dwalin) to insure their cooperation. “Let’s get started.”

“Before we start the planning, I would like to have Max and Loki witness my will,” Tylwyth announced, producing a lengthy sheet of parchment, which he passed down to Loki.

“Let’s see, I get his money, Max gets his weapons….”

“Great, a rapier-shaped boot dagger,” Max grinned.

“Felosithe gets his tattoos, Dwalin gets his robes…”

“They won’t fit,” the Dwarf observed. “How about another round, by the way?”

“….and Pale Rider gets Silky.”

“Silky? I get Silky?” Pale looked up from his carving on the table top. “What in the blazes will I do with a big bug?”

“It’s a giant moth steed, not a bug,” Tylwyth snapped.

“Moth, bug, whatever; it can’t lift my body weight, so it’s just an annoyance for me,” the Deyj shrugged.

“Do you know how rare those moths are? Only Pixie-folk can train them.”

“So I could sell it to a Pixie-Fairy?”

“Of course not, they wouldn’t buy a moth which had lost its rider,” Tylwyth rolled his eyes.

“So, how is it valuable if I can’t sell it?” Pale wanted to know.

“Its a keepsake, you idiot!” Tylwyth yelled.

“Like I would want to remember you,” Pale shook his head.

“All right, pass my will back,” the churchman snapped.

“We already signed it,” Max observed.

“All right, addendum to will: Osila gets Silky, Pale Rider gets squat,” Tylwyth muttered, digging out another sheet of parchment and his writing kit. “I’ll have it drawn up in a moment.”

“Maybe I could mount his crossbow on my forearm,” Max mused as the cleric scribbled furiously. “That would be kind of interesting.”

“How would you fire it?” Loki wondered.

“Hey, maybe Osila could train Silky to hover with the standard strapped to it, leave both her hands free,” Pale suggested.

“I’ve known you longer than Dwalin,” Merrick pointed out. “Why is he getting something and not me?”

“You can have his rapier,” Max offered as he signed the addendum to the will.

“No, he can have my books,” Tylwyth snapped, digging out another sheet of parchment.

“You know, years from now we’ll be calling this ‘the Tylwyth docment’,” Max observed to Loki. “It’ll be a stack of addendums a foot thick.” Ignoring the cleric’s black look, he banged his mug again. “Now that everyone knows how much they’ll get when Tylwyth dies…”

“If I die.”

“Hey, now that I know there’s money in it for me, I would definitely term it as ‘when’,” Loki grinned.

“Anyway,” Max banged his mug again as Tylwyth dug out another sheet of parchment. “We need to work up a plan to deal with the Thunderlord Clan of Verbeeg giants. Angus has provided us with a map of their hold and the news that starting at around noon tomorrow, they’ll be holding a feast to honor their Stone Giant allies and to try to get a visiting Scorn Giant to join them.”

“How long is the feast going to last?” Norbert asked.

“Until about midnight,” Angus replied.

“And it gets dark about five hours past noon,” Max pointed out. “I think the best way to attack them during the feast when they’re all gathered in the Great Hall, with a minimum of sentries. Angus says they won’t be armed or armored when they’re feasting.”

“A cunning plan,” Angus rose from the upended mug he had been sitting on at the center of the table. “I’ll get the lads.”

“Ah, no, wait Angus, that’s just the outline,” Max cautioned the Brownie. “There’s more.”

“Ah.” The war chief resumed his seat.

“Could we poison their ale?” Pale wondered.

“Where are we going to get that much poison in less than two days?” Merrick shrugged. By sitting at the corner of the table, he was able to keep track of most of what was being said.

“We could hit once they’re all drunk,” Norbert suggested.

“How long would it take for them to get drunk?” Osila asked.

“Actually, it’s a simple formula….'” Dwalin began.

“Drunk is not good,” Max cautioned them. “They’re less sensitive to pain, far braver, and more unpredictable.” Seeing doubt, he clarified. “Think about Dwalin half-way through a bender.”

“All right, forget waiting,” Norbert flinched at the mental image. “When do we hit?”

“Angus, you said your people can scout the place and get us in? Then about an hour after full dark; the sentries will have been drinking steadily, and we’ll be able to slip up largely unseen. We can leave the cart about two miles or so from the hold, and carry any supplies we need from that point on.”

“A cunning plan,” Angus stood.

“Not yet, Angus. Now, we know that except for the chieftain and the visitors, which are the Stone and Scorn Giants, everyone keeps their arms and armor in these two rooms….”

***

“All right, I think that’s it. Angus, you know what your people are supposed to do?”

“Harry the wolves in the open compound and spike two doors six times.”

“Spike these six doors with two spikes each, quietly.”

“Right, quiet-like.”

“Loki, you get the oil and barrel, I’ll get the lumber, Tylwyth distributes the healing potions, and Dwalin prays as hard as he can. And stays sober. Any questions?”

“Where do we get these spikes?” Angus asked.

“Loki, get Angus some spikes. Anything else?”

“D’ya want us to kill the wolves before harrying them?” Angus asked.

“Yes, that sounds good,” Max said slowly. “All the wolves, once the attack is joined.”

“Aha,” Angus nodded sagely. “A cunnin’ plan if I ever heard one.”

***

Max’s breath puffed out in white clouds in the crisp winter air. “Where the blazes are they? Angus said he’s meet us in this clearing.”

“He’ll show,” Loki grinned. “Angus is strange, but he’s solid.”

Moments later the Talons were surrounded by about sixty heavily-armed Brownies who bodies, hair, and accouterments were painted bright orange.

“Angus, why are you painted orange?” Max asked carefully.

“Clan tradition. We brought some for ya as well, to be sociable-like.” The Brownie offered a pint pot.

Max drew some lines across his face and passed the paint to Loki. “Now, do you remember your part of the plan?”

“Yep. I stays with you ta give ya the benefit ‘o my knowledge. The rest kills the wolves, then harries ’em.”

“And spikes the doors.”

“Damn! I knew I was forgettin’ sumthin! Ya wouldn’t happen to have an extra set of spikes, would ya?”

“Loki?”

“Actually, no, I didn’t buy any extra.”

“Nae problem,” Angus assured Max. “We can find sumtin’ ta use.”

“Bad enough we’re facing giants, now we’re gonna have a herd of two-foot orange maniacs running around shooting up everything that moves. Its turning sour three miles short of the target area,” Pale Rider shook his head.

“I’m excited about this plan-I’m proud to be a part of it,” Max boomed, thumping the Deyj on the shoulder.

“It’s a beauty of a plan,” Angus nodded. “A’course, we’ll all die heroically, but that’s the stuff ballads are made of.”

“I’m getting more confident by the moment,” Pale sighed.

Gamer Story IX

I’ve always had a web site devoted to my gaming campaign to help my players keep track of events. In the early days I wrote short stories based on the PCs and posted them on the site for my player’s amusement. This campaign was the Hackmaster system set in the Kingdoms of Kalamar setting.

“Everything happens to us, you ever notice that?” Loki snarled as Max came up. “Nothing, and I mean nothing is ever simple.”

“Welcome to my world,” the commander observed. “Why are you covered in snow and blood?”

“And where’s my horse?” Pale Rider demanded.

“Back uphill with about twenty arrows in it,” Loki passed an arrow shaft to Max. “Hobgoblins using longbows, from the look of it.”

“Damn. No way around them?”

“That was MY horse!” Pale threw his arms up in disgust. “I’ve had that horse for a year.”

“All right, you can walk up there and get your saddle back, then,” Loki shrugged. “No, they’ve got it blocked if they want to fight.”

“Why not? It’s not as if we’ve anything better to do. Pale, shut up about your damned horse, we’ll buy you another one if we live through this. It’s not like you’ve never walked before.”

***

“Now, that’s odd,” Max observed, examining one of the archer’s positions. “A dozen or so Hobs set up in ambush; they shoot up your horse and then trot off, just like that.”

“Nice ambush,” Norbert observed professionally; Felosithe nodded her agreement. “I think they were scouts, and they took off once they had a look at us. Too many warriors, too little loot.”

“He talks, she nods, it’s annoying,” Tylwyth observed to Ta’Chala, who was huddled miserably in his heavy clothing. “It’s like a puppet act. Ouch!” The pine cone Feliosite hurled caught the churchman square in the chest.

***

“All right, they got hit with a unit of Orcs the size of the one we faced,” Norbert pointed down-slope through the deepening twilight. “They circle up the wagons and make a stand. The Orcs rush under covering fire, get inside the wagons, and it’s all over: six men dead, and the wagons looted.”

“Covering fire? Organized rush? Who the blazes is leading these bastards, the Kalamarian Legions?” Max shook his head. “If this is that Red Cabal stuff you’re always going on about, things are going to get pretty damn grim around here in the next couple years.”

“Pretty damn grim today,” Pale muttered. “That was a good horse.”

“Get over that damned horse, will you?” Loki roared.

“I named myself Pale RIDER for a reason, you big ox! Not Pale Walker!”

“Enough!” Max bellowed. “Pale, you can have my horse when it’s done pulling the coach. I would crawl the rest of the way through the Pass if it meant not having to listen to you idiots bicker! Now shut up and let’s make camp. We’ll stay in that circle of wagons; it’s the most defensible spot in the immediate areas, and I’m not travelling in the dark.”

***

“Looks like there was more than six men here,” Tylwyth advised Max as the Talons settled into their night camp. The Orcs had strewn about what they hadn’t taken from the chests and cases aboard the covered merchant wagons.

“How do you figure?”

The tiny churchman handed over the bundle of cloth he had gathered up. “Women’s slips and shifts.”

“Could have been trade goods,” Max muttered.

“Not unless they were rag-pickers,” Tylwyth pointed to a hem. “See? Its seen use. There were women with these wagons.”

***

“So you are going to let those filthy animals have their way with those helpless women simply because you are a fat lazy slug?” Lady Ralzala didn’t raise her voice, but there was an edge to it that made every listener wince.

“No, I’m going to wait until daylight because I don’t want to walk into an ambush,” Max snapped. “Of ten Talons, only four can see in the dark; of those, one is deaf and another is less than two feet tall. If it was a clear night with a moon I’d try it, but not in this pitch-dark. Orcs can see at night better than they can in the day. Moreover, Merrick used all his spells when we rescued you; he needs time, several hours, to regain his magical energies. Tomorrow we’ll track them down.”

“Meanwhile, they suffer horribly.”

“As do I.”

***

“Well, you were right about the ambush,” Norbert observed. “See? They had about twenty dug in along here. We would have walked into it head-on at night; wouldn’t be too easy to spot in the daytime, but for Felosithe.”

“She’s just useful enough to make up for her bad points,” Max nodded tiredly; He, Norbert, Felosithe, Tlywyth, Merrick, Pale Rider, and Loki were half a mile from the pass, hard walking through deep drifts. Ta’Chala, Osila, and Dwalin had remained behind to guard their cart and the coach. “How much further, do you think?”

The woodsman shrugged. “At least as far as we’ve come, probably more. I doubt they would put an ambush too close to their base.”

Max studied the snow-coated countryside, thinking hard. “So the bunch we fought, and the bunch that hit those wagons were part of the same group?”

“Seems likely,” Loki nodded.

“And the ambush force, they’ll be part, too. And the Hob scouts; we’re out here with seven bodies chasing a damned multi-racial army.”

The Talons thought that over.

“You know, you’re right,” Loki said slowly. “We’ve been encountering patrols, small parts of a larger force. If we follow their tracks…”

“We fight an army,” Norbert finished for him. “With seven out of ten of us here.”

“Well, we’re not fighting an army,” Max announced after another lengthy pause. “I know it’s a bad thing to do, but there’s too many Orcs, and not enough of us. Maybe if it wasn’t winter I’d try, but it is, and we’ve two women to safeguard already.” He sighed. “This isn’t a proud moment. Norbert, take point; we’re heading back to the Pass.”

Merry Christmas or a belated Happy Hanukkah to all my readers

Here’s hoping that this season brings hope, comfort, and cheer to you all.

Gamer Story VIII

I’ve always had a web site devoted to my gaming campaign to help my players keep track of events. In the early days I wrote short stories based on the PCs and posted them on the site for my player’s amusement. This campaign was the Hackmaster system set in the Kingdoms of Kalamar setting.

“Damn, it’s cold,” Pale Rider shivered, banging his hands against his chest.

“You’re right,” Norbert nodded, patting his horse’s neck in an attempt to comfort the miserable animal.

“And tonight’s going to be even worse,” the Dejy lamented. “The temperature drops, the wind picks up, and all you can do is huddle in your blankets and freeze. At least you’ve got Felosithe to cuddle up with.”

“Aren’t you bunking with Loki? Big as he is, he should be like a stove.”

“I did last night, but he kept me awake.”

“Talking in his sleep?”

“Yeah, at first, but then he started talking to ‘Ingred’ and put his arm around me. Holding my sword all night damn near froze my hand off.”

“He was asleep,” Norbert laughed.

“Asleep or not, he’s on his own tonight. I’ll take my chances by myself.”

“I thought you valiant nomads slept with your horses.”

“Yeah, yeah, keep talking. I was born in a city; all that stuff about drinking mare’s blood and riding a hundred miles between sunrises is for the old-timers. I’ve never even seen a yurt.”

“A yurt?”

“A round tent the old-timers used. Big Deyj thing, you know, ethnic.” Pale eyed the steep, tree-coated slope that rose to their left. “Man, this place is an ambush waiting to happen.”

***

The Talons, their high-wheeled cart drawn by their sturdy mule Kicker, were traversing Fang Pass, heading east into the Renaarian Coast. The Pass (so called because it ran between two tall and sharply pointed mountains) was a fairly good road, albeit steep; their timing, however, was less good, as it was the middle of the eleventh month, and snow lay on the slopes as they followed the switch-backs carved into the flank of one of the Fangs. Locals at the western terminus had assured them that the Pass never closed no matter how hard the winter, and so they had chanced it.

It was a decision Max was beginning to regret as the light faded on their second day in the Pass; they were still climbing steadily upward, the snow was getting deeper, and the somber, stark beauty of the pine-coated mountain slopes was beginning to wear heavily on the Talon commander. Poets might ramble on about the purity of the cold mountain air, the serenity of the heights, the lovely contrasts of green pine and white snow, but all Max could think of was how easy it would be to be ambushed. The road climbed ever higher in and endless series of switchbacks, with thick stands of scruffy mountain pine crowding close to the road, giving every advantage to an attacker.

To top everything off, his sleep lately had been plagued with nightmares which frequently robbed him of all rest. It was unusual enough that he shared them with Loki and Norbert; it was the latter’s opinion that the dreams were being caused or influenced by the ancient sword Doomsaker they had captured from the Derro, and which Max now carried. Both Dwalin and Tylwyth had carefully examined sword several times and assured him that there was no evil or harmful taint associated with the weapon, but Norbert was standing by his theory.

Loki galloping up interrupted his leader’s brooding. “Orcs attacking a coach over the next rise,” he grinned.

“How many?”

“Couple dozen.”

“Damn. All right, Osila, stay with the cart, everyone else, let’s go.” Max shook his head at the chorus of complaints. “Nightmares, cold weather, putting up with you idiots, and now Orcs: I knew this was going to be a bad day.”

***

Slamming Doomsaker’s pommel into the Orc’s face finally got the taloned grip to ease around his throat; breaking free, Max shoved his foe back and brought the blade into play, disemboweling the Orc. No other Orcs were immediately available, and the battered Talon leader tried to catch his breath as he took stock.

Rescuing the besieged coach, its wheels strapped to runners for better purchase, had turned out to be a far worse undertaking than expected. The Orc foot had been covered by two sections of archers who fired by aimed volleys, while the foot maintained their ranks and reacted reliably to their leader’s orders. They even wore tinted goggles to protect their eyes from the weak sunlight. Loki had had yet another horse shot out from beneath him, and nearly every Talon bore at least one wound.

Fortunately, Merrick had blasted the archers with fireballs and various other offensive spells while Tlywyth had picked off a couple more before tending to the wounded. The Orc foot had managed to over-run the coach, but their ranks were badly disrupted by this, and the Talons had extracted a heavy toll, killing off both sub-unit leaders. Their cohesion broken, the Orcs had fallen into their traditional ‘every warrior a general’ style and were now being defeated by the better-organized Talons. Dawlin in particular had run amok, scything down Orcs with abandon, and once he had expended his magical energy Merrick had joined the fray with considerable enthusiasm, Balrog’s death still weighing heavily on the Elf’s spirits. Norbert and Felosithe had done their usual dance of death, Loki had slain his fair share, and Pale Rider, freed of his fear of the sun by winter and cloud cover, had fought especially well. Ta’Chala, badly hindered by the cold, had fired covering fire for Tlywyth, who had braved clouds of Orc arrows to tend to the wounded. In battle, the Pixie-Faire tended to be as great an asset as he was an annoyance the rest of the time.

The Orcs were breaking and withdrawing, the surviving archer as units, the foot in individual retreats. None of the Talons were down, but the coach’s driver and footmen were dead, despite having fought well. For now, the fight was over.

***

Tara couched on the coach’s rear seat, nervously fingering her light crossbow; she only had one bolt left from sniping at the Orcs, and had been saving it in case they were over-run; the least she could do was see to it that her mistress was not taken alive.

The limber young woman of nineteen years was half Deyj, half Kalamarian, with a slave’s stud through her lower lip, and short dark hair she liked to spike up with some hair oil her mistress had received as a gift from a would-be suitor. Unusual for a slave, she was armed with her crossbow, short sword, and numerous short edged weapons, but then, Tara was an unusual slave. She had been secretly trained in toxin lore and the art of stealthy death by the Brotherhood of the Broken Chain, the covert anti-slavery organization. However, when called upon to murder her mistress, the Lady Ralzala, she had broken faith with the Brotherhood, and confessed all, fully expecting to hang.

Instead, Lady Ralzala had kept her secret, merely commanding her to sever all ties with the Brotherhood, a decision that had served the young noblewoman well some months later.

Tara glanced over at her mistress, who was sitting as still as a stone on the forward seat, just as she had been before the ambush. No Orc attack would make a lady of noble blood cower, and so she had sat unflinching while the battle raged around and atop the coach. “They’ve won, my Lady. The Orcs have retreated.”

“As well they should.” Lady Ralzala’s voice was low and cool, and as steady as the mountain they were passing through. Tara envied her mistress’ nerve; she herself was trained to kill, and had accounted for several Orcs before running out of bolts, but her throat was dry and her hands were shaking badly.

She knew that she was a pretty girl, well-muscled and bright-eyed, but Lady Ralzala, who was but a year older, was a true beauty, with features that could have graced a goddess’ statue, a body a dancer would covet, and long walnut hair that could reach her waist. She was smart, and clever, too, with a will you could bend steel bars upon. She had been abruptly betrothed to a man twice her age, a man with a decided penchant for strange applications of the wifely duties; the fact that he was a Duke had not made matters any more attractive. Faced with the unpleasant prospect of becoming a debauch’s legal plaything, the young noblewoman had acted decisively, securing a fortune in gemstones, now concealed in cunning pockets of her under-garments, a coach, and coachmen for a fast run into the Renaarian coast. She had drawn up a letter of manumission for Tara, but there had not yet been time for a notary to seal it; as it was, in order for them to get away Tara had had to carve up a couple bully-boys the Duke had sent around to keep an eye on his bride-to-be. Neither had been smart enough to think that a lady’s maid might know how to use a blade.

The notary seal would remove the stud from Tara’s lip, but not her sense of responsibility to her mistress. Lady Ralzala had stood by her when there was absolutely no gain for herself; in fact, should anyone discover that she had harbored an agent of the Brotherhood, she could have been stripped of her title and status. The Brotherhood had simply planned to use her, as she herself used her crossbow; Lady Ralzala had treated her like a Human being.

“Sit up straight, Tara. One must maintain good posture.”

“Yes, mistress.”

“Ma’am. You will need to address me as Ma’am, Tara; only slaves use the term ‘master’ or ‘mistress’.”

“I’m still a slave, mistress.”

“Only until we find a notary or magistrate, and you might as well begin changing the habit.”

Lady Cordelia Ralzala envied her maid’s easy confidence; the girl had plied her crossbow with a veteran’s aplomb, coolly defending the doors of their carriage with no more outward concern than had she been at the target range shooting straw-filled bags, whereas she, a noblewoman of an august family, had been plainly terrified. It had taken everything she had to sit in place while steel rang against wood, Orcen boots thundered on the roof of the carriage, arrows flashed through the windows to embed themselves into the interior panels, and the screams of the wounded and dying made a hellish chorus around them.

If Tara had noticed her fear, she had more grace than to mention it, instead sitting quietly, watching out the windows; not for the first nor the tenth time did Lady Ralzala thank her luck that sent the girl into her service. But for the lithe maid’s expertise with a blade, she would be frog-marched down a temple aisle to wed one of the most despicable men the Vast Empire had ever produced, a title for which there was considerable competition.

The door to her left was opened by a hulking man a year or two older than herself, a burly sort of considerable height and shoulder-width, his round honest face flushed beet-red with exertion. His armor and clothing were liberally splattered with clotting blood, and he stank abominably of blood and sweat, but Lady Ralzala reminded herself that this was a by-product of saving herself and Tara, and thus tolerable.

Tara had the point of her sword to the man’s face even as he leaned in; he froze, the large, ornate sword in his right hand twitching slightly as if by reflex. “Who are you?” Tara snarled.

“I am Derren Maxwell, commander of the Black Talons,” he boomed in Renaarian-accented Merchant’s Cant. “Call me Max. We just drove off the Orcs.”

“I am Lady Ralzala, and this is Tara, my maid,” Cordelia kept her voice steady with an effort; he seemed a likely sort, some burgher or artisan’s son gone a’soldiering. With luck, they were safe now. “We are bound for the Renaarian Coast.” She inclined her head an inch, and Tara withdrew her blade. “You are mercenaries, I take it?”

“More of an adventuring nature,” Max shrugged good-naturedly. “I’m sorry to tell you that your coachmen are dead, as is your team of horses. I’ll send my quartermaster to arrange things with you.”

Despite the frosty air and snow Tara was sweating as if she had run a mile non-stop; the Orcs were gone, but were replaced by hardened swordsmen, callous brutes who could not understand the refinement of a real Lady. With the coachmen dead and the team cut down in its traces, they were at these Black Talons’ mercy; they could rob them, or worse. She wished she had another crossbow.

***

A huge man, taller than the commander suddenly loomed in the coach doorway; brushy mustaches and some sort of ugly hide armor gave him a wild, untamed look, but his teeth flashed whitely in an easy grin, and his blue eyes twinkled merrily. He gave Tara a quick up-and-down look that sent a blush running across her body, and favored Lady Ralzala with a nod that indicated that that was as respectful as he got. “Loki Oberon, Talon quartermaster. How are you ladies doing?”

“Very well, thank you,” Lady Ralzala informed him.

“Good. Are the coachmen servants of yours?”

“No, hirelings. Tara is my only companion.”

“All right. We’ll tend to them as best the frozen ground allows. We’re going to put some of our mounts into the coach’s harness, and see what we can do about getting it through the Pass; they may not be stout enough for the job, but we’ll try.”

“Thank you.” Cordelia was proud that none of her relief could be heard in her voice. The big man was a Fhokki, a savage and barbaric race from the far north, and at the sight of him she had been sure that ravishment was a foregone conclusion.

“Do either of you need clothes or something to eat? We’ve supplies in our cart, and blankets.”

“No, thank you. We had competent advice as to provisioning before setting forth.”

“All right, I’ll let you know when we’re ready to go.”

“They seem friendly enough, miss…ma’am,” Tara confided.

“Yes. So far.”

A few minutes later a slender young man with ivory skin opened the carriage door and shyly passed a bundle of quarrels to Tara; with a start, Cordelia realized that he was a Dejy, an albino in fact. She didn’t miss the glow in her maid’s eyes, either; ravishment wouldn’t require a struggle for this Talon, apparently.

***

“All right, between battle losses and making up a team for the coach, we’re afoot, we’ve two non-combatants to safeguard, and a big heavy coach to manhandle up hill and dale.” Max finished oiling Doomsaker and sheathed the bastard sword. “Why does any of this surprise me? We couldn’t go for a picnic on a summer’s day without getting embroiled in someone else’s fight and ending up with a bunch of otherwise useless people to cart around.”

“She’s hardly useless to my way of thinking,” Loki grinned. “Under those furs and woolens if a body hot enough to retemper a good axe. And her maid’s cute, too, eh, Pale?”

The nomad grunted, not looking up from the rent in his parka’s sleeve he was stitching up.

“Had eyes for our lock-picker, she did,” Loki continued. “Like a wolf looking at a nice fat sheep, she was. Right, Pale?”

The nomad grunted again.

“Good idea, save your strength,” the quartermaster nodded sagely. “Max, you worry too much.”

“Whatever. Scout ahead, and make sure we’ve a clear path; we need to put some distance between ourselves and those Orcs. I’ve never seen Orcs so organized.”

“It’s that Red Cabal stuff, I’m telling you,” Norbert observed. Felosithe nodded loyally.

Gamer Story VII

I’ve always had a web site devoted to my gaming campaign to help my players keep track of events. In the early days I wrote short stories based on the PCs and posted them on the site for my player’s amusement. This campaign was the Hackmaster system set in the Kingdoms of Kalamar setting.

Norbert liked the ocean; this was his fifth sea voyage, and he found that regaining his sea-legs took less time each time he went to sea, and with less side-effects. Felosithe wasn’t as happy on board ship, but weathered it fairly well.

This trip was more interesting than the others; while the trips to and from Prompeldia had taken them out into the open sea, days from land (they were currently hugging the coast), that trip had been in high summer. This venture, however, found them in the early stages of winter, and the sea was slate-gray, cut with startling lines of wave-froth.

Eight days’ sail south-southeast out of Bet Urala found them making good time, with all the Talons moving freely on board the ship. All but Tylwyth, Dwalin, and Merrick worked the ship to augment the captain, first mate, and three regular crewmen of the merchant ship. Their working passage reduced their fees to that of their cart, mule, and horses, a fact that pleased the frugal Loki to no end.

Tylwyth sat on a mast’s edge and watched Ta’Chala work a line; the two were seldom apart these days, as friendship built of shared hardship and sacrifice blurred and erased the lines of employer and employee. Neither churchman minded nor dreaded the time at sea; it was another aspect of their lives, interesting but not uplifting.

Down in the hold Dwalin lay on a stack of bales of raw wool, praying desperately to the Battle Rager; he ventured no further into the ship for fear of being trapped when the masses of water caved in the sides, nor any higher to avoid being washed overboard by giant waves. Never in his life was he so wracked with fear and foreboding as he was when aboard any sort of ship.

Merrick sat on the sterncastle, trying to read and shield his book from occasional bursts of spray; at his feet, Balrog gave him withering looks, as the big war-dog liked ship travel only slightly better than Dwalin. Being deaf, the Elf was of minimal use in sailor duties, so he spent his time studying his arcane lore.

The afternoon was wearing late, and the wind was dying, slowing the ship significantly; Lars, the pot-bellied Captain, was eyeing the dimming light and talking of releasing the ship’s cook from his deck duties to start the evening meal when the ship lurched slightly. Frowning, Lars tested the tiller’s movement while the first mate, who had been beside him in the sterncastle, leaned over the side to see if they had somehow struck a bed of kelp.

A barbed spear lashed up from below, catching the mate squarely in the throat, ruining his voice box and turning his shocked scream into a muted, squeal. Even as Lars turned to look, the rope attached to the lance was jerked with enough force to topple the dying man over the rail.

“Man overboard!” The Captain, unsure of what exactly he had seen when Lars went over the side, threw the holding bole into its slots, setting the tiller in place, and rushed to the stern rail.

Balrog slammed his head into Merrick’s arm, knocking the book from his hand. Startled, the Elf leapt to his feet, took in the barking war-dog and the upset ship’s Captain at a glance, and shouted the Talon code-word for ‘stand to arms’. Darting forward, he grabbed the back of Lar’s belt and jerked him back from the rail; a barbed spear flashed through the space occupied by the sailing man’s throat a split-second after Lars was snatched back.

“What the blazes are they screaming about now?” Max wondered, leaning around a sail to see the stern.

“Who knows? Sailors are a strange lot,” Loki the steppes-dweller observed with his usual distain for the nautical types. “They get odd out here with no women.

“But Merrick’s calling us to arms,” Max frowned. “Osila, get into the crow’s nest; Tlywyth, load up on bolts and go there too. Loki, let’s reef the sails some more; Norbert, gather everyone else around the main mast.”

The Talons leapt to their duties as the ship slowly noticeably. Lars raced down the ladder to the main deck. “Something threw a spear at me!” he shouted at Max.

“Did you see who?”

“No! It was a very large spear!”

“They always are. Somebody go get Merrick…uh-oh.”

Webbed, taloned hands were appearing at the railed, heaving scaly, fish-crested heads combining Human intelligence with the features of a long-toothed pike.

“Sahaugin,” Norbert spat. Catching Loki’s inquiring look, he explained. “Sea-folk, a sort of man-fish-shark combination some wizard who had breathed in too many quicksilver fumes came up with. Savage, hard-fighting bastards who neither give nor ask for quarter.”

“Sounds like a fun bunch,” the Fhokki observed soberly as the raiders vaulted the rail. “Look sort of like lizard-men, except fatter.”

The Sahaugin advanced a bit clumsily, less nimble on the deck of a moving ship that they would have been in the water, wearing simple sharkskin harnesses supporting pouches and cases, and armed with barbed spears with attached lines of braided kelp, or nets woven of sea weed fiber, and long, jagged-bladed daggers.

“Our armor is below-decks, one of our Healers is hiding in the hold, and we’re out-numbered three to one,” Max observed to Loki.

“Yep. We’re going to die.”

“Sad, but true.”

***

The first rush by the sea-folk met with bitter, bloody defeat, as even unarmored the Black Talons were deadly foes, all the more so for having absolutely no place to go. Drawing back, the Sahaugin pondered their situation: they were under constant, and lethal, fire from Osila and Tylwyth, and had already taken heavy losses, but these sea-reavers were a bitter, evil race, and their lust for battle-death was strong. They charged again.

Max side-stepped a lance thrust and chopped the Sahaugin’s head from its shoulders, opening a hole in the enemy line. The Captain leaned back against the main mast, gasping in his efforts to draw in enough air to feed his burning lungs and leaden muscles. To his right, Loke was likewise catching a breath as the Sahaugin milled about.

“I suppose Merrick is dead.” Max was facing the bow; the Elf had not had time or inclination to rejoin the main body.

“No, he’s floating in the air above their reach; Balrog’s down, though, I can’t see how bad….DAMN!”

“What was that noise?” Max asked. “Tell me it wasn’t a fireball.”

“It was a fireball.”

“Tell me that idiot cast it up to scare them.”

“Nope, hit them full-force.”

“So the ship is now afire.”

“The stern castle is, yes.”

“You know, its days like this that make me drink. Just when you think it can’t get any worse, Merrick or Tylwyth or Dwalin decide to improvise and the cess pool gets poured right over you. Yep, here they come again.”

***

“Balrog is still hurt,” Merrick persisted.

“I don’t care,” Max observed from where he sprawled on the desk, resting. After a third attack the Sahaugin had gathered up most of their dead and withdrawn from the ship. With a bit of work, the fire had been put out, although a goodly portion of the stern castle had to be chopped away.

“He fought as well as anyone.”

“But he’s a dog.”

“He’s my dog.”

“And you set the blasted ship on fire.”

“The theory was sound.”

“The theory was insane.”

“Look, why did the Talons pay for me to learn that spell if no one wants me to use it?”

Pale Rider waved to catch Merrick’s attention. “We wanted you to know it so you could use it wisely, moron.”

“Moron? Moron! I’ll show you moron, you pale shadow of a sea-whore! I’ll…I’ll…”

“Cast another fireball and finish off the ship?” Pale grinned.

“Shut up, both of you,” Max growled, then waved to get the Mage’s attention and repeated the command. “Balrog’s going to have to heal up the rest of the way on his own, Merrick’s not going to get any more grief about setting the ship on fire like an idiot, and he’ll also quit making fun of Pale being pale.” He glowered at the Talons before dropping his head back into Osila’s lap. “Some days surviving the fight is definitely not the best thing that can happen to me.”