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.”
